[Beth Clemensen] The area surrounding Grant Park gets awfully busy on the weekends, even during the off season when the tourists are not flocking to the city in great camera-toting droves. With the holiday season upon the nation, those with disposable income and time on their hands are heading to the stores to begin putting a dent in their Christmas lists. The sidewalks are crowded, the stores are bustling with activity, and there’s a sharpness to the air that steams the breath and huddles the body further into its jacket.
Beth is not one of the thousands out shopping today. She is out, sure, but she is not out with the intent to do anything other than head to Border’s to buy a new paperback and an expensive cup of coffee to celebrate having successfully survived another holiday alone. Her attire does nothing to draw attention to herself: she wears clean sneakers, straight-legged jeans, a blue ribbed turtleneck, and a dark gray peacoat, buttoned up to ward off the cold as she walks down the sidewalk with her hands in her pockets and her hair lightly bouncing against her shoulders. It’s half-up today, wavy as it falls down her back, and her cheeks are lightly flushed with the cold.
Her pace is leisurely, yet purposeful. She has someplace in mind, but is in no hurry to get there.
[John Thornton] As Beth walks through the park, she’d come upon a man sitting by himself before one of the fountains. He sat as though he’d been there for some time, as though he could sit there for an eternity and never move…
The chill bit of wind flowing through the city toyed with a disheveled mop of brown hair; whether the source of the disarray was the wind or something else was impossible to tell. His skin was pale, chilled… Stark against the darkened skin of his eye sockets. Once, when she first met him, she might have said he looked like he almost never slept. Now… It was worse. Like an n-th degree of insomnia…
Hazel eyes held a thoroughly haunted look, as though what John saw was something other than what was happening before them… As though even with his eyes open, he was dreaming.
His face was an unfeeling deadpan, unexpressive and robotic. Even as, every so often, the smoke from a lit cigarette danced before them with each drag taken from it. A cup of cold coffee sat on the bench beside him, long cold…
Still, he had dressed for the chill weather at least. A long black trench coat was buttoned tightly against the chill, and the hand that wasn’t thrust into his coat pocket was gloved in black leather…
[Beth Clemensen] Her approach is nearly inconspicuous, the soles of her shoes muffling her footfalls as they drop against the brick-paved walkway, but she is not invisible, and she is not oblivious to the world around her. There are bodies moving in all four directions, most of them congregating near the exhibits at the park’s entrance or streaming in and out of the Art Institute or Shedd Aquarium, and few of them are paying anything remotely resembling attention to the haunted-looking man parked still as a statue on the edge of the fountain.
Beth is one of those few.
As she draws nearer, faint recognition grips her. They have only been in each other’s company a handful of times, have never spoken to each other at length, yet they share a faint bond via the blood coursing through their veins. In the eyes of the Nation, they are family.
She closes the distance between them, the wind changing direction on them, scattering fallen leaves across the grass, and then slows as she wanders in out of the detective’s peripheral vision. Her hands remain in her pockets, but her expression changes from one of passive pensiveness to one of muted concern. A faint crease knits itself into the kinswoman’s brow, and a softness comes into her eyes that may very well be lost on the sleepless man.
“John?” she says, coming to stand just beyond arm’s length, granting him his space.
[John Thornton] John just sits for a few moments, seemingly lost within his own mind as the sound of Beth’s voice hits his ears. Then, John blinks… The hazel eyes turn to Beth, a curious brow raised.
“Beth… Hello.”
He blinks again, his voice tentative, as if he wasn’t sure she was any more real than whatever it was he was looking at before. Then, he sighs and reaches for the cold coffee…
“How are you?”
[Beth Clemensen] Some signs of life return to the man, but it doesn’t have much affect on Beth’s demeanor. Tension remains in the muscles around her brow and mouth, and the inquiry in her gaze is a visible thing: she’s reading his face, his posture, his movements, and whatever she’s seeing is failing to assuage the concern that had driven her to come over here in the first place.
The hesitation in his voice only makes it decide to stay longer.
“I’m well,” she says, without the inflection in her voice that might have been there were this a cheerful meeting. There’s a pause as she considers him again, and then she asks, “You okay?”
[John Thornton] John sighs, and raises the paper cup to his lips. As the cold liquid touches them, he blinks and lowers the cup, his brow furrowing…
It was as though he were asking himself if he’d really been sitting here that long, as if he’d lost his sense of time at some point while sitting on the bench. He tosses the cup into a trash can sitting a short distance from the bench, and turns back to Beth.
“It went cold…”
Then, he takes a drag of the cigarette in hand, and shakes his head a bit.
“As for me… … What brings you to the park this afternoon?”
He hesitates after beginning to talk about himself, as though he were searching for words but didn’t know what to say. He takes another drag of the cigarette, before crushing the end into the side of the concrete bench on which he sat.
[Beth Clemensen] It went cold, is his explanation, and it tells her more about his state of mind than anything else he says after that. The cigarette smoke is pungent, is a slap of ugliness on a day that is already gray and dismal, but Beth does not wave her hand to keep it away from her face or take steps back so that she does not have to smell it any more than she has to. She remains where she is, hands never leaving her pockets, gaze only leaving the detective when it borders on staring.
Her eyes drift away when John asks what brings her to the park, as though she has to focus on the naked tree branch beyond his shoulder to collect her thoughts. When she looks back, she briefly worries the inside of her lower lip with her teeth. They are not friends, are barely even able to call each other acquaintances. There is no reason for her to be standing here talking to him, yet she does not appear willing to simply answer the question and excuse herself to get on with her day.
“I needed to get out of the apartment,” she says. “Thought I’d go get some coffee.” A beat. “You wanna come?”
[John Thornton] “Sure…”
John stands from the bench, slowly, as though his legs were experiencing the pins and needles effect after your limbs fall asleep. Then, with a sigh, he blinks and nods.
“Lead the way.”
He’s reaching in his pocket for something, even before they get started. A pack of marlboro’s, purchased earlier that day. Wordlessly, John taps the end of the pack to get one of the cigarettes to fall partially out of the packet. Grabbing it between scissoring fingers, John puts the pack back in his pocket and starts fishing around for his lighter.
[Izzy Montoya] There are two things that folks like Izzy survive on. Whiskey and coffee – and it’s entirely too early in the day to justify the former, which leads one already overworked Detective Izzy Montoya heading toward the nearest coffee shop.
She looks exactly like what you’d expect her to look like – eyes are dark, her hair too, and she dresses the part of ‘hardnosed detective’ perfectly, for no other reason then it’s what she’s comfortable wearing. Slacks, a light blue blouse, under a suit-styled leather jacket. Of course, there’s the bulge at the small of her back that’s visible now and again.
Her eyes miss nothing, her steps are purposeful, her gait steady, her targets set on the shop ahead.
[Beth Clemensen] The detective rouses himself from his inertia to get to his feet, and Beth stands back to give him room to maneuver. Her eyes remain on his face for several seconds, as if waiting to see if any life is going to return to him, and then she turns and continues on her westward course, her pace slow to allow for John to get his lighter lit with the wind against him.
The night they met, he had seemed put-together, had seemed closed off and bereft of sleep. She remembers him purchasing a cup of coffee from a street vendor only to drop it on the sidewalk when a man who has since left the city uttered a name that struck a chord of recognition in him. She remembers that he gave her directions to the Metra station despite the fact that he had to have better things to do than help a mildly buzzed schoolteacher learn her way around the city.
Even if he doesn’t remember it, he had shown her some kindness that night, kindness that the vast majority of people seem to be hoarding or forgetting altogether. That’s reason enough not to leave him sitting on a fountain ledge in the cold by himself.
She’s silent the rest of the walk out of the park. Once they hit the main drag and find themselves crossing the intersection that will deposit them in the loving vicinity of the coffee shop, she cuts a brief glance in his direction and speaks.
“I know we don’t know each other… well, at all… but if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”
[John Thornton] John finds the lighter after a minimum of searching… Rifling through one pocket until he finds the lighter hiding under a small can of pepper spray. Then, after pausing a moment to light the cigarette, his back turned to the wind, he drops the lighter back in his pocket and starts to walk with Beth.
She walks in silence and so does he… Though all his motions seem less than human… His expressions not so unlike those of a robot attempting to adopt a human facade. Still, as they walk, his eyes devour the street before them, as though he were looking for something out of place, something that didn’t fit. Though whether that something was to stop a crime in progress or to confirm what he sees as dream or reality, that was another question altogether.
Then, Beth speaks… Offering to listen. A curious brow rises on John’s forehead as the hazel eyes turn to her, and he answers with a long sigh.
“Maybe some other time… It’s… complicated.”
Then, the hazel eyes notice a familiar face in the crowd.
“Izzy…”
[Izzy Montoya] She sees him, about the same time he see’s her, and that familiar smirk slides over her lips and finds itself a home there. She rubs her hands together, chilled even under the leather gloves on her fingers, before she glances toward the shop they all seem to be headed too.
Perfect.
She stops by the door and waits for John and yet another beautiful women. The man could get SO MUCH TAIL. He always could. Bastard.
When they’re close enough, she grins. “Hey John, ma’am.”
[Beth Clemensen] He says it’s complicated, and Beth doesn’t press further. She may very well want to, may very well want to do something to help this man who is very clearly suffering, but the better part of helping is recognizing when it is and isn’t needed, and even if he does need it, he isn’t ready to share whatever it is that’s bothering him with a near-complete stranger.
Apparently she can respect that.
They come upon the coffee shop, doing steady business but not overly crowded this time of day, and John recognizes a woman heading inside. He calls her ‘Izzy.’ The woman just looks like a cop, the same way that the auburn-haired woman at John’s side just looks like a schoolteacher. Not a one of them can sense the purity of the other’s blood. That may not even be Izzy’s first thought when she sees the two of them together. Association does not necessarily hold any deeper meaning than that they simply know each other.
Izzy greets them, and Beth smiles, shelving her concern for now. She glances over at John, following human standards of introduction and waiting for the common denominator to give the two unfamiliar subjects each other’s name.
[John Thornton] “This is Beth Clemenson, Izzy. She’s… in the know about our differently-abled relatives. Beth, this is Detective Izzy Montoya, a partner of mine once upon a time and apparently, someone also in the know.”
John makes the introductions as best he can, his attention moving first to Izzy, and then back to Beth, as he makes the introductions. He pauses briefly after introducing Beth to Izzy, as though he wasn’t certain what to say about her beyond that. To his recollection, they hadn’t discussed her profession or much about her.
Still, he remembered her last name, which was something at least.
John takes a deep drag of the cigarette at hand, as black ringed hazel eyes consider Izzy momentarily.
“Off duty today?”
[Izzy Montoya] .
to Izzy Montoya
[Izzy Montoya] She gives Beth a quick once over when she’s said to be family, and then she nods and holds out her hand to shake. “Pleasure, Ms. Clemenson.”
And she sounds genuinely happy to meet her. Well, as genuinely happy as she ever is. “I forgot how fuckin cold it gets up here – the hell do ya stand it?” Clearly, cussing is second nature, and something she’s not inclined to stop, no matter the company.
John asks if she’s off duty, and she snorts – because she’s so lady like and all. “We ever off duty? Seems Sarge delights in waking my happy ass up at 3am, just because he can. Calls it the Welcome Home Special.”
[Beth Clemensen] Physically, Beth does not cut a terribly impressive or intimidating figure. She stands 5’5″, just above the average height for an American female, and is neither a twig nor particularly curvaceous. It’s hard to make out her build underneath the thick coat on her body, but she seems if not athletic then at least in shape. She wears no makeup, but doesn’t truly need it; she very easily falls into the designation of ‘pretty,’ and either doesn’t realize that the typical male would find her attractive or doesn’t pay much attention to the fact.
When John informs the two women that they are both in the know, Beth’s eyebrows briefly rise, as though she finds that both startling and interesting. There is no hesitation when Izzy offers her hand. She pulls the right out of her pocket and clasps the other kinswoman’s hand, her grip firm yet not overpowering, and she releases Izzy’s hand after three pumps.
“Likewise,” she tells the female detective, and then steps back to let the two former partners converse.
[Beth Clemensen] [Pause!]
[Izzy Montoya] .
to Izzy Montoya
[John Thornton] “That’s been happening more and more lately… A lot has changed since you left, Izzy. Some of the neighborhoods have gotten worse…”
John reaches for the door handle to the coffee shop, and with a slight wave of his hand, gestures for them to enter.
“Though given that you’re in homicide now, I suspect that will happen more and more. The morgue time should help you get used to the cold.”
John’s mouth widens into a not-a-smile, even less of a smile than was usual for him. While he waits, he idly tamps out the cigarette in hand on the concrete wall beside the door.
[Izzy Montoya] “Gee, your concern is touching. Remember that the next time shove my cold ass hands down your back.” She says with a smirk, and elbows him lightly in the ribs as she moves past and into the coffee shop. She pauses in the entryway as they enter, peeling off her leather gloves one finger at a time.
“Know why I moved to Homicide down south? Got sick of folks asking for Tubbs and Crocket every fuckin time I said “Miami Vice”. They wouldn’t let me shoot smartasses there either.”
She tucks her gloves into her pocket, and rolls her shoulders gently before she gestures for Beth to take the lead farther inside. “What is it you do, Ms Clemensen?”
[Beth Clemensen] Beth stands with her hands in her pockets while the former partners banter about the weather, their jobs and a combination of the two, and when it’s clear that they’re ready to head inside, she does as the detectives indicate and steps over the threshold ahead of them. She pulls her hands out of her pockets as she goes, reaching up to idly touch fingers to the glass door as if to help it remain open as she passes through, and turns her head to glimpse Izzy out of the corner of her eye as a question comes her way.
“‘Beth’ is fine,” she says, and starts to unbutton her peacoat.
The coffee house has bodies parked in perhaps two thirds of the available seats, arm chairs and sofas and bar-style seats but no booths. It’s the sort of coffee house that artists and students frequent, that plays quiet indie music over the speakers and bustles with the sounds of different enlightened conversations occurring simultaneously and out of sync. It’s not where Beth had intended to go when she set out this afternoon, but her priorities have shifted somewhat. Blowing money on a new paperback took a backseat several blocks ago.
“I teach kindergarten at South Loop Elementary,” she says, shucking off her coat as she moves to stand on line. She’s apparently planning on staying a while.
[John Thornton] John tosses the tamped out cigarette butt into the landscaping out in front where it wouldn’t be noticed. Then, following the women into the coffee shop, he unbuttons his trench coat and removes his gloves, sticking them in his coat pocket.
As the trench slips open, the shirt, tie, and dress pants he was wearing beneath is revealed. His shirt was a dark gray, his pants a dark brown pair of dockers, and his tie was a series of diagonal lines in silver, bronze, and gold. The shoulder holster and pistol within pushed the trench open just far enough to notice, and the polished badge on his belt near his hip reflected the light as it snuck in and out of view.
As Izzy threatens, the wan not-a-smile widens not at all…
“I’ve had far worse than cold hands down the back in my time…”
[Izzy Montoya] “Beth it is then.” Izzy grins, and then groans. “Kindergarten?! My god woman, you must have a fuckin’ death wish! Or an amazing sense of patience.”
One can well imagine that Izzy is not one for patience in any way shape or form. She wants what she wants right now – be it coffee, or answers, or a murder in her cuffs. Even now she waits in line with something less than even temper, though she controls it well enough. She rubs her hands together, idly, warming them.
John gets that same little smirk. “I’ll just bet you have, Detective.”
[Beth Clemensen] Izzy groans, cracks a joke about Beth’s possession of either a death wish or a great deal of patience, and a full wattage grin splits Beth’s mouth as she laughs. The woman has a natural sort of charisma about her, an approachability that would lead one to easily peg her as belonging to a profession that involves working with people.
The conversation remains on cold hands and their application on various parts of the body, and Beth folds her coat over her arms and takes a step forward as the line moves. Her eyes glimpse over the chalk board offering the day’s specials, and then she turns to the two of them, including both of them in the question.
“What do you want? I’m buying.”
[John Thornton] “No, you’re not.”
A curious brow rises over hazel eyes that in this light, take on a dark green cast. Then, withdrawing his wallet, he opens the overly full bundle of papers and notes to wear the actual money resides. The other pockets in the worn black leather billfold are filled with scraps of paper… Names, addresses, phone numbers, notes… A plethora of information that would mean nothing unless you knew where what you wanted was kept and what specifically you were looking for. Still… it made one wonder how the seams didn’t burst from all the paper crammed within.
Withdrawing a twenty dollar bill, John takes a step forward to where the cash register sets, and places it on the counter.
“I’ll have a large coffee, black, and whatever these two ladies are having.”
With a simple nod to Beth and Izzy, John then turns and waits for them to order.
“In fairness, Izzy… I’d argue a Kindergarten teacher is probably better equipped to deal with our relatives than you or I ever will be…”
John then turns his gaze to Beth.
“Not to mention the refuge from the craziness they tend to carry with them that such a place of business would afford. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I’ll wager you’ve never had them visit you at work before…?”
[Izzy Montoya] She doesn’t argue to pay for either of them. Let them battle it out – as long as she gets her “Large coffee, 2 creams 6 sugars. Thanks.”
Yeah, because what Izzy needs is more sugar and more caffeine, right? Right.
She chuckles briefly. “This is true. Though I’m absofuckinglutely sure that no one wants me teaching their ankle biters anything.” a beat. “Unless they’re giving 5 year olds guns, now-a-days.”
John and Izzy, however, have had them show up to work before. Many times over. “Or the random fuckin’ phone calls and voice messages of calling me fuckin’ now or ELSE”
[Beth Clemensen] The detectives order what they’re used to getting from the break room at the station house, or from late-night diners, or from their own machines at home. Beth, on the other hand, has coffee and tea at home. What she doesn’t have, however, is a milk steamer. She jokes with the barista about how her order isn’t as uncomplicated as theirs and orders a vanilla latte, then steps off to the side to wait for her drink.
John argues for the preparedness of the kindergarten teacher, and Beth laughs again, tightening her hold on her coat and shifting her weight to one foot.
“My ex’s friend showed up at work one time,” she says, the blanks in her story having a clear translation in the mind of one who has been with the Nation for a long time. She cannot use the word ‘mate’ or ‘packmate’ in the environment they’re currently in. She has to hope that context will explain well enough what she’s talking about. “I thought for sure I was going to lose my job.”
[John Thornton] “I can imagine…”
John just almost smiles… which is to say his mouth remains marginally widened. The pervading sense of robotic facsimile remained about his expression throughout the conversation, as though he either didn’t know how to express his emotions, or perhaps, they were so convoluted and complicated that he didn’t understand them himself.
The coffee arrives, and after putting his change in his billfold and putting the billfold back in the interior coat pocket, John takes the coffee in hand. Ignoring the heat from the scalding liquid, he takes a drink before continuing.
“Izzy… Somehow, I don’t think that Schwarzennegger movie, Kindergarten Cop, was based on actual events…”
[Izzy Montoya] “It wasn’t?”
She does her best to look innocently upset – and completely fails at it, of course. “I can’t believe you watched that shit. I mean come on, at least watch Die Hard or something decent.”
She’s watching John carefully, more so that it seems to the every day passer by. She knows what he’s going through, what he’s trying to achieve, and what he’s worrying about behind his barely there robotic smile. And even now – she’s watching out for him. Old habits die hard.
She takes up her coffee, and nods toward an empty spot, with a smile for Beth. “I promise, I won’t come to your classroom unless it’s absolutely unavoidable – like it’s me or the fuckin’ “ex’s”.”
[Beth Clemensen] Unlike Beth, Izzy knows what is going on with the kinsman whose every smile seems forced. She knows what has him walking around as though he has something heavy weighing on his shoulders, as though sleep is a distant memory for him. All Beth has is the evidence. She has his dark-rimmed eyes and his terrible attempt at acting as though everything is fine, and no way to help.
There is distraction, of course, but even that can only take a person so far.
When Beth’s latte is handed across the counter in a funky blue mug, she thanks the barista, then thanks John. What she had been hoping to accomplish by paying for the two detectives’ drinks is anyone’s guess. One of them alone makes easily one and a half times what Beth brings home a year, at least. She looks as though she shops at chain discount stores and cuts coupons and only buys drinks like what she’s bringing to an empty spot with her when she has extra cash to spend.
One thin yet strong hand wraps around the mug, and she drapes her coat over the back of the chair she’s chosen, sitting herself down and keeping both feet flat on the floor for now. A thin smile comes across her lips when Izzy promises not to come to the classroom, and she says, “I appreciate it.”
[John Thornton] “It was that or Elvira and some 1970’s B horror movie about a giant squid. That late, my options were limited.”
John takes another swig of the overheated coffee unflinchingly, as though he were used to drinking it that hot. Of course, given the city’s budget lately, the swill he drank at the office probably needed to be that hot to get over the taste. In that precinct, Folgers was a delicacy beyond any price…
Then, placing the coffee on the table, he slips the trench coat from his shoulders and folds it neatly in half over the back of his chair. Revealed to the light, the wicked looking .45 caliber near his ribs gleamed with seeming malice… Its surface well oiled and maintained.
It seemed perfectly at odds to the non-expressive man upon which it was holstered.
“You’re both quite welcome.”
Then, after a few moments, a curious brow rises upon his forehead.
“So… Given our family obligations, what drives one to take up education as a career?”
[Izzy Montoya] She sets her coffee on the table, and slips her jacket off as well. Her holster is at the small of her back, rather than at the shoulder. She’s always preferred it that way – but then again, she’s always been the more flexible of the two. Even back in the day.
“Elvira was the shit.”
So declared, she settles to the chair, and lifts her coffee to her lips. She doesn’t take quite as big a gulp, but enough of one she hisses as it burns her tongue. Of course, that makes it taste better – or so one assumes. THe coffee she swills is not always the best part of waking up, to be sure.
John steers the conversation to Beth, and Izzy settles back in her chair and listens.
[Beth Clemensen] It’s a valid question, and one she seems to have fielded numerous times before. Beth sits back in her chair, resting her mug on one thigh, and clears her throat.
“The town where I grew up had a pretty large population of full bloods. Pretty traditional full bloods. When I was old enough to know about what was going on, it became clear to me that I was to further the family line and that was all that was really expected of me, so when it came time to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my life I had to consider career options that would let me raise a family by myself.”
In case the father of her children was killed in the War. Loved ones have a tendency of falling out there on the front lines.
“In hindsight, I would have been better off choosing a career based on what I personally wanted to do rather than based on the needs of the Nation, but I’m good at what I do and I enjoy it, and it provides me with enough of an income that I can help out where and when I’m needed, so it worked out, in a way.”
[John Thornton] John nods… And then his coat begins to buzz steadily. John’s brows furrow slightly, his expression deadpanning as he withdraws the cell phone from his coat pocket. After a few moments considering the number on the caller id portion of the phone, John stands…
“Please excuse me; I need to take this call…”
Hazel eyes turn to Izzy momentarily.
“Work.”
With that, the detective starts toward where the restrooms are located, and the small payphone kiosk nearby.
((Fade John here. Thanks for the scene, folks. I had fun.))
[Izzy Montoya] His coat buzzes, and she glances over at John, and watches as he checks the number. Work, he says, and she smirks. “It always is.” Then she winks at him, and watches as he goes to take the call, before she returns her attention to Beth.
Her attention is not an easy thing to bear. Her gaze is direct, unflinching. But there’s a warmth somewhere in there too – it’s just not easy to see.
“They wanted me to saddle up an’ have babies as soon as I could pop the lil fuckers out. I joined the force instead. Figure if I can be useful this way, they won’t give a shit who I’m fuckin’ and when nothing comes of it.”
[Beth Clemensen] Beth is not one of the criminals or accused being dragged into the station to be questioned by Detective Montoya. Humans are decidedly easy to intimidate, at least the vast majority of them are, and those who aren’t easy to intimidate have their breaking points eventually. If she is intimidated by the other woman’s gaze, it does not show on her person. One has to imagine that if she found herself mated to one of their tribe at some point in her life, and it certainly sounds as though she has, that she can handle being looked at by a detective when she isn’t being brought in for questioning.
A bit of reciprocal self-disclosure comes from Izzy after John excuses himself to take a phone call, and Beth crosses one leg over the other at the knee, making herself comfortable.
“Was this here?” she asks.
[Izzy Montoya] She takes another swallow of her coffee, and then rests it on her thing, her fingers still wrapped around the cup, keeping them warm – or at least trying too.
She nods, slightly. “Yeah, I was born and raised here. Been gone long enough to forget how fuckin cold it gets – I miss the sun already.”
She lifts a hand and pushes her hair back impatiently, even as she glances around the shop, before returning her full attention to the teacher across from her. “Back when John n me was beat cops, we were partners. I knew what I was, what was goin on – he didn’t until recently. Needless to say only now is some of the shit I pulled startin’ to make sense to the guy.”
[Beth Clemensen] As Izzy explains her background, her connection to John, Beth takes tentative sips of her latte and listens. Her eyes are inquisitive and interested, a vibrant green without the assistance of contacts; her coloration is more indicative of Fianna Kinfolk, until one remembers that not all Fenrir come from northern European stock. Not all Fianna come from the United Kingdom, either.
“Oh, wow,” she says, when she learns that John didn’t know of his heritage until recently. “That’s… I can’t even imagine what that must be like. How long ago did he find out?”
[Izzy Montoya] Izzy, for being as brash and crass as she is, is surprisingly easy to talk too – and talkative. If one forgives her foul mouth, and abrupt, no nonsense delivery.
She thinks a few moments. “Not sure exactly how long? But I heard about six months ago, give or take. When i did, i started working to get back home. Had to pull a lot of fuckin’ strings, but I wasn’t about t’let John go through this shit alone. It’s quite a bit to handle when ya think the war your fightin is one thing, and find out it’s a whole ‘nother thing entirely.”
[Beth Clemensen] Izzy is talkative, and Beth is a good listener. While the detective is ever-aware of her surroundings, and her gaze travels around the room more than once, Beth’s remains squarely on her coffee companion, save for the occasional glance down to ensure that her mug is making it to her mouth safely. She is not slugging back her drink as though she is simply working to get caffeine into her system as quickly as possible. She’s savoring it.
“You’re a good friend,” she says. “It’s good that he’s got someone here to help him, every time I see him it seems like he’s got a lot on his plate.”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly. “I wasn’t always such a good friend t’him. He deserved a lot better than what he fuckin put up with me. But well, all I can do is better, right? S’what my granddad had a habit of sayin, anyway.”
She looks over to where John disappeared, the worry written clear in her face for a few moments, so achingly clear that it does two things – makes her seem almost naked, and shows that somewhere in there, she’s vulnerable, as much as she hates the thought of anyone knowing it.
It is just a moment though, and then the mask comes back, the smirk finds it’s way along her lips, and she nods. “Yeah. Poor guy’s had it rough – lost a couple people he cared for – both due to the Nation he didn’t know fuckin existed a year ago. Takes it’s toll on th’guy.”
[Beth Clemensen] They’re speaking about a man who wouldn’t volunteer this information on his own, for whatever reason. He’d said it was complicated, yet Izzy makes it sound very cut and dried: he’s lost someone. A couple someones. That’s enough to bring down anyone’s mood, to make anyone neglect to take care of himself, never mind someone who is having to adjust to an entirely new life on top of everything else.
Beth nods, her comprehension visible, and then she steers the conversation away from the subject who might very well not appreciate having too much of his past or present circumstance revealed to someone he hardly knows.
“So you said you were in Miami?”
[Izzy Montoya] She flows with the conversation, letting it be steered away from John. That she cares for him deeply is evident. That she always has is clear. That she’s gonna help him – obvious. And in Izzy’s world, that’s all that matters.
“Yeah. Switched from Vice to Homicide, and worked with some of the best fuckin’ cops I’ve ever known down there – in short sleeves most of the fuckin time. Comin’ back here in November wasn’t one of my brightest fuckin’ ideas, that’s for sure. Might fly down for Christmas just to fuckin’ warm up.”
She grins and takes a couple long swallows from her coffee – about the time her phone goes off. She groans, and pulls it from her pocket. “I’m sorry, Beth – I gotta go.” She opens the phone and snaps “Hang on.” before she sets it down and stands, grabbing her coat and slipping it on. She takes a small case out of her coat pocket and grabs her card, and hands it to Beth. “You need anything, you fuckin’ call, alright? Ain’t been kind to family round here lately. Anytime. Even if ya jus’ want coffee, alright?”
She nods, and grabs her gloves and phone, lifts it to her ear, waves over her shoulder and then barks into the phone. “Montoya. What doya got?”