stay.

[Andrea Locke] It's a day later.
Point of fact, it's a full 24 hours later, slightly more.

What she's been up to for the full measure of a day is anyone's guess, really. Whatever it was she went about it out of sight of the greater mass of guests - live-in or otherwise - who dwell in or passed through her restaurant, her 'hostel', her building. And it isn't until past midnight that she makes her way down from her apartment on the third floor to the second floor where the sense of Rage can sometimes strike you like a physical blow just stepping into the front hall. It's better right now - Luna hides Her face and at this moment most any Garou is as easily tolerable as they are ever likely to get. Besides, most Garou she has known are fairly nocturnal creatures - so at this hour the second floor seems largely empty.

There is every chance the one she seeks isn't even in the building.

She has a master key, of course, but she doesn't think to use it, which is to say that it isn't on her person at the moment. Last night she wore stark, well-worn clothing, just the bare necessities to properly cover her flesh and nothing more. Tonight she is better dressed, freshly showered - the smell of cigarettes is absent from her person, as is the smell of liquor, leaving only her own scent, feminine and clean, with the barest undertones of whatever toiletries she favours which tend to lean toward Mediterranean hints and touches of natural fragrance. A knit top of dove gray, high at the neck, loose at the sleeves and exposing her shoulder blades and slightly lower at the back where it falls in small, bare drapes. Slacks that would appear black at a passing glance but are instead a deep, dark shade of aubergine. She wears no make up and her hair is still damp, the curls in a state of natural semi disarray. At some point during the past day she'd treated her face - ice, arnica extract, advil - and though the dark sweep of a bruise can't help but exist, it isn't so bad as it might have been.

She'll live.

Stopping at the second door down from the laundry room, she pauses - a barest fraction - then knocks on the door.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Only a few ticks of silence -- then the door opens. Lukas stands inside in his usual lounge gear: charcoal-grey pajama bottoms; socks.

He's also on the phone. He's only listening right now, which explains the silence, but the handset is sandwiched between his shoulder and his ear, his head cocked to the side. He looks at her for a moment, his eye touching briefly on the ugly bruise. Then he steps aside and waves her in.

"Mm-hm. I know. I still have a month, don't I?" She can tell straightaway it's family on the other end. Not a parent, no; Lukas would respect his parents more than this, even if he would also placate them; certainly not a lover either. His tone is familiar, casual, almost dismissive: a sibling, a cousin. He turns his back to finish the conversation, the two lamps in the room -- one on the desk, the other clipped to his simple headboard -- casting a map of shadows and light over his bare and unscarred back. "Well, why don't you just get something and put my name on it? Oh, Christ."

He pulls the chair out from the table and plunks it down in front of Andrea wordlessly, gestures at it in offering. The bedspread is rumpled, and when he throws himself down on it to finish his call, she can guess why.

"All right, I'll look into it. Listen -- I have to go. Can I call you back? Yeah. Yes, I promise. Okay. Bye."

He thumbs the phone off, sets the handset on the nightstand. Then, drawing himself upright, his back to the headboard, he loops his wrists over his knees, loosely, and regards Andrea for a long, silent moment.

Then: "How are you doing?"

[Andrea Locke] She is ushered in - allowed access, which at any other point in her life would likely have caused the byplay of a wryly bemused smile to flit over her lips, barely there then gone again... tonight, however, she simply nods at him, keeping silent as it is clear he is occupied. If he doesn't close the door behind her it is left open - she doesn't close it herself.

Instead she steps into the small room, her gaze traveling over it's spartan contents. He has a coffee maker in here, which she's never commented on nor is likely to do so at any point. At some point or another she'd have discussed with him whether or not he wanted anyone to come in weekly to clean his room - probably around the time he started to pay a modicum of rent. An inspection of the room certainly doesn't take long, so her gaze soon drifts to him instead, unabashed but without any show of what she is thinking one way or another. He speaks to whomever is on the phone. She listens. It would be impossible not to hear and foolish to pretend otherwise. Instead she takes the seat he pulls out - the only one in the room other than the multipurpose functions of a bed - and settles herself lightly, crossing her legs and resting one arm over the high backing.

How are you doing?

She waves a hand, largely dismissing the question, though her nude lips do curve faintly in a passing shadow of a barely-there smile. "As well as can be expected."

Then, in the time that passes between watching him with her head vaguely canted, slightly bird-like, and the time it takes to exhale, draw a breath and exhale again all in even, smooth measure, she speaks once more. "What is your family name, Lukas?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] His eyebrow wings up -- he has been taken by surprise.

"Why?"

[Andrea Locke] Her expression mirrors his, though not in surprise but in a Why not? gesture. Which are soon echoed in her words,
"Why not? You've learned a lot about me -- more in some ways than I would care for -- it occurs to me I know precious little about you."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Seemed unexpected, is all." He reaches out, his attention diverting for a moment -- pushes the lamp down so it didn't glare into her eyes. He had it positioned to read in bed: pointing forward, and out. Now it faces the bedspread, and the room is a little darker.

"Kvasni&+269;ka," he says then. "My name is Lukáš Kvasni&+269;ka."

The name rolls effortlessly off his tongue -- Lukasch Kvasnichka, full of sharp aspirated sibilants of his mother tongue, which, Andrea can have no doubt of now, is indeed his mother tongue. Accentless American English or not, Lukas was born speaking Czech.

"We used to live near Prague. There are a fair number of Kvasni&+269;kas running around eastern europe, mostly distant cousins, and even more Žerotínovés -- that's the House of Zierotin if you must anglicanize it -- of which we are a junior branch. I more or less grew up in New York City, though. The Bronx." A faint turn at the corners of his mouth. "That satisfy your curiosity?"

[Andrea Locke] Her mouth quirks slightly as he speaks of anglicizing the Žerotínové name, a certain look in her eyes saying such an explanation is quite unneeded. She speaks the language as fluently as she speaks eight others, needing precious little by way of translation given his native tongue is also the native tongue of her paternal family. Otherwise she says nothing, merely listening with subdued interest, but interest all the same. An eyebrow arches slightly, her face turning as he mentions growing up in New York. The Bronx of all places.

Then, "Somewhat. It perhaps sheds some... light... on other things I've wondered about."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] He waits -- for an elaboration, one imagines.

[Andrea Locke] He waits and she says nothing further for a moment... two... three. Whatever her state last night, she isn't brooding or sulking or petulant, nor is she quite performing her usual role of the warm and polite hostess. She watches him without qualm, without fidgeting, without rancour...

Finally, "Why are you here, then, Lukáš Kvasni&+269;ka." Much as he had done when he first discovered her true name, she uses his own fully, pronouncing it flawlessly, even the ever-present sibilant, faintly lilting lisp of her own mother tongue absent in place of harsher, clipped mien of a slavic tongue. "Chicago, I mean."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's a faint snort. The Ahroun straightens up, his back lifting from the headboard, his legs folding indian style. There's little waste or excess to him. When his back curves easily into his new position, the skin over his stomach pulls into narrow, fatless folds.

"Why don't you tell me what you're getting at first, Kinwoman. I'm sorry about your daughter, but that still doesn't give you the right to question me."

[Andrea Locke] The snort causes no reaction from the woman, nor does his shifting position. She watches him closely, though perhaps that is merely because there is hardly anything else in the room to draw her attention, to hold her interest. His initial demand flows over her like so much water over stone, leaving only an infinitesimal fraction of affect. He mentions her daughter and her eyelashes flutter, the edges of her eyes tightening - sudden, striking, then gone and so quickly that it may never have occurred.

"No more than any right you have ever had to question me." She doesn't snap the words. Far from it, she is unshakably calm at the moment. "All quaint words of feeling a modicum of responsibility for the Kin of the Tribe, in the end any information I ever gave was an indulgence. Ultimately I'm merely curious. In slips a pack, the Alpha of whom is apparently a Silver Fang of some repute, though he seems more a ghost than anything else - certainly less so than his sister, but it is you, apparently, who are Beta... so I would assume there'd be some tangible reason for your presence."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] She calls Edward a ghost, and something in Lukas' face tightens, hardens, slams shut.

"I'm here because I want to be," he says, quiet, perhaps cold. "I'm here because my pack is here, and my pack is here because we will not stand by and watch a four-year-old caern fall into ignominy because those who raised it couldn't be bothered to stick around.

"Now if that's all you're here to discuss, kindly shut the door on your way out. I have to call my sister back."

[Andrea Locke] Nodding, she rises from her seat, her expression... sardonic.

"Of course. I'll leave you then to your family matters and lofty goals that nonetheless seem to leave you with so much leisure time. Have a good night."

And she goes to the door, closing it quietly shut behind her.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] She gets her parting shot off and turns to leave. He swings his legs off the bed and stands, instantly, kicks the chair aside and shuts the door.

"Have you simply lost your wits to grief," he says, deadly and low, "or are you trying to insult my honor?"

[Andrea Locke] She stops when he kicks the chair aside, unmoving unless it should pose some risk of impact to her. The door shuts, her exit waylaid and he speaks, deadly and low.

"If I wanted to insult your honour, you'd know it. Without a doubt." She cuts back, just as low though, admittedly, not at all so deadly. Then she takes a step forward towards him, her eyes slightly narrowed. "I don't understand you. I've seldom met any Ahroun with such a hard on for controlling themselves, for honour and responsibility and what they feel is their duty - certainly not a Cliath - and yet can turn around and broodingly withstand being a part of a pack that doesn't show a fraction of your same resolve. Somewhere inside of you there might be the makings of a great name -- god knows your family hasn't had one for some time. But here? Biding your time to, what, command the dredges? The dispossessed? If the bloody questions insult you maybe it's because you've been pondering it yourself."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] His hand is still pressed to the door, as though to hold it shut. He faces her side-on, his head turned toward her, neck bent, eyebrows low. It's ironic that she speaks of his control, when his anger is so clear right now.

"Don't," he says, softly, "insult my pack. They are as much a part of me as my hand, my arm, my fucking heart."

A silence. Then he drops his hand, his fingers trailing over the wood with a hiss. Straightens, turns toward her.

"You had one thing right. I'm Cliath. So is most of my pack. We don't have the skills to play in the major leagues, or didn't you realize that? It'll be years before we acquire them. But I will not huddle behind the might of Athros and Elders in the meantime; I will not ride my way to greatness on the coattails of others. Not when out here I might do some real good. The heads of the tribes don't care about this city, and clearly you don't either. But it has a Caern, and a Caern is a Caern. A Caern is worth fighting for. Even if it's not worth the effort of an Elder, it's worth mine.

"That's why my pack and I are here, Andrea. Chicago is a proving-ground. A stepping stone. And a battlefield, where our actions, no matter how small, might make a difference."

Finished, he quiets for a moment. His eyes have not wavered from her once. Even in the dimness they're fierce and clear, like a tundra-wolf's. His chest rises and falls with a slow breath.

Then, quieter, but no less hardedged: "There. This once, I've answered your impertinence. Be satisfied and don't think to question me again. Next time I'll take it as the disrespect it is."

[Andrea Locke] "And what? Slap me? Kill me? Shun me?" She rolls her shoulders fluidly, her own eyes as steady upon his person [and that is, perhaps, the difference -- more often than not she looks to his eyes, but now and again her gaze will un-focus slightly, a natural motion that keeps her from staring him so long and so direct that it breaks her resolve or his control.] as his are on her. The words are quiet and hold little heat now. "I'm afraid none of those threats sway me."

And in the end, they don't. She hasn't enjoyed the times he's struck her, not in the slightest, but it has never changed an iota of who she is or how she works. It's hard to threaten someone who has simply endured far worse than you are likely to care to dish out.

But her expression isn't taunting, rebellious, mocking -- any of those things. Instead she looks at him with an air of calming satisfaction, as though a piece of a puzzle has fallen into place. Not the whole, not by far, but enough that the entirety of the picture no longer alludes her. She takes another step forward. Another. It is enough to bring her to a stop before him where he stands hardened and wolf-eyed. Unless he stops her, her hand lifts, fingertips touching his cheek near the jaw. "Thank you for the answer. It's the first I've heard from any of the Garou here that begins to.... it helps. Thank you for your honesty."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Slap me? Kill me? Shun me?
He interrupts: "I'd lose my respect for you. Everything else is only incidental."

A beat.

Then she goes on or she doesn't. She reaches to touch him, or she doesn't. If she does he doesn't flinch back from it; scarcely reacts, either, except in a faint lowering of his eyelashes, there and then gone. She thanks him -- incredibly, his mouth slants suddenly into a half-grin, ironic.

"Looking for your own reasons to stay; is that what this is about?"

[Andrea Locke] I'd lose my respect for you.
Her eyebrows rise at that, both of them twin ravens wings lifting high into an ivory-pale skyline. Then they furrow together fractionally as she openly gives the words consideration -- before nodding, again fractionally.
"That is something to bear in mind."

Which comes, of course, before stepping towards him, which she still does. Touching him, which still occurs. And when his mouth slants, a sudden half-grin, ironic - her thumb brushes lightly over lips that have been on her body, but have never touched her own. She makes a low sound, half amusement, half apologetic.

"Something like that, yes. I admit to taking rather a skewed path to get there."

Her hand drops away. "I'm sorry I interrupted your phone call."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] He doesn't catch her hand -- anger is not the only impulse he controls so sharply. But nor does he move from the door, yet.

"Stay because it's worth it," he says, quiet but fierce. "It's worth it."

Then he pulls his door open, standing aside to let her pass. A faint thread of humor -- perhaps the first true one all night. "At any rate, where else would the Tribe let you run an establishment quite like this?

"Goodnight, Andrea."

[Andrea Locke] Stay because it's worth it.

For the first time that night, some unvieled emotion shifts in her eyes. Sorrow. Uncertainty. And, amidst it, the desire to believe. Then it passes - a moment gone, not likely to be recaptured - he opens the door, speaks lightly. She briefly waves a hand.
"Yes, god forbid I lose all this." Her tone humored, but wry.

"Goodnight, Lukas."

And she leaves, her exposed shoulder blades taut, angular lines formed from the way she carries herself.