[Eddie Vaako] The nastiest temper can still hint at decency. As frayed and crushed as years and city grime can make it, sometimes the decency is there. The only snag is when one forgets how to be decent.. then, righteous indignation only looks cruel.
The orange streetlights leave regular puddles of color against sidewalks that would be smoke grey in daytime. Snow threatens to cake everything, but the beating heart of the city keeps everything just melted enough. Between two decaying brownstones-turned-apartment buildings, the local folks have, in a spunky display of defiance against the social order, cleared and raised a small sapling garden.
Row after row of bare trees awaiting planting marching in neat lines under the spreading domes of those that already made it into the ground. Its nice to see in daytime. At night it cuts fields of vision. Offers a bit of a windbreak and an even more enticing screen against view from the street. Easy to see out of- not so easy to see into. Perfect for slinging dope after hours. Swings creak in the rattling wake of the ‘EL’ train, and a few minutes ago there were voices here.
Then a touch of shouting. Then alarm and the patter of panicked feet fading in the distance.
The only sound left is the sharp crack crack crack of oiled steel against bone.. and the grinding teeth sound of someone taking a bit too much zeal in his work.
[Eddie Vaako] The vicious, smoky boil of a voice far too calm given the circumstances.. it weaves through the trees and ripples nearly to the sidewalk. Laden with the sort of deep satisfaction and flinty appeal one normally associates with the afterglow of good sex, veiled wrath seems the foundation for a deceptively casual tone.
“When you look in the mirror… you remember me. Remember this park too… the two go together.”
A muffled, pained voice responds.
“You don’t get it Samson. I’ll be here next time because I liked making you wish you were somewhere else. Now. Run.”
[Soledad Gutierrez] Curious were the behaviors of Soledad Gutierrez, truly, when studied by an outsider. It was cold outside (though it had been much colder, would still find temperatures much lower before the season was over), and while Soledad had a home, a roof over her head and a space heater that she could move from sofa to bedroom, she still found herself out and about, braving the cold and beating the street with her feet because of some strange wanderlust contained in this neighborhood. Patrolling, some called it. Pacing was a better word for it, really, like a dog along the length of its chain link fence.
Drug dealers were nothing new, this was the Bronze after all. Soledad had learned to be selective in those she pursued. If someone was dealing pot or any other sort of drug, really, she didn’t bother with them. Fools would buy, fools would overdose, and her job would be that much easier. It was when suspicious things attached themselves to these peddlers and purchasers that she payed closer mind– hoards of weak Banes floating about them in the umbra, certain scars on the Umbral landscape where these transactions occurred regularly…. Otherwise, she saved her energy for more important things and left these small fries for the human police.
…who seemed to be doing their job tonight. Noises reached the Uktena’s ears, and she paused in front of the cluster of leafless saplings that were pleasant in the morning, she knew, when frost caked the thin branches and icicles hung from the stronger ones. She suspected it would be a sanctuary come May, come leaves and blossoms. For now, though, it was a maze, a curtain of privacy, and currently a prison in which someone was being beaten. A voice that flickered familiar but with no face or name to add to it touched Sol’s ears, and she moved forward, into the trees, to see what was transpiring.
She wasn’t visible easily, dark shadows, a nigh-moonless sky, and dark clothes saw to that. She was nothing more than a tall figure amid the saplings to begin with, a sweep of Rage as steady and chilling as the Winter itself, and a low voice bleached clean of South Texas speaking to the Kinfolk.
“Don’t let him go, finish your job.”
[Rory] [OOC: mind if I crash? Tag said open, so…]
to Eddie Vaako, Soledad Gutierrez
[Soledad Gutierrez] [Whatever’s clever!]
to Eddie Vaako, Rory
[Rory] Annie had patched her up again, binding her wounds much better than her Alpha had done, and for it, Rory is walking a little easier, though the way her jaw is set, it’s clear every movement is causing her great pain. It is sheer stubborness that keeps her moving, and the fact that this is not the first time – and it won’t be the last. At least with the proper binding, she’s not bleeding through the bandages with every step.
Even still, the scent of blood clings to her – for all the lack of any other natural body odors. For those in the know – there is also the very real presence of wasted breeding, too – that’s obvious, as soon as one notes the red curls that are barely contained and controlled with the knit hat on her head.
Even injured, she patrols, though she slides in among the shadows effortlessly, well used to doing her best not to attract attention. Still, voices capture hers, and she searches for the source as she passes the trees, looking to see exactly what’s going on in there.
[Eddie Vaako] A moment ago there had been scrabbling. The shift and panic sounds of someone preparing to run. Then silence in the wake of Soledad’s cool voice…
The scuffling had started again- then Eddie’s rich, sonerous voice again. A touch more urgent as Soledad dimly glimpses two figures through the trees. The taller, thinner, catches the shorter one, and propels him toward the alleyway in the back instead.
“That way.”
As the sound of the runner’s feet recede in the distance, the steady, aged grace of Emil’s footsteps come closer. When he steps into a pool of light, severe, pale green eyes flicker to a now unfamiliar form with a very familiar voice. He sweeps one gloved hand over stubble meditatively, and seems not to notice the faint red smear spread across his cheek in the hand’s wake. Blood spatter.
Eddie digs in a pocket to extract a cheap brass cigarette case and lighter. Swift hands, has Eddie. Sure. Confident. He lights the smoke and jets of the grey stuff stream from his nostrils before he answers.
“You say that like you know what you’re talking about. Cute.”
[Eddie Vaako] The deep, contrabasso rumble vibrates almost as much as its actually heard. A sensation in the chest and feet before the words seep across the brittle distance between the two- now three- people. The rangy cop’s tone is even. Calm. Void of hostility. The sarcasm as easy as breathing.
[Soledad Gutierrez] “So let me get this straight,” the Uktena said in a tone that would be a drawl for how smug it felt, but isn’t because of how clear and concise she is with each syllable with the forced expulsion of Spanish accent from her words. “You capture the culprit, beat him to bleeding, then let him leave assuming the lesson is learned?”
The man had stepped forward, and a face (or more to the point, a set of shoulders and a pair of large, pale eyes on a dark face) became visible and struck a chord of memory to go along with the voice. Detective Emil “Eddie” Vaako. The one who didn’t know he was a Kinfolk. The one that put a gun on her. The one that had come to question her about Giacomo. She remembered him well. She offered him the courtesy of stepping into the light as well, letting her face and stance become more easily read. The face was the same, symmetrical but not very pretty, bland because she had no expression. Hair was longer, trimmed more neatly, left down, and no bruises or scars were visible. Her body, however, was different. Tall still, willowy for the most part, but swollen beyond proper proportions at the abdomen, with a protruding stomach appropriate for a woman at the early part of her third trimester in pregnancy.
She’d dressed in a black leather coat left open because it wouldn’t zip over her stomach anymore. A warm looking gray sweater cinched under the breasts in a way that declared it a maternity top, with a lower V-cut to the neckline to try and make it more flattering and feminine was underneath that, and plain jeans and boots were the same as always. Her hands were in her pockets, an agreement they’d come to a while ago– she kept her hands away, he kept his gun away.
“They do not change. They only continue and then die, by your hands or those of their own kind, Vaako.”
[Rory] She tips her head, slightly. Her backpack hangs off her right shoulder, her fingers wrapped around the strap to keep it in place. Otherwise, she looks as if she may be wearing everything she owns – and is still cold. And walking stiffly, carefully.
The two that are talking – pure bred, both of them, and one who’s scent is familiar in a lingering sort of way. She studies Soledad, and her eyes drop to the obvious swell of her pregnancy, and then back up to her face again. She remembers her – and soon enough she puts together where she’s scented her before. Gina’s place.
Then, there’s Eddie. Intense. Brash. Pure bred. Fury. Sarcastic, and calm. Her head tips the other way, and then she steps into the light as well, so as not to startle them. She makes no move to really interrupt.
[Eddie Vaako] Eddie’s olive cheekbones are bathed in the hard orange of the lamp light as his attention shifts to the side- cunning eyes sweep across Rory with the smooth, professional consideration of a man who knows to check for weapons- even where… but doesn’t see the weapon waiting under the skin of a Garou. At least, doesn’t know to look for that yet.
He quirks an eyebrow at the fiery redhead’s stiff movement.. part of his interest remains on the newcomer- but Soledad doesn’t exactly warrant lowering one’s guard even on a good day.. He responds almost meditatively to the small latina as small hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. Something about that redhead… is fucking creepy.
“Right, kid. So the point isn’t to replace the devil you know every week. I know they’ll always be here. Control is the object. Regulation.. breaking their will. Keep ’em soft enough a slap gets the message across. Then, they can peddle the trash to the trash. Kill ’em off every time and its like a virus. The new ones come with new youth. New ideas. Starts the process of crushing them all over again. Don’t got time for that. I’ll miss my soaps.”
He takes another drag from the cigarette and casts narrowed eyes that gleam like coins over Rory again. The tide of wrath washes across Eddie’s olive skin as the pale woman nears the two of them. He barely supresses a shudder.
“Ma’am? You uh… gonna be ok? Need a hand?”
He flicks a glance across Soledad.. checking her own reaction to Rory’s furious presence… those cunning eyes stop at her belly. That smooth, clever left hand stops halfway to his cigarette, which hangs at the corner of his mouth, forgotten.
[Soledad Gutierrez] Soledad huffed at Eddie’s explanation of dominance, of controlling the bad by making them terrified of you and keeping them around so others don’t replace them, dismissed it with a short answer of her own. “Their ranks will swell regardless, you will simply be fighting underhanded cowards and bold newcomers at the same time. They either stop or continue, and if they do not stop then they must be quelled.”
A face familiar only for Moots stepped forward, and Soledad’s gaze cut toward it, scrutinized, intense and sharp as any Ahroun’s typically tends to be. Her nostrils flared a touch, and she exhaled a visible plume of breath into the air in front of her. Gaze dropped to Rory’s hands, then returned to her face. Finally, after what seemed to be the longest dozen seconds of scrutiny ever made, the Uktena jerked her chin upward in what was part greeting, part acceptance of her presence. Tread upon my turf, that nod said, it is okay by me.
Her eyes flickered back to Eddie, though, and found him still, staring. Her brow knitted some, and she growled a quiet warning to him. “Don’t stare.”
[Rory] Eddie asks if she needs help, and Rory ducks her head, hiding behind her curls as a blush creeps up around her cheeks. Soledad invites her closer, granting permission to step forward into what she’s deemed to be her turf at the present time. She listens to what they’re speaking of, trying to make sense of the argument that’s more of a discussion, but then returns to Eddie’s question.
Her smile is a soft, shy little thing, and completely at odds for the force of rage that thrums under her skin, even under the almost darkened moon. “I’m fine.” Not in top condition, but not dead. Fine.
Soledad tells him not to stare, and Rory looks up at her, then drops her gaze again. Respect, deeply ingrained. “You are Fuerte Mria?” She doesn’t seem to notice she’s messed up her name, royally – seeming not to hear it at all, as if she hears only what she intended to say instead. “Gina’s friend..?”
[Eddie Vaako] The warning is, apparently, disregarded.. or perhaps taken as part of the backdrop of dealing with her. Something in Eddie has changed. Maybe for the better. He doesn’t shrink. But murmurs under his breath.
“Holy shit…”
His eyes sweep back to Soledad’s with a quizzical flash of toothy smile. The smile of deep woods and sharp spears and skin and sky meeting with nothing in between them. A reckless sort of grin gone as soon as it lands in his face.
“You know.. I don’t think I ever really had you pegged as a woman. Like a…” He makes a vague hand gesture, lacks for words. “You know. The way a human is a woman. Huh.”
The corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches upward as Rory smiles, and he corrects her only after several more moments of vaguely… different… staring. Perhaps coming to grips with the stark contrast between the waves of fury that drift from her form like mist through trees, and the delicacy of the smile itself.
The smile vanishes again as Eddie’s gaze travels between the two Garou. That’s right Eddie- both of them His voice rumbles again. Calm and felt before its heard.
“Its ‘Muerte Fria’, Angel.” He digs his lighter out to restart the smoke.
[Eddie Vaako] (knock the big ‘a’ off of angel and put a little one in there.)
[Soledad Gutierrez] Eddie spoke, and Soledad’s eyes narrowed a little at him. It was a classic female thing, really, the look she gave him. A real ‘what’s that supposed to mean?’ expression, otherwise known as ‘stop talking, you’re only jamming your foot further down your own throat’. Her teeth bared just a little at the man, but no physical tension accompanied this, no turning to face him more evenly, no looming, no encroaching. That was just as much a warning as her words as been, not quite a threat just yet, but the prelude to. “That is none of your business, Vaako.”
He had gone ahead and corrected Rory for her, but she reiterated anyways.
“Muerte Fría,” came the firm correction, and her posture shifted some so that her shoulders were turned to the Fianna, the woman whose blood screamed the heritage just as loudly as her fire-engine curls. “And I am Gina’s warden. Why do you ask?”
[Rory] The blush heightens in her cheeks as she ducks her head, brows knit in confusion. She obviously messed it up and she’s mortified at the thought of doing so in front of Soledad. Her voice is achingly soft, submissive. “Sorry.”
And he calls her Angel, and she corrects… “Rory.”
Soledad is Gina’s warden, and Rory nods, and then with a slump of her shoulder, she lets her pack slide downwards, catching it by the strap. She lifts her left arm, her jaw setting, muscle jumping visibly as she settles her pack between her arm and her shattered torso, so that she can unzip the pack and dig inside. It clanks and rattles and there’s no telling whats in there – until she pulls out a little box. She holds it under her chin, as jerks the zipper closed, and then lets her pack hit the ground.
Slender fingers, pale and fragile looking, [but oh so not], then take the little box from under her chin, and offer it to Soledad. It’s a little metal music box. It looks like it’s seen better days, though it’s been recently polished to a high shine, and the insides rebuilt so that it is in perfect working order. “Gina’s fy mriend. She told me…” a little nod toward Soledad’s belly, and then, in shy offering. “I thix fings. I fixed this, for be thaby.”
She expects it to be taken and smashed. She expects it to be destroyed. She expects any number of things that have happened to her before – but still, despite her obvious pain, she offers this little token to Soledad, for her infant – maybe in hopes that she be allowed to remain friends with Gina, maybe simply because it is who she is, what she does. She doesn’t clarify.
[Eddie Vaako] Emil shrugs a shoulder in mute accord and nods at the pregnant latina. “Sure isn’t.”
One long fingered hand plucks the cigarette from his lips like a talon snatching up prey. Smoke drifts on the tide of his breath as he offers to Rory:
“She’s like that all the….” He pauses, severe face canting to the side as his eyes narrow a touch. The closer he looks, the more bloody she looks… and she looks real goddamn bloody.
“….time- look. Are you sure you don’t need any help? I mean…” He flicks two fingers toward her bandages and studies Rory’s eyes. A monster maybe… but apparently they’re on the same side.
[Eddie Vaako] …He shuts up quickly though, and doesn’t interrupt further. Rather, the rail thin, hard man watches up and down the sidewalk. Somebody learned a thing or two since leaving Chicago and coming back.
[Soledad Gutierrez] Soledad removed her hands from the pocket of her coat and grabbed at the edges of the garment instead, tugged it as far closed as she could get it and folded her arms over the top to keep it that way. Her brow seemed heavier now, stuck in a furrow, a half of a scowl that didn’t have the conviction to turn down the corners of her mouth or harden her lips. Eddie expressed concern in Rory, that he wanted to offer help for her wounds, and Soledad shook her head at him. When she spoke, her tone wasn’t as harsh as it was a moment ago, but had returned to the same mellow monotone that it often manifested as.
“She will be fine, she is a warrior.”
Then Rory was pulling a trinket from her bag and holding it out in her palm, an offering for the Uktena. A little metal affair, decorated, a box of some type. Jewelry or music, aged and dented, but polished well enough to gleam in the dim orange light of the streetlamp overhead. Her chest pushed out a little when she pulled in a deep breath, shoulders pulled back a touch. What was it with Gina sharing her personal business with people, and furthermore why were those people always giving her things to give to the child? First that damn rattle that Boy left, and now this…?
Still, she did not knock the item from the girl’s hand, didn’t take it and throw it into the gutter. Rather, long, strong fingers plucked the music box from Rory’s hand and brought it closer, turned it over in her hand for inspection. She lifted her eyebrows to regard the Fianna from under them, then looked back down to the gift.
“Did she also tell you that it will never know me?”
[Rory] And for Eddie, that shy delicate little smile again. “I heal.” It hurts – it’s written deeply in the pale green of her eyes, the set of her jaw, the careful way she lets her left arm fall carefully to her side once more. That she still walks is part of the miracle of what she is. That she’ll be fine in less than a week is something almost impossible to wrap the mind around. “Annie matched pe up.” Though, after a beat, she dares ask one little favor. “Maybe a hide rome… after…”
After she speaks with Soledad, after they are finished. Still no clue in her bearing that she notices her mess ups, and she returns her gaze to Soledad – never quite meeting her eyes, never quite daring.
When she takes the little music box and inspects it, only then does Rory drop her hand. She doesn’t pick up her pack yet – standing strong before another of the nation. She’ll be fine. She is a warrior.
She lifts her good shoulder in a little bit of a shrug. “I never knew who mawned spe. I always wondered. Maybe, when bour yaby listens to the busic mox, it will know somewhere a cother mared enough to see it born, to see it live. Sometimes it’s enough. Sometimes it’s all hey thave.”
And it’s something Rory never had.
[Soledad Gutierrez] [Sol would know Rory’s a Metis, right? Is this being considered open knowledge, or is it selective?]
to Rory
[Rory] [ooc: Yup, most likely. She doesn’t hide it, so it’s probably common knowledge. The only thing she never points out is her second deformity. :) the first is obvious. Haha! She’s far too submissive to be anything other than a well and truly used/abused metis, anyway. Heh.]
to Soledad Gutierrez
[Eddie Vaako] The man doesn’t precisely look at Soledad at her question. Hard, swift cop eyes seem intent on knowing everything moving or lurking around them. Up the street, alleyways.. back down the street.. there isn’t much foot traffic, its late, cold, and not a good part of town to hang around in. Bright red hair and dark hair hang in the corner of his eye now and then… and might perhaps be holding a great deal more of his attention than it seems.
The casual, boneless confidence of a feudal killer given tasteful modern clothes, Eddie lurks nearby.. and watches Rory’s reaction to Soledad’s statement.
Again that distant tilt of his mouth as Rory speaks, and the perceptive detective starts to put two and two together. Strange creatures, they are.. but in the right light, some of them have a certain appeal. The tilt turns into a smile back. The faint spike of white teeth in the dark as raw wilderness and the haunt of Medusa in his face comes and goes again.
The man hooks his thumbs through his belt and nods amicably enough… for all that the woman’s sheer Fury sets off alarm bells in the back of his head. “Well… sure.”
[Soledad Gutierrez] “Because your parents show shame, abandonment, and were likely tried for their crimes,” she explained to Rory with a bit of a huff and a nod. The music box’s lid was tipped open for a moment so she could hear the melody that would come out, view the insides, then it was snapped closed abruptly and tucked away into the pocket of her coat. “I do appreciate the gift, though, it was thoughtful of you. Thank you.” And there were those manners again, genuine, never mocking or sarcastic or misdirected. Curious, unexpected, but typically viewed as a pleasant surprise more than anything else.
Then the shy smiles from Rory and the answering flash of pleased teeth from Emil. A request for a ride home, a compliance, and almost immediately Soledad is all but upon the red-head. She’d closed the distance between them in two quick steps, loomed at a height that was just shy of six feet, the height of your average man around these Midwestern corn-fed parts, with a few inches between their faces. The Ahroun showed her teeth, her Rage whip-snapped through the cluster of hibernating saplings, but when she spoke her voice was calm and even. Disciplinary, perhaps, was a good word for this.
“He is for the Furies that can breed. Not for you. Even if you were not born ill and wrong, you are Fianna, and you know your place. Not for you.”
[Rory] She does not dispute the fact that her parents were tried for their crime. She simply doesn’t know, so does not comment. But then Soledad is suddenly on her, and instead of her rage striking back, Rory’s gaze slams to the ground, her shoulders – despite the pain and the sudden scent of blood in the air as woulds pull open under the bandages – hunch, and she curls in on herself, expecting to be hit, to be punished, to be shamed for asking a ride.
Her teeth grit against the flare of agony flooding her senses, even as she awaits more, as she expects more, as she fears the strike that she knows is coming, that she deserves. She does not protest that it was just a ride, that she meant nothing by it – clearly she was in the wrong.
She simply waits, misery awaiting dismissal, trembling.
[Eddie Vaako] …Then shit went all sideways.
The talk of breeding, illness, parents and shame.. that’s the part that has him drawing a blank. Outside of bewildered staring that grows more incredulous, Eddie says nothing at all to all of that. These creatures settle their own problems. Were he in the way, he’d be a little bigger than a ball of bread dough before it was over. So he doesn’t interfere.
But one’s pregnant and certifiable. The other’s cute, bleeding… yeah, probably certifiable. Even that almost doesn’t break the dam against words. The rest has it all boiling out from deep in his chest before he bothers to check it. Ramming against the air and thrumming across the distance… which there is a tad more of, by the by. Still- some stuff, a man just can’t stand for.
“Fuck you, ya mean little mexi- bitch.” That part is calm enough. “She’s talking about a ride home. Not a ride on me. So unless you’re gonna hit ‘er with your baby? Get off her back, and while you’re at it, shove that breeding stud talk up your ass. I’m not the type to stick a kid with a kid, then skip town.”
[Soledad Gutierrez] [WP: Sore Subject]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Soledad Gutierrez] Mothers would speak to their daughters at night, girls would titter together over lunch bags and dolls in their youth. Ahrouns were the ones you wanted to marry. They were strong, they were warriors, and they were honorable things full of passion and glory. To become the mate of an Ahroun was something that Kingirls still young talked about with blush on their cheeks and fantasy in their dreams. The reality of it, however, was a bleak thing. An Ahroun was more likely to lose their temper and lash out, to strike them, damage them, without realizing what they had done or having the strength of will against their own Rage to keep themselves in check. Ahrouns were dangerous, they were mate-killers, and it was just that much safer to marry a nice Theurge.
Rory had submitted already, the fight was gone there, and Soledad would have been happy to step back, dominance recognized, and let the topic die.
But no, Eddie had to open his mouth, and talk about that.
Rage cracked again, this time feeling like a a great fissure slicing through a mountain. Abrupt, grinding, monumental, and irreversable. The Uktena turned flashing amber eyes upon Vaako, but she did not charge him as she did the Fianna. Rather, she approached slowly, boots crunching on frozen ground, muscles tense, hands flexed and bare at her sides. Her lip curled, and now her Rage flavored her voice, a chilling thing, cold and grating and as dangerous as the double barrels of a shotgun kissing the side of your head.
“You have no right to speak on that, you know nothing, and will never have the opportunity to resolve that if you continue down this path.” She would stop, though, perhaps two feet away tops, still within easy reaching distance even though her hands remained at her sides, flexed now into fists. “Do you wish to continue, Vaako? Think hard, think wise.”
[Rory] Eddie defends her, and there’s a soft sound, wounded and worried, at the back of her throat – the puppy expecting to be kicked, again. Soledad breaks from her, and slow charges Eddie, and still Rory can barely breathe. She barely lifts her gaze, and its a wonder that one of such rage – greater than the other, truth be told – is under such rigid control. It doesn’t spike, and her submission is obvious and instant – and remains.
She had not yet been dismissed.
She does, however, lift her green eyes briefly, searching to meet Eddie’s gaze, a soft plea in them to let it go. She deserved it, she is used to it, she is Garou and can handle it. She shakes her head, just slightly, then drops her gaze again, wrapping her arm carefully around her torso, slipping into her coat to press tight against the once again seeping wound on her shoulder.
[Eddie Vaako] Eddie had once come around a corner.. normal pursuit of a suspect, when a tire iron smashed across his steel hard wrists and sent his gun skating across a floor. From there the memory is hazy.. ill defined.. what stood out most was a stunned understanding of being thoroughly screwed, and the strange sensation that he’d spent the arrest feeling like he was moving through glue. Everything slow motion nonsense.
He hadn’t gotten far into his little outburst before the sound of his own voice had warped in his ears.. gone strange and way too slow. While one part of him understood the danger he lept into and sought to wrench him away from completing the statement, another just kept right on chugging. An older part. The one that was there before this whole underbelly of life reared its head and made itself known.
Boots scrape as Soledad comes toward him. It could be a flight response, stillborn as his self control returned. He doesn’t reach for the gun because he doesn’t need to- the knowledge of that reflex isn’t as ancient as the urge to stand his ground.. be anything but prey on the run. The latter wins out.
Cold fury only a pale ghost of Soledad’s own lingers in his eyes as he gathers himself to speak again. Something dangerous lingers in the gaze. A knowledge kinfolk shouldn’t have. Just where had he been, anyway..
He swallows and doesn’t bother to hide it. She knows she’s plenty scary.. he knows she’s plenty in control. Were either not the case, she’d have been on him a whole. Lot. Faster.
The murmur is a dark, angry thing. Slightly too much tooth as he talks.
“I’ve said what I had to say.”
[Soledad Gutierrez] “And now you take it back,” she growled at him, eyes boring into his own.
Soledad was accustomed to keeping emotion from reaching her face, accustomed to drowning it out before it had a chance to grow strong enough to show there, but there were some things that were too strong to muffle, and when they reached that strength she had a difficult time hiding them.
Her eyes were locked onto his, and mingled with Rage in the place of the anger that was commonly associated with such fuel instead was hurt. Hurt from a wound that was old and deep and poisoned, one that continued to throb painfully rather than heal over. Abandonment was the most bitter and striking of punishments.
[Rory] She bends finally, slowly, a hiss through her teeth the only evidence of what it costs her to do so, and she hooks her fingertips through the strap of her backpack, and stands again. She’s shaking, still.. trembling as she eases the strap over her uninjured shoulder, before her hand tucks into her coat again.
She’s highly attuned to what’s going on, watching Soledad, ready, waiting – though she isn’t sure for what.
[Eddie Vaako] Confusion slips about the olive edges of his features before settling in his face. That… was unexpected. As the pulse of flight or fight slows to the disciplined collection of a guy staring at a gun, he notices more. Soledad by herself still looks like a girl. Maybe not exactly one that needs help… but not exactly one trying to out- asshole someone else either. He watches her eyes and at the edges of his vision he notices Rory’s look just before she moves to pick up her backpack.
There’s far more going on here than he knows.. and inwardly, Eddie kicks himself as the leavings of his Grandmother’s blood demands an apology as fiercely as Soledad does. So Ed apologizes. But for what remains ambiguous at first, then resolves itself into far more than a simple take back.
“I’m sorry, Soledad.”
It hangs in the air by itself without further explanation.. Eddie flicks a glance to Rory, the confusion intact, but reassurance in it as well.. but his eyes don’t leave the fierce creature directly in front of him for long.
[Soledad Gutierrez] Shit, you’re slipping.
The Uktena sucked in a deep breath through her nose, and the cold of the frozen air stung enough for her to steady herself. The exhale that pushed through parted lips was a bit shaky, but she wouldn’t own up to it. Rather, she took a small step back, flexed her fists once more– uncurling, clenching tight, then relaxing, and then nodded. It was a loose drop of the head to begin with, but then her chin bobbed twice more and evened itself with the ground. Her expression wiped itself, steeled again, and she shoved her hands harshly into her coat pockets.
“Thank you.” Eyes flitted to Rory, down and up again. “…Do not let my harsh reprimanding prevent you from taking advantage of the detective’s generosity. I jumped trigger, but that does not take truth from my words. You know your place, this I respect, but do not forget it, Tongue-Twister.”
This seems to be her idea of a goodbye, because when she was finished speaking Soledad turned her back on the both of them and made her way out of the thicket of naked saplings, then hung a left on the sidewalk to find her way back home.
[Rory] The instant Soledad’s eyes turn to her again, Rory’s slam to the ground, flinching even if there is no blow to follow the words; the words are blow enough. She just swallows hard, and remains exactly where she is, head down, eyes downcast, hand pressing tightly against her shoulder, pack on her back…
…she expects to feel the blow any moment, even as Soledad makes her way out from between the trees, as her rage fades, leaving Eddie alone with Rory, and all her insecurities and trembling submission.
She knows her place.
She will not forget.
[they never let her forget]
[Eddie Vaako] Shadows pool and leave from the angles of Eddie’s face as he watches Soledad leave. Once he’s sure she’s gone, long fingered hands glide to his hips and he bends over until his back cracks.
Kee- rist I’m too old for new tricks.
He straightens with a sigh, and pale eyes flicker back to Rory.
“So.. -Rory.” He purses his lips for a moment and continues to rumble. Voice devoid of any apparent sarcasm.
“Girl took lessons on denting first dates, I think.” He cracks a brief smile, boots scraping as he walks back toward the trembling Metis. Oh- she’s really nervous. The tall man casts a glance toward a late model Volvo parked nearby and murmurs.
“Hey.. really its okay.. nothing to be nervous about, huh?” It sounds wierd even to him. At any moment this chick could get pissed about the color of his sweater and pull his head straight off.. but she looks alone. Alone isn’t good.
One last glance in the direction Soledad went, and he approaches Rory.
[Rory] She doesn’t breathe again until Soledad is gone, until it seems that she will not come back – at least not for now. Only then does some of the tension bleed from her slender frame, only then can she lift her hand and scrub it over her face, frustrated, and not realizing she’s left crimson smudges in the wake of her fingertips.
And then he says date… and her eyes snap up to his and she shakes her head, looking over his shoulder to where Soledad left, and then to him once more… “….dot nate.. I…” She swallows, hard, and then ducks her head to hide behind those curls again…
[breathe Rory… breathe]
She looks alone – though she isn’t really, just alone right now. She’s Edwin in her head, within a moment’s call, Delmar too. But even so, he’s ultimately correct… she’s alone, and nervous, and….
“…sorry.” …sure that it was all her fault.
[Eddie Vaako] Eddie nods quietly and stops coming closer once he’s a comfortable distance away. Given the waves of Fury he can only dimly taste in the air, but can feel like he’s too close to a furnace- its a significantly greater distance than were she some pretty girl who wasn’t really a monster. Still… once upon a time he became a cop for a reason much like this. Eddie clears his throat and the boiling sureness of his voice continues.
“No no.. of course its not a date.. I was trying to lighten the mood, kiddo.” He tilts his head slightly, and looks to see if her legs are bandaged too. “I don’t take advantage of the bleeding ones, right?” An almost- smile flickers across his face, and he gestures slowly toward his car.
“We’ll leave that for after you heal. heh. Want me to carry that?”
[Rory] “…oh.” She flushes, again, the color rising easily as he explains – and then heightens as he adds the last, before asking to carry her pack. She rubs a finger alongside her nose, before peeking up at him through those red, red curls. He stood up for her, and though her pack holds everything she owns, everything she holds dear… after a moment she lets it slip from her shoulder and offers it to him.
“…ok.” It’s decidedly heavier than it looks. She’s considerably stronger then it seems.
Her legs aren’t bandaged, just her upper torso, her left shoulder, held in place by a decent taping job. There’s no way to tell how awful the wound is beneath, but given what he’s learned of the monster she is, he likely can imagine. Once he has her pack, she sets her jaw, and starts to move toward the car he gestures too. Once she’s moving it’s easier, but those first steps aren’t easy. There’s one last look over to make sure Soledad isn’t ready to bear down on her again, before she lets it go, lets her go, and follows his lead to the car.
[1/13/10]
[Emil Vaako] For an instant Eddie stumbles under the surprising weight of the bag. Startled consternation flickers across the olive tone of his face, then he smirks.
“Guess you’re leading during the waltz, ange- uh.. Rory.”
With the other hand he fishes his keys out of one pocket. A moment later the Volvo’s headlights flash and the lanky cop cants his head toward it.
“That’s me.”
Its a short walk. There yet seems to be plenty of time for the rangy fellow to consider the volume of questions behind his eyes and discard most of them. Bright red hair flickers under the orange streetlights, and draws his attention at the corner of his eye. He notices how she moves. He almost offers an arm before awkwardly letting the ‘warrior’, as Soledad put it, make her own way to the late model car.
[Rory] She tips her head at him, and then blushes as she looks quickly away. “I dan’t cance.” Just another in a long line of things she hasn’t done, wasn’t taught, or simply didn’t think about it as being something necessary. She does watch as he handles her bag, with the look of someone who’s allowing another to touch her greatest possessions, all she holds dear in the world. That said possession would be a tattered and frayed backpack that holds a variety of metalworks and tools and knicknacks… It’s hard to believe, most days, that she is Fianna despite the siren call of her blood, the complexion toppled off by freckles, eyes of green and red hair.
He has questions – she can almost taste them in the hair – bitten back and considered and possibly torn away. He’s already seen her cowed before a Pure Warrior of the Nation, and perhaps that would give him leave to ask anything he wishes. Though, whether he’d understand it or not is an entirely different question…
He doesn’t offer his arm, and she wouldn’t know what to do if he did. She simply keeps moving once her feet are headed in the right direction, carefully keeping her left arm still, her shoulder steady, and stepping carefully to avoid any jostling. That’s not to say she moves slowly – that would be admitting defeat. A normal pace, as much as she is able, but it’s written in her eyes, the set of her jaw, that the monster is grateful that it is a short walk.
“You quave hestions.” Simple, that statement, though it opens the door for possible answers…
[Emil Vaako] With her question, the lean man’s pale eyes sweep toward hers. Flickering in the light like brightly polished coins before they swing back to the car again. Generally poker faced, Eddie’s body nevertheless gives away the unease that sweeps across him. The slight, distant tremble in his flanks, like a hound who hasn’t decided whether or not he ought to leap away. Quickly enough the shudder is suppressed.. that fear locked down again with smooth, disciplined will.
He shrugs again before the sonorous tones of his voice lick through the air between them. “Yeah… well.. sure. Don’t wanna put you off or anything though..”
‘Tentative’ doesn’t seem a word that often describes the rangy cop. Yet there it is. He’s interested in a way that’s quite confusing and very male. Also uneasy about her in a way that’s entirely human.
Nevertheless, Eddie’s lips threaten to tilt again as she speaks. The expression is soft. Lacks the hard edges of a taunt. Yeah. She’s a cutie.
He opens the door like a guy who’s had a lot of practice doing it- but his days as a rake are long over. Such social considerations and manners seem rusty, but sincere in the older cop.
[Rory] She meets his eyes only briefly, and much in the way she submitted [anything… but] easily to Sol, drops her gaze almost immediately. Even as kin he his higher than she, Sol’s reactions cemented that, stinging all the more for the truth in the venomous words. He opens the door for her, and she blinks a little, but her little smile suggests she’s had it happen before.
Once, to be exact. Then he moved away. Oddly enough, he was Fury as well. And also Not. For. Her..
She inhales, the breath filling her slender frame, and holds it as she settles to sit in the car, her pale skin paling further with the unavoidable jar on her injuries, though there’s not so much as a sound from her lips to suggest just how badly it hurts. She settles her legs in, and makes sure she’s out of the way of the door, and only then looks up to meet his gaze once more, offering shyly…
“..won’t mut pe off. I’ll answer cest I ban.”
[Emil Vaako] As the strangely endearing wording floats out of the car, Emil’s lips move again, and he closes the door with a quiet snap, disturbing the floating voice as little as possible.
As he passes around the front of the car and settles in the seat, his pale eyes settle against Rory often, the street lights slashing one side of his face in shadows that puddle under cheekbones, around his chin.
The car moves off with a smooth rumble. Eddie’s hands are sure on the wheel, but he navigates the side streets heading toward the Loop as though the map were printed in his bones. Chicago native for certain. Most of his attention remains on Rory.
“Alright…” His eyes flicker toward her bandages, then back to her face as the orange glare sweeps bars of light across the two of them.
“Why does Soledad act like that toward you?”
[Rory] As he moves around the front of the car, she closes her eyes and gives herself those precious few seconds to adjust until the pain is merely a dull roar, instead of a fiery scream of inarticulate anguish. By the time he is sliding into the drivers seat, she’s settled her pack into her lap, her right arm wrapped protectively around it. One mans trash, as they say…
He looks at her, and is unafraid to do so. She, however, only steals little glances from under lowered lashes, hiding behind curls with a ducked head. She’s very much submissive even here, even now, even in the most basic of conversations. He is above her. He is not. for. her..
There’s a little smile at the first question, shy and unassuming. “I’m Metis. I am wrong, pasted wotential.” a pause, as she dares look over at him for just a minute.. “You know mat whetis is?”
[Emil Vaako] The translation takes a moment. Her voice trickles through his head, and the rangy man is surprised at his not being irritated.. sort nice, that.. mind on your own business, Ed..
“Assume you don’t mean half- french american indians…” His gaze swivels back to her and he cants an eyebrow. His eyes return to the road as he points ahead with a stubbly chin. “Where are we going, anyway?”
[Rory] That little grin appears and she lets him see it just a moment before she turns her face away. Hiding, always hiding, even when its something so [sweet] simple, so innocent. “No.”
Before she goes back to that, though, she points ahead, and then wraps her arm back around her pack. “Tina Chown..” She gives an intersection, which isn’t exactly home, but is as close as she’ll risk taking him to the packhouse. Most don’t even realize they have one – and they hope to keep it that way for as long as possible.
Then, back to Metis. Her mistakes in speech are uncorrected, unnoticed, unheard. She can only hope that he continues to be un-phased by the necessity to translate. “Py marents broke the Litany – our laws. They bere woth Garou. Mo tany, I am deformed, worthless.”
[Emil Vaako] The ‘look’ starts when she smiles. Something hanging in his face- and not at all unpleasant. Eddie was probably a pretty good looking guy once- only echoes of that still sit in his face. Some things make it more obvious though.
Like the calmly appreciative way he looks at her. The almost glassy eyed repose with which he watches her lips form her own little language. He always looks back to the road though. Keeps a distance. One can sense the tense readiness that had been riding his shoulders uncoiling though. Slipping into casual confidence.
“Not from where I’m si- uh…” The man clears his throat. Talon- like hands shift against the wheel and something vague and rosy rises in the dusk color of his cheeks.
“So they blame you for what your parents did? Like.. they know they’re doing this?”
[Rory] He starts to relax, and she notices it, as if she can see the tension uncoil, the fall of his shoulders sitting more easily. It’s not easy to be trapped in a car with a source of so much Rage, with the press and heat of it thrumming against the senses. Even more difficult when it’s under such control, and contained by a young girl who blushes as quickly as she decapitates the enemy. It’s appealing because it’s refreshingly real. She puts on no airs. She’s just Rory.
Speaking of blushing – he denies that she looks deformed, looks broken, and the color spreads across her cheeks, painting brightly enough to be noticed even under the orangish light from the streetlamps they drive under. She lifts her hand – the right, of course – and rubs absently at the side of her nose, tucks her curls behind an ear only to have them spring free again.
“They know.” Some words are easier than others. The reprieve is short lived. “I ban’t creed, so am north wothing in anything but war.” She says it as if it is accepted truth, as if she knows no better – because it is all she has ever known. “I am a tool. Mothing nore.”
[Emil Vaako] A scowl finds its way through the scattering bands of light that pass across the two of them. His attention slips to the side again- perhaps the man isn’t as rakish as he used to be, but he’s not dead yet- his eyes begin to pass from Rory’s neck, down the length of her body-
He shakes himself as his attention falls to her bandages again. That’s it, Ed. Take advantage while she’s beat up. Fucking charming.
The ‘tool’ bit, though. That part remains unsettling. It sticks in his throat. Makes heat behind his teeth- which flash white and naked as he peels his lips back to let some of the vitriol escape in a silent, disgusted rasp.
“Assholes…” Suddenly his eyes grow wide and swivel toward Rory. “-sorry. talking about.. something else.”
He clears his throat. “Hey- are you sure you don’t need anything to…” He gestures vaguely with one hand as they turn beneath a tall, dark building glittering with lights. “Deal with your cuts?”
[Rory] Assholes he says, and then he shoots her a look and tries to take it back. And Rory, she does the unexpected…
She giggles.
It doesn’t last long, but it was most certainly there, and she lifts her right hand to hide her smile, to catch the escaping amusement, to hold it back, even as she glances at him and shakes her head. “Liar.” He wasn’t talking about something else. She’d never dare call them assholes, but it certainly amuses her to see him do so. It shines in her eyes, it dances in the depths of green eyes, in those few seconds where she might let him see them.
He wants to help deal with her ‘cuts’ and she peels away the side of her coat to run a hand over the bandages. Annie’d wrapped her up good, but the altercation with Soledad had taken its tole. She makes a face to find them bled through in places, and sighs softly. “…Do you fow knirst aid? Could use help redoing the bandages..” a pause, and then, ducking her head slightly, as if she expects him to suddenly strike out at her for the impertinence of asking. “but only if you tant woo. I can wait.”
[Emil Vaako] Oh he sees it. Notices quite readily. Pale green eyes slip toward her face like a moth tilting toward a flame.
His attention lingers there. Swift, deliberate cop eyes drinking in the nuances of her lips, eyes. He enjoys watching her speak. Reassembling the words in a way that seems a bit less colorful, really. The ordinary speech of idiots colliding in life.
“I tant wuh- um. I mean sure. I can help.” His eyes fall with hers toward her bandages. His linger at her hips. Then swivel back to the road. Better take it easy, old man.
“So- do you have a uh.. ‘pack’ then? Do you guys always have packs?”
[Rory] Shyly, then, the next. “…You have a place… ho telp? I tan’t cake you to mine, exactly.”
As close to an admission that she didn’t give him an exact address as she’ll likely come. In anyone else, someone more sure, someone confident, someone not broken, it might be a come on, it might be a hint for for more, it might be flirty. With Rory, it’s innocent, it’s cautious, it’s.. sweet. Almost as if she’s trying to protect him. And maybe she is.
“Mostly. We are mot nade to be alone.” And then her shoulders straighten, a little, her smile leaning toward pride – or at least bouncing that direction just a tick… “I have a pew nack.” A brief flicker of sadness. “My old one, Alpha died. Loe cheft. Was alone.” then that soft smile again, wondering and oh so innocent… “Fox mound fe.”
[Emil Vaako] That seems to take him aback a bit. Concern threatens to break up the stoney calm of his face as he responds, eyes eventually swivelling back to the road.
“That could work.. but let me ask you something.” He glances at her, then turns back toward the Loop.
“If I took you to my house and patched you up a bit more, and some other werewolf saw you come in. Would you get in trouble? I mean at all?”
[Rory] She chews her lower lip a moment, giving it some thought, before she admits softly.
“Not from py mack.” But somehow, that’s the important part. Her Alpha would stand by her, no matter what. Her alpha doesn’t think she is useless, doesn’t think she’s simply a tool – and that from a Shadow Lord? Is a mark of intense respect. She means to earn it, too.
Then she glances at him, and then back out the window with that shy little smile. “It’s dot a nate, anyway. Why me bad?” Sometimes the mistakes almost make sense…
1/17/10
[Eddie Vaako] Shadows move and tilt across Eddie’s hawkish face as his mouth twitches again in that quiet half smirk. He nods, grunting a bit, and slides the Volvo into the exit lane to head back in the other direction.
The trip is not a long one, the Loop’s raised portions offering the sensation of floating on a sea of lights as Chicago crawls by below. Eddie drives fast- he also does it with a considerable degree of skill. Moving down broad streets as though he’d sprung up from the grime and secrets that glue Chicago together. A part of the asphalt.
Occasionally, his attention shifts to the side again. Studying the redhead in profile. Surely the Rage that thrums from her form wafts across his face as well. Immense and frightening. At the same time smelling quite like a girl. A bleeding one- but the one doesn’t make the other less startling against the backdrop of waiting violence.
“How do Black Furies feel about Metis then? I mean.. you said it varies..”
[Rory] Eddie drives fast, and skillfully, which earns him a bit of awe as she watches the streets fly by through the window. Driving is just another in a long list of skills she does not possess, despite enjoying the thrill of riding in a nice car, driven by capable hands. She just never thought about it.
She is a girl, and a bleeding one, and that scent overpowers what other scents he might expect. She has no real scent of her own, no body over, nothing that would lead a tracker to find her easily. The rage, though, so thick, it almost chokes in the small car, for all the control she has over it. It’s almost confusing, to see how calm, how sweet, how innocent she looks – coupled with the powerful rage burning under her skin.
Her brows furrow slightly, as he asks about Black Furies and Metis. “Sumors ray male metis they accept, even adopt trom other fribes. They honor motherhood, though, so females are often slighted thor fat.”
[Eddie Vaako] He watches, and listens, and finds himself paying attention to the way her mouth shapes words. The way shyness seems to book-end each mannerism.
One hand flickers and passes from coat pocket to mouth. Delivering first a slender, slightly clove scented cigar no larger than a cigarette. Followed by a battered brass lighter.
The realization that Rory shares a few too many mannerisms with battered women to be a coincidence is.. very.. hard to mould into the presumed image of what a monster is. The rangy man finds himself well into the process of picking apart this idea… enjoying the smooth, well oiled pass of his disciplined mind from thought to thought-
-then his attention falls fully on Rory again. Two long fingers pluck the smoke out from between his lips, he exhales out of the cracked window, and rumbles.
“Uuuuh.. mind if I smoke?”
[Rory] She shares way to many mannerisms for it to be a coincidence. She submits to quickly, too easily, she apologizes to fast. She cowers easily, she is often said to lack a backbone.
She is omega wolf.
Always.
She lifts a hand, slender and pale and weak looking to rub at the side of her nose, absently. In the light of the lamps they pass, where nails might gleam, catching the light, her’s seem fragile, non-existent. A small detail, possibly missed, likely not. He is a detective, and good at his job.
He asks belatedly if she minds his smoking, and she looks over at him, briefly, then ducks her head to hide that little grin behind her smile. “No.” Of course she wouldn’t mind. “Knew you smere a woker, already.” The scent clings to him, to the leather in the car. She knew.
[Rory] (little grin behind her smile? bah. “hide that little grin behind her curls” even…)
[Eddie Vaako] Eddie nods, vaguely sheepish, clears his throat and pays more attention than he really has to on the driving.
Clusters of gleaming towers eventually give way to quiet neighborhoods that were suburbs a long time ago. Chicago has grown up and out since then, and most of these houses lack in polish but shine in terms of being solid.
The house the lanky cop parks in front of is no more or less run down than others up and down the street. Gray with brown trim, lawn long since smothered by snow. The only thing that stands out is a small sticker, tucked in the corner of one window almost as though self conscious about being there. The logo is one of two people sharing an embrace, with the words ‘Safe Place’ underneath it.
As Eddie gets out of the car, he kicks one of several children’s toys scattered about. Overflow from neighboring yards. He curses them quietly… but doesn’t kick the toys very hard.
An almost predatory sweep of eyes about the premises seems second nature, and tells more of the odd story behind the man. Far from defensive, Eddie seems almost wicked in his anticipation.. a warlord who would like to prove his superiority on someone who would dare his ire by lurking around his house.
The moment is fleeting, and he is around on Rory’s side of the car quickly. He opens the door, sweeps that immensely heavy backpack onto his shoulder, and leans over to help the dazzlingly red headed woman out of the car.
[Rory] She tips her head slightly, watching him through a curtain of red ringlets as he gets out of the car, and kicks the toys out of the way. From the safety of the car, she watches the way he moves, the way he looks about the yard, how very aware he is of his surroundings, of his place. Only then does she look past him to the house itself, noting all she can in a quick glance – including the sticker.
Safe place.
It makes her smile, just a little, before he’s there to open the door and take her pack. He offers his help out of the car, and she glances up to meet his gaze for a moment, color splashing across her cheeks as she lowers her head again, and slides her slender fingers into his.
Sitting hurts.
Standing is excruciating.
She takes a breath, and then tightens her grip on him, and with a push against the seat, slides from the car to stand next to him. Her jaw clenches, her eyes close, and she takes a second, just a second to steady herself, to let the stabbing flare of agony recede just enough to allow her to move again, to step away and let the door be closed.
…belatedly realizing she still holds on to him, which causes her to flush again, teeth worrying over her lower lip.
[Eddie Vaako] The door of the car gets a boot planted on it- nevermind the finish. Apparently hurt dames get the attention. The tall, lean man seems to notice the long contact at around the same time.. Rory’s pale hand vanishing against the black calfskin of a glove. Eddie’s eyes linger there for a moment before he tries to bluster his way through it.
“Want a shoulder? I mean you’re plenty brave and all but… that looks like it hurts.
One way or another, they make it to the porch and Eddie fumbles the door open. Juggling backpack, keys, pretty monster.. man of many talents, apparently.
He’s very aware of her. Something in these werewolves seems to outshine normal people. The pulse of her breath in close proximity, even the slow leak through her bandages seems to lend the air a vibrancy that makes what would be normal Chicago cold distinctly less so.
[Rory] Eddie tries to bluster through it, and that brings the giggle to the fore again, a soft sound as she lifts her free hand to her lips to hide it. She’s plenty brave, and… well. She doesn’t take a shoulder, but she doesn’t let go of his hand. Compromise, maybe, or a silent admittance that she is in pain, and even for one such as her, it takes it’s toll.
To the porch, and he fumbles the door open, juggling her, and the pack and the keys efficiently enough. She steps inside, and only then lets her hand slide from his as she looks around – quickly, the first pass, to take stock, to assure nothing is going to jump them from the dark, to make get a general idea of placement. Then another step, enough to make sure she’s out of his way so that he can close the door.
He’s aware of her, and she is hyper aware of everything, even the confusing things, like the way his looks linger, the way he’s so very concerned with her. She starts to reach for her pack, but then doesn’t, still entrusting it’s [herwholelifes] care to his keeping, instead wrapping her hand around her ribs as she lets him see that smile, briefly… “You have a hice nouse..”
[Eddie Vaako] “Heh.” The sound is mildly self- deprecating, as though she were being nice for its own sake. Emil’s rangy form crosses in the dim, waiting stillness of the living room and he flicks on a light.
The place actually doesn’t look bad. The decor strongly indicates the hand of a woman had once ensured taste and class on a modest budget had went into the place… then said hand parted ways with the house. What remains is strong evidence that the place is the victim of Emil’s tempestuous, driven life- style. A place he visits only long enough to give the sense of constant motion. Its clean enough, but a little spartan. The living room (television on entertainment center, worn couch, armchair, endtables, coffee table) leads directly into an open kitchen with a bar separating the two. There is a door into the garage from the kitchen, and a hallway leading off to the left. Its only feature seems to be a stereo system and CD rack wedged into a niche- taking advantage of the shotgun acoustics offered by the hallway.
Eddie deposits Rory’s knapsack next to the couch after a moment’s hesitation. One of those moments where the two of them look at the stranger across the room and think about what to say next.
“I like it. Beat up old place.. I don’t need all that much space.” The sentence carries the faint notes of an old arguement. For a second Emil’s eyes drift toward a picture frame lying face down on the coffee table, then he flashes a toothy grin and moves back to Rory’s side.
“Oh- here- sorry.. go ahead and be comfortable.. maybe sit here.. you want anything to drink while I get out the kit?” He tosses his coat across the back of the armchair haphazardly- ignoring the coat rack from long habit.
[Rory] “Suits you.” is what she says, as he moves around the room, flipping on the light and giving a brief tour in just the way he walks through, where he tosses his coat. It’s not much, but it’s home, and he likes it. He looks at the picture frame, and she follows his line of sight, but like so many other things, she simply doesn’t ask. She learned long ago that the stories others won’t told, they will tell in their own time.
And then he’s next to her again, guiding her into the room, and offering comfort, and a drink. She doesn’t answer right away, instead concentrating on getting to that couch, and settling to sit on the edge, exhaling in a quick whoosh when she’s settled. She rubs a hand over her face. Another slow breath, and she offers him that shy little grin again. “Water? Or caybe a moke? Only if you have it… fater’s wine.”
She works the wrists of her jacket over her hands, and then slowly peels out of her coat to set it aside, next to her on the couch.
[Eddie Vaako] For a moment or two the man is all over the place. Shutting the door, helping Rory to the couch, hesitating between helping her with her coat and bringing her something to drink.
Eventually the coat comes off, and Eddie finds himself staring at an empty fridge.. he chews his lip for a moment- pale eyes swivelling back around far enough to catch a red dazzle of color in what is usually an empty living room. Only ghosts for company. Now filled with a lovely redhead who isn’t quite what she seems.
…what a week to forget the shopping. Eddie? Have a moke- coke- have a coke. Somewhere..
Banging through cabinets ensues, and finally a lonely can is snatched up from the pantry and poured into a tumbler over ice. If only she’d really asked for ‘wine’…
The salvaged coke is deposited in front of Rory on the coffee table, and about then, Eddie starts to relax. Now, its bandages. First Aid. Doing what kin do, right? Sure.
“Hold on just a sec- the kit’s in the bathroom somewhere.. make yourself at home, ang- Rory.”
[Rory] He searches in the kitchen, and she’s unaware of the mild panic she caused in him. She wouldn’t have thought to ask of wine, to ask for a beer, of anything. That she was comfortable enough to hope for a coke says something… timidly and shy, but it whispers of that trust she’s placed in him for tonight.
She offers him that shy little grin as he sets the coke in front of her, and she rubs the side of her nose, under her chin absently. “Thanks.”
Then he almost calls her angel again and the blush returns – not that it was ever too far away to begin with. As he goes, she peels out of the first of her shirts, and sets it aside. Then, the second, revealing the ripped torn t-shirt that is the bottom layer. All of the shirts showed signs of the battle, shredded on the left side, and the shoulder riddled with holes. The bottom one is the worst shape, having soaked up the blood that is seeping through the bandages themselves. Her left shoulder, and along her torso is swathed in the bandages. Annie had done a really good job wrapping her up.
And to her credit, she doesn’t even consider reaching for that picture when she lifts her glass to take a sip of her soda.
[Eddie Vaako] Eddie moves down the hall, and doesn’t return for some time. Quiet whistling, some rustling, the occasional muttered complaint or redundant question- apparently all meant for himself, as only the rich, tumbling reverb of his voice rolls up the hallway- no words carried clearly in the sound.
Soon enough Eddie comes sweeping back into the living room, eyes on the interior of a scratched up aluminum box held in swift, confident hands. The slender underarm rig seems too much a part of him to stand out- but the gun is a sleek, vicious looking thing. Oiled and glinting malevolently under the light from the ceiling fan.
The man is settling on the coffee table before the true weight of the situation settles on him. He looks from the box, balanced on his knees, up to Rory.. then his eyes flicker toward the kitchen as some color distantly related to rose darkens already dusky, scruffy cheeks.
Again bulldozing ahead saves the day and ends what would be an awkward silence. Half lidded eyes flicker back to Rory’s, and a cheeky twitch of a smile flashes brilliant teeth. Brilliant, and nervous teeth.
The rumbling voice is deadpan. Jesting to lighten the mood, for all that a note of tension rides it.
“Don’t worry, I love freckles.” A mild, unsettled snort of a chuckle and the man tosses a roll of athletic tape toward his mouth. The teeth snatch at it and it hangs there as he pulls out bandages and antiseptic.
[Rory] By the time he comes out, she grasped the last shirt, and is in the process of tugging it over her head. She seems completely oblivious to why anyone would look at her twice, even as she starts to unwind the bandages from her torso, unveiling more than just the wounds. She’s not’ modest, she has no shame, nothing that might suggest she should be careful when she gets down to the last couple of layers.
And he loves freckles.
And instantly her’s are floating on a background of warmth as the blush floods through her. “Gabe liked teckles froo. He teased about daying plot to dot..”
The last layer is tugged free, and the padding comes off with it. He’s seen wounds before, he is kin, though the wounds she reveals look like they’d kill anyone – any human, anyway. Her body is built to take such damage [5agg, currently] and not even scar, but it doesn’t take away the shock factor of seeing such vicious bite marks from a massive jaw along her skin.
She’s lucky she still has her arm.
[Eddie Vaako] The bloody, brutal fact of her wounds makes the flirtation about her freckles suddenly slip away. Seem absurd. Eddie sits there, less than a foot away from a pretty girl in need of help, tape dangling from his teeth- frozen by the magnitude of how badly she’s hurt.
Pretence, the understandable awkwardness of the situation.. it fades into the background as the lean cop leans foreward and breathes “Christ..” his fingers slipping toward Rory and across the edges of gaping wound after jagged, suppurating mess. For a second the stern, harrowing visage of Medusa that twists under his skin like a kraken under the surface of water seems to soften. Becomes a hard- faced but not unsympathetic creature.. Emil’s unheard and barely understood grandmothers demand things of him in the face of such carnage, and he responds before he knows it.
“Here.. lie back kiddo.. you sure you don’t want some whiskey? This is… this is gonna hurt. Lots.”
He’s not muscular, but the hands and forearms are hardened by hours of shooting practice.. the consistency of steel cables under a skin covering. Soft enough though as his palms move against her skin to help her lie back.
[Rory] She’s more shocked about how shocked he is, than by the wounds themselves. She’s had worse. She’s died and come back at least once, or so says the scar across her hip, barely peaking out from the waistband of her jeans. She’s been wounded like this more times than she can possibly count. And the scariest fact of it all is that in less than a week, there won’t even be a scar to remind him it was there.
Even in this, she’s compliant, even in this she submits to his will, to his touch, as he gently helps her lay back. He’s strong, though his touch is gentle, so gentle. Her jaw sets, her teeth grinding as she closes her eyes, and lets him guide her back, his hands soft and oh so warm along her skin. Her hand lifts to grasp his bicep, holding tight, but still taking care not to bruise him, even now, even when she wants to hold on tighttighttight until shes down.
Even so, even so she somehow maintains that innocence, and it’s in her eyes as she looks up at him, the pale green riddled with the haze of pain as her body adjusts to the new position. “Never whad hiskey.”
So many things she’s never, ever done…
[Eddie Vaako] His gaze moves from the garish wounds to the Fianna’s pleasantly tapering face, and something behind the lanky man’s eyes sounds an alarm. Whiskey. Plus werewolf. Last time, that almost became a bad, bad scene. He nods, and finds one of those clever, traitorous hands smoothing her hair as he sweeps a cloth into the other hand. He jerks the fingers away from the red blaze painting his couch as though it were really on fire.. then clears his throat and begins to clean the wound with antiseptic. Gently. As though she were really just a pretty girl. Or a bomb that could go off if he jostles it too much.
“Try to hold still, Rory.. and don’t hate me.” His eyes flicker to her face. “Really. I mean it. Don’t pull my head off.” A dry chuckle devoid of any real humor.. and he’s all too aware of vivid eyes fixed on the side of his face as the cloth sweeps softly across jagged skin.
[Rory] His hand, traitorous and gentle, smooths through her hair and she tips her head into the touch with a soft sigh. They are more than human, more than wolves, and touch is often something that communicates more than anything else – more than they want. Her reaction is automatic, until she remembers her place.
She always remembers her place.
And she blushes, again, and worries her teeth along her lower lip. Her fingers lift, and she timidly touches his cheek with her fingertips – gentle, innocent, sweet. “I like hour yead where it is.”
Her breath quickens as the antiseptic is brushed over the wound, and she closes her eyes, her hand falling to the couch cushion under her and holding tightighttight. A low keening whimper sounds deep in the back of her throat…
…but she doesn’t move.
[Eddie Vaako] As Rory’s fingers scrape across the roughened, stubble- lined slope of Eddie’s face, a corner of his mouth twitches again. Its disjointed somehow.. an expression he’s unaware of. Unrefined, but sincere. The rumble starts from the floor under his feet, and vibrates across the short distance between them. The very short distance..
“I like your yead too.”
Ahem. Wounds, Eddie. His eyes flicker down to them as he continues to clean. A moment passes, only broken by the wimper threatening to rise in the back of her throat. He says something- anything- as one hand settles on her shoulder. Sure, he’ll convince himself later it was a show of support.. at least part of the truth is that she feels good to touch. Playfully stern- mostly.. he fills the pained space with words.
“..So who’s this Gabe guy.”
[Rory] He fills the space with words, as she concentrates not on the fire along her wound, but on the softness of his touch along her uninjured shoulder. She turns her head, eyes still closed, and rests her cheek against his fingers, lightly, her breath a soft pained pant along his skin. It hurts. There’s nothing they can do to deny that. But, despite the way she cowers, the way she submits, the way she is, she shows so much control here, so much strength of will. Her rage does not even spike, does not even flare…
…she’s been through this before.
And then he asks of Gabe, and that blush dances across her cheeks again, but she can’t hide under her curls right now, and so she peeks up at him through reddish lashes, and then closes her eyes again.
“A friend. But me hoved away.” beat, and shy. “Fury, like you. My kirst fiss.”
[Eddie Vaako] “Alright.. that ought to do it. I’m going to wrap you now. Let’s sit you back up, doll.” Carefully, Emil moves closer.. and ignores the pale immediacy of the slope of Rory’s neck. Eyes front, Eddie.. front. He takes as much of her weight as he can given the awkward angles, making sure she is tensing as little as possible before being upright.
Doubtless, Eddie’s not the type to see many pairs of breasts even on a good day- even so, he doesn’t oggle, his eyes don’t linger inappropriately.. but he’s human, and a male who’s very aware Rory’s a female.. so the occasional brush of eyes across her sleek form is mere second nature. She’s lovely, and a part of him is just delighted with the fact that she’s here. Being lovely on his couch. Bleeding-
-oh right-
Eddie scowls to himself, taping a corner of the bandage at Rory’s shoulder. His fingers are the twitch and flicker of spiders; light, deft- as he winds the bandage around her body. Continuing with a new one wherever he needed to, taping near creases or problem spots.
“Moved away? You pulled his hair too hard I bet. Redheads don’t know their own strength, I heard.” A flicker of a smile so Wyld it would be alien on a normal human’s face removes any sting from the words.
[Rory] That aught to do it, he says, and she relaxes her hold on the cushion under her, flexing her fingers lightly before he moves her again. When he does, her arm slides up around his neck, using him for support as he lifts her again, so very carefully. She’s undeniably female, this close, this… naked, and he’s very aware. She, on the other hand, seems to not notice that he is, or that she might be tempting him – other women do it on purpose, though with Rory, it’s achingly innocent.
Upright again, she takes a breath, and then he teases her about Gabe – but for an instant she believes and her eyes widen and she shakes her head, curls bouncing vigorously. “I’d never!” and then she sees his smile, and she blushes and ducks her head. “oh. No. He pakes tictures, and had to go wor fork.”
A pause, and then she shakes her head. “He was not mor fe, either.”
[Eddie Vaako] For a moment that passes almost too quickly to notice, something dark and lethal rises under Eddie’s skin. Rather than the hot, predatory blaze of a Garou’s Rage, it seems a colder thing. An altogether different hunter. Poised. Hardened by years and practice.. terrible because no hint of the supernatural fuels it. The stark, almost lonely insistence on what was, or wasn’t for either of them… it stokes a frigid anger Eddie has only begun to figure out how to handle.
“Mm. Who decides, do you think?” Face again settled into stillness, Eddie asks the question almost casually. After all.. none of that crap is Rory’s fault. He gently hooks a curl with one finger to move it out of the way, and the pale expanse of Rory’s body invites at the corner of his vision. The desire to taste her lips, her skin, overwhelms his senses for a moment. The heady desire to give lie to the idea that anyone gets to control anything without his OWN say so.. it passes in the span of a deep breath, and his gaze flickers to Rory’s eyes.
[Rory] Something passes through his gaze, dark and lethal and shiveringly hungry, an anger that feels very much like rage, though nothing at all like it either. He asks his question, and it’s almost casual, despite so many things that are behind it, that it could insinuate, and her breath catches somewhere in her throat.
His fingers tug lightly on a curl, sliding around it to move it out of the way, breaking past the veil she hides behind, and bringing her eyes to his, her chin lifting slightly as she watches him, as she dares to meet his gaze for half a held breath…
“Alphas.” her only answer… barely breathed…
[Eddie Vaako] Ten years ago. Just ten, the man would lean forward, and give those lips that twist words innocently and artfully a kiss that could cramp toes. Each pass and tug of lips, a hand at the back of her neck- it would be a work of breath and mystery that could shatter walls. That had shattered more than one resolve. He’d do it to share a second of feeling good and nevermind consequences. Just because it wasn’t proper, and was the right thing to do for precisely that reason. And the devil take the consequences.
The idea of it. The thrill passes through Eddie’s senses like a bolt of lightning, and the signs of the wicked idea pass through his body and show in his posture. The way he leans forward slightly. Faded remains of cologne are spicy and indistinct now- but obvious with the man’s face that close to hers.
That was ten years ago though. Now, there are monsters in the world. Monsters, and now Eddie is king only of what he can hold onto from moment to moment. Damn. What a world.
He blinks.. the heady flush begins to fade from his face and neck and he scrubs a hand over the stubble around his mouth. His attention passes back to Rory and instead of following any of the urges rocking through him, the man ducks his face near Rory’s hip, clasps the end of the athletic tape in his teeth, and rips it with a swift, careful jerk of his chin. Pressing the last of the tape into place against Rory’s side, he shrugs, and murmurs.
“Alphas. That word doesn’t mean anything to me.” He shrugs. “Maybe its just something for you guys, you know?” He doesn’t believe it. He tries to be supportive.
[Rory] Ten years ago, he would take advantage, he would make a point, he would have followed the instincts that rock through him, that translate into that lean forward, so slight, and her quick inhale pulls the scents of fading cologne, of his earlier smoke, of his skin, and everything that slides under it – breeding and fire and masculinity and power and…
Ten years ago… she was locked in a basement most of the time, left for hours, days, weeks sometimes, with nothing but her tools and a pile of electronic doodads, darkness and rats in the walls. Ten years ago, she was let out for training, for war, and discarded once they no longer had a use for her, dug out to destroy, then locked away to rot. That she comes from it still so innocent, still so pure, is a miracle.
And today, today something stops him, though her eyes widen as he lowers his head, and rips the tape with his teeth. When he murmurs, and looks back up, she’s blushing brighter than ever, perhaps shamed by the half a thought that went through her mind, the curiosity, naked across her face.
He doesn’t understand, but tries to be supportive. She sighs, softly. “I am wramed. shong. There’s to be no one mor fe. Omega.” a pause. “that is what sey thay, what they believe.”