Joss | Fookin’ nuts. [Imogen/James]

Today James was doing none of the above, instead standing out back of the Eagle’s packhouse in front of the barbeque. It was just about dinner time, so the Fianna had decided a cook-out was in order even if it was only for himself. A steak tasted best off a grill, you know.

The Galliard wore a pair of loose-fitting basketball shorts, with a new-looking wifebeater. Judging by the way it was a bit too big for him, likely it was stolen out of Decker’s clean laundry. Strikingly enough he was barefoot, the late evening sun making his Irish heritage obvious to see because of just how pale he was underneath all that ink.

Still – she’s here tonight, stepping around to the backyard.

The kinwoman is considerably more dressed than the Galliard – her jeans unsullied and unfrayed, her blouse untucked at the waist, the hem skimming her hips. Her hair is swept back from her face, held in place by a clip with tendrils coming down. The way her hair falls loose is almost artful – but James has rarely seen her with her hair in complete control. It is artful, but it would happen anyway. Her hair is not the type to be ruled.

She wears a coat, though the temperature is in the sixties,

Still – she’s here tonight, stepping around to the backyard.

The kinwoman is considerably more dressed than the Galliard – her jeans unsullied and unfrayed, her blouse untucked at the waist, the hem skimming her hips. Her hair is swept back from her face, held in place by a clip with tendrils coming down. The way her hair falls loose is almost artful – but James has rarely seen her with her hair in complete control. It is artful, but it would happen anyway. Her hair is not the type to be ruled.

She wears a coat, though the temperature is in the sixties, the loose sleeves pushed up over her forearms.

“I thought I smelled somethin’,” she says by way of greeting, one hand lifting to push hair back from her eyes. Though the sky is overcast she wears sunglasses which hide her eyes. Her hand lowers from her hair to the frame, lifting them up to push back over her hair.

“If’n ye like I kin throw ‘nother one ‘n fer ye,” he said as he liberally basted his own steak with barbeque sauce, shifting his weight from foot to foot before raising one to scratch at the calf of his other leg with a toenail.

Why did she always make him seem like he talked too much? The thought had him laughing under his breath.

There’s a picnic table out back, she steps up on it to seat herself on the tabletop, resting her heeled shoes on the bench. Her fingers push back hair from her eyes as she lowers her purse to the table, unzipping it to reach inside and retrieve her bronze-plated cigarette case and accompanying zippo.

James offers to throw a steak on the barbecue for her and she turns her head to look at him, her gaze resting there first, then the barbie.

“Yeah, alright,” she says.

“Ye ‘ear Joss’s goin’ tae be joinin’ us?” he said off-hand as he poured a bit of barbeque sauce onto her steak and went about checking to see if his was almost done. Chances are being the sort of man he is he’ll give her the one that’s finished first and eat the one still cooking. “Lass was actin’ like we’d gived ‘er a crown. Nae fer knowin’ ‘ow others outside o’ Chicago come tae think of us like legends. Decker ‘nyway. I’ve ‘nough shyte t’ contend wit’ wit’out bein’ called an ‘ero.”

She twists off the cap and sets it on the tabletop beside her, tilting it back for a swallow, her eyes moving to James as he speaks.

“I heard tha’ she was on trial fer it,” she answers, “not that it was certain.” The Fianna Galliard continues. Imogen smirks slightly.

“She seems t’have a rather romanticized view o’ the pack, that’s fer certain. Rohl in particular.”

“Though ye know, ‘s th’ stories go most o’ the ‘eroes just did what needin’ doin’.” Shaking his head he turned back to cooking the steaks. It amazed him somewhat that Joss viewed the Eagles somewhat. As he remembered it, most of Storm-Hammer remained a bit distant towards them for their lack of allegiance to that sept and caern. For whatever reason though James seemed to of made a few friends there. Probably had something to do with the 10 kegs he brought.

“Honestly,” she says after a moment as she tilts back her beer for another swallow. “I think heroes are just another tool o’ the Nation. Inspire starry-eyed cubs so tha’ they don’t refuse t’ do what everyone knows needs t’be done.”

There is a certain wryness in her tone as she continues and if he turns to look at her, he might see the smirk. “Die fer the cause.”

“Aye, ye may be right,” James said at last. “Th’days o’ what we’d call ‘eroes ‘r gone. Dinnae matter who ye are, though, we’ve all got tae be pullin’ our own weight ‘r we’re fooked. Domino ‘ffect ‘n all o’ that.”

Scrubbing a hand through his long ebony hair, he nodded toward her cigarette case. “D’ye mind?”

Instead, she turns at the hips, picking up her cigarette case from beside her, and flicking it open with her thumb. She retrieves two cigarettes, fitting the first between her lips, then passing the second to him. She lights her own, then holds out the flickering flame from the zippo so James can light his.

Once he’s done and pulled away, she lets smoke slowly curl from her mouth, exhaling slowly.

“I’m sorry about AnneMarie,” she says, suddenly. “I hear yeh buried her at the caern.”

“We did,” he said. “T’is where she belonged, ye know. Th’lass was a hell o’a woman, ye know. At first I didnae think she liked m’self all th’ much, but ‘t th’ end? I think we kind o’ bonded ‘r somethin’. Nae surprise, our people’s viewpoints o’ metis bein’ what t’is.”

Holding the cigarette between his index and forefinger, he stood to go check the steaks. “Tough ‘s nails, an’ dependable. When Ragnarok ‘s ‘er people called it comes, I ‘ope I’ll see ‘er ‘gain.”

AnneMarie Hoch was a woman that James at first could not fathom or grasp. She had left and come back, and to the surprise of them both he was happy to see her. She had been an Eagle, a packmate. But most of all, she had been a friend.

“Is tha’ wha’ the Fenrir think will happen, then?” she enquires. “The dead will rise or somesuch?”

Truly, it’s no wonder that James feels gregarious in comparison to Imogen. For every three words he speaks, she speaks one. She takes another drag from her cigarette before lowering it over the ground, scissored between her forefinger and middle to tap the ash free.

In his near fourty years of life, James has seen and done quite a many things mundane and supernatural alike. As it stood, the laws of physics said that James should of been dead for two years already. The Battle Scar on his neck said as much, but then like all of those things that James has seen and witnessed… When it came to Garou, the laws of reality tended to blurr or break all together.

“I wouldn’t quite go so far as t’say tha’ you’re the stuff’ of myth and legend, James.” She tips back her beer for a deep swallow.

Sometimes, it’s best not to ask.
(Magic 8 ball says “She’s nuts!”)

Suddenly, there’s a LOUD bang, enough that Sandman and Imogen can hear it downstairs, followed by laughter – a tad hysterical, for a brief moment – but laughter none the less, that disovles into chuckles, ok, more like giggles. She is, after all, a teenage girl. A billow of smoke through the open wall, a brief puff, before it dissipates into the overcast sky.

Soon after, she can be heard skipping down the stairs, and making her way to the kitchen, then outside once she smells the meat on the grill. She looks dishelved – and there’s dusty smudges on her cheeks, hands and her feet are bare – other then that, she’s dressed in a lightweight skirt, and a tank top, showing off the dual bat tattoo just below the center collarbone at the base of her throat.

“Hi!” the oh so innocent greeting…

“Och, now there’s a girl that’d be knowin I’ve th’ stuff o’ myth an’ legend,” he said with a broad grin and an elbow poked into Imogen’s ribs as he gave a bit of a laugh.

“Joss,” she says, her words coming out on smoke. “Nothing’s on fire, I hope.”

She looks up at the attic and back to Imogen with an easy grin. “No, ma’am. Not today. I was playing tag with an electric elemental – he won. This round.”

She might be serious. It’s kinda hard to tell.

When Joss said she was playing tag with an electricity elemental, she was given a long stare. Lunatic, stark-raving mad lunatic. That was all. And for all of that? James

“I see,” she says, though she doesn’t and likely never would. Imogen’s experience with elementals is limited to the things that they can affect. A stalking police car for example.

Her gaze cuts to James, her mouth twisting, “Are you referring to her skills as a theurge or yours as a cook?” she asks, casting a glance toward the lit barbecue and the steaks upon the grill.

She absently rubs the back of her shoulder where she’d got zapped, and then shrugs. “A lot of Spirit Talkers don’t take the time to get to know those that surround their area, relying on their ability to command them. If I can befriend them now, they will come easier to my aid when we have need of their assistance.”

For all her youth? She knows her stuff. “Got another beer over there, Sandman?”

“Both,” he said in mock-hurt to Imogen as he rose to pull the steaks off the grill. Joss had just shown up, so he hadn’t had time to make a third. Instead he sliced his in half and offered her the other while a full one was put before the Kinfolk woman. Also in James’ estimation, Imogen appeared to be in the need of some more cheeseburgers.

She returns quickly, just in time to get a half a steak, and grin up at Sandman. “Thanks!” and retakes her perch, the plate in her lap, the beer in hand opened and a loooooooong drink taken from it. Crazy or not, she at least eats like a normal girl.

Fork in hand, he folded the slab of meat in half and stuck the utensil directly through the center to eat it one bite at a time on the end of the fork. Uncouth? Just a little.

She is already sliding off the picnic table as she reaches into her purse for her phone, flipping it open, and then a moment later snapping it shut. She crushes out her cigarette against the edge of the table and dropping it before picking up her plate, and handing it whoever got the other half of her steak. “Thank you anyway,” she says to James. “I’m back off t’work.”

She steps away and back toward the front of the building, drawing her purse back up over her shoulder as she moves.

And then digs into her steak again, waiting until the kinfolk is out of hearing distance before groaning softly. “She thinks I’m crazy – did you here about the police car?”

“I fookin’ think yer crazy,” he laughed and shrugged. “Nae, though I dinnae think I want tae know.”

She shakes her head with a mortified mutter. “It decided it liked Imogen and followed her EVERYWHERE… she delivered it to me at the Brotherhood. Evan was there – surprised you didn’t hear him laughing!” Though it does make her chuckle again, try as she might not too. “She was all ‘Yer toy is followin’ me.’ I didn’t know what to say!”

She turns back in the direction she’d been headed, disappearing around the corner. A little later, her car starts, the rattle of the Volvo, rather than the roar of the Aston Martin, disappearing into the distance.