best approach.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella was seriously considering finding some real estate of her own, something small and modest, like a one bedroom apartment, or even a loft. She could care less if it was in Bronzeville and had insects scuttling over walls and appliances at this point. Whatever it took to get away from the Loft and the new guest.

Was it unfair of her to refuse to interact beyond a passing glance and nod, to avoid giving the other Kinfolk a chance to become anything more than an acquaintance, a body helping keep her home warm? Perhaps, but Gabriella was stern in her mindset. Her reasons she would keep to herself , she wasn't the slandering sort. She wouldn't complain to Katherine or Edward, for she would be scolded and told to open her arms to family. Instead, she went out, out where she wouldn't be expected to be found.

Chinatown was no warmer than any other part of the city, but it somehow managed to feel more crowded. Not necessarily by population so much as by layout. The streets were thin, the buildings tall and looming, curbs lined with cars and carts, steam billowing from grates, trucks pulled up in front of shops to carry shipments and supplies through the front doors because there was no room in the neighborhood for back doors and spacious alleyways. Gabriella, fully intending to simply hide out for the day, walked up the sidewalk in a heavy coat with thick black stockings keeping her legs warm rather than pants-- she'd favored a skirt today. Boots, hat, scarf. Recognizable by grace of breeding and long bronze hair alone.... but why would anyone in Chinatown know her?

[Mickey] Chinatown by day is a riot of garish colors, from the lipstick red ceremonial entrance gate, ornate and scrolled with gold dragons, to the poster sized menus tacked up inside restaurant windows displaying everything from General Tso’s Chicken to obscure bowls of rice noodle broth. People flow and ebb like waves of the ocean upon the shore, filling certain streets and draining out of others, and the air is replete with a thousand interesting scents, from the steam that billows out of kitchen vents to the sewage stink that billows out from the grates below. Spices, hawked handbags, cheap sunglasses, the cry and call of vendors selling Chinatown Express Bus tickets to farflung and exotic destinations like Boston or New York, the thousand shops gleaming and open to reveal their wares, and the impassive, stoic older folk who observe the madness from windows above, cutting lunch on wooden chopping boards balanced precariously on window ledges.

Mickey is sunk into a shopping cart, his legs hooked over the bottom edge at the knees, filthy hiking boots almost falling from his feet, one arm trapped against the inside wall of the shopping cart and thus sticking straight up as if he were asking an invisible teacher a question, the other cradled to his chest, holding the remnants of a whiskey bottle. His face is obscured by what looks like a huge, furred, black Russian hat, a red star emblazoned on its crest, the ear flaps down and the brim pulled almost over his nose. In fact, he’d be unrecognizable were it not for the distinctive tattoos that are scrawled across his chest, or the strange and unnerving quality that suffuses the air about him even as he snores.

People eye the shopping cart where it’s parked against the mouth of an alley wall with distaste, but none come close. None of the shop keepers seem eager to awaken the man, and though eyes are rolled and angry statements muttered, he’s left where he sleeps, for now.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Now typically, as a rule of thumb Gabriella was smarter than the average Kinfolk. She didn't go looking for trouble, didn't investigate strange noises or strangled cries for help up dark alleyways because she knew that there wasn't anything she could do for some bad situation that she could find herself stumbling upon except for getting herself involved in it and hurt. She wasn't a gunslinger (despite popular belief when those stories about her blowing off two mens' heads with some mobster) and she wasn't a strong fighter. The most she could hope to do is stun someone long enough to run away, and even then she wasn't even the fastest runner and couldn't rely on her own feet to ensure her safety.

...but something about those tattoos was familiar.

Gabriella came to a stop in front of the alley while others kept on walking, fists in her coat pockets, scarf hiked up over her mouth and tucked under her nose. Light colored eyebrows lifted in study, her eyes skimmed the slumbering figure's feet and legs, the arm sticking straight up in the air, the bottle of liquor cradled to his chest like a child's teddy bear.

"...couldn't be," she murmered, but ventured to find out anyways. Gabbie glanced up the sidewalk, then rounded to the side of the cart and reached out toward the hand that dangled from the arm standing upright in the air, a windless flag on a flagpole. Soft glove-sheathed fingertips grasped at his fingers and pulled lightly, pinching and tugging to coax the beast to consciousness.

[Mickey] His fingers are perfectly curled, following the same curvature of a conch shell, and though there’s grime beneath the nails and hard calluses across the palms and finger tips, it’s an elegant hand, capable of expressive gestures and teasing forth music from the most recalcitrant of instruments. Gabbie’s hand slips into its grasp, and perhaps she’s oblivious to the surprised stares that this gesture receives from the locals of the street minding their own stalls or standing in doorways, or perhaps she simply doesn’t care. She pulls on the fingers, and for a long moment, or several tugs, there’s no response.
But then the fingers spasm, and the snoring degenerates into a rumbling cough, and the figure crammed within the shopping cart stirs sluggishly. The arm bends at the elbow, comes flopping down so that his hand falls onto his hat, and the feet wiggle, as if tentatively seeing if they are still alive.
“Grrah,” he says, voice thick, face still hidden beneath the brim of his hat. He stirs once more, but he’s trapped, or unwilling to manifest sufficient effort to extricate himself from this metallic cocoon. Instead, he shifts his hips about, smacks his lips once or twice, and smiles lazily from beneath the brim of his hat.
“Alright, alright,” he says, voice thick with the dregs of sleep. “Daddy’s awake. Get me another drink and… we’ll play hide the pickle… again.” He frowns, and then the frown begins to melt away as sleep steals over him once more.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Her sister would be appalled if she ever admitted this, her brother would lift his eyebrows and laugh like she was joking, and her mother would cluck her tongue sadly... but it was a solid truth that Gabriella Bellamonte had, some number of months ago, found an honest friend in a Bone Gnawer Galliard. His motivations for paying her any mind were skewed and impossible for her to get a solid idea of, but she'd decided after a couple of weeks that she simply didn't care. She'd settled into the Loft, Sam and so many others had disappeared, and Mickey Perl had been amongst the number of those that vanished, presumably into the mouth of War.

People stopped to stare, wondering what in the world this elegant, money-born looking young woman was doing pestering some slumbering homeless man, but this was something else that Gabriella didn't care about. That was the beauty about neighborhoods that weren't Lake View or the Mile-- the people that recognized her didn't come around here. She would be downright shocked if Van Der Noot came up behind her at this moment, as he seemed to have acquired a habit of doing in the more expensive, cleaned up neighborhoods.

The Galliard stirred and shifted about in the cart, smiling and mumbling, and what slipped past drowsy lips had a quiet laugh muffled by the scarf coming from the Kinfolk. She returned her hand, tugged her scarf off of her mouth, and opted to fold her arms over the edge of the cart and lean forward to rest her chin upon her wrist.

"As tempting a prospect as that may be, let's find something that everyone would enjoy instead."

[Mickey] Her voice seems to slide through the layers of sleep like a ray of sunshine through banks of fog, and the Galliard doesn’t quite stiffen as seem to grow aware. Though not a muscle moves, suddenly it seems as if alertness, quiet and focused, as stolen over him, and so it’s with no surprise to Gabby that he drops his fallen hand from the crown of Russian hat to lift the brim and peer up at her with gleaming eyes that seem to laugh even as his face remains serious.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve yet to meet somebody who didn’t end up enjoying finding the pickle. After all was said and done, you know.” He simply looks at her, and then a smile breaks across his ugly face, too narrow by half and bifurcated by an overly long nose, his eyes small, his mouth sensual, his skin pasty white and seemingly impossibly unhealthy on the visage of a Garou.

“Heya Gabbie,” he says, as if months and months haven’t gone by, as if they’d just run into each other in a coffee shop and not the mouth of an alley in Chinatown. His curly black hair, greasy as always, spikes out from under the hat, which he then allows to drop back over his eyes a mere moment after giving her a wink.
“I’m stuck,” he announces. “You’re going to have to liberate me.”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] "Mmm," is all that she offers as far as the game involving the pickle goes, as it was really better to not egg the topic on. There was a grin on her freckled face, cheeks and nose dusted rosy with the cold even though she didn't seem to be terribly bothered by it. The hat finally shifted away from his face, letting that ugly mug out to confirm for certain what Gabriella was already sure of. She'd rediscovered Heckles the Wyrm. He smiled, and she smiled right back, the expression broad and hardly restrained.

Heya Gabbie.
"Heya Mickey." A study of his posture was made when he announced that he was stuck without bothering to try climbing up out of the cart himself, and she straightened up, leaving her hands on the edge of the cart. Her mouth pressed to one side, expression thoughtful, assessing, and she chuckled and shook her head, then pushed the cart back until the handle bumped lightly into the alley wall. "You know," she stated, shifting the cart so that its side was pressed against the wall rather than the front, and settled one foot on the bottom rack to steady it while bracing with her other, "it'd probably be easier just to dump you out."

But she reached in to offer a hand to help drag him out anyways.

[Mickey] “Dump me out?” he says, mock indignant, and takes her hand in his own wiry one. “What kind of lady would dump out a helpless young man in his time of need on a filthy alley floor? Unspeakable, and thus, unconsciousnable, and thus, impossible.” Taking her hand, he levers himself free of the cart’s embrace, and groaning and stretching, slithers out over its top to stagger onto his own feet.

Standing, even bent over as he is, he’s taller than Gabbie, but not by much. Nobody would ever confuse Mickey for a giant, gangly and lean as he is, but there’s an angularity to his presence, from the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, the salient clavicles and the rawness of his jawline that gives him presence, the kind of attention that others might achieve with their bulk. It’s in the way he holds himself, the easy tension, the coiled intensity that glitters and burns in his mocking eyes as he turns to regard her.

“My back hurts,” he informs. He presses one hand against his sacrum, and with a groan forces himself to straighten up. Then, mostly upright, he rolls his head around on his neck, which causes a series of sharp cracks to bounce of the alley walls. “Ah,” he groans,” and then loosely lolls his head back and forth a few more times. A deep breath, and then he drops the empty whiskey bottle in the cart and turns brightly to her.

“Let’s get breakfast. Eggs, and ham, and rashers of bacon, and gleaming sausies, and more eggs, and a mug of coffee the size of my head, and grilled pineapple slices, and maybe some pulled pork, or some grilled beef, some, what do they call it in Texas, when the---brisket! Let’s find some brisket, and drown it in bbq sauce, good stuff though, you know, tasty. Maybe some corn, or baked beans on the side, with some mashed potato, and some chicken wings?”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] A pull, a tug, and for the most part Gabriella found it easier and best to simply hold still and be an anchor, or a railing, something sturdy for Mickey to use to leverage himself out of the cart. Those tattered hiking boots found pavement, and the Bone Gnawer groaned and rumbled as he straightened himself out, stretching muscles from positions they'd been coiled up in for god knows how long, joints popping and crackling loudly until he was finally upright, rolling his head on his neck and asking for food.

Gabriella tugged at her skirt so that it was comfortably arranged under the hem of her hip-cut coat once more, then returned her hands to her pockets and glanced at the empty bottle in the cart. If he'd really managed to drink all of that himself, it was a testament to the workings of the Garou body that Mickey hadn't died in that shopping cart, poisoned by his own vices. ...But then, she supposed, if he was going to die by way of vice, that probably would've happened ten or so years ago.

"Well," she said, and glanced toward the sky before tugging her cellphone out of her pocket far enough for her to see the time displayed on its screen, "it's a little too late for anywhere to be serving breakfast, but I'm sure we could find something for you." The phone was tucked away, the girl's chin lifted, and a smile that had something bubbling under its surface spread on her face again. "I'd offer to head on back to the loft and just make some eggs and greaseball sausages, but I'm quite certain that Katherine would throw a fit and our houseguest would simply die."

That might be worth Katherine throwing a fit, though...
Be nice!

[Mickey] “Katherine, eh?” he says ruminatively, narrowing his eyes. “Katherine. That would be your sister. Really hot, acts like an ice poker is up her bum.” Eyebrows raised for confirmation from Gabbie as he turns and begins walking, naturally assuming she’ll fall in stride. “I remember her. We had a wonderful tea party together at your place that one time. I innocently asked for your hand in marriage, and she got all upset about it.” He rolls his eyes, and glances across at her. “Fangs,” he says, as if that explains everything, and with a grin he shakes his head.
“And a house guest, hmm? Not that hot little latina lady you had cleaning the sheets? What was her name? Conchita? Consuela? Carola? Camilla? Hmm. I bet she kicks off her shoes when she dances. Does she ever let her hair down?” He taps his chin as he walks, bites his lower lip, and then shrugs. “I’ll find out sooner or later, I guess. So , house guest? Friend of the family?” A more speculative glance. “Or… somebody that’s being imposed upon y’all by that nuncle dearest out in big bad NYC?”

[Mickey] (running out for some lunch, back in an hour. take your sweet, sweet time with the next post!)

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Naturally, Gabbie fell into stride beside the ugly-as-sin Gnawer, just as she would with anyone else she was holding a conversation with if they would start to walk. She tugged at her scarf, adjusted the white knit hat that she was wearing so that it better covered her ears, and shook her head slowly at Mickey, grinning a bit when he mentioned her sister.

"Yeah, I remember that. Shame she turned you down, ours would have been a passion that'd never burn out." A wry curve at one side of her mouth betrayed the humor with which she spoke, and she glanced up at the hook-nosed profile of her companion before looking forward again, content for now to follow his stride and not worry so much about where he was leading her. After all, she'd followed him up to the top of a skyscraper in the middle of a lightning storm and watched a ritual involving a guitar, thunder, and strong tequila without too much protest or forethought. It was rough to explain, but he was easy to follow.

"Lucinda," she corrected when he went through a broad list of Spanish names that began with the letter 'C', lifting an eyebrow just a touch. If he really desired to find out if the woman dancing between middle-aged and senior citizenship ever let her hair down, he'd find out that, as a matter of fact, she didn't. Maybe when she showered so that she could wash it, but that was all.

The inquiry about the house guest was answered with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes. "Hardly. She is another Kinfolk that my sister has opted to take into her protection, what with being the city's Silver Fang Elder and all she found it her responsibility to shelter the girl from her own stupid mistakes." There's a note of unresolved displeasure to Gabriella's words, though it's rather hard to pick up where the root of this distaste was lying. "The girl falls into the arms of some Shadow Lord within maybe two weeks of her residency here, has the lack of sense to run around with hickeys all over her neck and flash them in front of my sister, and then stirs up an entire whirlwind of romantic drama and conflict.

"Now, I suppose, this girl's cousin, her proper guardian, has... frightened her? Intimidated her? Told her some conjured story about how her lover had flayed into him, and because of this, for some godforsaken reason, Katherine has deemed it critical that the girl be protected from him. Because apparently these days lying to someone means that you're a danger to them and that they need to be taken away from you."

[Lukas] (away with thee, snail!)

[Lukas] "Gabriella," exasperation is to be read in that single word, "does discretion mean anything to you at all?"

The moon is new. The sky is clear, bitterly cold even in the midday. Sunlight, direct but pale, watery with winter, casts the Shadow Lord's shadow across the sidewalk clean and sharpedged. The man himself is in a black overcoat that drops past his knees, and obscures all but the roughest impressions of height and breadth, strength and rage.

He sips from the lidded cup -- an espresso from one of the smaller local chains, the sort that sold such things as corretto a cognacs. "And," he continues, "if you think Fons's lies are harmless, are anything but malicious and dangerous to your sister's standing and your family's safety, you and I need to have a talk."

Pale blue and chill, rather sharp, his eyes pin Gabriella for another moment and then flick to her companion.

"Who's your friend?" There's a light curiosity in his tone.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] So, once upon a time ago Gabriella couldn't walk five feet without Lukas somehow finding her, shadowing her steps and keeping tabs on her for the sake of his, at the time, Alpha's reputation. She couldn't quite remember the number of times this Shadow Lord had popped up from shadows and nothingness to thwart her, but she was certain that they were abundant.

It seems that Lukas was back to old habits. He hadn't had reason to shadow her as of late because she'd stayed inside, avoiding contact with anyone and everyone for such a stretch of time, but naturally the first day that she stepped outside of that mold, he had to be there. Go figure.

"I suppose we'll need to talk, then, Lukas," she replied cooly, perhaps a little moreso than necessary, and narrowed her eyes at him just a bit in aggravation. It was a practiced younger sibling look, the clear will you go away? signal that will no doubt either be ignored completely or commented upon then disregarded. Her jaw set, jutted out to the side just a little bit, and her shoulders rolled up against the weight of her coat, her own way of shifting just a little under the heavy gaze of the Ahroun.

He asked who her friend was, and Gabbie glanced to the Bone Gnawer before replying simply, almost like he should already know. "Mickey."

[Mickey] (back)

[Lukas] (w00t! your post, then! *sits back*)

[Mickey] Gabbie’s talking, letting some stuff out, and for his part Mickey is content to simply amble along, enjoying the sheer sensation of stretching his legs after spending all night cooped up in a bird cage of his own making. Occasionally he makes a show of windmilling his arms, the action causing his skinny black leather jacket to flare open and show his bare chest, but somehow, perky nipples aside, he doesn’t seem to mind the cold.

Then, even as she makes her mordant comments on her new roommates condition, situation and apparently ridiculous need for protection, a man steps forward just as they pass him, fancy cup of coffee in hand, draped in dark clothing and seemingly quite familiar with Gabbie. Who stops to respond, even as Mickey keeps going, seemingly trapped by his own momentum, though he’s able to turn around so that he’s walking backward for a few steps, away from the pair, but inertia creeps up and robs his momentum and he grinds to a halt, some four yards past them.

Wry comments are exchanged. An undertone of tension is introduced, and Mickey, like a faithful hound, pricks his ears and raises his brows as he looks from Gabbie to this imposing young man. Gabbie introduces him, and he steps forward, extending his hand at the man, the very image of a young business man being introduced to the firm’s CEO. Broad smile, eyes wide, shoulders back. Were it not for the greasy hair, the scrawled tattoos and the foul body odor, you’d almost expect him to be carrying a brief case.

“Pleasure to meet you, sah!” he says, grin wide, accent suddenly Colonial English. “Honest pleasure. Sincere one, too. About time, if you ask me, about time we were introduced, small town, big elbows, lots of room for rubbing, if you know what I mean, sah!”

He looks over at Gabbie, and winks conspiratorially to her, though what the conspiracy might be is anyone’s guess. If Lukas shakes his hand, he pumps it right back, up and down, up and down. Should it not be taken? He leaves it aggressively stuck forward, completely unabashed.

[Lukas] Gabriella's petulance is met with a longer, level stare. Then he turns back to Mickey. The sudden joviality makes Lukas's eyebrows rise sardonically. The offered hand is not taken, but the forearm is: gripped firmly in the Shadow Lord's gloved hand. "Mickey, I'm Lukáš Wyrmbreaker, Fostern Shadow Lord Ahroun. Gabriella's sister is my packmate."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Mickey stepped forward, all bright, somehow appealing smiles despite the face that they were set in, hand extended for a shake and some ridiculous accent flying off his tongue, no doubt for the sake of smart-alleckry and humor.

Gabriella pulled her eyes away from Lukas, cutting the returned stare she was giving short to look to the Bone Gnawer instead. Lukas had grasped his arm and introduced himself firmly and formally, explaining his connection to Gabbie as a precursor, no doubt just in case Mickey decided to try and turn into some unlikely shining-armored knight.

Gabbie fell quiet and still, arms straight and shoulders pushed up just a little.
Shh, the adults are talking.

[Mickey] “You’re packmates with Katherine? Ah…” he says, squinting at Lukas as if suddenly putting him in a whole new context. He cants his head to one side, and then nods, satisfied, as if everything has clicked into place. “Right. That makes sense, in a way. Sorry about what I said earlier. About her bum, that is, and the ice poker. Was just jokes, you know.”

A grin then, and he slips his arm free. “I’m Mickey Perl, Heckles the Wyrm and Galliard to the great and insovereign tribe of the Gnawers of the Bone, a mere Cliath, it’s true, and thus fully at the service of a Lord of Shadow, Fostern to boot, and pack-uncle or something to dear, dear Gabbie here.”

He crosses his arms over his bare chest, rests his chin on raised fist, and looks fondly at Gabbie while standing next to the Shadow Lord. “My, how she has grown. Any day now she’ll be married off to some charming cross eyed Fang, and that will be the last of her.” He sniffs. “It’s the way of the world, I suppose. What can you do?”

[Lukas] "There was probably some truth to that," Lukas replies. The sound he makes might be a laugh, a scoff, a snort, or anything in between. "But if Katherine takes it out on your hide, don't act too surprised."

Mickey's chest is bare under his thin leather jacket. Mickey is wildly underdressed for this weather. Mickey looks like he might be too insane to care. On the other hand, Lukas -- fancy coat, fancy drink, fancy pure breed gleaming in his veins like silver, or ice, is well and fully attired in several layers, wool and knitted silk and cotton. He sips again from his cooling drink, and his eyes flick between the girl and the Galliard.

"You can stop mocking her," he says, rather bluntly. "I doubt Gabriella sees much humor in it."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Mickey put on a show, and Gabbie expected nothing else of him. He folded his arms over a bare chest scrawled with tattoos, settled his chin on his fist, and observed her like a proud relative might, smiling fondly and lamenting over how some day soon she was going to be shipped away to some deranged tribemate that she was likely second cousins with, or something like that, and how she would never be seen again.

A sad half-smile tugged one side of her mouth. If nothing else, at least the inbreeding joke was picked up on and taken in good humor.

And Lukas, like King Kong, takes a swipe at the plane of jest, and Gabbie bit at her lower lip, suddenly awkward, and muttered: "Even if I couldn't speak for myself, I'm standing right here." And, that said, she looked away from the Garou, focusing past them and into a restaurant at their backs instead.

[Mickey] “Mocking her?” asks Mickey, turning to Lukas in surprise. “If you mistake the truth for mockery, than what does that say for the reality of her situation? That it is, when considered in the cold light of day, a mockery of how such relations should be conducted?”

He frowns, and reviews his words. “Or did I mean how one should conduct one’s self with one’s relations? Which, when it comes to the Fang way, is a little scandalous, even for my tastes.” He reflects further, and then shrugs. “No, I think it was the first one.”

He looks to where Gabbie has turned away, and his grin resurfaces. A side glance to Lukas. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve put her in a pout. Honestly, I think she needs a hug.”His side glance turns reproachful. “When was the last time you gave her a hug? I really think you should, because if you don’t I will, and then she’ll probably have to burn her clothes.”

[Lukas] About halfway through Mickey's play of words, Lukas interrupts -- levelly, evenly, and rather mildly:

"Shut up."

A tick of silence. Then, "Gabriella's a Fang kinswoman. Reality is what it is for her, and she knows it. That's no excuse to rub her face in it."

And to Gabriella: "If you have something to say, then say it. Don't pout."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] A quiet shushing sound had started between Gabriella's teeth, but Lukas had cut Mickey off with an abrupt 'shut up', and so the sound died off before it manifested fully. Clear, crystal blue eyes shifted away from the menu she was staring at, the Chinese characters she'd been observing as markings rather than actual language since her skill in linguistics did not reach that far, and instead focused upon Lukas when he told her not to pout, to say what she wanted.

The Kinfolk's response was a huff made haughty by irritability that came from having a perfectly pleasant reunion spoiled.

"What I wish to say is difficult to articulate, Lukas, and liable to get me slapped. I'd sooner hold my silence."

[Lukas] "In that case," Lukas replies to Gabriella, that same level tone, "don't whine about not being allowed to speak for yourself."

[Mickey] Mickey does indeed go quiet. But he’s hardly offended. After all, he’s a Bone Gnawer Cliath. The number of time’s he’s been told to shut up are beyond count. Rather, he hooks his thumbs on the belt of his jeans and chews his lower lip as the Shadow Lord confronts the Silver Fang kin. Icy words are exchanged, and Mickey shakes his head.

“Can I ask a question?” He even half raises a hand. “What happened to old school Shadow Lord diplomacy? This is like…” he pauses to think, “Neo-Fenrir style. Or… Black Fury? No, there’d be more hissing and spitting.” He shrugs. And unless he’s been told to shut up again, continues a little further. “Just saying, rhya, you know. Classic case of dissatisfied kin, right? Hanging out with wastrel types, obeying the letter of the law, not the spirit, surrounded by stern authority figures that harshly impose their will, etcetera, etcetera. Given that, given all that, you think your tough love style of approach here is best?”

A half measured look at Lukas in all his finery, “Yeah, guess you do.” He looks past Lukas to Gabbie, and gives her an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, luv.”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella eyed Lukas for a few moments, teeth pressed more firmly together than the pressure at which they rested. This was behind closed lips, however, her teeth were not bared, she knew much better than that. Instead this simply gave a tension to her jaw, one that didn't reflect completely to her eyes because while her body was still aggravated, her mind already sought resignation. There's simply no winning for her, not on this topic.

The only option here is tactical retreat.

She looked away from Lukas, focused entirely on Mickey instead.

"Weren't we getting lunch?"

[Lukas] For what it's worth, Lukas doesn't try to stop them. He doesn't drag Gabriella away from her unsuitable ... well, it's questionable Mickey is even a suitor. He doesn't leap to defend her honor from the greasy, stinking, too-charismatic Gnawer.

She's not his kin, after all.

But he does call her back, briefly. "Gabriella," he says, "I still want a word with you. Tonight, at your sister's loft."

[Mickey] Mickey falls in with Gabbie as they walk off, leaving the austere and authoritative Shadow Lord behind. Once they’ve moved on a block or two, sufficient to be out of ear shot, and taken a couple of corners he lets out a deep breath, blowing it out steadily before shooting her a look and inhaling deeply through his nose, letting the cold, clear air scintillate in his lungs.

“Lukas, eh? Packmates with Katherine. No shit.” He lifts his face to the sky, closes his eyes for a moment as if enjoying the natural if washed out light, and then shrugs his shoulders. Walks for a few strides like that, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, bunched up high about his ribs, and then he cocks her a wry look. “I think he liked me,” he says. Waggles his eyebrows. “You see the way he stared at my ass after we walked off? Rowr.”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabbie barely even dignifies Lukas a glance when he speaks, let alone an affirmation or 'yes sir'. But she'll show, he'd be certain of that. She had to come home sometime, after all.

She and the Bone Gnawer walked, leaving Lukas behind, and there was a sullen, tense silence that felt one-sided as far as the tension went. Gabriella was stewing, and Mickey was just waiting until he was certain that the Ahroun wasn't going to hop out from a corner and yell 'gotcha!' when he said something questionable.

Even Mickey's jokes didn't quite break completely through, not just yet anyways. Gabbie had a grim set to her mouth and a frown creasing her forehead, even in reply. "Mm. It would tickle me pink if he'd picked one side of the fence and stayed on it-- ignoring me completely or giving a shit." She shook her head, the curse tasting bitter on her lips, and looked back up to Mickey. "Where'd you go?"