by the time you finish that plate you'll be positively average.

Erich

Ingrid gets a text message on whatever number she once texted Erich from:

Miguel's on 14th St has a $8 turkey buffet. Wanna have an orphan thanksgiving?

--

Provided she accepts, she finds Miguel's to be just about what one might expect from such a name and such a pricetag: a shoddy little greasy-spoon on the corner of Shitty and Slummy, graffiti obscuring some of the windows, years of grime obscuring the rest. Buzzing neon text shouts MEXICAN AMERICAN DINNER next to a prominent OPEN 24 HOURS sign; it's hard to tell if it's a typo or not.

It's raining, but relatively warm. Warm for his blood; warm for their tribe. Erich is standing outside. His car is still nowhere to be seen. He might have hoofed it, or he might have taken a bus. Either way, he's waiting for her, leaning against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. The tear on the shoulder has been mended. Badly. The stitches are wobbly and thick and black. The hoodie is grey.

When he sees Ingrid, he straightens up. "Hey," he says. "Didn't think you'd actually come."

Ingrid

He can hear her coming before he sees her, her heels making soft clack clacks on the pavement. They're sensible tonight, the lower heel probably chosen for the weather. The quality is still high, too high for this neighborhood, and certainly too high for an $8 turkey buffet. She rounds the block, head protected by a simple black umbrella, her hair falling in waves over the shoulders of her camelhair coat. She doesn't belong here in the slums, and yet despite the rain and the grime she's here.

The text message did not specify a time. Nor did it get an answer. Erich may have been waiting for hours thinking she might not ever come, or he may have just gotten here. Ingrid does not know, and more importantly, she does not care. She's here now.

In this weather her eyes are like pools of endless, liquid black. They take in the appearance of her tribe brother, and she lifts a brow.

"I almost didn't." Her gaze shifts to the window of Miguel's and the neon sign. One might expect a woman of her obviously much higher social status to sneer at what she sees in that window, sneer and suggest something more to her taste. He knows she can afford it. If anything, she looks intrigued by the restaurant beyond the rain spattered glass.

Erich

"And yet here you are," Erich replies, reaching out to sweep the door open.

Plain glass door, that. Stainless-steel handle, cool beneath his hand. Inside, a roil of noise, chatter, and greasy food-scent meets them. They're far from the only ones here, though most other tables are occupied by families or clusters of friends.

Erich's been here before. He seems to have a passing familiarity with the frycook behind the counter -- not enough to call out any names, but enough that he gives the fellow a nod of hello. Thanksgiving buffet, Erich had texted, and so it is. There's a buffet table set up at one end of the restaurant, heaped with the traditional quintology of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce. There's also some other, distinctly Hispanic additions. None of it is likely to be Michelin three-star quality. All of it looks at least edible.

No waitress. An overworked cashier takes their eight bucks up-front, involves them booze was extra but soup and soda's included, and tells them to seat themselves. Erich leads the way. There's no such thing as a quiet corner tonight, but they manage to find a small, unoccupied table, though two of its four chairs have been borrowed by neighbors.

"What made you come?" Erich doesn't sit -- there's a buffet to attack, after all. He just unzips his hoodie, drops it over the back of his chair, and puts his wallet in his back pocket. "Lemme guess. Overwhelming loneliness?"

Ingrid

"Here I am." He opens the door, she inclines her head slightly as she steps forward, folding down her umbrella. Inside, the smells of greasy food and greasier people assault her sensitive nose, but she does not stop in the doorway to reel with it. She looks around, using one hand to unbutton her coat while Erich pays his eight dollars. She tosses a twenty onto the counter, not looking at the woman until it's time to collect her change. Maybe the smile she offers is supposed to be a pleasant one, but pleasantly is not how it is received.

She doesn't immediately sit at the small table, either. First there's the matter of her umbrella, which gets leaned against the table's edge. It won't stay there, in fact it's on the floor before she even gets her coat off. The coat, once removed, she hangs onto the back of her chair. Her purse she sets on her seat.

"Is that why you asked me?" She smiles when she asks, brow lifted.

Erich

"Nice parry," he retorts. "But I asked you first."

She puts her purse down. He quirks an eyebrow at it. Calculates chances it'll still be there when she gets back. In her favor is the composition of the crowd - mostly families tonight. Against her favor is the general vibe of the neighborhood, the crowdedness of the joint. In her favor again is that predator's edge to her presence, which makes her rather unintimidating profile something else altogether.

In the end he doesn't tell her to bring her purse. Then again, maybe he wouldn't anyway. He leaves his coat there to mark his territory, and then he heads for the buffet tables. There's a little girl there, a little shy of her teens, just old enough to start thinking about the sorts of unattainable body images plastered all over billboards and TV. She's agonizing over which dessert she wants, but Erich's approach sends her skittering away dessert-less.

For his part, the rather atypical-looking Shadow Lord plucks a big plate up and goes straight for the turkey. He doesn't make room for Ingrid when she comes up beside him; not until he's heaped half his plate with poultry. Then he moves on to the spiral ham.

Ingrid

"And that means I'm obligated to answer?" she asks, but is apparently already growing bored with this game, because she follows with an elegant shrug. "I felt like it."

She does not follow in the wake of his beeline for protein, choosing instead to start at the other end of the buffet and wander down it. Where she goes, people look over their shoulders at her, at this slender Asian woman, and they stiffen. If her outward appearance were all there is to her, Ingrid would be the easiest mark in the room. But there's something in the way she stalks down the line, like the lioness stalks her prey, that puts people on the alert. It sends chills down their spines, and they turn away, willing themselves to escape her notice.

When she reaches Erich again, she knows what she wants from the low quality food offered, and it certainly isn't the spiral ham. Grabbing a plate of her own, she puts a slice of turkey on it, then moves around the Ahroun to the corn salsa, which she pours over that slice. Nachos and cheese are added to the plate next, and a couple of taquitos. Her final stop is the drink station, where she fills a plastic cup nearly to the brim with Sprite.

She returns to her seat, which still contains her purse. Though it's far less interesting than the alternative, it is somewhat impressive that the quibbling mouthbreathers in Miguel's have the sense to leave her things alone.

Erich

By the time Ingrid circles around to the meats -- set out at the end of the table, presumably in hopes that the average diner wouldn't have much room left for the more expensive items -- Erich is still there. He's pretty much covered his plate in carnivore's fare by then: turkey, more turkey, ham, and a couple chunks of rather dry-looking ribs.

A big cup of coke accompanies the meat. He has to pull his chair out with his foot; lord knows Ingrid's not inclined to help. There's so much food heaped on his plate that the tendons and muscle of his forearm stands out. It thunks heavily down. Then he thunks heavily down, taking a gulp of coke straight from the rim of the cup.

"It means," he continues the piecemeal conversation, "you're a wimp if you don't answer. So good thing you did. Now don't sulk; it's Thanksgiving."

There is literally nothing but meat on his plate. Well; meat and a bit of gravy. Not a single shred of green. He inspects it, then picks up his knife and fork and starts in from the ham.

Mouth full: "As for me," because damned if he was going to be a wimp by his own criteria, "I asked you here because, yeah. I didn't want to have Thanksgiving dinner alone. Also, I wanted to know if you were gonna join that pack. The one that the Lightbringer was making."

Ingrid

She could argue the point that he wouldn't be alone here even if she hadn't come. There are a lot of people here, in this place he obviously frequents. Someone here knows of him even if they don't know his name or his story. She doesn't, though, nor does she pester him about his obvious aversion for vegetables. She is not his mother, she will not tell him to eat his broccoli or add some starches for variety.

She sits down a great deal more gracefully than her dining companion, practically floating into the seat. Her plate is set down more gently, the cup as well. Erich digs in immediately. Ingrid takes her time, first removing the paper from a straw, then jabbing that straw into her drink. It's on its way to her mouth when he tells her not to sulk. Her eyes lift up to his face and her mouth curves into a smile, unintentional just like the huff of a laugh that escapes her lips.

Sip taken, she lifts fork and knife to begin cutting her modest amount of meat int manageable pieces. On the matter of pack, she pauses, looking thoughtful. He has no idea how loaded the question is, nor how many answers Ingrid has for it. In the end, he gets

"I don't know."

Erich

"Oh come on," he complains, "I'm sure you've got more to say than that."

And he picks up a rib from his plate. With his fingers. Oh, and there's no napkin on his lap either. And he didn't even get a straw.

Ingrid

Maybe he does know there's more to her answer than a simple yes or no. Or maybe he just wants her to fill the silence between them so he can fill his maw with more meat. Whatever the reason for his complaint and prodding, Ingrid doesn't answer right away. He's spent more time in her company than most, so he would know better than most that she's a woman of few words. While she decides how best to pare her thoughts down as simply and concisely as possible, she takes a bite of salsa slathered turkey. Her brows come together, and she stares down at her plate, her expression verging on confusion.

After she's carefully masticated her food, she tips her head back, tapping the tines of her fork against her lip.

"I suppose it depends on who will lead. My standards for leadership are...high." She's a Child of Crow. This is putting it lightly. "If it is the judge from the other night, absolutely not." Her fork stabs into one of the taquitos, which she holds up before her nose and sniffs before biting into.

Erich

It vaguely appalls Erich that Ingrid is eating the Mexican food that was on the table. On Thanksgiving. It's even worse that she's drenched her turkey in salsa. Who does that? Does it even taste right?

His turkey is -- well, not quite drenched, but at least touched by gravy. But he's working on a rib right now, which is in fact as dry as it looks. He's tearing at it: teeth bared, grimacing with effort. Almost growling.

"Bit pompous, sure," he says, "but he wouldn't be the dealbreaker for me. What's your beef?"

Ingrid

For what it's worth, the turkey and salsa combo tastes exactly like it looks. Like turkey, but with corn salsa instead of gravy. It's like having her sides, corn and tomatoes, and her main dish, the turkey, pre-mixed together with a bit of mild spice. If she thought that Erich would eat vegetables of any kind, she might suggest he try it. Maybe.

Her lip curls, her gaze dropping to cut another section of salsa-turkey, her actions delicate, almost dainty. An odd contrast to the animal sitting across from her.

"Bit doesn't quite cover it. And I have had my fill of pompous." The fork returns to her mouth, and she falls silent to chew.

Erich

"Because standoffish, sneaky and superior are so much better," Erich replies, smirking. It's not hard to figure out he's talking about her. He's looking right at her, after all.

A gnawed-clean bone hits the table. He puts it right there: right on the table. No napkin or anything. Yuck. Sucking his fingertips clean of barbecue sauce, he takes another gulp of his coke.

"So why so anti-pomposity?"

Ingrid

His assessment of her earns him a raised brow. When she's swallowed her bite, she starts cutting through another small bite and retorts, "I am not a leader, nor do I have any such aspirations. Comparing my qualities to his would be the proverbial apples and oranges."

For being so presumably superior - and in most cases she is, make no mistake of that - she shows no qualms regarding Erich's barbaric eating habits. Her eyes narrow on him, but not because he lacks basic table manners.

"As I said, I've had my fill of it. Why so curious?"

Erich

He can't fucking resist:

"Why so serious?"

Give him this much. He manages to deadpan it. A moment later the corners of his mouth creep up, though. He hides it behind his coke; licks his lips when he sets the glass down. Something of the cat-and-canary in that, somehow. Picking up another rib, "And why so fucking suspicious, for that matter? I'm not digging for an angle here. You said you'd 'had your fill'; I assume that means you've been under the thumb of a pompous windbag before. It's just curiosity.

"And there's no why to that," he adds, before she can ask him again. "I'm alive, I have a brain, my IQ is greater than 60. I'm curious. It's natural."

Ingrid

The corners of his mouth creep up and, wonder of wonders, Ingrid's do the same. That on it's own may not be cause for wonder, the woman smiles often. It's usually she with the cat-canary smile, though, that or it's sly, sneaky, or triumphantly superior. This slight curving of her mouth, this almost-smile, carries in it a hint of genuine humor. That is the rarity.

It vanishes when she lifts her own glass and sips Sprite through her straw. Her eyes are on him, though, when he explains the why of his curiosity. Her head tilts to an angle, and she watches him with her own brand of curiosity. Is it? her expression seems to ask.

She lifts her fork, holding one end between forefinger and thumb with the tines gently pressed into her opposite index finger. There it spins slowly, the handle twisting between forefinger, thumb, and middle finger.

"Yours is not a closed book, Erich," she states, her tone matter-of-fact. "I am not suspicious of you."

Erich

At that, Erich leans back. There's something distinctly canine in the way he gnaws on that rib -- turning his head, tilting it, plying his molars on a particularly stubborn piece. Only when he's ripped it free of the bone, dropped another rib on the table, does he reply.

"You know, I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult, coming from you. And I notice you're still skirting the question, so -- "

He picks up a piece of turkey. With his fingers. Tips his head back to snap it up, and now he's just eating like a barbarian, abandoning silverware altogether.

" -- I'm just going to give up. Maybe one day you'll tell me the story, if there is one." He reaches across the table, snags one of her napkins, wipes his hand before picking his glass up again.

"I haven't really decided either," he adds. "Whether to pack with them or not, I mean. Don't really feel much of an urge to get all bound up, to be honest. But then everyone seems to think it's thoroughly unnatural for a wolf to run alone."

Ingrid

He can't tell if she's complimenting or insulting him, and Ingrid does not enlighten him. She seems comfortable enough in his presence, though. At least, she remains cool and collected, becoming neither angered nor agitated through his nonsensical questioning. There is a spark of something, however. When his hand darts across the table into her territory. Something in her posture shifts, tenses, readies. When all he grabs is a napkin, that tension melts away as though it never was, and he gets his hand back without her fork jabbed into it.

Erich says he's giving up, and if it means he stops asking her pointless questions Ingrid is content with dropping it.

"There are certainly advantages to being bound. And I don't believe we were made to be alone indefinitely, but for now I'm happy to be free." She finishes her salsafied turkey and starts in on a taquito, dipping it into her nacho cheese before bringing it to her mouth.

Erich

That sudden spark of tension -- Erich tilts his head a couple degrees. His grin is crooked, toothy.

"Relax. I'm not about to violate your pockets again."

First time he's referred to that incident. Unless of course her leaving healing talens in his pocket counted. He sits back: he has napkins, he uses them. Maybe he hasn't entirely regressed. She opines on packing or not. He shrugs, big shoulders rolling under that steadily worse-for-wear hoodie of his.

"Guess I am too," he says. "Interesting way to put it though. 'Free.' You keep this up and I'm gonna be convinced you had some sorta bad relationship with you last pack."

Erich

[your* last pack.]

Ingrid

"It's not my pockets I'm concerned about." Evidently she's decided nacho cheese and taquitos don't mix as well as corn salsa and turkey. Her next bite goes without the stuff.

It's her turn to grin at him. "Look at you, figuring things out on your own. Are you sure you're IQ isn't over seventy?"

Ingrid

[*YOUR IQ]

Erich

Not her pockets: he smirks, flashing her a glance. Says nothing. Eats turkey.

"I don't know," he's back in the conversational game right after, though. "I do better with food in my belly. Maybe I've even crept up over 80 by now."

Ingrid

[what is that smirk? percept+no empathy, what are these things called 'emotions'?]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (6, 7, 7) ( success x 3 )

Erich

[It's sort of a "I see what you did there" smirk. It's also sort of a holding-back-saying-something smirk. There's kind of an edge of flirtation to it; he feels a certain chemistry with her right now, which he's pretty aware is a Bad Idea, but then at the same time he thinks being aware of it means he can keep it from getting out of hand. So he's rather daring at the moment.]

Ingrid

Her gaze drops briefly down to that smirk, then lifts to meet his eyes again. The connections she makes from what she sees there make her smile just a little wider.

"By the time you finish that plate you'll be positively average."

Erich

"Maybe I'll go back for another, then. Clean up the table. End up Einstein."

Her eating has slowed. His hasn't. He's steadily marching across his plate, leaving desolation in his wake. The ribs are all gone. The ham's getting demolished. The turkey, despite it being turkey day, has remained relatively safe from the onslaught. For now.

"Let me know, huh?" A gulp of coke, and then he elaborates: "If you end up joining that pack after all. I might if you did."

Like it's a junior high extracurricular club or something.

Ingrid

From the start, her eating hasn't been very fast. Her assault on her food has been slow, methodical, and thorough. There are still a couple of taquitos on her plate when she starts in on the nachos and cheese. Maybe on her second go she'll try more traditional Thanksgiving fare. More than likely that will consist of more odd combinations that just don't quite make sense to her dining companion.

His last comment stops her just as she's about to put another chip in her mouth. Her head tilts in an animalistic display of curiosity. "Really?"

Erich

"I might," he replies. "No promises."

Ingrid

She studies him a moment longer, considering him. Like she said, he's not a closed book. That doesn't mean she comprehends what's written on his pages.

"Alright." And she goes back to eating.

Erich

Conversation tapers off there. They eat. At some point Erich goes back for more - a refill of food, of drink. At some point conversation resumes, but the subject of packs past or future doesn't come up again.

And at some point, gorged, Erich throws in the towel. Likely by then Ingrid's been done for some time. Likely by then the tables around them have cleared out, unable to bear Ingrid's coldness, Erich's rage. The diner's staff aren't sorry to see them go when they finally get up, head out.

Out on the sidewalk Erich zips his hoodie up to the center of his sternum. He can see her car parked right there. Doesn't ask her for a ride, though. "Thanks for coming out," he says. "Maybe we'll do Christmas in a month. Try not to die out there."

Ingrid

In the time it takes Erich to gorge himself, Ingrid has gotten another couple of plates. They're just as light as the first, and come with equally strange combinations, the sort an ordinary person might not have chosen. She tries them out of curiosity, like she's never been to a place like Miguel's before, or she's never eaten these things, or for eight bucks she's decided to experiment.

By the time they leave, the rain has lightened to a drizzle, light enough that Ingrid does not open her umbrella, but lets the moisture ruin her hair. She doesn't seem to care at this point.

Luckily, her all of her car's parts are still intact, despite its luxury being such a prime target in this area. It's a Thanksgiving miracle.

She smiles, inclining her head rather than using her words to say You're welcome. Her last words to him are, "You, too." Then her heels are clicking on the pavement away from him, toward her car, and the night ahead of her.