Arlett
(8uh.. ))
Izzy Montoya
(hm?)
Arlett
((=) thinking if not betta bring my kinfolky but she is shier))
Izzy Montoya
( doesn’t matter – Izzy’s likely to shoot first tonight. heh.{
Arlett
((eeep?!))
Arlett
(8LOL then let me change Milo is less likely to provoke someone then Arlett ))
Avskaya
*Well the girl had gone wandering from the caffee.. too nervious now to just head back in… and well…. too in the way on to head…’home’… the thin, delicate kin had her arms wrapped getnly about her elbows, as she walked on*
Izzy Montoya
It’d been a long day, to say the least. She hadn’t slept a wink last night, and all that is keeping her going now is coffee and nicotine, as she hasn’t eaten either. Her car is parked away in the ‘private’ garage that she’s paying extra for, and her things – such as they are, being as she left almost everything with him – have been shuttled up to the second floor studio she now calls home.
She’s on the stoop, now, however, sitting on the steps. She’s in jeans and a tank top, with a beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other as she studies the street and those that walk along it.
Avskaya
*People might ponder why someone so young and frail looking was just walking alone, but thre she was walking alone, green eyes looked around from time to time, looking on to the smoke of someone sitting by the steps, her lips press as her eyes wander on and back and on*
Izzy Montoya
People might wonder, but Izzy doesn’t. In fact, she doesn’t wonder much at all right now, truth be told, other than what she will do next. It’s not so much in detail, as generalities. She scrubs her hand over her face, before lifting her cigarette to her lips and taking a drag, exhaling slowly.
She watches the girl, without really seeming to see her at all.
Avskaya
((hmmmm))
*green eyes do peer at Izzy, the trail on the smoke of the cigarrete… she does seem to slower her step… like if she saw something interesting in the smoke…a faint little frown, a bit of a shiver and she shakes her head hard once, before she comes to a full stop… And looks around like someone trying to understand where to go to now*
Izzy Montoya
“Take a picture, it’ll fuckin last longer.” Bitter, that, as the kid stops and stares, then looks around as if lost. The words are muttered, under her breath and likely don’t carry very far as she lifts her beer and takes a swig.
Avskaya
*there are words, maybe she doesn’t get them, but her eyes move to the woman never the less, a hand shifts up to move and start toying with the golden chain at her neck, presse sher lips before she murmurs* uuh…. excuze me…. do… do you know vhere to for dhe vaterFront?
Avskaya
((does have a SL lord glyph handing in that goldne chain if that would help?))
Izzy Montoya
She arches a brow, slightly, as the girl speaks hesitantly, in a very thick accent. She peers at the kid with one brow slightly raised, looking more and more tired by the minute. Her gaze drops to the necklace, and the glyph on it. “Jesus fucking christ.”
She shakes her head, and gestures absently in a direction. “That way, i think. Ain’t fuckin been here long enough to know. Or give a fucking shit.”
awww. So helpful, Izzy.
Avskaya
((LOL)) *Looks that way, then to her… she nods once,,, nods again* dh.. dhank you *yea with winces at her cursings… but she does start to walk that way*
Izzy Montoya
She could tell her a lot of things. She could tell her to put that fucking necklace away before it gets her killed. could tell her that she shouldn’t be wandering around alone, could tell her what happens to shy little kin that wander off on their own – and worse, kin that stay with their Tribe.
She could tell her a lot of things, Izzy, but she doesn’t bother. she just puts her cigarette between her lips, and inhales again.
Avskaya
*The girl does look backwards once, like if she was double looking towards Izzy, something she saw in her…. but her lips press agian and she goes on walking* ((humm))
Sid Chavez
He comes up the sidewalk, dressed as though he’s got someplace to be but walking as though he isn’t in an overly large hurry. To Milo, there is nothing frightening or otherwise noteworthy about him. He’s large, several inches over six feet tall and solid-looking, and dressed as though he could barely be bothered enough to make sure his clothes were clean, let alone that they matched.
At the time he comes down Izzy’s block, the detective is scaring off a teenage girl.
The sight of her double-taking is amusing enough considering he only overhears the last of the conversation, and though he is clearly addressing Detective Montoya, he doesn’t slow in his trajectory.
“You mean you ain’t moonlighting as a tour guide?” he calls. “Guess I’m shit outta luck.”
Izzy Montoya
She lifts her gaze, a brow arching slightly as she recognizes Sid – the boy that freaks out at the sound of Church Bells. Fanfuckingtastic. Though, truth be told, if his buddy was around hitting on her again… well. Might be a different turn out.
Might still be a different turn out. after all, what does she care what she does. Who she does. anymore?
She smirks, and exhales, as she watches him. “Guess so, considering the only fuckin things I’ve found so far is the laundromat across the street, the liquor store on the corner, and my own fuckin’ place. Can’t see as I need much else, really.”
Avskaya
*The short kin kept on walking on, with just a last peer, still somethin gin Izzy seeming to call ehr atention, but she didn’t go back, her hand still toying with the golden chain as she made her way to.. well hopefully the waterfront*
Sid Chavez
Sid’s buddy is nowhere to be found tonight, neither trailing after him on the sidewalk nor running ahead; certainly, he isn’t all but clinging to him as they walk. There is no air of distraction or lovesick puppy longing in his absence. Truth be told there hadn’t been anything between the two men that would indicate they were anything other than roommates, and Sid doesn’t seem like the warm, fuzzy, heart-on-his-sleeve type either.
As Izzy rants about the surroundings of the neighborhood, he snorts, the sound more agreeing than derisive, and though he doesn’t keep barreling past at the same pace he had before, he sure as shit doesn’t take it as an invitation to hang around on her nonexistent lawn all night.
“Woman after my own heart,” he says.
Izzy Montoya
“That so.” She says, as she leans back, her elbows on the top step, the beer dangling from one hand, the cigarette in the other as she rests it on her thigh. She’s not a bad looking woman, Izzy, though it’s clear she’s not in as good a place as she was before – which isn’t to say the building that houses her shoebox apartment isn’t nice, but that all signs point to her having a Very. Bad. Day.
She hasn’t slept, she’s wired on caffeine and nicotine, she’s been drinking pretty steadily though she is a long way away from drunk. “You’d be a man after mine if you already knew where the nearest bar is… my beers almost fucking gone.”
Avskaya
*She did reached the corner, and stops, looking around a moment, then turning sideways, green eyes fixing behind, then blinking as she catches sight of Sid, half talking, half walking and no stopping after the cranky woman, she stays still for a moment, before she seems to tdecide it not a good idea to stay standing there for the man to catch up with her…. mostly simply because he is a stranger… but might be too because well… he did look somewhat unkept*
Sid Chavez
Okay, that slows him down.
He puts his hands in his pockets, and as much as any other hot-blooded man in the prime of his life would have taken that as an invitation–and look at her, she’s clearly in need of something, blackout inebriation or a night of property destruction or an anonymous fuck in a filthy bathroom stall with someone she’s never going to see again, something–but Sid, as he is now and not as he ought to be, is not predacious. It gets him to pause in front of her house long enough to ponder her, a moment, before he answers.
“Well, there’s a couple,” he says. “You been to Zeki’s yet? It’s on California Street. Kinda on the classy side–” He’d probably call a strip club without wall-to-wall carpet ‘kinda on the classy side,’ given that he looks like he hangs out in dive bars with guys named Spike and Tiny. “–but people there’ll leave you the fuck alone if you just want to get lit in peace.”
Izzy Montoya
“Zeki’s.” She rolls the name around her tongue, and then nods, slightly. She isn’t much for the classy joints herself – the first place she and Derek wen…never mind. A pained look crosses her face, but he can probably attribute it to the fact she’s now taken the last swallow of beer, AND her cigarette is down to the butt.
She leans forward, and puts out her cigarette on the stoop, before she pushes against the cement and stands.
“Good enough. Tell you what.” She nods, slightly. “You play tour guide to Zeki’s, and the first round is on me.”
Avskaya
*and on she goes… soon to be out of sight* ((seeya ;) ))
Sid Chavez
“Right on.”
His voice is barely audible, he speaking as though he’s been hitting the pipe a little too frequently for his higher cognitive processes to function as they ought to. Despite the fluency with which he swears, Izzy can very easily get the impression that this guy is so laid back the only thing that can get him worked up enough to swear is–
Well, alright, she’s seen him nearly fall down and shout obscenities in a neighborhood with a Catholic church because he was in so much pain it would have had a normal human being requesting an ambulance, but that was not the world’s most charming first impression.
“What’d you say your name was? Montoya?”
He damn well remembers what Jeff said her name was, but apparently it’s important for the purposes of his fulfilling his obligation as tour guide that he have the appropriate moniker for her.
Izzy Montoya
She brushes off the back of her jeans, and then reaches to the side to retrieve her blazer from where it was resting on the stoop behind her back. She unwraps her holster from inside it, tucks it into her jeans at the small of her back, and then shrugs the blazer on. She doesn’t try to hide the fact that she’s armed – but then again, he knows she’s a cop, so likely expects it.
It’s probably not her only weapon, either.
She sets the bottle on the stoop to be retrieved later, then joins him on the sidewalk.
“Yeah, Montoya. or Izzy.”
Sid Chavez
Once the detective gets herself put back together so that she can conceal her weapon, the–whatever he is–steps back to give her room to join him on the sidewalk, his heavy eyes aware of her but not sweeping over her in a manner that could be remotely construed as lascivious. Of course, it’s dark, and he’s questionably sober, but he seems to have some sense of chivalry still burning inside of him.
Don’t stare at a woman’s chest is one of the tenets of that dying philosophy, apparently. This particular woman is armed. He may not know who he is, in the wider scheme of things, but he knows enough that he doesn’t want to be a suicide-by-cop.
“Chavez,” he offers, as they start walking. “Or Sid.”
And that’s about the full extent of his willingness to initiate small talk. They’ve only just met but he seems perfectly content not talking unless she chooses the topic of conversation. It isn’t a long walk, but Nob Hill is one of the steeper neighborhoods in San Francisco; they have to go down an incline to reach California Street.
Izzy Montoya
“Pleasure.” she says, and maybe partially means it, though it’s really hard to tell at the moment. She simply falls into step with him. She has a long stride, for being not so very tall compared to his 6’3″, and he doesn’t have to slow down for her to keep up. Benefits of working in male dominated workspace, no doubt.
As is, some would say, the fact going down is something she is exceptionally good at. Heh. The trip back up is going to be a killer, but she plans to be feeling zero pain by the time that happens.
He’s comfortable in the silence, as is she. Small talk is overrated, though it is somewhat amusing that at this point in the drinking game with his friend, she’d already had to tell him to stop looking at her ass. Granted, it is a FINE ass, and she doesn’t really mind, but Sid is clearly the more chivalrous of the two. For now.
Sid Chavez
This could have been massively awkward, walking along in silence with another person with neither person fumbling to start or feed a conversation, but they both appear to have a healthy dose of disdain for what it is society expects of them. She’s a driven career woman in a field that has long since been a Boy’s Club, and this guy looks like someone she ought to be bouncing up against her cruiser, like he could get behind the idea of anarchy and overthrowing the government, fucking the police, if he weren’t so apathetic about the entire thing.
Stranger things have happened in this city than an SFPD detective and an LA-music-scene refugee walking along together in silence, though.
“Uh,” he says, eventually, as they come up on an intersection, and indicates the turn they’re to make by pulling his hand out of his pocket and pointing. “Left. We’re almost there.”
He tosses a glance over his shoulder to make sure they aren’t walking into oncoming traffic, and then proceeds to jaywalk at a leisurely pace. Speaking of asses, his is probably the only physical feature that the rest of the world could agree he has that could be referred to as ‘fine.’
Izzy Montoya
He points the way, and then casually jaywalks. She doesn’t miss a step, but does smirk, slightly. “I could ticket you for that…” but she doesn’t and he knows she wouldn’t. Especially as she’s just decided that his ass, indeed, is fine enough to be pardoned this little break of the law. Especially as she falls into step again, and breaks it with him.
Not that she hasn’t looked the other way in other circumstances before. It is, after all, what is expected of all good little kinfolk. Fortunately, she’s neither little, nor good and has zero plans of putting on the halo tonight.
Sid Chavez
“Oh, shit,” he laughs, as though he’d somehow managed to forget that he’s accompanying a cop to a bar in the five minutes or so that they were walking together, but that threat doesn’t carry water when Izzy ends up crossing before the intersection with him.
When she does, though, he reveals himself to have something of a personality lurking underneath that almost painful social awkwardness he’s exhibiting. He makes an attempt to imitate the iconic voice that accompanies every action movie trailer that has been released in the last thirty years, which has his voice dropping and his affect becoming overly exaggerated.
“Once, she was an ordinary beat cop. Then, they promoted her. Now, Detective Montoya has a badge, a sweet holster, and not a fuck left to give. She is…”
He stops, and drops the voice.
“Shit, I can’t think of any slang terms for ‘cop’ that won’t get my ass beaten. There goes that joke.”
Izzy Montoya
He laughs, and she manages something of a smirk in return, that ends up twisting toward the decidedly amused as he continues. He does have something of a personality, it seems, and its a good thing, as the only type she’s exhibiting herself tonight is bound to get her into trouble. And bruised. And quite likely suspended from the force after she gets well and truly started on the bender she intends to dive head first into.
But amuse her he does, and she snorts out a bark of laughter. “Now I want to hear which one you’d have used.. ain’t like I haven’t fuckin’ heard them all before… Besides, how would little ole me beat up such a specimen like yourself…”
Said with a sidelong glance that leads him to conclude – correctly – that she can already think of at least 4 different ways, and that’s if she decided NOT to just shoot him outright….
Sid Chavez
That sidelong glance gets a laugh that is more visible than anything else; it flashes teeth, and they cross an uncontrolled intersection leading across a side street. There is an alleyway–technically, it’s a ‘Place,’ but there is no through traffic–coming up on their left, and Zeki’s right beside it.
“I’m not falling for that one, man. One time I was wasted in like, Houston, and this puerco was giving me static? Apparently I kept calling him ‘Barney.’ Said I wasn’t getting in the wagon with a muppet like him. He asked me what a muppet is, and I told him, then I like, guess I thought I was gonna outrun this guy?”
He doesn’t hold the door and wait for her to go in before him; he does, however, prop it open for her to take so she can follow him inside the bar.
“My right shoulder still makes this clicking sound sometimes.” He laughs, quietly. “That dude wasn’t playing around.”
Izzy Montoya
He doesn’t hold the door open for her, and that’s perfectly ok with her. She’s had her fill of such gentlemanly like behavior for a while. She simply catches the door, and follows him inside, and shakes her head.
“We rarely do – but when we do, it’s always fucking worth it.” Play around, she means, and the last bit is said with a briefly amused smirk, before it falls behind the shadows in her eyes again. Maybe it was worth it. Maybe not. Right now she’d be hard pressed to say one way or the other.
She pushes it all back behind the wall she’s constructing again, brick by brick by brick, and follows him into the dim lighting of the bar. She blinks a couple times to let her eyes adjust, and follows him to his choice of seating – whether it be directly to the bar, or to a dark corner booth where no one but her will know if he gets handsy.
Back to the convo at hand…. “But if you wanna compare injuries, I got a killer set of scars…”
Sid Chavez
“Oh, yeah?”
Clothed as he is, most of Sid’s scars are covered. He detours to the bar, but does not sit down; he eyes the place, seeking out an open booth, so it doesn’t appear as though his plan for the rest of the evening involves sitting here as though either of them have purely noble intentions.
Maybe he just doesn’t like having his conversation readily accessible to anyone who walks in.
At any rate, he cracks a joke with the bartender, a blond in her late thirties or early forties, by asking if they don’t have Coors Light on draft, and then orders some local microbrew that’s on special. He got them here; he seems to be making good on Izzy’s offer to buy the first round.
Once they’re parked in the booth with their beers, Sid says, “Alright, let’s start the bidding at ‘leg versus 1976 Chevy Nova’s windshield.’ Twenty-seven stitches and crutches for three weeks. Go.”
Izzy Montoya
he orders his drink, and she doubles the beer order, and then adds on a whiskey, neat, for herself. she pays the first round as is promised, and then nods. “Keep a tab, will ya? This is gonna take a while.”
A bit of a smirk, and she follows him to the booth, settling into the seat comfortably and taking a swig of her whiskey as if she’s fucking irish, without even a wince, and no need for the chaser. It’s just to keep things interesting, anyway.
he starts the bidding, and she nods. “Nice. I’ll counter with the left shoulder, bullet wound, through and through – quarter sized in the front, half dollar for the back – and you know i got them fucked up clickin sounds. Hospital for three days, sling for a month, and a medal from the motherfuckin’ mayor.”
Sid Chavez
“Fold.”
Menaces to society can’t compete with law enforcement officers, apparently. Given that many Kinfolk have to find themselves keeping their eyes out for those of the Nation, if only so they know who to avoid and who to warn away from involving themselves more than is necessary, she has to be ruling him out as possible Family.
She hasn’t seen him around those of the blood, doesn’t know that he can stand next to most Full Moons and not even flinch. She also hasn’t seen him go to punch a guy who was carrying a religious symbol on his person and be knocked back several steps, doesn’t know that if he isn’t invited in by or doesn’t perform some act of service for the owner then he is physically incapable of entering a dwelling, that if there’s cold iron anywhere on the premises of an establishment he has the same problem.
Izzy drinks like she’s got something to prove, and Sid is on the opposite end of the same spectrum. He’s barely touching his beer.
“You win. All I got left are the ones that got me loads of sympathy hand jobs from girls when I was a kid. I’m too old for that shit.”
Izzy Montoya
She arches a brow. “Aw, but I had two more bullet wounds, AND the result of being on the wrong end of a pitch fork wielding meth head! And…” She arches that brow again, and smirks. “Nothing wrong with a sympathy hand job. Ever.”
she hasn’t pegged him for family, for anything other than some guy who had a weird reaction to something on the street, some migraine or some such that had him keeping over. Sure, that’s weird, but she has seen worse. Weirder, by far.
She doesn’t know a lot about him, and honestly it suits her just fine. If he has nothing to do with the Nation, that’s even fuckin better.
“And be honest, now your kinda wanting to see the pitchfork scar…”
Sid Chavez
“So, wait…”
Awkward he may be, but he’s not slow. Despite the fact that Sid is not only painfully lacking in social grace but not all that intelligent, he’s clever. There’s still a sharp mind inside that unfortunate skull of his, but it doesn’t do him any good. He can’t discuss literature or global politics or debate religion or discuss the finer points of scientific discoveries because he doesn’t fucking understand them, but he can sure as shit bluff his way through such a discourse and leave other people none the wiser.
Luckily, Izzy has set the bar low enough for him to casually step over. She’s not asking much of him. A couple of stories about stupid shit he’s done while inebriated and off-color jokes about sex appear to suit him just fine.
“… sympathy hand job and I get to see the pitchfork scar? This sounds like entrapment to me.”
Izzy Montoya
“Oh honey…” She says, as lips curve into a little knowing smirk. “..I haven’t even begun to trap you yet…”
She is no dimwit, herself, though she much prefers the easier topics since so much of her day is taken with the using her smarts to track down those who think they’re smarter than her. And catching criminals, too. So the bar is low – and that is just fine by her.
She lifts her whiskey and toasts silently, before tipping it back again, swallows and nods. “But – if the pitchfork scar moves you, I expect ever so much more than a hand job…”
Sid Chavez
“Alright,” he says, in the I tried to warn you tone, as he starts to snake his left arm out of his jacket sleeve, “but there is a special place in Hell for people who renege on the rules of I’ll Show You Mine.”
Underneath that ponderous-looking jacket, he’s wearing a t-shirt with the Ghostbusters logo on it. It’s old enough that the screening is beginning to fade, and the same can be said for his scars, which only stand out because he has skin that tans easily.
The fact that he remains silent as he holds his arm out across the table indicates he’s not exactly proud of any of them, but he doesn’t have to explain what years of police work can tell Izzy: this guy used to be a junkie, failed a suicide attempt, and has been mistaken for an ashtray before.
If he showed up in the morgue later tonight, the medical examiner would have to do a pretty thorough autopsy to conclude that even if he were shot in the head with a high-powered rifle that it wasn’t somehow self-inflicted.
“Kids are idiots,” is all he has to has to say about that display before he’s putting his arm back in its sleeve.
Izzy Montoya
“Oh, I’ve got my spot in hell already picked out. Right next to some toasty coals – but it won’t be because I didn’t show you my scars.”
He shows her his arm, and she reaches over to run her fingertips along the marks, knowing what each one came from instantly. She nods, slightly, with a twisted smirk. “Yeah, they are.”
She finishes off her whiskey with a toss, and then downs a couple swallows of her beer. “This will be a two-fer, since the pitchfork and the other bulletwound are close.”
She has no intention of renegging, clearly. In fact, she stands, and moves to his side of the booth, and settles next to him, slouching down as she pulls up her tank top, and undoes the fastenings of her jeans…
She spreads them open, and points first to her right hip. “Bullet – zigged when i should have zagged. More commendations, of course.” And then, she pulls them down enough to show the skin just above her pelvic bone, where the ‘pitchfork” had gotten her – four marks right into the softness of her lower belly, around the bikini line…
“And pitchfork wielding methhead.”
Sid Chavez
[Intelligence + Alertness: bullshit?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 5, 8, 10) ( success x 1 )
Sid Chavez
Now, he can’t remember what he is, but the memories are still there. That spirit that hijacked his body when he was a teenager, both of them utterly unwilling and unhappy with the arrangement, is the one that is responsible for everything he knows about what he Is and what they Are, and it’s locked up.
It’s like trying to contain smoke, though. Sometimes it leaks under the door, slides through the cracks.
Izzy slides in next to him, and he hitches an arm over the back of the bench behind her shoulders without anything that could be mistaken for smoothness. Leather has a way of soaking up whatever tends to exist in the atmosphere in heavy quantities, but Sid doesn’t reek of cigarette smoke or sweat. Pot, maybe, if Izzy has a sharp nose, but that’s coming from his hair, not his jacket. His other elbow rests on the tabletop. He has long fingers; they possess a dexterity that the rest of him seems to have sacrificed for the purposes of whatever craft me’s undertaken, because he looks about a graceful as a drunk bear.
Cocking his head to one side and turning to face her, he grimaces when he sees the results of the pitchfork. As she had with his forearm, he rests his fingertips on the scars, but then he flinches, the jolt of whatever it is that brings up for him strong enough she can practically feel it in Sid’s hand. If she looks up at him he has that same dazed look he’d had when he was recovering from his ‘headache,’ as though he’s had déjà vu or a flash of something he can’t make sense of, but it passes a second after it hits him.
“Damn,” he says, walking it off. “You are like the toughest motherfucker I have ever met in my life.”
Izzy Montoya
He flinches – and she looks up at him, curious. He’s dazed, briefly, and its a look she recognizes from the other night – and something sharpens in her gaze, ready to… she doesn’t know, help him out of here if it happens again, or something. It passes, though, and she rests her hand briefly on his, on her skin.
There are very few people who know the real story behind those scars. One left her last night – or rather, forced her to leave through his own cowardice. The others are in chicago, miami – a world away. So, to Sid, it’ll have something off about it, but he has no other recourse than to accept her story…
because – as wild as it is – it’s easier to believe than the truth.
He declares her the toughest motherfucker he’s ever met, and she snorts, briefly, her hand still on his. “And that, sir, is why I live alone.” Now, anyway.”Men have tender egos.” Or something.
Sid Chavez
His eyes are on her midsection, then her hand as it rests atop his, as though he’s biding his time. If Jeff were here, he could attest to the fact that Sid has about as much game as a middle schooler, that Sid didn’t seem remotely interested in him until they’d gotten alone and then he was on him as though he were half-starved and bound to go insane from it.
He isn’t lonely, really, and desperately reaching out for someone to haul him up out of it, but he seems a bit lost all the same, as though it’s easy to ignore that he doesn’t really know who the fuck he is because he can’t patch together the last seventeen years of his life, can’t explain how it is he was never attracted to other boys growing up and yet he’s sharing a bed with one far younger than he is.
Clearly, he’s not hurting for confidence, but it’s a faltering sort, like a vehicle built by someone from another planet who abandoned it and didn’t bother to leave instructions on what to do with it.
“You ain’t even lying,” he says, with another almost-laugh, as he starts to run his fingertips back and forth across her stomach. “We’re delicate flowers, man.”
Whereupon he finds the nerve he needs to lift his eyes to her face.
Izzy Montoya
She has been accused, many a time, of wanting to be like a man: she works in a man’s profession she walks like them, talks like them, has a porn collection that makes them all jealous, can outplay most of them in every video game system created, so on and so forth. She also has never shied away from a one night stand, from a nameless fuck in a bathroom, from making the first move when she decides a body next to her is the only way she will survive the night.
He doesn’t know that she’s just had her life torn apart. He doesn’t know how many things have changed for her in the past few months. He doesn’t know that she’d finally let someone in – only to have him destroy her. All he knows, is that when his eyes meet hers, she doesn’t flinch away, and when his fingertips slide along her skin, she catches her breath, and not to tell him to stop.
He agrees that they’re delicate flowers, and her lips twist in that same amused little smirk, a little looser now, easier now, as the alcohol content in her system increases…
“Exactly. So to save your delicate fuckin’ ego – you should be the one that suggests we go back to my place, where I’ve got another bottle in some fucking box somewhere, and you can see if I have any other badass scars.”
She does – but none of them are visible. Well. Not exactly visible.
Sid Chavez
Sid’s eyes flick between Izzy’s eyes and her lips, with the lugubriousness of a man who does not turn into an utter moron when he’s been partaking in some substance or another. They’re alert, gauging God knows what, and she can practically see the deliberation as he sits looking at her for the two or three seconds it takes him to make the decision.
“Fuck my ego,” he says. “My ego’s a dick.”
That arm draped over the back of the booth slides so his hand can find the back of her neck, and when he leans in and kisses her it isn’t the desperate smothering of a man who hasn’t been laid in so long he’s just glad to have someone willing to speak to him let alone insinuate that he’d be welcome back at her place.
He doesn’t look like much from the front, can’t do much of any great skill with his words or his demeanor, but the bastard knows how to kiss. It’s probably just as well that Izzy doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s kissed a woman; it’s bad enough there’s the unspoken matter of the world believing her to be a man trapped inside the wrong body.
Izzy Montoya
She waits it out. she watches the eye flick, and knows what it means, what he’s thinking, what he’s deliberating. And when he makes his decision, her dark eyes glint with something a lot like triumph, as his hand finds the back of her neck, and his lips find her willing…
…it has been months since she’s kissed anyone but Derek – since she was with anyone else, since she had the often fumbling pleasure of learning what the other person likes. But she is no stranger to kissing, and Sid… gaia bless him with a long and healthy libido – sid knows how to kiss.
She doesn’t care how long it’s been, she only cares that his hand is on her skin and his lips are against hers, and he kisses her with the skill of one who knows damn well where this is going, and is pleased to get there in time. She pushes the thoughts of anything else – anyone else away, and lifts a hand to slide along his jaw, fingertips dancing along his skin, trailing to the back of his neck to hold him there, giving her the time inside the moment to rediscover who she was, before she let someone behind the wall….
a rebirth, perhaps. Or a death. She’ll never be completely sure…
[Fade]