Stroganof and Revelations

At least now he knows how to spell her name, too.

That night, she didn’t return. Instead she was busy hoping to avoid questions by a garou that unsettled her to the core. The next morning, she still had not returned. Maybe he worried a bit. Maybe he was right too. Maybe he didn’t give her a second thought – maybe that would be right as well. There’s a lot of maybes when it comes to the too-thin streetrat…

But tonight, tonight when he comes to his door – assuming he has retrieved his housekeys once more – tonight when he gets home, there are noises in his apartment, the kind of noises that don’t make one afraid necessarily, except in that they are unexpected, but rather the noises that say his home is currently occupied. The radio is on and playing some random top 40 selection, and it’s not TOO loud, but loud enough to be heard. But that’s not the most astonishing thing. No, that falls into the realms of scent. He might not recognize it, other then it smells GOOD. Someone, inside, is cooking.

When he enters, there are things to notice. First, the fire escape window is open. No surprise there. Her boots are set directly outside the window and covered in mudd – at least she didn’t track it through the apartment. His books have been rifled through again, with not one, not two but three stacks on the coffee table, likely divided into will read and won’t read piles, and ‘look at the pretty pictures’ pile. The scent, of course, comes from the kitchen, where she an be found – and is dressed once again in his t-shirt and socks, as if she’d never left. The dryer is rumbling and tumbling, presumably with her clothing in it.

She’s standing in front of the stove, in front of a boiling pot of water, and a pot of something else bubbling away and causing the belly to rumble with the sheer omg goodness smell. What’s most shocking is this – she’s using the spoon as a microphone, and singing along with the radio. “…love me hate me say what ya want about me but alla the girls and all of the boys are begging to If You Seek Amy..” …badly. At least she’s not dancing, so much as just bouncing a little with the beat.

Clearly, she didn’t hear the door open.

See ya soon. ~Maija With tight scrawl and a jay. M-a-i-j-a. He nodded, slipping the note into the briefcase. Something about it brought a slight smile. He shrugged, and then the next night she wasn’t there. He should have been worried.. then again, they met intermittedly. He tried not to worry. For the most part, William succeeded.

He managed to track down his housekeys, for once, and instead came through the front door. Something about it all felt almost Leave It to Beaver. Young man coming home, with briefcase in hand to be greeted by the smell of… something good. It’s been awhile.

William came a little further into his apartment, shutting the door behind him and leaving his briefcase in his hand for the time being. The young(ish) man reached up and began to loosen his tie. There were a few things to notice- things that hadn’t been there before. Boots by the fire escape that rang of familiarity.

Someone was cooking, and listening to Top 40.

And singing.

he just stood there for a moment, staring at Maija for the time being and looking… almost intrigued. No, he was absolutely Enthralled. The onyl herald of his arrival was the half snort covering of his mouth to keep from laughing.

Literally and figuratively.

“….oh!” she manages, while trying to figure out exactly how long he’s been standing there, and putting herself back together mentally, piece by piece, block by block. She straightens, and tugs the t-shirt down a little and drops her gaze as a flush creeps up along her cheeks, covering her face with embarrassment for having been caught in such a state. She turns back to the stove to hide it, stirring the sauce and tapping the spoon on the side of the pan before placing it on the stove and putting the lid on the pot once more.

Composure regained, she turns to face him again, stepping sideways so that she can lean back against the counter, her head lowered a little so tht she can hide behind her hair, even if half a second later she lifts a hand up to push it back behind her ear. “I, uh. well. Made dinner. Hope you ain’t mind none…”

oh yes – thoroughly off balance, the waif-ish streetrat…

Well, he had been there for enough time, really. Enough time that he stood still and got to observe her go through a chorus, to watch unabashed dancing and grooving to the new Britney Spears single. It was as much dancing as it was shaking her rear end and just going with it.

William has been to quite a few clubs, once upon a time. Realistically, she had the right idea with the singing and dancing.

Maija looked embarassed and, for his part, William just looked pleased. Like he had stumbled across something new and exciting. Or remembered something familiar. She made dinner. There was a quiet moment curiosity that crept over him and the young(ish) man headed over to investigate. For the most part, she was in a state of undress. Sans pants. Laundry running.

“Mmn, what’d you make?” he asked. The attorney headed on over, unbuttoning the top button on his dress shirt. All starched and suits and fine lines.

His curiosity gets the best of him, and he comes to see what she’s cooked. There’s a mess on the counter where she’d done the preparation and has yet to clean up. Onions were chopped, the flour canister is out, plus the salt and pepper, there’s garlic cloves on the chopping board as well, and an empty package that once held ground beef, a small container of sourcream unopened as of yet and a pint of half and half, plus some beef boulian cubes and a package of fettacine noodles ready to be dropped into the boiling water. It’s nothing gourmet, really, but something homey, something basic. No frills. Something that’s very much like her.

“Stroganoff. Ain’t added the sourcream yet, but you kin taste it if ya want…” she points to the spoon, and turns to open the noodle package so that she can add them to the water. “ain’t nuthin fancy, but well, ain’t too bad neither.”

That’s a lie. It’s better than ‘ain’t too bad’. It’s absolutely delicious, even in this stage of incompleteness.

However, there was a distinct lack of homey foods that he was familiar with. If it wasn’t microwavable, he’d never had it. William lived like a bachelor long before he became one. Coming home to see someone cooking was a rare, rare occurence indeed.

He looked over the counter. Flour out. Salt and pepper here and there and a package of ground beef. He inhaled, then looked again at the stove. he was absolutely wrapped up in the moment. William took a spoon full of sauce, taking a small bite before stopped.

Turning…

And looking at Maija like she was a goddess.

“Not too bad?… Really, Maija?“

Or, even better by the look that crosses over his face. She was watching him, carefully, ready with excuses but hoping against hope… and then he looks at her. And it’s in a way that a simple dish of stroganoff had never, ever produced before. He looks at her as if she is a goddess, and she feels that flush rushing over the sharp features of her face again even as she ducks her head to hide it. Her tell tale smirk is more of a lingering half-smile, pleased and proud that he likes her little offering, that he finds it worthy of such a look…

“Well, s’better with steak strips, but I ain’t have ’nuff for that so had to make do but yeah. Really.” finished with that little smile as she looks up at him again.

She spent all but her last two dollars on the meal. That look – before it is even done – makes every penny pinched worth it. “It’ll be done in bout 10 minutes. Soon as t’noodles are done an’ I kin slop it all together.”

What she didn’t know was that the finer things really weren’t that fine. He was, in fact, missing a good chunk of the fairly normal things that he was supposed to have experienced. It was embarassing, but he could still remember the first time he had hamburger helper.

And this? This was infinitely better than hamburger helper, and she said that it got better. There was a pause, and he seemed to just be surprised with it all. He looked at her and let a slight smile stay on his face. “How long have you known how to cook?”

You learn something new every day.

A bony shoulder lifts in a shrug as he asks, and she takes the spoon from him to stir the noodles, lifting one to test it’s doneness before letting it slide back into the water again. She sets the spoon aside and goes about opening the sour cream. “Since I kin remember. Mama Joyce, down t’street, she used ta let me watch when I was little, then let me help as I got big enough. I stayed with her when he was at work.”

There’s that “he” again. She’d told him of an uncle, and perhaps they were the same person, but it doesn’t feel like it. It sounds as if there were two men she’d rather not remember. The uncle with the books, and the ‘he’ that put her in the hospital before she ran. “Mama Joyce, she ain’t the kinda woman what accepted mistakes. Can’t help but learn t’cook good under threat of her spoon to ya knuckles.”

If he knows anything about Mama’s and Gnawers, he’d recognize the respect in her voice. Even if they ain’t the nicest Mamas, BG’s respected the women, kin and garou, who kept the tribe together. “Was gonna toss together some biscuits, but ya ain’t got no bakin’ powder or shortnin’.”

Pity.

Somehow, this was a familiar phrase, and he hadn’t quite let that register just yet. Instead, William cocked his head to the side a little and answered with a strange degree of domestic familiarity. “Do you want me to go pick some up next time?”

As though he was asking her for a grocery list.

Hell, he was asking her for a grocery list.

There was mention of that he again, and he couldn’t help but make the discinction. A man with no name, that could not be named, and her uncle. Two figures that were, for lack of a better wording, spectres. Ghosts. Something that haunted Maija still, but brought her to where she is now. That was a thought that flickered through, but then let go

Mama Joyce, right. He paused, then grinned a little. “She sounds like Miss Gloria,” he said.

There was a degree of fondness there. He didn’t try to hide it.

He asks for a grocery list, she offers to cook anything he wants. It’s familiar, yet awkward, in a way that’s almost comfortable. As if that makes any sense at all – as if their sharing what they have before, as well as this moment here, opposites that they are, makes any sense to an outsider. None-the-less, it’s real, and comfortable, and strangely frightening and unsettling all at the same time.

Likely she doesn’t realize he’s picked up on the nuances of ‘he’s’ in her past. Likely she doesn’t realize her mentioning it sets off any thought process at all. She won’t think of it until asked, she won’t offer unless he prys, though she likely wouldn’t lie if he does. But those are questions that haven’t been asked, and thus no cause for worry.

“Miss Gloria?” she asks, curious, as she tests the noodles again. Deciding they are close to done, she – clearly familiar in working her way around the meal – takes the sourcream and adds it to the sauce, stirring it together until it’s just combined. Afterwards, she drains the noodles, placing them back into the hot pan. Once at the stove again, she takes the sauce and dumps the whole mess into the noodles, and stirs it around until completely combined in stroganoff-y goodness.

“Grubs done. Wanna grab plates?”

There ain’t no veges to go with it, no salad, nothing but stick to your ribs make ya full for hours food. Perfect for a perpetually hungry, underfed gnawer girl – and well, anyone else that craves something homey, which he obviously does.

He’d broken a couple. “-she was the lovely woman who… God, how do I explain Gloria. She was everything one could want in an English tutor slash maternal figure slash prison warden.”

He started to go and set the plates on the counter to go ahead and dish things out.

And don’t think she’s doing dishes either. She’d already declared herself exempt.

She nods at the explanation, as she opens drawers until she finds the silverware, and grabs a fork for each of them. “I ain’t know what ya liked t’drink, so ya stuck with whatcha got in t’fridge or water.” Simple enough.

She lets him decide where they’ll sit – at the table or wherever he likes to take his meals, adding – presumably back to Miss Gloria. “sounds like a Mama. They tend ta be equal parts wonderful an’ terrifyin. Mama Joyce was heavy on th’terrifyin part though.”

She wasn’t going to be doing dishes. They had already established this. Maija could cook, William could do dishes. It was what he was good at.

But, that was not the point. he had to get something to drink, and she wasn’t sure what he wanted to drink so it was… he was just absolutely amazed. William sat down and looked at Maija like he just wasn’t sure whwt to do with himself. Like she had just done the most amazing thing in the world for him.

Home cooked meals. How long has it been?

“Tell me about her,” he said. Asked, politely, but still with the same ravenous curiosity as ever.

He’s amazed, and she flushes with the pleasure of it. It’s such a simple thing, really, this meal. And to have it affect him so? It’s something she hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Mama Joyce wasn’t soft like some Mama’s” she says as she sits down near him, and twirls her fork in her stroganoff. “she were tall an’ thin and a hard woman. Time an’ war done made her so, ain’t much ya can do bout it. She were quick ta judge, an’ quick with her wooden spoon, an’ slow to praise. But when ya done somethin’ good, an ya got a nod that tole ya so, it were like th’ whole world were good all at once. Se were hard t’please. Was an accomplishment t’do so.”

She’d show him a picture in her journal, but that’s one of the missing pages. So she doesn’t mention it.

It was a mixed message. They were creatures ruled by appearances, but at the same time they were creatures that were primal. Creatures that were governed by a world that was more about touch and taste and sensation than anything else. When you were so close to wolves, one couldn’t ignore some of the more interesting characteristcs that kin shared with their cousins.

She talked about Mama Joyce, and he listened. William sat down at the table, pushing his things over to the side. He made sure that his things were in one piece; he made sure that he didn’t food on his things. William D’Aubigne had no faith in his ability to eat and not make a mess.

“So,” he said. “She sounds like she had quite a few expectations… You sound like she really meant something to you.”

Time an’ war made her thin and hard.
“That’s what the war does,” oddly understanding.

She nods at his comment, then lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “She were hard, an scary, but she were safe, too.”

And in her world, even in the little glimpses that he’s been able to gather in the few instances she actually comments about it – being safe was something very, very rare for the waif-ish streetrat.

It was worthwhile, to say the least.

He took a bite and chewed his food and listened. William chewed his food, enjoyed, and listened. The young(ish) man tilted his head to the side- an almost lupine gesture- and listened. Absorbed.

“She back in Seattle?”

She takes two bites to his every one, sometimes three. She’s not eaten – other than tasting while cooking – since she was here last, but she won’t tell him that. There are some things she won’t admit too. She’s a stubborn shit, but certainly not a charity case, and hates anyone thinking otherwise. Not that she thinks he would – but still.

She in seattle, he asks, and she nods, once. He might think that’s all he’s going to get, but after she washes down the latest bite with a swallow of water, she adds. “Ain’t seen her or talked at’er since I left. Dunno if she’s even alive anymore. Seems like she was always older than dirt, ya know?”

She hadn’t eaten since she’d been here. She wasn’t a charity case. William had eaten that day; then again, he had at least half a foot in height on her and at least forty pounds. But then Maija explored the option and William paused.. and listened. Seems like was was always older than dirt, ya know?

And for a moment he went somewhere almost nostalgic. And he thought about scars- ones that once upon a time were much worse- and thought about that woman [Soiunds like a Mama] he had mentioned earlier. Gloria. Nanny. Stand in mother. All Greek and glorious and always ancient. Even when he knew better, especially when he knew better. It was a feeling about her, one that was not unlike the one Loraine lacked. Or the one that that blonde woman held in her very countenance upon she and William’s first meeting.

“War does that to people,” he said. “Or children. From what I’ve gathered, at any rate. Never too sure if that’s wisdom or time that does the aging, but something does.”

And Maija suddenly aches with the loss of her. It flitters past her eyes, across her face, the rapidfire emotions of loss and pain and worry and memory, before smoothing away again. Mama Joyce would never stand for someone’s plate of food to get cold. Ya eat it while it’s hot – so she took another bite.

“She…” she pauses. “She ain’t have no kids of her own, but all the locals ended up at her table more often then not.” It’s what she says. What she means is, she misses her, and hopes to hell that her running like she did ain’t put the only person what cared about her into the ground.

No, no he knew exactly what he had asked. He knew what he was doing, and he knew that he had asked and he asked for a reason.

That was neither here nor there. Something written across her features, making her seem pensive. She ate because it was getting cold. William could eat and multitask, but for his part he couldn’t quite think of what to do next. Should he keep eating or should he listen. He didn’t put his fork down, but he couldn’t quite eat. William was listening.

Maija missed her. William could tell.

he was silent for awhile.

But he didn’t say he was sorry, because he didn’t pity her. And he didn’t want her to think he did.

She eats.
One bite. Two.

He doesn’t pity her, and that means something to a Gnawer as well. So many of her tribe would expect it, but so many more have a quiet dignity that comes from having to fight all the time, and not only against the common enemy, but against other tribes, other people as well. They scratch for everything they can get, and they triumph in many small ways, overshadowed by other tribes glorified victories. But given the choice, she’d not have it any other way.

She straightens her shoulders, and finally lifts her eyes to his again. “Ain’t I a ray of sunshine, huh?”

She ain’t sorry though, any more than he is sorry for her. “G’on, eat afore it gets cold. Though it still tastes good that way too.” and she’d know, and the little smirk is back, and equilibrium is found once more. “An ya might as well ask, ya know. I promised ya back in th’car tha’ night that i ain’t gonna lie to ya. If I ain’t wanna answer, I won’t. Ya got questions, ask’em.”

He then took a bite. She said that he couldn’t forget his food and, for his part, William would have no part in leaving food unattended. He had subsisted off of finer foods and take out and had not had a home cooked meal since-

Don’t think about it.

One bite, chewed, and then swallowed.

She won small victories, and her whole tribe did and no one would ever recognize it. And William, for all that he was, had been the brother of a Galliard. Had it in him to remember all those tales and relay them, but Maija was too proud to tell them. Too proud to brag; they weren’t triumphs, but facts of life.

She ain’t sorry. And neither was he.

“I want to know what happened to her,” he said. But he knew that she couldn’t tell him that.

And he wants to know what happened to her.
So does she.
But she ain’t able to tell’im that.

“I ain’t told her when I left. If she ain’t know nothin, then she ain’t have nothin to tell no one if she got asked. Was the…”

She pauses here, with a catch in her throat, that she clears away with an almost impatience. It’s hard to keep that mask in play when the emotions are so close to the surface. She manages to finish though before taking another bite. “was th’ only thing I could do t’protect her.”

Last thing she wants to do is discover it hadn’t been enough… and a heavy weight for a teenage runaway. A weight she clearly still carries even now. She doesn’t dare call to see, to check in. I couldn’t possibly end well if she did, so she holds on to the thread that says everything was fine, jus’ fine.

She can’t – not for a long moment. She starts to take a bite, and finds she can’t do that at the moment either. The range of subtle emotions across her face is almost frightening the way they ebb and flow so quickly, as she fights fights to find that mask to hide behind again, the one that shows no weakness, that accepts what is as simply that, what is, and has learned to never hope for what might be.

Hope only brings pain.

The tip of her tongue slides across lips that are suddenly parched, as she drops her fork onto her plate and pushes it away a little. She wraps her arms around her knee, and finds some spot on the table to stare at, to gather her thoughts. It seems like she’s quiet forever, but in reality it’s only been a moment or two, a breath or four.

“My father.” she finally says. And once it’s out, it makes it easier to say more. “I ain’t know who my mom was, was only him n’me. Mama Joyce was the only safe place I had. We was jus’ kin, an ain’t much bother for us, ya know? He ain’t never forgiven Gaia for not makin him trueborn. His last hope was me, and no amount a beatin could bring th’change, an it jus made him angrier.”

She pauses, and reaches for her glass of water, to take a long sip. After she swallows, she sets it aside, her cold fingers restin against the cold glass as she watches the liquid inside. “I got my first concussion when I was jus’ 2. He broke my arm th’ first time when I was four. It’s easier t’list the bones I ain’t had broken then those I have, as the list is shorter. He was fuckin a theurge at the time, a Lord, an when it got bad, she’d jus’ patch me up again, so he could do more. She’d teach’im how t’hit and hurt an’ not leave marks. The night I done left, he’d beat me so bad Mama Joyce called 911 an’ I spent a week in the hospital. Soon as I could walk, I ran.”

Another pause, an’ she lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I ain’t know if he’s still lookin, I jus’ can’t take th’ chance of remindin him I’m still alive.”

Eventually, he would joust a windmill over this young woman. He might even take a bullet for her, lie when he knew he couldn’t, and do it all gladly because someone had to have her back. Because, on some fundamental, he knew that he couldn’t understand. He had no clue what it was like to not have somewhere safe, had no clue what it was like not to have a support net [Not true. But, it was a question for later. A thought for later.]

She had a short list of unbroken bones. William listened, he paused, putting his fork down and he listened. He listened to the events that led up to her leaving and never coming back to Seattle. It made sense why she wouldn’t miss it. Why she would miss people, but not the place.

Not after that.

She didn’t know if he was still looking, but she wouldn’t take the chance.

“It’s a smart call,” he seemed bewildered, as though he had no clue what else to say.

She pulls her lower lift between her teeth, before shaking her head, slightly, and exhaling a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Sometimes, if we lucky, the only thing t’do is also th’smart thing.”

She finally lifts her gaze to his then, able to let him see her eyes, now that they’re not quite in such turmoil, now that they don’t threaten to overflow with pent up emotion. “So now ya know. Ya second in command is damaged goods.”

Like that hadn’t been obvious from the start…

He called it like he saw it. And he would call them like he saw them until he didn’t see them any longer. They were creatures of great differences, but the similarities and the common ground made up for it. The similarities and the common ground were what they had to stand on- what they stood beside and whatever banner they flew behind.

Or maybe she was damaged. Maybe they both were, but who would have ever thought of the Silver Fangs as being anything other than a group of genuinely damaged people. Who wore it like a badge of honor; like it was a mark of nobility. Maija wasn’t broken to him; she was cracked, chipped in some places, but not broken. Not a creature so easily shattered.

Laughs.

It’s only the second time he’s heard it, and this is much as the first – it’s short, though longer than an amused snort, shorter than giggling fits or long held belly laughs. The important fact is that it is there, and she can still partake in the most basic of human reactions. Laughter, when genuinely amused.

“Yer the boss.” Is what she says, after a moment, and finally takes her final bite of stroganoff, washing it down with the last of her water. She’s back under control, though it can’t really be said she lost it to begin with, but she’s at least back on an even keel. She looks up at him, and just studies the line of his jaw, his lips, the tip of his nose, before meeting his gaze evenly.

It’s his turn.

“So what happened in New York?”

She studied him; his jawline, his features, even his grin. Roguish at times, but for his part William D’Aubigne was regal. He always had been. He had been regal since he was born, one could blame it all on breeding. That, when you were as well-bred as he was, it bled into every bit of his being; even the average Joe could see it in him. Wondered, sometimes, if he had some king or lord or someone in his past. Wondered if he had land in France, wondered if his interest in history was born of familial pride. [Historically speaking, if one checked, the D’Aubignes were traitors. Revolutionaries and Lords. It was not something one brought up, or thought about.]

But they were not talking about the distant past, they were talking about the more recent one. They were asking what happened in New York that made him never want to go back. What barred him from an entire state. He had finished his food, was rising to clear plates and possibly do dishes.

But she had asked what had happened in New York.

And he had something to show her.

“C’mon, I have something to show you,” he said. As though it would explain.

She dusts off her hands and then nods. “Ok.” is what she says, as she takes a step toward him, and slides her cold fingers into his, tucking into the warmth that his touch always exudes, and lets him lead her to whatever he has to show her.

He hadn’t run away from her story.
She will not run away from his, no matter what it entails.

Because it always came up. Because it didn’t matter where he went, he couldn’t hide who he was, who his brother was, and god damnit he wasn’t ashamed.

William, by all rights, should have been. He should have just offered it up, freely, given as though it was just another terrible fact. A scarlet letter. [He shouldn’t have kept the pictures. Not at all, of any of them. Just like he shouldn’t have kept Claire’s letters, just like he shouldn’t have sought contact, just like he should have just begged to keep Loraine. But he didn’t beg. He sought closeness where there once was a connection. And he tried not to remember her how beautiful (damaged) the Child of Gaia had been.] William plucked a copy of The Republic off the shelf, and then looked back at Maija.

He took her hand, heading off to the second bedroom of the house. It wasn’t his, but rather, it seemed to function as an office of sorts. Legal books, case files, cabinets, drawers- he took care of his office. And he took care of it quite well; it was treated as a work space.

Perpetually warm fingers curled around hers, he found himself looking for… something. As if he was trying to recall something. After a moment, he dropped her hand, putting the book on the nearby desk. He pulled a drawer out, taking a picture from the back. The frame was not old by any means, but the glass was cracked. The wood was broken in some places. Something that was painstakingly put back together. He looked at Maija, then handed it over to her.

It was a wedding photo.

The picture was, for its part, good. A picture of William [God, he’d been married so young. He couldn’t have been much older than Maija] and a blonde woman. Not the one from the book before. She was distinctly less intense, and her hair was a distinctly less natural shade of blonde. Her eyes were blue, her skin was tan. The dress was perfect. He hadn’t been wearing a tie; even in his wedding photos he looked distinctly laid back. Regal, still, but less burdened. Less obligated. Genuine. He’d been laughing about something, the bride looked somewhere between exasperated and like she was trying not to crack up. The man on the other side of William-

Looked like him. They looked remarkably similar. They had the same sort of comfortable-in-their-own-skin body posture. Now that William was older, he seemed to carry himself more like the man with the lighter brown hair in the photo. He was young. They had the same eyes, more peridot than poison. He looked like he was trying to look innocent. trying not to laugh, and trying to keep up that damned Silver Fang decorum and failing.

Even in his comfort, even in the picture, rage poured off of the other man like water. One could tell by the relative distance of some of the guests.

She’s quiet, as she knows that such discussions are hard to get through, having just told him her own secrets. She also knows that you can’t hide who you are, and while she hides herself for obvious reasons, she does not let her broken past define her. It is important to grow, be stronger, and accept it – else it eat you alive.

He hands her the wedding photo, and she runs her fingers over the broken glass, the carefully pieced together frame, as she studies the picture. He couldn’t have been much older than she is now, and his wife, his wife is (was) beautiful. Part of her aches because she could never look like that, but it’s pushed aside quickly enough, as that is completely beside the point. He said she was beautiful, he worshiped her that night as if there were no one else on earth – and in those moments, she almost believed him…

There’s no doubt who the older one in the picture could be, or that he was family, and true born. She studies the picture for a few more moments, before looking up to Will. “Your brother?” is all she says, all she asks. He’ll tell her in his own way, his own time.

he spoke about his brother with a degree of quiet pride. Because, in his mind, he really was proud of Grant. He always was, and he always would be. That intrinsic pride didn’t quite reach his heart, and in turn it had not quite met his eyes. The wound was still fresh. It always would be. Something about that thought made him smile a little. Loraine’s parents panicking.

He let his eyes glance over the blonde woman in the picture. “That’s my ex-wife. Product of a rather respectable theurge and a man whose attention was more grounded in the physical world,” he said the word respectable like it was a curse. Like it was poison. Like it had cut too deeply once before to be treated with any degree of comfort.

He inhaled slowly.

“I didn’t deserve her. How the Hell Loraine ever put up with me is beyond me,” he said. Little did he broadcast, however, that he had gone through Hell for her. Had bent over backwards to preserve her pride and name, had done whatever he could to mke sure that she was taken care of. “We met at Columbia. Things moved fast, next thing I know I’m proposing and she’s saying yes.”

As though he was amazed with himself still.

“Didn’t get to really go back home,” home, Louisiana, not New York. “After that. Not because of anything I did, just because… well… her family needed me there. They had expectations and if I wanted to keep my head and keep from making Loraine a widow I had better straighten up and play nice.”

a bit of a hitch. “You know, Grant came by every major holiday, brought his pack, Hell, got to the point that the sept even knew him up there… God, I fucking idolized him when I was younger,” he said. It was almost with a laugh, something almost saddened.

“But anyway, law school rolls around and packmate shows up on my doorstep one night and… It’s never really a good sign when you have a philodox needing to talk to you,” he almost winced. “Claire shows up. The one who…”

he paused, reaching for the copy of The Republic. It was hesitant. It was filled with an almost sense of regret. Though, Maija had hidden nothing from him, and so he wouldn’t hide from her either. There would always be something that he would hold back. He handed the picture over; she may have seen it before. The woman looked over her shoulder in the picture, her hair was long. She hadn’t been focused on the camera. The edge was creased. She’d been wearing black; it didn’t suit her. Again, something distinctly intense about her but at the same time she seemed to be intrinsically at peace.

“Anyway, he shows up… tells me Grant…” he was looking for a way to say this. Because it never got easy. “Grant fell to the wyrm. Danced the Spiral, took most of his pack with him and they were either dead or Gone and that people back home were talking…”

He almost seemed amused the next moment, something macabre. He had to find humor in it, because it made it easier. Or maybe it was in hopes to mask how deeply this cut. [He’d idolized him. They were brothers. He missed Grant. He still does.] “So, by this point, here he is. Blighted Poems of Tarnished Silver-” said with a degree of comfort in it. Comfort William had no right to have, and delivered like Galliard would have said it. The D’Aubigne boys could sure tell a story- “Adren. Gibbous moon, pack alpha… Crowning gem in something else’s crown. And because it seems that Falcon is a bird of gossip word gets out…”

He inhaled. Because, god, he was going to give the full story. “Claire tried to do some damage control. Leave it to a Child of Gaia to try and talk these things out. Spends a bit too much time in New York, Loraine’s parents start looking into this and lo and behold this lovely, isolated incident of temptation and corruption wasn’t the first time it’s happened.”

He couldn’t even feign surprise there. There it was. They were born to temptation. Born to corruption, and for his part William D’Aubigne wasn’t ashamed. But for a moment, for a long moment, he seemed distant.

[Because that was the problem with having a perfect memory, you remembered these things. Because during all of this he remembered the smell of Loraine’s hair, the way her face had looked when he had told her. The look of subtle horror, as though this had all been some horrible trick, as though she had been in concert with an agent of the wyrm himself. the way she kissed him, and told him that she had loved him, the way that she said she would stand by him through this. The way that the look had never reached her eyes.

He remembered the ultimatum, the conversation had ensued afterwords. How the rather neurotic crescent moon had called him unclean. Had then seemed to grow distant and nervous, jittery even. It was an episode, really. She had lost her touch, and the older woman wandered off… how his father-in law had damned near saved his life by teling him that he could either let his daughter’s reputation go down in flames or he could just leave. (“you’d be happier with your mule,” he had said. William remembered wanting to punch him. He remembered clenching his fists tight enough to draw blood. He remembered that he would never tell Claire about this. never.)]

“Suffice to say, my brother’s been causing the Nation quite a bit of problems since he Fell, always wanted to be a legend to them. Now he’s just a cautionary tale to Fangs worried about becoming overly ambitious.”

there was a long silence.

Almost a good ten seconds before he responded.

“You don’t get to mourn when they Fall.”

Her Father hadn’t fallen officially, but he was clearly ripe for the picking should they have wanted a lowly useless daughter beating gnawer kin. Her uncle was no better.

Heartache is a common ground they understand, and she can tell much in the way he handles the pictures, in the way he talks about the Coggie, the way he tells his story. He stops, with the last statement, that they don’t get to mourn when they Fall, and she nods, once. She puts the pictures on the desk, and turns to face him, before taking a step closer, and lifting her hand to place over his heart.

“But we do, anyway. And we should.” She can feel the way his heart beats under her hand, he can feel the cool touch through his shirt, remember the feel of her touch on his skin. She lets her fingertips curl, to play in the edges of his open collar, only to smooth it back down under her hand.

She’s been broken physically again and again, healed only to be beaten again. His heart was broken, his brother taken by the enemy, and part of his soul still runs strong with pride and idolization of the man who meant the most to him. These things she can understand. These things she does understand.

She doesn’t ask if he still loves his wife, she doesn’t ask if he loved the Child of Gaia as more than a friend. These things are obvious the way he cherishes the pictures, the way his voice softens when he says their names, the way they weave into the story with little details, yet a canvas full of blanks as well. She is not the type to try and take their place – she’d never be a beautiful fang princess, nor a peace keeping child of gaia trueborn. She’d only ever be the somewhat cracked, partially broken streetrat, with a perpetually empty belly and cold hands.

Maybe, for a time, that will be enough.

She doesn’t look more forward then the next moment though, a moment where she looks up at him, vulnerable and open for the exposing of her inner wounds, and the listening of his baring his own. “I think..” she finally says, with that slow little smirk of hers… “that if ever a pair of misfits deserve t’rule the world? Its you n’me.”

It was why he had Claire’s picture in a book, somewhere protected instead of on a shelf. It was why the frame was cracked. He still loved them, as he had always loved him… but things had changed. And while some torches burned bright, others were faded to ashen memories of things he could no longer have, could have never kept even if he was allowed to have them.

No, Maija was not a princess. No, Maija was not Trueborn [No daughter of Clouds and Rain., no… Maija was reminded, and reminded often through broken bones and abuses that she was not, nor would she ever be True], but damned if anyone tried to tell him that she wasn’t beautiful. Damned if anyone would dare make him question why he had thought her to be something to be worshipped and cherished, even if for a moment. Even if all he could really have was a moment.

And at that moment, when things were exposed, he could not help but want to hold her. And as that he was a creature of impulses, one that was obviously prone to temptation, he did. She put her hand over his heart, felt it beating, and knew that she might recognise that there were holes in his story. Some things that he would always hold back. But for then, he did not deny his impulses.

William wanted to hold Maija, and so he did.

“… I think we’ll be benevolent dictators.”

Strike that.

He did if she would let him.

Yet she allows it, even encourages it. She turns her head to rest it against his chest, her cheek resting near her hand as she relaxes against him. She breathes deeply of his scent, the fabric softener scent that lingers in his shirt – both the one he wears, and the t-shirt she has borrowed – but under that, his own unique blend of his job, and himself. Her eyes close, and a sound in the back of her throat agrees.

They will indeed be benevolent dictators.
As long as he doesn’t misplace his keys.

She remains this way for a while, quietly soaking in his strength, and his warmth, before she offers softly… “I make a fantastic western omlette…”

Dinner’s barely over, and she already plans for breakfast, though it’s a cover for what she truly offers tonight – herself.