a sight for sore eyes.

Erich

Drew's in Georgetown. Maybe she's there for work; maybe she's there to catch a movie, buy a book, have a cup of coffee. Whatever the reason, that's where Erich finds her. Garou seem to have that ability: that rather disconcerting knack for pinpointing a person of interest and simply showing up wherever the hell they are.

Or, in Erich's case: pulling up. As in, pulling up to the curb. He's got wheels again. His wheels are now painted white, and its racing stripes are now black. Its license plates are registered in Washington, DC. It's rolling along at three or five miles an hour, just inching along the curb where Drew's walking, and the passenger's side window is rolling down and Erich, like an ass, is hollering out the window at her:

"Hey, baby! Daaaamn, aren't you a sight for sore eyes! Yow!"

Drew Roscoe

While Drew worked dominantly out of the comfort of her own home, Erich had become used to the fact that at least once every other week (sometimes more often than that) the Kinfolk had to drive her big black-cherry truck into the city proper and attend meetings, give mini-presentations to management... boring run-of-the-mill stuff like that which served no higher purpose other than paying bills and hoarding money for a rainy day.

Today she had left her house somewhere in the early morning and had been in at some tall office building or another in the business center of the city for the better part of the day. By the time she was done and had escaped the conversations that nabbed her on her way out the door ("Miss Roscoe! There's this glitch that's been reported..." "Drew Roscoe! Just the woman I was looking for. Here are the latest updates we need launched...") the sun had gone down and it was time for dinner. So, deciding 'screw it, I'm already here', Drew bought a sandwich at a cafe and took it with her to the tourist magnet and historical heart of the city-- Georgetown.

She'd parked in the lot of a closed business several blocks away to avoid paying for parking and was walking wherever her feet wanted to take her. She was wearing a pair of black mid-calf boots over a pair of thick gray stockings with a slate gray peacoat covering up anything else that she might be wearing (probably a skirt or dress, given the small slip of loose black fabric that hung an inch or so below the hem of her coat). She ate while she walked, and had just taken the last bite of sandwich and was wadding up the paper it came in when a car began creeping along the curb at the back of her shoulder.

A whoop and a cat call came from the window. Drew didn't bother to look up-- she spent plenty of time in Chicago and lived in the rougher parts of the city (because she wanted to be near the pack she supported and loved, of course). She'd figured the best way to dismiss guys like this.

Without missing a step, slowing, or looking back, Drew lifted her hand and displayed her middle finger over her shoulder. Outright ignoring made you look like a victim. Turning to look and yell at them let them know they had your attention and got you riled up. A casual flying bird usually yielded the best results-- a chuckle, a tire squeal, and a car taking off with a rev of its engine just to show off on the way out.

Erich

She gets an engine rev for that, all right. Not to peel out. Just to make noise. A series of three, in fact, from a low growl to a rumbling scream of RPMs under the hood.

"Well, come on, sugartits," yells Drew's admirer, quite undeterred, "if you're gonna make an offer like that you oughta at least take a look, make sure there's somethin' you like over here."

Drew Roscoe

A younger Drew Roscoe would take the opportunity to prove a point. She'd take the handgun from her back holster and level it on the driver of the car. She wouldn't shake or waver, her eyes wouldn't be wild with fear, she wouldn't be shrill and shout for them to leave her alone. Those were all signs of a girl that keeps a gun in her purse because it's intimidating. What Drew would do is make a show of the fact that she knew full well how to use her weapons, and that she had no problems doing so.

Now, though, she was a little older, a little wiser, and not so easy to provoke. So instead of drawing a weapon and making a scene there in the middle of the street, the Kinfolk took the quieter route and simply stopped walking. Her shoulders moved with a sigh, the crumpled up ball of sandwich paper was tucked into her pocket, and she turned to look at the white car and whoever was inside, expression nothing but worn-thin patience and 'what the fuck do you want?'.

The blond man behind the wheel with the wide smirk on his face was instantly recognized, and everything about Drew relaxed-- shoulders, hands, face, all of it. It seemed the very air around her stopped buzzing with irritation and stand-offishness when an identity was placed to the man behind the wheel.

Replacing the exasperated demeanor came a half-cocked smile that was edging its way closer to a grin as the moments passed.

"Sugartits? You couldn't even go for Apple Ass, or something else a little closer to truth?"

Erich

Erich is, in fact, guilty as charged: he's smirking, and that smirk breaks into an ear to ear grin as he's caught redhanded. Apple Ass, she suggests. He bursts into laughter.

"Well," he protests, "I was under a bit of pressure to come up with a good retort. Can't expect the best under those circumstances, now can you. Just be glad I didn't holler Pussy Galore atcha."

His seatbelt whisks out as he leans across to push the door open for her. "I'm all repainted," he says, as though perhaps she hadn't noticed. "Hop on in, plum boobs."

Drew Roscoe

"Pussy Galore would've at least won you creativity points."

Erich's laughing, and Drew's chuckling along with. The heavy door of the muscle car was tossed open, and the Kinfolk took the opportunity to play about with the Shadow Lord for a moment. Rather than simply getting into the car, as she was beckoned to do, Drew stood up on the curb and hung one of her arms over the top of the open door. One hip cocked, and she leaned forward in a way that would show plenty of cleavage if she was wearing something low cut and not a heavy peacoat.

"Well, Big Boy, just where do you intend on taking me?"

Erich

"Christ on a bagel, girl. Minus ten thousand pop culture points. Pussy Galore is a sixties Bond Girl. Like, one of the archetypal ones.

"And," he continues, "we're obviously going to find a Redbox now. So we can rent Goldfinger and get you properly acquainted with sixties sexism. And maybe after that you can bake me a cake in a nice little apron. And nothing else."

He couldn't get smirkier if he tried.

Drew Roscoe

Seduction was never Drew's strong point. This isn't to say that she couldn't be sexy when she wanted to, Erich new that already first-hand. It was more that she was terrible at using sex appeal as a tool (or instrument, depending on who you asked). If ever she tried it came across as awkward. More often than not she was perceived as being 'adorable', her hair was ruffled, and the attempted illusion was broken.

The same basic concept applied here. Drew was only playing around, trying to imitate a lady of the night striking a deal with a customer, but when Erich educated her on James Bond movies and who the iconic Bond Girl was the act dropped like an egg on the floor and Drew bent forward more, but now just to climb inside the car. All of the heat from inside the vehicle was probably pouring out into the night for every second the door was left open, after all.

"Well sor-ee for not having brushed up on my Trivial Pursuit, Double-Oh-Seven Edition before headed to work this morning." The door was pulled closed behind her, and Drew reflexively reached back for the seat belt and buckled herself in.

"I drove here, just so you know. I'd rather not leave my truck in a salon parking lot overnight." Once successfully buckled, Drew looked up at Erich and flashed a small smile, then pressed her bare hands to the heat vents to warm them up. Her cheeks and nose were flushed red from the cool brisk breeze outside in the thirty-something degree weather. "Did you just happen to be in the area, or what?"

Erich

Well; she thinks she sucks at seduction. But then she ducks into the car and he reaches over and his hand wraps warm and strong behind her neck; he pulls her forward and kisses her good and hard while the door hangs ajar.

When he lets her go, she buckles herself in and he laughs under his breath, glancing into the rearview mirror. "I bet people think I just picked up a hooker," he says. "An inordinately hot one. Who's going to bake me a cake 80% naked."

She lays down terms: her truck! Parked here! He slides her a sidelong, crooked smile. "Don't worry. If it gets stolen I'll get it back for ya." A shake of his head, then: "Nah. I tracked you down." This time his look is more direct. "Do you mind?"

Drew Roscoe

She'd only just settled into the seat and turned back from having reached for her seatbelt, and Erich was quite a lot closer than what he had been a second ago, leaned across the center panel to wrap a large, warm hand about the back of her neck and direct her face to his. Eyebrows hopped up on her face in surprise, but relaxed fast enough. She kissed back, naturally, holding his upper arm while he held her neck, concluding with a small nip at his lower lip when he leaned back into his own seat.

Then she's mentioning her truck, and he's smiling at her all sly, telling her not to worry about it. She rubbed her hands together, warming them further with friction, then pressed her palms to the red apples of her cheeks to warm them up as well.

"Alright, if you say so," she relented after a few seconds of thought. Given the slight furrow between her eyebrows she was rather untrusting of the idea of leaving her vehicle abandoned in a parking lot, but Erich said he'd take care of it. She'd give him that. Either way, if all else failed she could find a way back into the city tomorrow to fetch it herself. For now they had other things to do, like watch Bond movies and bake cakes.

His focus pinpoints on her again, a little more direct this time, more sincere. He said that he'd tracked her, wanted to know if that bothered her. She didn't even pause to think about her answer. "Nah. I'm pretty used to it-- being found whenever a Cousin needs me for something. It's how you guys do. Between that and the spirits helping, I'm pretty sure I'm impossible to lose completely."

Erich

This time his smile is fainter -- and yes, more sincere. "Yeah," he agrees. "Not much privacy either though. And you Fenrir are a fierce independent lot. Hate being kept on a leash or under a microscope." He thinks a moment. "Not that the Shadow Lord kin like it any better, I bet. But they're better at hiding stuff like that."

The turn signal ticks quietly. Erich glances over his shoulder, and then pulls into traffic. As the Mustang cruises down the road about ten miles under speed limit, Erich raises his hips and digs in his back pocket for his phone. It's a smartphone -- not an apple, nor one of the latest and greatest, but serviceable and inexpensive and capable of accessing google maps. He tosses it to Drew.

"Find us a redbox, will you?"

Drew Roscoe

The convesation switches to the rights of Kinfolk, and how little Fenrir versus Shadow Lord Kinfolk like being under the microscope, and how they deal with it in different ways. Drew just returned the smile, a quick flash of a thing, and warmed her hands on the vents again only to press her palm to the tip of her nose this time. It's amusing to watch, and oddly casual and comfortable given the gravity of the story she was about to tell.

"I can't be mad at being watched. It's saved my life too often. Got kin-napped once, myself and a friend of mine. Taken out to this old horse stable way outside the city, left in the straw and cuffed up to a wall. I have a good idea of what would've happened, but don't care to dwell on it, had some good Garou not been keeping tabs and paying mind when a pair of Kinfolk didn't come home.

"I don't like being put under the microscope? But I sure don't mind having tabs kept on my whereabouts."

Then, out into traffic. Erich's driving particularly slow, steering with one hand so that he can dig his phone out of his back pocket and toss (why the hell not hand?) it to her. Drew fumbled the catch just a little, but recovered before the phone had a chance to drop between the seats or some other place equally inconvenient. "Sure thing," she said, and navigated his phone with only a few pauses along the way to determine what app did what and where to find them.

Erich

There's a bit of a quiet while Drew looks up the nearest DVD rental box and Erich drives. Rather aimlessly, really, since he doesn't know where to go yet. He doesn't mind. It's warm in the car. They're by the water. The lights are pretty. He's thinking, anyway.

"That why you got kinda tense when I hollered at you?" This, some time later. He glances at her again, one hand hooked loosely through the bottom of the wheel. "A history of bad stuff happening unexpectedly?"

Erich

[YOUR FACE IS UP. STUPID JOVE.]

Drew Roscoe

There's quiet in the car, and the both of them are okay with it. Drew has warmed up sufficiently, the water front was pretty to look at, the lights were nice, and the historical monuments, while mere blips in human history, were still impressive in their own ways. Drew's head was down, thumbs working the smartphone, one hand taking pause to tuck her hair back behind her left ear before resuming work.

The quiet was interrupted only long enough for Drew to give Erich instructions on where the nearest Redbox was-- about seven blocks over at a grocery store. With that said, their mutual silence was comfortable enough that they sank back into it like a cushion.

A bit more time passed, two stoplights worth at least, before Erich inquired about her reaction to being called at out a car and the reasons behind it. To this Drew just grinned a little, the expression loose and careless. "Oh no. That happened when I let myself be duped. Fellow was off to the side of the road-- it was about this time three years ago that it happened, December and all. Looked like his truck broke down. I stopped to help, and they sprung the trap.

"I've just lived life as a girl for a while now. Catcalls out car windows start happening as soon as hips and boobs start happening. It happens a lot, regardless. Was considerably less fun in Bronzeville, but..." She shrugged her shoulders and, upon realizing she was still holding his phone, offered it back to him. "Whaddaya do? Being a Kinfolk takes you all the places that the Garou like to go. We gotta be there for you all."

Erich

Erich finds it vaguely amusing that Drew makes the distinction of how she got jumped by strangers in a car, rather than whether or not she's been jumped at all. His lips twitch. Then he sobers. That's not very funny at all, he decides.

"You have my number, right?" He takes his phone back, dropping it in one of the storage nooks on the door. "Just in case your trouble-prone self gets jumped again?"

Drew Roscoe

"Yeah, I've got it," she advised him casually. She wasn't paying enough attention to notice how his mouth struggled to hold back a grin and a giggle (and succeeded, because as it turned out thinking about a Kinfolk you like warming your bed and spending time with being kidnapped and shackled up in a horse stable isn't very funny at all).

"Although, not going to lie to you, the cellphone is usually the first thing they take away." She joked about this with a grin, but there was a heavy iron nail of truth in the fact. It hung in the air for a moment before she chuckled and reached across the center console to lay a hand on the top of Erich's thigh, halfway between hip and knee.

"Erich, you don't have to worry about me too much. I don't go many places without a gun, and not to toot my own horn or anything, but I didn't get deeded Long-Shot for nothing. I'm no Garou, but I can typically survive the Monsters Coming At You storm just fine."

Erich

"Well," he retorts, "put my number on speeddial and hit it before they take it away."

When she touches him, he doesn't expect it. Somehow despite all the time they've spent together, all they've done, he still doesn't quite think of her as ... well, his in any sense. He doesn't quite feel like this -- her, touching him like this -- is something he's allowed to take for granted.

His thigh flexes infinitesimally beneath her hand. Then he relaxes. Glances down. Sets his hand over hers, covers hers, wraps his fingers around the side of her palm.

"I know you're tougher than your average kingirl, Drew," he says quietly. "But I also know you're too smart to think having a gun will save you from everything out there. Or that it'll save you from even a tenth of what's out there.

"Or," he adds a moment later, quieter still, "that telling me repeatedly that you can take care of yourself is gonna make me worry any less about you."

Drew Roscoe

"I could regale you with stories of my glory?" She grinned, and the expression was still strong and reassuring, a lighthouse in a storm. It was steady, and while this situation didn't call for somebody to be a rock it was easy to imagine that she would have been for the other Kinfolk that was kidnapped with her in the brief, undetailed story she'd just told. It's easy to imagine her stretching a scratched and bruised leg out to touch a toe to the other Kinfolk's knee, to flash a bloody-toothed smile that was as ferocious as it was manic-- Don't you worry. They're on their way. We're fine, we'll be fine.

"I know a gun won't save me from anything. But I've saved my own ass with it several times. I've saved more than a few other Kinfolk. I've killed more than one Black Spiral Dancer.

"But I've nearly died because of a surprise knife in the belly. I've been captured. I've been nearly ripped off the earth and into the sky by wind-demons and razorblades. I've only barely escaped a couple of Spiral Dancers and nearly blacked out driving to a safe haven that they followed me to.

"I'll put you on speed dial. I'll keep my phone close as I do my guns. But this city? It's not nearly so much trouble as Chicago ever was. I've only had to defend my life once since I moved here." This is concluded with that same grin, with a dash of dark humor sprinkled in.

Erich

Drew's tales of her own bravery -- surprisingly modest, considering her tribe and the fine art a good portion of them have made of boasting -- draw only a faint, sidelong smile from Erich. It's when she gets into all the many ways she could have and nearly did die that the smile fades. She's somewhere between knife in the gut and wind-demons and razorblades when he interrupts her, grimacing:

"Okay." It's quiet, but firm; he means it. "You've made your point. There's nothing worse than hearing about an atrocity you can't change, and there's nothing more unchangeable than the past. You've been through a lot and lived to tell the tale. I understand that, and I respect it. But it still makes my blood run cold to hear all about it.

"Put me on your speeddial," he reiterates, even after she's agreed to. "It'll make me feel better, at least.

Drew Roscoe

The description of how dangerous being a Kinfolk living in Chicago is was cut short by the Shadow Lord behind the wheel. He understood what she was saying, said he respected all that she's survived, but didn't like to hear about it. Drew's eyebrows furrowed only a little, only for a moment, in confusion and apprehension. She was used to sharing battle scars and war stories, they were the kinds of things told over a crackling fire with marshmallows and some sort of liquor or another. That Erich didn't like hearing about these things was something different from what Drew was accustomed to and expecting, particularly from an Ahroun, but she complied with his request that she speak no more on the subject.

"Alright," she gave, and pulled her own smartphone from her coat pocket. A few buttons were tapped, and a dozen seconds later her phone chirped some sound of confirmation and she put it back into her pocket.

Having been in the car for more than a few minutes with the heater on was starting to make her coat feel a little warm, so she unbuttoned it and pushed it back. Underneath the coat she was wearing a simple black dress, short sleeved with a modest neckline that was cut just low enough to flash collarbone and a bit of chest, but no cleavage whatsoever. She knew how to dress herself attractively for business, and it was a wonder where she got that from considering she only grew up with a father.

"...So, you don't like swapping battle stories, then? Makes you anxious to know that Kinfolk get mixed up just like you guys, despite best efforts made by guardians all around?"

Erich

Erich glances at Drew as she unbuttons her coat. He dials the heat down a notch or two, but not so far that she'll get cold. He's in a t-shirt, himself, his hoodie nowhere to be seen for once.

The silence goes on a while. It's not entirely comfortable; he's glad when she breaks it, even if what she says makes his mouth twist ruefully.

"It's not that. I'm not one to brag on and on about past glories, but I'll gladly share a beer and a tale with another warrior. You're -- kin, though. And I like you. When you tell me shit like that, I don't hear a great story. I hear about all the ways you might've died before I ever met you. And then I wouldn't even have a memory to cherish or a lover to avenge.

"It's a cryin' shame, that sort of loss."

Drew Roscoe

"Well..." Drew's tone is a little hesitant, but Erich knows that she's going to say whatever she's contemplating anyway. She's just trying to figure out the best way to put it.

"....How do you think we Kinfolk feel when we fall for a Garou? I've already lost one Mate. God knows how many more there'll be by the time I go myself."

Erich

There's a bit of hesitation on his end too. Eventually he replies, just as quietly, "That's a pain I can't help you with. Wish I could, but I can't. But getting mixed up in war..."

He pauses too. He does what she did: tries to find a way to word it. Meanwhile they've meandered on over to the address Drew found -- it's some supermarket, the parking lot swarming with minivan moms pushing carts. Erich parks toward the back of the lot, where there are plenty of open spaces. He doesn't kill the engine yet, nor move to get out.

"I guess I see it like this," he says. "Garou are made to get caught up in war. To fight it and die in it. Kin are ... made to survive that. And carry on. I can bear the thought of fighting my whole life and dying horribly at the end. I don't know that I can bear surviving while the people that matter to me die, though."

An exhale. He flexes his hands on the wheel, looks at her. "So don't make me have to do that, okay? Be careful out there."

Drew Roscoe

The muscle car that Erich drove bumped its way over the sidewalk in entering the mouth of the grocery store parking lot, then swung into one of many empty spaces in the back of the parking lot. Drew looked out the window, gauged how busy the place was, and even took a moment to smile and give a small wave to a tiny kindergarten-aged boy staring at the car as their mom walked with them back to the car with a shopping cart full of bagged groceries.

The engine didn't cut away, not just yet. It maintained its low rumble, more a vibration than a background noise in the passenger seat. Erich kept his hands wrapped about the steering wheel, eyes forward while he expressed what Garou are made to endure as opposed to what Kinfolk are made to endure. He asked that she not make them switch roles, not in this, and looked over to her to ask that she be careful. Drew's answering smile is sweet and sad both, the expression of someone who is all to familiar with loss, to the point that most would have to be calloused against it. Yet there is nothing condescending or mean or tough when she moves her hand to rub his upper arm affectionately.

"You and I both know we can't make promises about who's gonna survive the longest. But--" she unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned across the center console to bring her face nearer to his. Unless intercepted, she planted a kiss at his hairline, near his temple. If intercepted, she was perfectly happy to kiss his mouth instead. "--I guarantee I'm careful as careful can be.

"...Now, what am I renting for us again?"

Erich Reinhardt

Erich accepts that kiss for what it is: a tender, sweet little thing. His eyes close briefly; he leans into that touch the way any animal would. It's when she starts to draw back that he turns his head and catches her mouth again: a deeper kiss, slower.

They draw apart. He smiles wryly. "Anything but rom-coms," he says. "But Goldfinger oughta be one of your rentals."

He gets out of the car when she does, walking with her to the front of the store. There they part ways, though. She goes to the redbox to select a movie or three. He goes into the store to grab some packets of microwave popcorn, some sodas, some candy. A proper movie night, this.

When he comes out, plastic bag rustling in the wind, he finds her picking up her selections from the dispensary on the Redbox. His arm comes around her shoulders; he gives her a squeeze. "Ready?"

Drew Roscoe

The kiss to the temple was accepted for what it was-- sweet, warm, comforting. All the things a Kinfolk was supposed to be (except that she was a Fenrir Kinfolk, and therefore had to be strong and infatiguable as well). He caught her as lips left his skull and pressed a deeper, slower kiss to her mouth. This one was felt in the belly as well as the heart, and had Drew exhaling a silent sigh when they broke apart.

Anything but rom-coms. These are the terms that Erich sets for what movies Drew will pick out. She grinned a bit at him and buttoned her coat back up while quipping: "Even if it was me alone with just a bucket of ice cream and a cat to keep me company, it would never be a rom-com."

So, Erich would go into the store and Drew would get into the two-person line in front of the RedBox to select a movie. By the time Erich comes out with a plastic grocery bag of basic movie-viewing snacks, Drew is collecting a pair of DVDs from the machine. His arm went about her shoulders and gave a squeeze, and Drew leaned her weight into his side, tucked her shoulder to the side so her chest met his ribs, and in doing so turned a simple squeeze to a one-armed hug instead.

"Ready." And, with that said, she'd turn to start walking back to the car. A young mother with her baby bundled up in a snowsuit to fight the cold of the night dodged them and walked faster to get into the store, away from Erich and the pillar of supernatural murder that everyone knew instinctively that he was. Drew's eyes followed this woman and the apple-cheeked face of the baby over her shoulder for a moment or so, but when the store doors slid closed the Kinfolk turned and started walking.

Erich Reinhardt

The truth is Erich's not a bad man. He's not evil. He has a temper -- that much is true, even if Drew has never seen it fully directed at her (...yet. such statements always come with a yet when Garou and Kin are invoved) -- but he's not vicious at heart. He's not sadistic. Still, a hundred thousand years of ancestral memory tell the humans different. They don't come near him. They can't stand to; don't want to.

Drew's eyes follow the young mother and her baby. Perhaps she has her reasons. Erich's eyes don't -- he has his.

They get back to the car, and since he's still next to her, he's a gentleman: he unlocks her door for her and opens it, shutting it after she's tucked her legs in. Then he circles around, climbing in himself. There's some residual warmth left in the car. It seems to increase when he gets in, his size and his rage and his presence a burn in the air.

"If you're really worried about your car," he offers, "we can go get it. But I think it'll be fine."

Drew Roscoe

Drew didn't think Erich was a bad man. Quite the contrary, she was surprised by how nice he was. This was a Shadow Lord Ahroun, after all. Born of the Get of Fenris, he left a bloodline that made for strong warriors and found a tribe that was cool and cutthroat instead. With those elements in consideration, he should be impossible to like, really. But here he was, not questioning that Drew was eyeballing mommies and babies, opening the passenger door for her and closing it behind her on top of that.

"Not really worried, per-say. It's just inconvenient finding a way to get back and gather it-- but I'm pretty sure Josie works in the city, I could catch a ride in with her one morning. It'll be fine." She cast a small grin across the car to him. "Besides, it's a nicer drive with someone to make it with you."

Once back inside the car, Drew crossed her ankles and stretched her legs out into the space under the glove box. She set the DVDs in her lap, tucked between her legs just above the knees, and settled her hands on either side of them. She'd wait for him to start up the car and get on their way again. Once on the road, she'd pipe up with a new topic of conversation.

"So, Josie tells me that there's some trouble with the Triat in my area. Sterling Fisk and the Wyrm and Weaver at its back, plus apparently the Wyld is somehow appearing as energy pockets and causing mayhem all its own. What do you know about all this?"

Erich Reinhardt

"Oh jeez," Erich says, "you don't have to beg a ride. I'll drive you back tomorrow."

They settle; he drives. His mind's on Josie. His mind's on the rest of her tribe. He's quiet, immersed in his own thoughts -- and then she speaks and he blinks. A pause.

"Absolutely nothing." At least he's honest about it. "I'm not really the 'involved' sort. You know that. What'd she tell you for though? They expecting the kin to feel some backlash too or something?"

Drew Roscoe

Erich admitted that he didn't have any idea of what Drew was talking about, and asked if Josie told her because he thought there would be a big backlash against the Kinfolk as a result of these developments. Drew shrugged her shoulders at his question. "Well, what doesn't have backlash against us? Hell, a new.... what's the word... Grand Elder could take place at the local Sept and that would affect us.

"But, yeah. Apparently that company that's trying to step in and have a hand in rebuilding and developing Browntown and the surrounding area? Weavery company, and apparently it's sending out weird transmissions and bringing big bad monsters with it on the Other Side. Then there's the Wyld-energy pockets, and those things have claimed a Garou or two, though Josie didn't mention who. And on top of that, apparently the Smithsonian has a display that's got a bunch of Wyrm energy attached to it too, and they're worried that that's gonna cause some big problems sooner than later."

She paused, licking her lips, thought for a second, then continued: "Josie recommended I talk to the Deputy, and I'm probably gonna do just that. There's concerns that Sterling Fisk is getting... desperate, I guess. They're worried there may be an open attack on the town as a whole, in which case they'll need every hand possible to defend the land."

Erich Reinhardt

Erich smirks a bit. A glance in the rearview mirror; a change of lanes. They're heading out of the city again, out from the glitter and the glow, out into the darkness of the surrounding countryside.

"If I didn't know better," he says, "I'd think you were trying to call me to war, Miss Roscoe."

Drew Roscoe

Drew grew up in a small town, where there were street lamps spaced on the streets, but the buildings didn't get much taller than a few four-story offices downtown. She was comfortable enough with skyscrapers and bright lights glittering on the glass windows of very tall buildings, having lived in Chicago for as long as she did, but the dark of the countryside was nicer. It was arguable which was safer-- the wilderness or the city. If you asked Drew, there was no such thing as 'safer', because she knew that horrors could be found any place you could imagine.

Still, she was happy to prop an elbow up on the passenger door panel, at the bottom of the window, cup her chin in her hand and watch fields and farms and trees go by.

"Well, it is your place to be." She said this as casually as one might remark on a rainstorm visible on the horizon. It was with the slightest bit more caution that she added the next line. "I plan to be there, too."

They'd just had a conversation about how she should be careful, about how the Garou die young and the Kinfolk survived it and that was the way things were. However, she has quite obviously made up her mind on this. It wasn't asking, it was telling that she did just now.

"I can't just sit inside while others fight-- especially not when there's gonna be other Kinfolk there. I'm a better shot than most of them. More fit, more experienced. They'll need me there."

Erich Reinhardt

Your place. For the first time since -- since longer than either of them can remember, likely -- a frisson of irritation skims through Erich. His eyebrows draw together. He raises a restless hand, scuffs his knuckles over the tip of his nose.

"I've heard that one before," he mutters. " 'Your place'. I've been told all about my place in the tribe and the war, and when I wouldn't listen, my own family ran me out of town."

He stops there. Might be more to say, but the words run out, like a road stopping jagged at the edge of a cliff. His hands drop back to the wheel, squeeze; he forces relaxation into his fingers. Glances at her.

"Don't suppose I can talk you outta showing up with gun in hand."

Drew Roscoe

The irritation in Erich's tone is plain to see. It fizzles in the air, crackles electric. Rage was a curious thing, and varied from Garou to Garou. Some of them carried it like molten lava in their chests, and it would surface like magma from a volcanic hole in the earth. Some carried it like a mountain of ice, something cold and sharp and unbreakable that would chill you to the core if presented with its full force. For some it was wild electricity.

It didn't matter which brand Erich carried, because all Rage was harder to withstand in small spaces-- like the front of a car. Many would flinch away or be scalded by even the smallest rise of Rage like that what a Full Moon would carry. Drew, though? She's withstood plenty. That's not to say she's immune-- driving a strange Rage-burdened Modi from the city to the country was uncomfortable, his Rage was unfamiliar, she didn't know him well enough to know his handle of it. At that time she had to crack her window to get just enough fresh air to breathe, to remind herself that there was always a way out.

With Erich, though, she was familiar. She had a decent understanding of his self control, although she had never seen him in a full Rage, or in battle. So she did not shy away when his irritation flashed into existence and he griped about 'his place'. Rather, she stated calmly, flatly: "Erich, you're an Ahroun. You're a fighter. Don't be offended, okay? You knew what I meant..."

There was a blip of silence, and then Erich was half-asking if he could talk her out of combat. She grinned a little and shook her head, glancing back to him, then out the window once more.

"No, don't suppose you can. I'm not so special that other Kinfolk should be defending this land but I should be sitting it out. If anything, it's my job to be there. I'm from the Fenrir, after all. I'm pretty sure my Tribe would want to kick me out if I didn't show up."

Erich Reinhardt

"And what about me?" He's in no mood to grin. There's something restless about him; the words are deceptively light. "You gonna kick me out too if I don't show up?"

Drew Roscoe

Drew's eyebrows furrow together some, more with confusion than anything else. She dropped her elbow from the door, her hand from her chin, and turned in her seat to better look at Erich. She studied the profile of his face while he looked at the road, scowling and sullen very suddenly over her mention of 'his place' in the scheme of things. She bit her lower lip for a moment, unsure of how exactly to approach his question at first, but settled back into her seat once more and looked forward at the road as well.

"Do you actually think that's how it'll go? That I'm gonna scorn you for not being at one of many battles?"

She clucked her tongue once against the back of her teeth and squiggled in her seat some so that she could stick her hands in her coat pockets. "I'll switch the subject if you want, you just need to say so. I get why you left the Tribe. I accept that, it's not something I'm hung up on. I should be? Because I'm supposed to be with a good Fenrir man. But it's not at all what I'm worried about, Erich. I am curious, though.... Do you not like your own moon? 'Cause I remember us having a conversation over Mexican food about this, and you seemed pretty okay with being a warrior then.

"What are you worried about?"

Erich Reinhardt

It's a fair question. It's also one he barely knows the answer to himself. She has his profile - he won't look at her - and that profile is a hard, sealed thing. His mouth is a compressed line. His eyebrows are low over those crystalline eyes.

"I don't know," he says finally. "I like my moon fine. It's what I know and it's what I'm good at. I am good at it; I'm a good warrior." Perhaps there's a touch of defensiveness there. "And I don't shy from a good fight.

"But this -- I don't have a stake in this. I don't live in Browntown, not really. I'm not part of their Sept. I don't know these Fenrir, or anyone else I'd be fighting with. Fighting for. You're the only reason I'd be there, and -- "

He grapples visibly for words, concepts. Tries to explain it, as much to himself as anyone: "I'm not a part of that world out in Browntown. Even if I did fight for them, I'd be a stranger in their midst. I guess what I'm ... worried about, afraid of, is that sooner or later you're gonna see that. You're gonna see that you belong with them, and I don't."

Drew Roscoe

She sits still and quiet while Erich explains himself. She gives him whatever time he needs to find his words, shape them together, and speak them. She glanced over to his face every now and again, but did her best not to just stare at him and make him uncomfortable. He was, after all, baring honesty to her that many a man would not. He even used the word 'afraid' about himself-- something Garou in general didn't like doing.

Part of her wanted to reach for his hand, but a more intelligent part decided this was an inappropriate time for that, and it may come across as condescending. Her hands stayed in her lap instead.

"I've honestly yet to decide if I belong with them or not, myself. I want to. I want to be a part of this small community of Kinfolk rallied around their Garou and their Sept. I want the quaintness here. I want to know everyone at the grocery store and make friends and settle in to become a part of the community. It's only been a few months, granted, but I still don't really feel at home. I bought the house I'm in? I feel like I've rented it and am just waiting for the lease to run out before I can find somewhere else to go." She frowned some, voicing that concern. But it wasn't the focus, and it wasn't the point she was trying to make, so she moved on.

"I know you're more of a lone wolf. I know you drift from place to place, that you don't like settling in anywhere. This isn't a surprise to me, and I don't think I'm going to change it about you. I just... enjoy what time we have while we have it. I'm not here to try and shackle you down, Erich, and I'm not going to throw you aside when you don't want us to turn into what the Cutlers are. I'm not deluding myself. And I'm certainly not going to cast you aside for not defending territory that isn't yours.

"...I don't want you to think I'm as... shallow as that, okay?"

Erich Reinhardt

The impulse to reach for his hand is there. She resists. His hand flexes on the gearshift, though; perhaps the impulse to take her hand is there for him as well.

And then he does. Somewhere around the time she says she doesn't want to change him. Or maybe when she says she'll enjoy what time they have. That makes his brow furrow anew; a flicker of ache. That's when he reaches for her, taking her small hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"I know you're not," he says quietly. "It's not fair for me to feel like this. Hard habit to break, is all."

A few moments go by. They're quite far from the city now; the countryside is dark, the last of the streetlights behind them. The only light here comes from distant taillights some half-mile or more ahead of them, and their own headlights cutting an ever-changing path through the night.

"You talk like you're sure this is going to end," he adds, quiet.

Drew Roscoe

At some point in Drew's speaking about what she and Erich had and the dynamics of their relationship thus far, Erich reached across from his gearshift and took her hand in his. His thumb swept over her knuckles, and she smiled some, lightly, and curled her fingers about his, returning the show of affection.

He confessed it wasn't fair of him to get worked up over the subject, that he knew she wouldn't throw him away over something like the concept of territory and homeland pride. She nodded her agreement and understanding both, and they were left to drive in quiet for just a little while longer.

Then he pointed out that she spoke about their relationship as though she was certain it wasn't going to last. This drew a small smile on the Kinfolk's face, and she turned her head to look at him, to make the briefest eye contact before he had to look back to the road and she looked at their hands instead.

"Well, lone wolves don't like to settle. You want your freedom, not to be tied down, and I both understand and respect that. Me? I want to find someplace to call home and have kids and a family. I feel like that's gonna get in the way somewhere down the line. And that's not even bringing into account the fact that we need to talk to the Jarl now, too, and whatever laws he might wind up trying to lay down."

Erich Reinhardt

"Freedom doesn't mean not having a home to come back to," Erich says quietly. He hasn't let go of her hand yet. Kids, though. Cubs -- he can't say anything to that. It's so immense; so beyond anything he's bothered to think about, that it leaves him conspicuously silent.

"I should talk to your tribe alpha soon," he agrees, though. "We should, maybe. If we can figure out what to tell him." He glances at her -- the first time in some time now. "That we want to see where this goes. See it through to whatever end it comes to. Yeah?"

Drew Roscoe

"That's true," she mused quietly to his first statement about freedom and homes that you can come back to when the wanderlust has been sated. He doesn't talk about her mention of wanting children, though. That concept was huge, it was for everybody. She wouldn't ever press the subject.

He stated they should talk to her Jarl-- first stating he should, then saying they should, perhaps. "Yes, we," she added in the middle, but let him continue past that. He concluded, and glanced toward her, and asked if she agreed. She looked back, brown eyes finding and holding his very blue ones for perhaps a moment longer than what was safe when one of them was still driving, then smiled and squeezed his hand.

"That sounds exactly right."

And so the rest of the evening would go on. They would get back to Drew's house, and she'd reveal that she was unable to find Goldfinger but did find the Quantum of Solace Bond movie, placed to promote the new one out in theaters. That had been paired with some goofy horror flick about zombies. It was too late for baking, but Drew did return to the living room with popped popcorn with the apron on over the black dress she'd been wearing.

For such heavy conversations in the car, the night ended warm and comfortable after all.
They would confront responsibilities another day.