Yer Ryan’s friend [Hatchet, James, others.]

It’s after a bathroom break, and a few chatters with the local staff, that had him wandering back stage. He’d skipped the kitchen, heading right for the stairwell that lead up to the second floor. His weight he didn’t bother trying to conceal as he walked up each step, which some of which creaked with overuse. At 6.2″ he had some mass to him, but it wasn’t an over-bulk of muscle. Solid, defined enough, even in his snug white sweater, its faintly pinstriped vest undone over top, and a pair of faded jeans. It was Friday night after all, and this wouldn’t be his first stop – apparently.

So as it was, Aidan’s little book session was about to be interrupted.

The sounds of creaking steps would draw his attention away from the pages of his book as he glanced up, waiting to see who it was. It was…possible that some inner part of him hoped to see a certain face… but he’d be disappointed on that count. Still, depending on who it was, he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to chase the boredom away through some means other than reading.

“What is this, the library?” He wasn’t from here. Ethan was a Californian boy.

“Not anymore. We haven’t met before…I’m Aidan.” And he was beginning to wonder, frankly, just how many werewolves were in Chicago, anyway. From what he’d seen already…it seemed like a rather inordinate amount.

Obviously it wasn’t to do with Aidan’s comment, since, once he was done looking around, he’d approached where the other lounged and offered out his free hand. His tanned skin spoke of endless summers, and his hands of harder, physical labor. “Ethan.”

It was likely fairly obvious that Adian wasn’t garou. It was also extremely obvious which tribe’s blood flowed through his veins. (He’d been informed of this on numerous occasions already.) Ethan, though? All Aidan could think was…werewolf. They all looked a bit big to him.

“You’re not from around here.” It was stated with a casual sort of curiosity. Aidan’s own light accent was midwestern, so if he had been born elsewhere…he had at least lived in Chicago for quite some time. As he made the statement/inquiry, he looked up at Ethan, green eyes large and curious. It was true…they were pretty in that way that usually was attributed to girls. But…Aidan himself seemed more andogynous than effeminate.

And, Aidan wasn’t his Tribe. It wasn’t his concern. Or wasn’t suppose to be.

The handshake had been simple, brief, and the heat of his hand spoke of a high metabolism. Most Garou tended to burn more then calories on a frequent basis, and such things that weren’t meant for human consumption. Its no wonder they sometimes felt like they had a fever, especially when the moon had grown fat in the sky.

“Nope.” He looked around for somewhere to sit and decided leaning his backside on the opposite end of the sofa, by Aidans feet, but on the arm of the furniture was the best place to be. He got himself comfortable, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. His arms folded over his chest, straining some material around the bicep and rounded shoulder. “What about you? You’re a resident here?” Indicating the Brotherhoods second floor with a nod.

And did he mention that he had extremely conflicting feelings about the whole thing? Well, he wasn’t going to get into any of that with a stranger. After the other night, he had vowed to at least *attempt* to be polite and friendly. And so this was him…attempting just that.

“So if you’re not from here…where *are* you from?” Don’t think he didn’t notice that such information had been excluded, and the corner of his mouth quirked just slightly in a knowing smile.

“Here and there. Originally from Cali.”

Both could play the game though, “Getting used to the Brotherhood, Chinatown, or Taggart? History isn’t all that new.” His gaze had settled on Aidan from where he’d perched. It was a steady look, something focused and didn’t give too much away. Infinitely alert.

He added, then, after some musing. “I’ve always wanted to visit California. Never managed to get out that far, though.”

If Ethan was alert, Aidan was more on the relaxed end of the spectrum, which wasn’t entirely normal for him. Blame the residual affect of the pot he’d smoked earlier. He did, however, keep his eyes trained on the other man…watching his movements, his mannerisms. It was an unconscious habit. Studying people. And it wasn’t like he was unpleasant to look at, either.

Food, however, was something he could appreciate, “Handy when you’ve got a penchant for asian foods, eh? Got to love that shit at four am after busting your ass across town.”

While Aidan studied him, Ethan would go from looking around to always glancing back. He was well accustomed to the way some people reacted to a Garou’s constant stare and it had become an ingrained habit for him to frequently shift his eyes elsewhere so to make them comfortable. Aidan didn’t seem to have this problem, so he’d find the light coloured eyes watching him more and more.

For his height and his solid build, Ethan moved with a quiet grace. It was smooth, co ordinated, effortless. Something that would be more picked up if he was up and walking around, not so much while sitting as he was. The rest of it, the way he folded his hand ran down the back of his neck from rubbing his hair, and then folded back into the other arm across his chest, was all very casual. A quiet inner confidence was solid as a rock.

The garou was being quite considerate, in his habit of not staring directly for any length of time. Aidan couldn’t say the same for everyone else he’d met here. And yes…that gaze did make him a bit uncomfortable. One never got entirely used to the intensity that a garou carried around. It hung like an angry fog in the air, even when they were relaxed and easy going, as this one was. But in a very strange way…Aidan was starting to almost…like it. No..not exactly *like*. But…it intrigued him.

So when the other man starting looking at him with a more steady gaze, he didn’t look away nervously. “Do you mind if I ask… what is you affiliation? Rather…. your tribe, I guess.” He smiled in an almost embarrassed sort of way, hating to sound like an idiot and fearing that he more than likely did.

When it came to Tribes and the others embarrassment of asking it, Ethan decided it was time to push some more boundaries. He shifted off the edge of the sofa, about the same time he uncrossed his arms, and eased down to sit on the sofa itself. Before Aidan could move his feet even, an ankle was caught up in a hand and lifted out the way.

Seated now, and no longer manhandling kinfolk, Ethan answered, “Glass Walker.”

“What are you? Fianna pup or you Kinfolk?” His back nestled into the corner of the sofa, arms braced on the back and side, and he was facing the other as best as twisted waist allowed.

And then…to his momentary surprise, he was being pushed out of the way, so he quickly moved to give the garou space, swinging his legs down and sitting up straight against the back of the sectional. His willpower had its limits.

Glass Walker. He hadn’t heard of them…that he could remember. So he just gave a little nod at his response. He might have inquired further, but the question distracted him. “Oh…I’m kin.”

“You’re a kin that’s lived here for four years, under the radar of the local Garou, and have just recently discovered that you’re part of this whole saving the Forsaken Gaia Nation, of which you’re still not too sure about.” – “And who can blame you really.” This part said with an arch of his brows and a pointed look.

“Does that about sum it up?”

“Oh, and you like tea. What sort? Please don’t tell me that green shit. I might have to reconsider my opinion about you.”

…but he’s here now, strolling into the kitchen from the night air, wearing…exactly what Aidan saw him in last, only the t-shirt this time is dark blue. It’s fitted, and that can be blamed on a packmate who is gone now (dead now), who when buying a few extra clothes for Taggart bought him shirts that fit his form rather than hanging off of it. Those kitchen staff still working avoid him as his scarred arm darts in here and there and begins putting a plate together. Simple fare, the sort of thing Andrea used to have set out: a hunk of bread, a crust of cheese, a bunch of grapes. He gets a beer — no, two — and carries them between his long fingers.

He walks slowly, which makes the steps creak, but lightly, which makes them sound like someone smaller is coming up to the common room. Instead, it’s Taggart, who isn’t small, who blinks immediately upon entering. One of these two he doesn’t know, and one of them…he…doesn’t really know. But recognizes.

One of them he could smell from the other side of the city, if he needed to.

“Reconsider your opinion.” He smiled in a teasing manner. Almost challenging, in fact. It was a typical Aidan sort of reaction. Someone doesn’t like something about him? He’s liable to toss it right out into plain view and stand there going ‘yep, that’s me…deal with it.’

“Actually, it depends on my mood. I like black tea just as much.” And white, and oolong. The list went on and on.

Then Taggart entered the room, and he looked over instantly. Perhaps a little too quickly, even. There was a beat, as his eyes traveled over the Fianna’s face and upper torso. “Hey.”

But for $100 an hour? She’s done a lot more, a lot worse.
That’s a different story, however.

But, it does explain why Mrena’s door opens, and a waif-thin streetrat slips out of the room. She pauses to close the door quietly behind her, before tugging the hood of her sweatshirt down lower, bathing her face in shadow as she shoves her hands deep into the ‘roo pocket, and makes her way into the common room, quietly.

Last time, she passed through completely unnoticed. This time….

This last bit was murmured as he turned his head, looking over his shoulder of the arm stretched out along the back of the sofa, taking in the form of Taggart. The other Garou received a quick look over, head to toe, and had his food and beer eyed for a longer moment. He’d ate and wasn’t that hungry. The food and beer was safe.

Aidan’s reaction hadn’t been missed, nor had Taggarts pause.

Then there was Maija.

Did he step on someones toes here? People were bleeding out of the walls.

Taggart is built for endurance.

And the unknown male sitting in the same room as his Kinfolk is talking about…tea. He looks at Aidan as though to make sure he’s all right, vaguely bewildered at the fact that he’s even here, and then his pale gray eyes shift to Ethan. He’s noticed Maija. She’s standing right there. If she wants to go downstairs she’ll have to go past him, and he ain’t moving. His eyebrows hop up his face. “Know you,” he says, gesturing with his beer-hand to Aidan. It moves to Ethan. “Don’t know you.” And then to Maija. “You…kinda seem familiar.”

She drew a picture of him once. He didn’t notice.

Had they not been interrupted, he’d have pointed out that Ethan clearly hadn’t ever had decent green tea. In fact, it sounded like he’d always had it oversteeped. Over-steeped green tea tasted…well…like grass clippings, pretty much.

But… such trivial matters had already melted clean out of his head. Hatchet had that affect on him. It was…obnoxious. It wasn’t only the Fianna that had distracted him though. The girl behind him…and her familiar looking sweatshirt.

“Maija!” He hadn’t in a million years expected to see her again. Let alone…here.

She’s tense – so much so that it’s almost impossible not to notice it, even under the bulk of her sweatshirt. An iron rod is wrapped around her spine, her shoulders are tense – so much so it will take a good long hour in the tub to ease them, followed by a willing massage from Will. When she is noticed – and spoken too, that tension ratchets higher, as she lifts her gaze briefly up to meet Taggart’s before it flicks to Ethan, Aiden, and back again.

She stops, because she certainly isn’t going to brush past him. Not after being trapped in a room with Mrena, the last thing she needs is to force herself to brush past yet another garou.

Aiden she has met – and clearly he knows her as well. She slips a hand free of her pocket to wave at him, and consider moving around the room toward the relative safety of someone without enough rage to make her want to eat her own head, instead of suffer any more headache building tension. But what she does – is stand still. And wait for the questions that will invariably follow.

Californian, as it was discovered earlier, is the sort of accent that Ethan has. He’d been there long enough for the local sounds to be stuck in the way he pronounces some of the words, but it’s nothing overly outrageous like all these foreigners plaguing America, particularly Chicago’s Garou population.

“Well that’s Maija.” Nodding his chin in the girls direction, he’d directed the statement at Taggart, letting a vague smirk touch his mouth at the same time. “So at least we’ve got that sorted out.”

“I’m Ethan, and now that’s out of the way too, and we’re talking about the finesse of asian inspired teas if you both wanna join.” Lowering a hand from the edge of the sofa, he’d motioned to it, “There’s plenty of room now Aidans moved over.”

Tonight it’s very steady. The moon overhead is waxing but it is still his moon. A Philodox moon, wasn’t that what Skinny Legs had been going on about? Hatchet hadn’t told Aidan one bit about his auspice, anything but his tribe and where to find him and his packmates. His Rage is there, but it’s in balance. He cocks his head at Maija, whose answer comes out of Aidan’s mouth: he has a name, now, for her.

Twice, in fact. He cocks his head to the side at Ethan, and he hasn’t moved from the doorway. “Ethan, of the Tribe of Ethania, son of Ethandius, born under the Ethandian moon? Maija of Maija…licious,” he says after a flick of his eyes to the woman to gauge whether ‘liciuos’ should be applied, though he applies it regardless of whether or not it should be, “the greatest daughter of the Maijans.” He blinks, then bursts into a grin. “Hey, Mayans! They were real!”

My, wasn’t he getting…feisty? Aidan fixed Hatchet with an almost…disapproving stare. Rather like a chihuahua growling at a mastiff. It was almost comical. To be fair, of course…he had no idea about the expected customs, in these situations. He only knew human courtesy.

And, clearly… he had a bit of a masochistic streak.

And the grin doesn’t help.
Nor the joke.

The name is not the same, but the feeling is – there is the sense that as soon as the joke is over, the beating will begin. It does not matter that he is not that man, nor is her name that name, but some things are never forgotten, some things are so deeply ingrained they may never be erased. Like the way your bones sound when they break, the way your breath sounds when a lung is punctured, the way his laughter rings out as you try to crawl away through your own blood… thses things are real, these things are never forgotten, these are the things born of human rage, encouraged by Garou treachery… these are the things she remembers, the things she’s lived, the things that flicker through her gaze unseen as she watches the floor by her boot, contemplating returning to the lion’s lair, to escape the bear’s wrath…

She swallows. Hard.
She drew a picture of him once – one that Ryan now has.
He didn’t notice.

“Jus’ Maija.” Mi-yah, she says, which gives them no clue whatsoever how to actually spell it. Her voice is soft, low, and fortunately holds nothing of the memories he’s bringing to the fore. Ryan didn’t affect her like this, though his rage was great as well, yet she was able to curl up in the corner of his cab and sleep through two states. Levity is always followed by pain. Another beat, then.. “Yer Ryan’s friend…”

Maybe that will mean something to him, maybe it won’t. But it’s all she can manage to say.

He’d given up trying to see them all properly, twisted like he had been was causing an ache in his spine, both at the base and in his neck. So now he just sat in the corner of the sofa, waiting it out. The other two would move on or sit down eventually.

“Yeup. Glass Walker.” This was quieter, an off handed confirmation to back up Aidan’s words. “Claith. Ragabash.” He adds just as listlessly. He didn’t much like formalities. His Tribe wasn’t really one for them – anymore.

Unfortunately for Aidan, some of Hatchet’s most recent experience dealing with uppity Kinfolk involves watching Lukas Wyrmbreaker, a Shadow Lord Ahroun, backhanding Andrea — once the owner of this place — calmly across the face. Hatchet had not stopped him, or so much as blinked an eyelash. Andrea was a Shadow Lord. Maybe that’s how to make them shut up when they’re getting mouthy. Maybe that’s the only way.

Fortunately for both Aidan and Maija, Taggart has rarely been accused of acting like a Full Moon, and never accused of behaving like a stereotypical Shadow Lord. More often than not, he’s accused of trying to play the role of a Ragabash, as though Judges can’t have a sense of humor. But yes: fortunately, the moon is not waning and his eyes don’t glint like the edge of a knife in Aidan’s general direction.

“Mother of God, you’re all so helpful I could sh–”

Yer Ryan’s friend.

“–packmate,” he finishes, simultaneously correcting Maija and forgetting completely what the hell he was saying before, especially because then his almost manic attention is going to the sole other Garou in the room, who informs him that he is a Cliath, that he is a Ragabash, and that Aidan was correct, he is in fact one of Cockroach’s.

“Thank you,” he says, with exasperation that is feigned and sincerity that is not. He walks away from the entrance to the stairwell, babbling in a blend of accents, first Irish and then melodramatic and then booming and then, finally, the cadence of speech of a used car salesman: “They call me Taggart, Buried Hatchet, Fostern Philodox of the Fianna, Truthcatcher to the Sept of Maelstrom and all. Around. Super guy.”

He sits down between Ethan and Aidan. It’s not the best fit, but it gives him easy access to the coffee table, which is where he sets his food. He looks over at the female. “Jes’ Maija, can I safely and without making more of an ass of myself than usual assume that you are of my illustrious but absent friend’s illustrious but oft-maligned Tribe, or should I just offer you some cheese and let you be on your merry way?”

Maybe he was born talking. He seems to like doing it a lot.

Hatchet sat down beside him, and he swiveled his gaze to watch the Fianna. Initially, there had a tense quality to his muscles. Rigid. Almost like he’d been *expecting* something bad to happen. When it did not, he relaxed…slightly. And…offered the tiniest fraction of a smile. “I’m sorry.” That little performance had been rather amusing, and it took the edge off of Aidan’s sudden mood swing. Furthermore, he appreciated not getting physically injured.

His eyes shifted to follow Maija, then. Given her attitude towards strangers, Aidan worried about how she might be feeling. She looked practically rigid with anxiety.

She’s rooted to the spot. Taggart introduces himself and moves. It’s the second part which brings on another flinch, and she actually puts her back to the wall. Just in case. At least that way, she can watch them all.

She answers his question though, softly. “Yessir.” Wait – to which part…? She clears her throat, then clarifies. “BG kin, sir.” She don’t say Ryan’s kin, as she’d never assume, despite the fact that he seemed genuinely glad to see her when they met up again a few days ago. Assumptions simply never end well.

He seems to like talking a lot – she, on the other hand, seems to loathe saying more than a word or two, at most. The only thing keeping her here is the fact that he is Ryan’s friend – and she saw the look in his eyes when Ryan saw the sketch… she can be surprisingly astute, Maija, even when other times have her startling obtuse. Like the fact that Taggart is sincere more than exasperated.

Aiden looks her way, but she does not meet it, not completely. Her gaze flicks to his, and around the room as if considering if she could walk down those stairs and out without anyone stopping her, or if she should stay right here. She is in full flight or fight mode…

“Well met Buried Hatchet.” Shifting his weight a little when the other Garou came to sit on the sofa, Ethan had made some more room for him to wiggle between the Kin and himself. They hadn’t been sitting close, opposite ends of the sofa, but three men on the sofa? One had to give.

“Let me give you some more room.” Leaving the Garou with his Kin, Ethan pushed up and out of the sofa. There’s plenty of reasons why he did this, none of them which are made clear, except for…

… The look he gives over to Maija, “Gnawer Kin eh? Us Urrah have to stick together or somethin’ like that. I’m on my way out. If you’re going to take off, I can see you where ever you want to go. You could also tell me to fuck off, and I might, or I’ll let you be.”

“Either way, Aidan been a blast, maybe next time we can compare coffee grains.”

“Buried Hatchet, I’ll be around sometime just to make an appearance. I’ll bring along my pack-mate, too, just for shits and giggles.” For more formal affairs..

He’d been moving around the sofa, and would soon be on his way to the door, once these goodbye’s are done, “Til then, I’m outta here.”

He’s not a short guy, or one that’s easy to be around. The line between ‘too much’ and ‘just right’ is thin with him, especially when he sits down beside Aidan and starst working on the food on his plate. It’s incredibly simple fare, but he goes at it with gusto. He opens his beer bottle with gusto, too, popping the cap off using the edge of the coffee table. Aidan apologizes as Taggart is mid-chew with a hunk of bread in his mouth, and the Philodox just turns his head to look at him with a cocked eyebrow as if he has no clue what the guy is talking about.

He might not, truth be told.

Then again, Aidan doesn’t know him very well.

He reaches for a grape after the bread is swallowed, popping it into his mouth and looking at Maija. “All right,” he says a bit slowly, somewhat at a loss. “So are you sitting down or –”

Ethan stands up. Taggart turns around and is silent, looking between Ethan and Maija then Ethan and Aidan and then …just Ethan, who is addressing him now. He looks like a kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar all of a sudden. “Okay,” is all he says, before reaching for his open beer and taking a swig. That’s all for him. He glances at Aidan again. “So do you live here now, or what?”

He’d had it on good authority that most of their kind could be found on the second floor, but James saw no reason not to go in through the front instead of the back like a beggar. As he stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him, the Fianna turned to look around with almost-black eyes to see whom was about the downstairs. He wore a black tank top and jeans with a grey hoody, unzipped. A pair of Harley-Davidson boots, and his trademark black fedora.

Heading to the bar, he went and grabbed himself a beer and went on upstairs.

He’d nodded to Ethan as he left, offering another of those polite smiles that he’d given upon their first meeting.

He’d glanced at Maija again, concern registering on his face for a moment.

Then he’d looked over at Taggart with a bemused expression. “I can leave if you like.”

If only she really believed it. Though leaving with a stranger is not high on her list of Things To Do.

Taggart asks if she’s going to sit, and she’s actually unsure for a moment, long enough that she pauses before she answers. “I…ain’t sure. Jus’ yet.” At the very least, she’s honest.

[Thanks for the play.]

— does not stuff his face.

Taggart eats with surprising manners, tearing off bits of bread rather than yanking at it with his teeth. He peels mozzarella off the hunk he brought up and eats it neatly, chews with his mouth closed, does not wipe his hands on his jeans. He drinks without tipping his head far back, and occasionally does a quick check with his thumb to wipe off any excess moisture around his lips and mustache. Which is trimmed.

It’s odd how he wears a beard and yet keeps his throat cleanshaven. It’s odd how carefully taken care of that beard is, how clean he looks and smells, when he may as well be an animal. He’d not bothered until reminded, at the diner, to go wash the blood off his hand. When he’d come back from the bathroom not only had his hand been clean, there had been no sign on his knuckles of any wound ever having been there to bleed in the first place.

He swallows before he answers the Kin at his side, frowning slightly at him in something like confusion. “I would not be opposed to you staying,” he says, almost — but not quite — drolly, “or to discovering that you’ve decided to shack up with the lot of us, because at least it’s safe here.” There’s pause, half a heartbeat, before: “I also won’t stop you if you want to leave.”

Tonight, at least.

Drawing out a lighter from that very same pocket, a soft tschick of flint against steel sounded as a flame was produced. Soon, a streamer of smoke trailed from the end of the cigarette held between his teeth.

An eye around the common room: Two men, a man departing, and a woman that was familiar to him. An eyebrow cocked as if trying to remember who she was, when it dawned on him. “Och,” he said softly. “Maija! Good tae see yer still ‘live an’ kickin,” the Irishman said. ” ‘Avenae seen ye ’bout.”

The way he spoke was like the two were old friends with that amicable smile around the filter of a cigarette.

Maybe.
She could be completely wrong.

Either way, she nods, and heads that way. “I gotta go..” she says. Aiden gets a bit of a wave again, before hands are shoved into her roo pocket, and she skitters down the stairs around James, and heads toward the door and into the night.

((dudes, sorry – it’s 3am and I gotta be upe bright ass early for my kid’s swim meet. I don’t mean to ditch, I swear! Grab me another time!))