[Rory] [123 not me!]
[Gina McClaren] bitch
[Rory] [You love me.]
[Gina McClaren] *Its a clear cold night. The wind howls like an angry ghost around the ramshackle white house on Everette Avenue, threatening to rip off spotty shingles and loose shutters. A light glows cheerily from the kitchen window, another glowing faintly from the upstairs loft, a sure sign Soledad had been there recently. Separated from the monster upstairs by a single floor, her kin sat perched on a counter top, staring into her cup of earl grey like it held the answers to the big questions somewhere in its milky depths. Her feet swing idly above the draft snaking across the cool tile, strider kin dressed for bed in a man’s dress shirt and fuzzy pj pants.*
[Rory] She’d promised to tackle that washer, and she has no concept of time at all. But she does have concept of cold, and inside Gina’s has to be warmer than it is outside, and Gina almost always has something good to eat somewhere. Scrounging wasn’t much today, and she hates to take advantage of Edwin too much.
And so it is, knuckles rap lightly on the door, where one very shy, somewhat skittish Ahroun awaits.
[Gina McClaren] *The knock has her setting her teacup down in concern, and reaching instead for a thin kitchen knife and palming it carefully as she approaches the door. It was late, and Edwin didn’t knock so much as appear with ill intent. … But what ill intent! Maybe it was Delmar, come for a midnight snack and shag. Her expression grows a little less grim at the thought, pikey raising to tiptoes to look through the peephole. Red hair. Curly and sticking out from a hood. That gets an even wider grin as the door opens wide to reveal the busty Indian kinfolk.*
Coome en, coome en darlin. Ets fookin cauld an’ windy as aul hell!
*The house itself is a wide unfinished affair, an attempt at renovation having stalled out several years ago. A thick grey door leads into the laundry room, which is cluttered by an ancient pair of appliances and a narrow wooden staircase, upwards to the loft. The house proper is spacious and somewhat empty. Cold tile floors, scuffed old hardwood. Second and third hand furniture brightened with eclectic throws and pillows. The kitchen is spacious if outdated, and the house itself smells of spices and incense. Guest bedroom is a small cramped affair, Gina’s larger, a bathroom just off the hall. There is no lot or backyard to speak of, backdoor leading out onto a cement pad, and the narrow alley behind.*
[Rory] She grins, shyly, and scoots inside quickly as she nods. “I widn’t dake you, did I?”
She’s once again bundled in everything she owns, save one spare set of clothing in her pack – which holds everything else she owns, including her tool set. “I thought I’d look at your masher, waybe…”
[Gina McClaren] Och.. well thank ye darlin. Nae, ye didn’ae wake me.
*It takes the kin girl moment to decipher Rory most days, look of puzzlement a common expression as she swaps consonants and reorders chunks of the Fianna’s sentences. Gina coughs into her hand, blade held outward hastily. Edwin would be less than proud of her if she accidentally stabbed herself in the throat. The door is caught and shut quickly as Gina gestures with the other hand to the washer, and singsongs.*
Ah was up wi a bit o tha sniffles, reckon. Ah was lyin en the snow like a daft bint, an ah’ve caught meself somethen o a bug. Ah’ve tea made, effen ye’d like?
[Rory] She smiles, that same shy little grin, ducking her head to hide behind those curls as she slips off her backpack, and hugs it to her chest, following Gina’s direction and moving toward the washer. “I know. I spas wying.” There’s a touch of pride in that, as she’d manged to go undetected until Edwin pointed her out.
gina offers tea, and Rory sets her pack down on the top of the washer, so she can shrug out of her too-thin coat. “Thank you.” A pause, and hopeful look. “you cave hookies?”
[Gina McClaren] Ye were – OCH!.. Ye were spying! Ah’ll keep tha en mind Rory!
*She offers her hand for Rory’s coat, leveling a look of exaggerated wariness the Ahroun’s way. Rory spying on her was nothing at all in comparison to the trickery Edwin, Delmar and Blast visited on her regularly, but she wanted the girl to feel included, regardless. *
Yer a Bogeyman now? Good lads, aul around.
*Well, perhaps not Blast, for all he was an entertaining evening. Gina’s looking over her coat as she moves through the door into the kitchen, headed for tea. Cookie question unanswered as she jingles onward. Knife set back in its stand.*
[Rory] She blushes and ducks her head. “I pas wracticing…” And yeah, spying. But then her shoulders straighten as she nods. “Edwin took me to feet Mox! She was amazing.” There’s a soft awe in her voice, that she, once a child of AlleyCat, was accepted by Fox so readily.
“I kept a kitten though. Edwin let me keep her in ry moom.” She has a room. That’s new too, so new she still carries everything with her.
As Gina walks away, she unwraps her tools – the shiniest thing she owns, well taken care of, they are – and starts to dismantle the washer to find out what’s wrong, and go about fixing it.
[Gina McClaren] Es yer cat aulrecht wi’ ye? Doesnae fret?
*Gina calls curiously from the kitchen. Rory can hear the busy noises of food being prepared, the burble of tea being poured. Pikey accommodating even at 2 am. Something smells of chicken. Charms tinkle merrily as Gina moves about the kitchen with the ease and familiarity of someone at home anywhere. An explosion of sneezes, before a sigh wisps audibly.*
Yer en good hans reckon. Ye seen Mickey lately?
[Rory] She shakes her head, curls flying. “I followed Alleycat. He knows me since he kas a witten. Foesn’t dret.”
Something smells like chicken, and Rory’s belly rumbles audibly as she pulls the washer out so she can get behind it. She settles to sit on the floor behind the washer, and starts really digging into the inner workings of the machine.
She blushes brightly at the mention of Mickey, and shakes her head. “Sot nince the time I told you.” She hesitates, and then… “I thought about what you said, about the blowie? I dust jon’t…” A beat, and her confusion is clear… “…why?!”
[Dex+crafts = 7, d 6-2 for mechanical aptitude, specialty mechanical tinkering. Extended roll, looking for 5 suxx.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 4) Re-rolls: 3
[Gina McClaren] *The scraping of a spoon against a pot, low and metallic. The hollow rustle of something being shaken out of a cardboard box. Water boiling. The hiss and simmer of something hitting a hot pan. Sounds Rory would do well to get acquainted with if she’s going to be visiting the pikey. The sound of food being prepared. Gina blows her nose – ok. so thats not usually part of the cooking process, but damnit, the kin has a cold. Water runs, and Rory can easily hear her approach as she jingles to the doorway, leaning against the frame with a wide hip, steaming tea offered in hand. Voice like a warm blanket on a chill day.*
Why wha? Why would a folk dae tha, oor why would Mickey ask ye?
[Rory] She wrinkles her nose, slightly, as she’s asked to clarify, her thoughts drifting toward the food, even as her hands move with confident surety with the washing machine parts. She rubs her nose, and leaves a smudge of dirt, and pauses to take the cup of tea with a smile of thanks.
She takes a sip first, and then… “Soth, borta.” She struggles to find the words.. “He said it was ok because I was Metis and everyone dould sho it. But I don’t…” She’s hopeless. And then there’s… “…and like a lollipop?!?”
Oh, poor sheltered Metis… and she’s blushing so bright, it’s spread down her neck, across her shoulders under her t-shirt, up to her hairline…
[Gina McClaren] Och fookin Mickey. Ignore Mickey-“Smarmy bastard” What’sHisFace. He’s gintae gi’ ye en aul sorts o’ trouble. Tha shitehead.
*No love lost there apparently, Gina shaking her head and glancing back to her pot as it simmers away. She’s considering her response carefully, puzzling out Rory’s words and nodding to herself.*
An reckon ye dae et, on account o et brengs a felly a good deal o’ pleasure. Aye? Ets nae quite sex, but reckon a bob does aboot the same fer a folk. Same feelin fer a felly as when ye gi’ yerself aft, aye?
[Rory] “I sought tho.” That Mickey would get her into trouble. She sets her cup of tea beside her, her tools clinking and clanking as she works, and listens…
She doesn’t answer right away, having discovered what the problem was, which leads to a sound of satisfaction and delight as she wrenches the drum back into place, re-seating the rubber bits so that it no longer leaks, and going about cleaning up all the gears.
“Oh.” She accepts that as law, and then… her voice reverberating from the inside of the machine. “I only got my kirst miss a while ago. Then me hoved away.” A sadness there, too. She misses Gabe. He promised to write… though she’ll have to ask Edwin to read the letters for her.
[Gina McClaren] Och, well there’s a start. Was ee charmin’?
*Gina teases, peering curiously into the back of the washing machine as the drum clunks back into place. Hopefully all the noise wasn’t keeping Sole awake. Last thing Gina needed was the grump uktena barging downstairs and scaring the crap out of Poor Rory. Pregnancy Hormones were a bitch when coupled with Rage. Gina tilts her head and singsongs.*
Tha’s wha ye need darlin. A nice kin felly tae love up on ye. Reckon ye’ll be a fine sort o mam.
[Rory] She blushes bright then. “Oh he was… he pas werfect.”
She gets things settled in place, and then goes about screwing the back on the machine again. She’s confident it’s fixed, and will work better than ever now.
“a mam?” When one gets asked so often to repeat her own words, she doesn’t mind asking for clarification when it’s needed, too.
[Gina McClaren] A.. *Gina’s face falls in sudden realization. Rory was a Metis. What a terribly cruel thing to say to the creature. She’d never be a mother, a reality that Gina cannot fathom wouldn’t pain her terribly. She wets her lips and singsongs an alternate answer cheerily.*
Ye’d be good, wi’ a kin lad. Treat hem well, ah reckon.
*And she’s jingling back into the kitchen, changing the subject as she goes.*
Ye like chicken an’ dumplins darlin?
[Rory] She smiles up at Gina, unaware of her line of thought, that her answer is the second one, rather than her first. “I don’t know. Most lon’t dike Metis. They think we louldn’t shove anyone. I’m lucky to have kotten a giss.”
She nods. It’s simply something that is, something she doesn’t question. Perhaps she should, but she’d never thought there was any other way. Not until Gabe. And now she’s not entirely sure his leaving wasn’t something orchestrated to punish her.
She gathers her tools, and her tea, and stands up, pushing the washer back into place with her hip. “All fixed.” She’s confident. “Try it!”
Then her belly rumbles again as she nods, the shy smile returning. “I love everything cou yook.” Simple truth, as she takes a long drink of the tea, feeling the warmth seep through her, happily. Nothing like a job well done to straighten to her shoulders.
[Gina McClaren] Ah will darlin.. an’ reckon lovin an’ bein loved back es a treck fer everywan. Give yer heart oot tae a folk, ye may nae gi’ et back.
*Its a warning sung wistful, Gina making to fuss with the stove, gesturing that Rory take a load off at the table. Food is ladled into a large bowl, as the pikey settles down for a little tea and conversation with Chicago’s newest Bogeyman. They were multiplying. God help us all. *