it'll be all the rage in milan this year.

Erich Reinhardt

U-Street: even the name sounds trendy. It's the sort of place where bars and clubs jostle nightly for the in-crowd, each outdoing the last in lighting, in sound system, in decor, in vibe. Established joints charge $20 covers on a regular night; somewhere north of a hundred if a noted DJ's going to spin. New clubs try hard to hook the business with low covers, cheap drinks, go-go dancers writhing around poles.

Doesn't really seem like the sort of place where you'd find Erich, in short. But there he is anyway, sitting atop the hood of his '99 Mustang. His feet are planted apart on the bumper. The license plate is new, and it's registered in DC. The paint is new too. It's white. The racing stripes are black, raking back over the hood and the roof and the trunk.

He's eating ice cream. A cone. He's enjoying the fuck out of it.

Ingrid

It's not cold enough to keep people from going out to the clubs, not even on a weeknight. The streets are still teeming with humans, the air ripe with their stench. Despite the smell and the jostle of warm, filthy bodies, Ingrid is out among them. Well, not exactly among them. She's in the crowd, in a bubble, the mortals unwilling to get to close to the exotic looking Asian woman. Despite her perfectly coiffed dark hair, swept up from her neck and back from her face in an elegant twist, or the cut of her fine wool coat, or the style of her heels, she is the animal. The humans can all but smell the animal musk of a predator radiating out from her.

She leaves them be for now. Her gait is sure, though not determined. This is not an ordinary stroll, but wherever she is headed, she's not in any hurry to get there.

Which is why when she a familiar man sitting on an unfamiliar vehicle, she alters her trajectory to intercept.

"Fancy seeing you here," she greets when she's closer, full lips curved into a smile.

Erich Reinhardt

"Fancy that indeed," he replies, only he's busy licking his ice cream cone, so what comes out is closer to:

fan'ee 'at in'ee'.

Crunch. His teeth go through the edge of the waffle cone. The ice cream appears to be mixed flavors: three scoops, one butter pecan, one mint, one strawberry shortcake. Erich doesn't stop just for chatter's sake. Bits of baked waffle crumbs fly out of his mouth as he adds, "Out for a little nightlife, princess?"

Ingrid

A brow quirks at the bits of crumb that fly from his mouth, but her gaze doesn't linger on his mouth. Instead, it shifts to the cone itself, an indication of an emotion that may be surprising, considering how she's presented herself to the Ahroun in meetings past.

"Of course," is her answer. "What else is there to do in this shit hole after dark?"

Erich Reinhardt

"Killing shit is also a popular pastime amongst our people," Erich retorts, "or so I hear."

He slides off the hood of the car. Or rather, he springs off of it: pushing off one hand, flat of palm rolling to pads of fingers, and off. It's an agile motion, all coiled strength. His work boots hit the asphalt. The topmost ice cream scoop threatens to fall, but doesn't. Good thing too. Ingrid wouldn't want to see a grown wolf cry.

"Come on." He nods at the busiest club he can see: the one with the longest line, the biggest bouncers, the prettiest girls wearing the shortest skirts. "You can be my ticket. Always easier to get into clubs if you're with a hot chick."

Ingrid

She shifts her weight, one arm resting lightly over her midsection, outwardly a perfect image of calm, cool, and aloof. But there was a spark in her dark eyes at mention of killing things. The huntress in her stirring. It does not fade when Erich vaults off the car, somehow saving his ice cream from death on the pavement.

Following his gaze, she smiles in the direction of the line. He calls her a hot chick, and it has no outward affect on her. If he looks closely, there's no inward one, either. Either she's very much aware of her beauty, or she doesn't care. Given that it's Ingrid, and given that it's Erich, it could very well be both.

"Are you taking that in with you?" she asks, nodding to the ice cream cone.

Erich Reinhardt

"You think they're gonna stop me?" It's an answer of sorts.

They muscle their way to the front of the line. Or rather, Erich muscles. Just bulls right through. They're well-matched in this. He gets impatient line-standers to give up their primacy with very little complaint. The bouncer's frowning at him when he gets there. He's got a secret weapon: he steps aside, lets the slender woman in his wake come forward.

"I'm with her," Erich says, and smirks. "We're sort of a package deal."

Ingrid

They don't look like they would be together. Ingrid is dressed like this place was her destination all along. Maybe it was. And Erich is, well, Erich. The Ahroun is brutish, the Ragabash elegant, and yet there is something that binds them, makes them fit like two pieces of a horrifying and gruesome puzzle.

Ingrid steps forward, relaxed but superior. When the bouncer looks wary, she threads her arm through Erich's - the one not holding ice cream that could dribble down her fancy coat - and she smiles. It is her most pleasant smile, which isn't very pleasant at all to mortals.

"He's mine."

The bouncer looks askance at them, but they need more women like her inside, beautiful and unattainable. Men will buy her drinks, and whether she drinks them or not, that's still money in their pockets. He steps back, making way for them amidst groans of unfairness from voices several people back. Those in the front? They're happy to see the pair go.

Erich Reinhardt

No, they're not very much like each other at all. In fact, they're about as diametrically opposed as one can imagine. He's big and muscular. She's not short, but he makes her seem small. He's the sort of blond-and-blue that's rarely seen this far south. Her hair is the color of night. He's dressed like he might actually work in those jeans, like he might actually kick shit around with those boots. She's dressed -- well. To go clubbing.

They have something in common though. They have a certain predatory cast to their features, sharp and lean. They have a certain asshole quality to their behavior, barging up to the front like that, linking arms and proclaiming their superior togetherness like those plastics you really fucking hated in high school. And: they're both smirking. Or well. Ingrid's trying to give a pleasant smile. It's a smirk anyway. Erich isn't even trying.

They get nodded in. He crunches into his ice cream cone again, then lifts it up to suck melting ice cream out of the soggifying bottom. A short flight of stairs takes them down into a half-basement, dark, lit in red. Two girls in tiny skirts are exchanging money for handstamps there. Erich gets his stamp on his wrist. Some giggling college girl that goes after him wants hers on the swell of her breast. He doesn't pass up the chance to look.

Then it's through a door, into the first level. The room is just shy of cavernous. The ceiling is four or five stories up; balconies full of dancers, minglers, wallflowers and watchers jut out at odd intervals. Lasers and strobes make the atmosphere surreal, leave faces a blur. A wall of bass reaches out and sucks them right in. It vibrates the floor under their feet, shakes their lungs in their ribcages. Erich leans down to yell in Ingrid's ear, and she can barely hear him:

"Go have some fun. I'll find you later when I'm good and drunk."

Ingrid

Ingrid finds the coat check and sheds from her outer layer. Beneath she's wearing what one might expect of a beautiful woman gone to the club. Her dress is cut low enough to expose a great deal of that sword tattooed into her sternum, the skirt high enough that with those heels there's an illusion of legs longer than they really are. The fabric is clingy, accentuating the curves the woman barely has.

Her stamp goes on the inside of her wrist. Tonight, Erich doesn't have to lean as far to reach her ear. She leans closer to him, tilts her head, the angle better for her to hear him of course. A slight shift, and she's looking at him from the corner of eyes black as pitch in this light. Her expression is easy enough to read: Like I need your permission? Not even trying to lift her voice above the heavy thrum of music that vibrates through to the marrow of her bones, she lifts a hand, wiggles her fingers at him, and leaves. They separate, each in search of their respective prey. Ingrid's is a drink, one she has absolutely no intention of paying for herself.

Erich Reinhardt

So they part ways, three minutes after getting in the door. The last she sees of Erich is his broad back disappearing into the crowd. That could be the end of the story.

Hours go by. She explores, or maybe she doesn't. The place is huge. The look is postmodern industrial. Multiple staircases spiral up the corners. Not all of them stop at all the levels. There seems to be a bar around every corner, and all of them are full of guys all too eager to buy her drinks. The music changes as the night goes on, and so does the crowd,

and then it's 3am, and it's hardstyle hammering out of the speakers, and the headliner is packing it up and a good portion of the crowd is leaving with him. Through the thinning crowd Ingrid can spot her tribesman again: he's sprawled on couches that are marked VIP, but the bouncers stopped trying to enforce that halfway through the night. There's a blacklight overhead, and it makes his t-shirt appear to glow. There's no drink in his hand, but there must be more than a few in his system. Sensing eyes on him, he lolls his head to the side; his eyes sweep the crowd lazily before they pin onto Ingrid.

A moment goes by. Then he makes the effort: gets up off the couch, all lazy and loose-boned, comes down the few steps from that cordoned-off area down to the smaller floor on this level. Crosses it, weaving between hardcore dancers strutting their stuff on the floor, finds her wherever she is.

"Have fun?" He doesn't even bother bending this time. After hours of noise, you get used to shouting. It doesn't seem to even take him much effort to bellow in the general vicinity of the side of her head.

Ingrid

Ingrid does explore. She gets that drink, and another. Then she spends a great deal of time on the dance floor. Sometimes someone is brave or drunk enough to join her, touch her, slide up against her, and sometimes she lets them. Mostly she's alone. Alone and part of the crowd all at once, the solo violin within the orchestra.

Hours go by, and she has her fun, however Ingrid Kim has her fun. She sees her tribesman by chance. A glance becomes something more pointed, and then her feet are moving in that direction. Her hair is no longer quite so perfect, but everything else about her is. The graceful, predatory way she moves, the fall of her dress, those impossible heels she hasn't taken off once all night. They must be killing her feet, or at least they should be, but she doesn't appear to be in any discomfort. She never does.

She watches him make his way down the stairs toward her, so she stops and lets him close the distance.

"Of course," she shouts back, as she looks him over, seeking out new stains, of food or drink or conquests of one form or another.

Erich Reinhardt

Erich's been drinking. So there's that. Beyond the alcohol, it's hard enough to tell what he might have been up to these last few hours. He didn't spill anything on himself, or get anything spilled on him. If he sweated, it's since dried fast. As enormous as the place is, the air conditioning is robust. It's frigid in here, or would be if anyone stopped moving for very long.

So maybe he didn't stop moving. Maybe he danced. Maybe he popped some pills in one of those dark corners, who knows. Maybe he had a tryst in a bathroom; maybe he was quite boring indeed and simply drank drinks all night. Any which way, he's here now. He's missing his familiar grey hoodie, the one with the badly sewn shoulder, but he probably just left it on some couch somewhere.

While she's taking inventory of him, he's taking inventory of her. Of course, she says, which appears to be her answer to so many questions. Have you been having fun? Of course. Did you wile unsuspecting men out of free drinks? Of course. Are you a coldblooded bitch?

Of course.

He smirks at her. At her shoes, specifically. And points at them. Yells something. She can't hear him, so he puts his mouth by her ear, cups his hand over it to really violate that poor eardrum of hers, and roars it again:

"Why don't you take them off."

Ingrid

She doesn't ask what he's been up to in her absence, nor does he ask her the same. They do not swap stories of their adventures or non-adventures or misadventures in the club tonight. Ingrid has her assumptions, which are probably far more interesting than the reality. The same could go for him of her.

He smirks down at her shoes. She does not follow his gaze down to investigate what's caused that particular look on his face, but watches him. She had her drinks tonight, but there's no sign of it on her, not even a scent of something lingering on her mouth or the stench of the last man to cling to her like a dryer sheet.

Erich yells something. Ingrid leans forward to hear better and instantly regrets it when he cups his hand around her ear and shouts directly into her ear canal.

"Why?" she shouts back, refusing to lean toward him. If he can't hear her, surely he can read her lips, and the expression on her pretty face that clearly reads as curious.

Erich Reinhardt

The look he gives her answers her, at least for the time being. It's a furrow of his brow, a twist of his mouth; equal parts exasperation and -- yes, again -- smirk.

Then he jerks his head, motions for her to follow. The place is big, but they've both been exploring. She knows where he's headed: one of the few quiet spots in the whole building, a small room built behind the bar on the top level, where the jackhammer bassline drops away to something a little more downtempo. More seating here. Less dancing. A lot of conversation, or what passes for conversation on the way to a hookup.

"To spare your toes," he says; he's audible now. There's a bar in here too, and he pauses there, puts down a twenty and indicates that he's buying two. Looks like Ingrid just got another free drink. "Leave them on if you like. Your feet, not mine."

He gets his drink. It's two shots of Belvedere poured over a single ice cube. How boring.

Ingrid

He jerks his head, and for some unbelievable reason, she follows. Up and up they go, to the topmost level. She's been here, and not all that long ago, either. It's downright peaceful up here in comparison to the floor level.

Erich goes to the bar, gets drinks for the both of them. "Thank you for the consideration, Erich," she says at his shoulder, taking the extra glass. Then she finds a seat, and settles into it. For once she doesn't sit with her spine at a near-ninety degree angle to her thighs. Perching on the edge of the seat, she leans, shoulder blades pressing into the back, one arm hanging loose at her side. Maybe she's finally feeling fatigued, or pain in her feet, or something. Anything.

"You don't want to try them on?" she asks, her tone a dare, sliding one foot to the side so he can get a better look at the shoe. Black, four inch heel, with a cut-out for her toes to peek through.

Erich Reinhardt

Erich cocks an eyebrow. And then, irrepressibly, the corner of his mouth curls up, paper singed with fire.

"Now that," he deadpans, "is one fetish I did not see you having."

Half of his drink goes down in a gulp. It's something of a wonder he didn't down the whole thing, actually. Maybe he's trying to pace himself. He takes a casual glance around -- nope, didn't leave his sweatshirt here, either -- and then returns his eyes to her. It's so dim in here that even his eyes, clear and pale as they are, seem dark. Hers are abyssal.

"Give it here." He holds his hand out. "What do I get if I put this on?"

Ingrid

The grin that answers his is almost a full blown smile, pleased and full of amusement all at once. He suggests a fetish. Ingrid doesn't clarify that it was he himself who gave her the idea.

She draws that foot closer to her hand, leans over, and delicately peels the shoe from her foot. Sitting up, she stretches, handing it over.

"What do you want?"

Erich Reinhardt

A beat of pause. His eyes might have flickered down. Hard to tell. "Now there's a dangerous question," he murmurs.

She holds the shoe out. He downs the rest of his vodka, then leans forward to clink it down on the low table. When he throws himself back into the couch, sprawling out next to the Ragabash with all the languor and none of the finesse, he hauls one ankle over the opposite knee and starts to undo his boot laces.

"I want..."

(and he takes a very. long. time. to undo his bootlaces.)

"...your car." He dumps his boot on the ground. Snags her shoe out of her hand, weighs it in his palm. A sidelong grin, "Let's trade for a week. You can drive my Mustang. I'll drive that slinky little Audi."

Ingrid

She gives him a shoe, one that will not likely fit onto his foot easily. She is a delciately made Asian woman of average height. Her shoe size reflects this.

Her eyes drop to the foot that now faces her, examining the tread rather than the man taking his time undoing the laces. What she gathers from his slowness, if anything, she keeps to herself.

"Ah," she says, tilting her chin, considering his offer. "Deal," she says finally, turning just enough that she can offer to shake on it.

Erich

"Deal."

Sitting side by side like this, it takes a bit of contorting about to shake hands properly. She turns from the waist. He twists at the shoulder and the wrist, bending his arm around enough to take her hand and give it a good pump. Then, releasing her:

"Well. Here goes, then."

Needless to say, his feet are sizes larger than hers. There's no way he could fit in her shoes; Cinderella's stepsisters had a far better chance at the glass slipper. He tries gamely, though, and without apparent discomfort. Psychological discomfort, anyway.

In the end he gets the shoe strapped on. Sort of. His heel hangs out several inches. The arch of his foot meets the balance point of the heel. His toes don't have a chance of fitting into the front, but he's squished them in as far as they'll go. The straps are stretched to their largest notch, and even then it's a close shave. Also, he's still wearing his thick cotton athletic socks.

Strangers across the room are staring, baffled. Just for them, Erich raises his foot like a pinup girl, crosses his legs ostentatiously, then smirks at Ingrid.

"You know, I think I'm pulling this off better than you ever did."

Ingrid

The deal is shook upon, and Ingrid sits forward, scooting to the farthest edge of the sofa. Without so much as a please or may I, she scoops up Erich's discarded boot. Holding the heavy thing in her fingertips, she turns it this way, that way, examining it before she sets it down on the floor and slides her foot into it. Of course it goes in easily, with fabric barely touching her skin before her foot is fully inside.

Bending forward, she undoes the strap of her other heel, and hands it over.

"You may be right," she says, conceding, still smiling.

Erich

Erich's not so quick to accept. He's a Shadow Lord, after all. They don't give things away for free.

"What, both of them now? What do I get for two?"

Ingrid

"My car for a week," she replies smoothly. Lifting the shoe to closer to the height of his face. "I said them, jagiya."

Erich

Did she? He can't remember. He watches her a moment, narrow-eyed. Then he starts flicking his shoelaces open. "Don't think you can get me to do a catwalk on these for the same price."

His boot thumps to the floor.

Ingrid

Her smile reveals a flash of near perfect pearly whites. She's pleased, obviously, happy even. One might almost say ecstatic, but what would be ecstatic on Ingrid Kim looks like mild joy on other people. Her face, right now, the set of her shoulders, the curve of her body forward over her knees, all of it is just shy of that.

His boot thunks to the floor. Using her foot, she slides it closer to her, the better to slip her other foot in. It's warm in there, but that doesn't bother her. When he starts working his foot into her other shoe - ruining it with his huge, stockinged feet, she rises.

There is no way to be graceful in boots that are at least three sizes too big. Ingrid looks ridiculous, but she manages to take a couple of awkward steps forward. Turning around, feet planted wide, she puts her hands on her hips.

"What would it take for a strut?"

Erich

There's probably a lot more than three sizes between them, actually, and that's not even taking into account the difference between men's shoes and women's. She's positively swimming in his boots. He bites his lip to keep from laughing as he jams his foot most of the way into her heels the way a man might jam on a tight pair of rainboots: grabbing the straps, yanking.

Then he leans back. He puts his feet up; doesn't care who sees. Some drunk dude across the room slurs: whaddafuck are you people doing?

"Shut up." It's offhand; he doesn't even look at the guy. By then Ingrid has turned around, and Erich has his phone in hand, snapping a quick pic. Which he turns around for her to see.

"I'm sure it'll be all the rage in Milan this year," he says dryly, and then puts the phone away. "And I don't strut, kitten." A pause, then a smirk. "Well; no. I'd strut out of bedrooms, restrooms, fitting rooms, and airplane lavatories. If the circumstances were right. Not in four-inch heels, though. No can do."

Ingrid

Erich reacts to some meatsack on the other side of the room. Ingrid acts as though she did not hear him. She stands before Erich, strands of dark hair - black in this light - wisping around her face, expensive little black dress that looks tailormade for her slender figure, and his boots. That is the picture he gets, and if he got her face in there it's the first in years that shows her smiling.

Her foot slides forward in one boot before the boot itself moves across the floor. In this way, she shuffles back for the drink she left there. When she bends, the dress moves with her, exposing nothing but that tattoo on her chest.

"A pity there are no airplane lavatories available here."

Erich

Let's be honest: he looks. Because really, who wouldn't? She's posing, and he looks. She bends over, and he looks. He doesn't even try to pretend he doesn't. But when she straightens up with her drink, his smirk widens, his eyes flick back up to her face, and he brings one ankle over the opposite knee again to start prying her shoes off his feet.

"Yeah. Isn't it?"

They come off easier than they go on. When he gets them all the way off, he sets them on the table beside his emptied glass. The straps look a little mangled. The heels are still deadly, though the arch graceful.

"So tell me something," he says. "Why do you bother getting all dolled up just to mingle with the sheep?"

Ingrid

Straightening, the glass is lifted to her lips. Her eyes on the Ahroun, she downs it with no immediate ill effects. Who knows how much she's had before this, how much of that was countered with bar food or burned off on the dance floor. She could step out of his shoes there, bend, hand them over, but she doesn't.

Instead, she wipes the hand holding the glass across her mouth. Whatever she uses to color her lips, it hasn't faded all night. There are no marks on her glass, no smears on her thumb, and her mouth is still as blood red as when she happened upon Erich eating ice cream on his car. And she shuffles back to the couch where she turns and drops ungracefully beside Erich once more. Her feet clear the boots easily when she draws her knees up. Tucking her feet to the side, she leans back into the couch, lounging.

"I want to have fun," she answers, studying her fingernails. "What's so fun about pretending to be like them?"

Erich

Erich sits up as Ingrid leans back. He picks his boots up and starts to put them back on. This time, the brute-force way he tugs them on is, at least, warranted. They're boots. They're meant to be yanked on.

She's studying her fingernails, but he's quirking his eyebrow at her. His back hits the couch again, heavily enough to send vibrations through the frame. He starts doing up his shoelaces. "And somehow dressing like them isn't pretending to be like them? Weird logic."

Ingrid

She ceases the examination of her nails and looks down the length of her body to her knees. Plucking at the fabric of her dress, she asks, "How is this different from how I normally dress."

Erich

"It's not." Erich breaks off to yawn, enormously, making no effort at all to cover his gaping yawp. "That's my point. You always dress well. You know you could still intimidate, charm or seduce them wearing a burlap sack, right?"

Ingrid

Erich yawns. All Ingrid does is lean very slightly away from him, as if the smell of his breath is powerful enough to drive her back. It is.

If the look her face is any indication, the burlap sack idea has merit. Her head tips back, further destroying her up-do so she can study the ceiling above. "Mm. No. That sounds uncomfortable."

Erich

"Aha." That's a smug sort of sound. I've figured something out about you, it says. Eureka. "Now I get it. It's not for them, or even for the sake of fitting in. You prefer the finer things simply because they're fine." Erich laughs: "You're a materialist, Ingrid."

Ingrid

Aha, he says. I've discovered your secret. I know something about you now.

She angles her head to look up at him. Sitting right beside him, legs drawn, this is something of a feat. Or it would be if Ingrid tried very hard to make it work. She lifts her chin, exposing her throat in a way, not caring. Languourous. At this angle she can see the edge of his profile.

For a second she considers toying with him.

"What's wrong with that?" she asks.

Erich

"There you go again." Shoelaces laced, he lets go - his leg swings down, foot thumping heavily to the floor. A moment later they come up: thunk, THUD, kicked up on the table. "Always assuming I'm looking for a flaw or an angle, something to criticize.

" 's just an observation, princess. Maybe I like trying to piece you together."

Ingrid

"There you go again," she says, using his own words against him. Rolling her head away, she looks across the room, eyeing the people still up here with them. There aren't many. It's late, people have people to go home to, things to do in the morning. She folds her hands over her midsection. "Maybe I just want to understand you."

Erich

Technically, Erich would point out, it is morning. Actually it's practically dawn, though in these winter months such things are a longer ways away. Closing time's not for another hour or so, though. Erich doesn't seem inclined to move, even as the crowd thins.

"You'll be disappointed," he promises. "Not too much exciting stuff to unearth here."

Ingrid

The corners of her mouth quirk faintly. "That's what I thought at first, as well."

She sighs, then, unfolds her hands. Her feet drop gracefully, noiselessly to the floor. Bending, she picks up her ruined shoes, holding them at arm's length. For a supposed materialist, she's not upset about their destruction.

"I suppose I should get my keys."

The comment is merely statement. No remorse over the temporary loss of her car. Her smile widens. The losses had been worth it.

Erich

Erich, sprawled on the couch where any number of hookups have been arranged tonight, where any number of drinks have been downed or spilled, where any number of makeout sessions have begun or ended, where any number of couples have gotten into drunkfaced arguments and broken up -- Erich stays where he is, the angle of his regard changing as Ingrid rises to her feet. It's not terribly often that she stands taller than him. He smirks up at her.

"Yeah, you go do that. If you're really nice I might even piggyback you out to my car."

Ingrid

The only other time the Ahroun has been below the Ragabash, he had been collapsed in a heap on the ground, the gutted shell of a beast not far away. He had been bloody and damaged then, and she a feral wild animal slipping away into the wilderness. This time, she takes a moment to appreciate the change.

Smiling in a way that narrows her eyes, she bows at the waist, one hand sweeping before her, the other back. Either she's found a fantastic tailor, or she's got some very good dress tape on which has survived a night of movement and dancing. "Then I shall be on my very best behavior. Except..." Straightening, she angles her chin up, the look defiant. "If you think I'm returning for you, you are mistaken."

Erich

Erich snorts, that smirk of his showing a flash of teeth for a second. Then he heaves himself up from that lowslung couch, his balance admirable considering -- well. Everything.

He gives his foot a stamp. Forgot to tie the laces on one of those boots, he did, but he doesn't worry about it now. Patting down his pocket to make sure his wallet was secure, he jerks his head toward the stairs. One of them, anyway.

"Come on then."

Martine de Lou

(Take it you guys are in a house?)

Ingrid

[they're in a club around 3am, closing's about an hour off]

Martine de Lou

(Right on)

Ingrid

He towers above her, and the world is at rights again. Erich makes his way toward one of the stairways, Ingrid falls into steps beside him. Her shoes drop to the floor, discarded and left for someone else to clean up. Maybe someone will decide to keep them. They are no longer the Ragabash's concern.

At the stairs, Ingrid takes the lead, stepping quickly, gracefully ahead. Down the stairs they go, past floors of dancers who remain, descending into louder and louder music. Ingrid does not dawdle, though she does look over the remaining dancers on the first level with something like nostalgia. It seems so long ago (hours, merely hours) that she was out there among them, one with the music and a handful of incredibly brave dancers.

When her coat is returned to her, she digs into one of the pockets, holds the key - just the one and the fob on a singular ring, no other keys, house or otherwise, share it - up between them. Taunting.

Martine de Lou

She paid her cover to get into the club, in need of a definite stiff drink, and she weaved her way towards the bar.

Her blonde dreads were drawn up into a sloppy bun, and she'd managed to wrangle up a pair of black sling backs for the occasion. Black skinny jeans and a low-riding black tube top-esque shirt hugged her lithe figure. She bore the body of a soldier with various scars of violence.

Ink was visible across her chest, arms, and back as she leaned against the bar. She ordered a double shot of vodka, money tossed on the bar top.

Erich

[4am! but yeah, an hour from closing. sorry, i'm working while playing on the side and i'm pretty slow, so feel free to just post around me if you're impatient.]

Sort of a descent into the ninth circle, this. As they go down it becomes progressively harder to converse. The crowds - what crowds remain - are thicker down here. If there's life left in this night, it's here.

Martine at the bar. This bar, anyway: the main bar on the bottommost level, at the epicenter of this shrine to excess. The club's enormous, cavernous, level upon level of balconies, stairs, railings, dance floors, bars. Dancers are still moving down here, a living forest of sweat and motion that's yet to notice the lateness of the hour. They part as the wolves slip through their midst; move aside without even thinking about it.

Ingrid looks almost wistful, looking at them, but she goes to the coat check and she gets her coat; she dangles her keys like a toy. Erich: well, you guessed it. He smirks. He digs his keys out. His is a messier chain: several interlocking rings, both his prime set and backup set of car keys attached. A bunch of random keychains too, mementos of where he's been. I <3 NYC, one reads. BOSTON RED SOX, another. PALM BEACH. ORLANDO. MEMPHIS. An oddball one from Nebraska, too: GO BIG RED stamped across a big collegiate N.

He doesn't hand the whole chain over. He winds one set of car keys off and holds it out to her, holding his empty palm up for hers in return. It feels a bit more like a standoff than a tradeoff.

Martine de Lou

She left her change on the bar as she picked up her double shot. She raised it to her lips and tipped it back. Setting it down, she tapped the glass for another.

She didn't seem to care or notice the chaos around her as she raised her glass, once filled again. It was definitely needed. Tipping that back again, she set the glass down and left the rest of the money on the bar to cover the second drink and tip.

Pushing off from the bar, she weaved her way back through the crowds, taking a lingering meander of a path towards the door. She could drown in the noise if given the chance.

Martine de Lou

(wb)

Erich

[i dunno why it does that!]

Erich

[sorry, you kinda caught both niko and i on a slow night. i'm working between posts and she's in an STed scene!]

Ingrid

[sorry! i'm also mostly focused on another scene, so i'ma be slowish, as well.]

It's obvious that they're thinking the same thing. Ingrid dangles her keys before Erich, unwilling to simply toss them at the Ahroun until he's shown some evidence of his own. Erich holds his out, his empty palm eagerly waiting for her own.

She smirks up at him. "You're not going to pick me up first?" she asks. "Try to pat me down?"

Erich's Rage washes over the people around them, forcing them to take several steps back, or around. Ingrid, though her Rage is lesser, isn't much better to be around. With her attention on the man before her, she almost seems safe, but there's something about her. Something animal. Something predatorial. It's an aura that gives people an altogether different shiver down their spines. Those who step around her to retrieve or check in their belongings do so leaned as far away from the woman as they can get.

These things are noticeable. They set the Shadow Lords apart from the crowd, wolves among the sheep.

Martine de Lou

No worries, hon. My night's a bit hectic lol

Martine de Lou

Noticeable indeed as she neared the door. She'd come in without a jacket, and she'd leave without one as well.

Gray eyes were cast towards the pair, particularly the woman, as a slow grin edged up the corners of her mouth. "Of fuckin' course," she murmured under her breath with a shake of her head.

She didn't bother avoiding them as she ran her hands up through her dreads and pulled them free of the bun. She strolled right on passed on her way to fresh air, fishing out a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket as she did.

Erich

"Why?" There's a slight, feral tilt to his head. "You want me to?"

Quite without warning he lets his keys fall. She can catch them or she can let them go; either way, he grabs her keys, spins them once around his index finger, lets them smack satisfyingly against his big palm.

"C'mon." The corner of his mouth tilts up.

Martine's no longer the only one headed for the door. The two by the coat check -- the unusual ones, the ones whose very orbits crackled with a sort of dreadful energy -- are close on her tail. They seem utterly unaware of her presence, her nature. Then again, in the face of such rage, one underbred kinfolk is, in the end, so nearly insignificant.

Martine de Lou

She wasn't out to be noticed as she stepped outside and off to the side of the door. A hand raised to cup the flame of her lighter as she lit her cigarette and breathed in the first drag from the cancerous stick.

She slipped the pack and lighter back into her pocket with a sigh, and she stepped away from the club, further down the sidewalk.

"Welcome home," she muttered under her breath with a rueful chuckle. "Christ, I need a bottle."

Holding the cigarette between her lips, she ran her hand through her dreads and meandered down the sidewalk.

Martine de Lou

(brb)

Martine de Lou

(bk)

Ingrid

Ingrid may not be quick like the Ahroun, but she was ready for this, and she's fast enough. The keys are snatched out of the air. In the same instant, she relaxes her grip on her own, making it easier for Erich to snatch the key from her without breaking her fingers in the process.

Though he had been the winner in the dare, the trade his reward, she looks at her prize with a look of triumph. His first two questions go unanswered. She slips into her coat once more, taking the time to button it up properly. It's cold outside, sure, but not cold enough for her to need a coat, not even in that slinky black dress of hers. But it looks better buttoned, so buttoned it gets.

C'mon he says, and she angles her head up to look at his face, eyes of darkest night meeting blue. Then she looks down at her still-bare feet, not even stockings to protect her feet from the cold concrete. Looking up to Erich, she lifts a brow in silent query.

Was I behaved enough for your benevolence, my lord?

Erich

Erich, it seems, never did find his hoodie. Likely it's rumpled up somewhere, stuffed down the crack between cushions on one of the club's couches by now. So while Ingrid buttons herself into her coat, because it looks better, he inspects her keychain. It's very plain. Just a key and a fob. He pockets it anywhere, and

this is when she raises her eyebrow at him.

He makes a show of thinking about it. Sighing. Rolling his eyes. Finally he turns his back -- hey! maybe he doesn't expect her to knife him between the ribs someday! -- and makes this brusque hop-on little gesture with his fingers. And no, he doesn't bend down to make this easier for her. She's a Ragabash; she'll figure out a way to ninja onto his back.

So that's how the Shadow Lords end up coming out of the club with one piggybacked on the other. It's begun to rain again outside, a light drizzle that mists the streetlights, leaves the ground glistening. It's not terribly cold -- a few degrees below fifty -- but Erich is very warm, and the night is humid. Steam rises off his bare arms. He squints up at the sky, and then he hoofs it toward his car, parked a couple blocks off.

Might be good to know this: "Where'd you park?"

Martine de Lou

She cast a glance back over her shoulder as she drew from her cigarette, protecting it with the cup of her hand from the drizzle. Rain was a refreshing change from the heat of the desert.

The sight of the two, piggybacking along, drew a laugh from the kin. With a shake of her head, she exhaled smoke that trickled through the rain before it vanished.

She stepped to the side, down and off the curb, with a quick glance before she began to cross the street.

Ingrid

The kin did not come out to be noticed tonight. Amidst the industrial crowd that usually bustles around this street, and with no historic bloodlines to call attention from the retreating werewolves, she gets her wish. Somehow between leaving the club and the Shadow Lords making their exit, the Ragabash did indeed find a way to get up onto Erich's back. The movement was no doubt deft, but graceful. The Korean is nothing if not graceful.

The Ahroun does not find a blade slipped between his ribs, probably because the only blade at Ingrid's disposal is now for all intents and purposes unable to be unsheathed. They exit, with onlookers assuming the small Asian woman is too drunk to walk by her own power. She's not wearing shoes, after all, that's a sign of drunkenness, right? She rides up high on his warm, broad back, slender legs wrapped snugly around his waist, arms draped over his shoulders, her hands loosely gripping the opposite elbows. This places her face next to his, nearly cheek to cheek.

"One block south," she answers, unhooking an arm to point in that direction.

Martine de Lou

There would be other nights for the Nation to be aware of her presence in this town. It wasn't a major concern for her tonight. She'd come for a drink, and a bottle is what she sought now.

Drawing from her cigarette, she crossed the street. What better way to drown the demons of your past then a bottle of the best alcohol a pocket full of cash could get?

Martine de Lou

(Alrighty, i'm out for the night. Have a good one. :) )

Erich

[night! sorry our -- fugg.]

Erich

"You better not be lying to me," he cautions, though he doesn't back it up with any sort of vengeful promise. No, he continues the way he was headed. The Mustang, gleaming white with its fresh coat of paint, waits patiently where he parked it.

There was a small crowd in front of the club. No one's lined up to get in anymore, but there are clubbers streaming out at this hour. Some were hiding from the rain. Some were catching their first smoke for hours. Still others were catching cabs, stepping halfway into the street to hail the roving taxis that prowled the club district at this hour. Erich and Ingrid, though: they move away from this loose gathering, leaving them behind before long. Very few people are walking on the streets, especially at this hour, in this neighborhood.

Neither of them seem particularly worried. Erich yawns as he walks, his stride long and even. Ingrid's not exactly a dreadful burden, but still one that occasionally requires adjustment. Once in a while, he tosses her higher on his back the way a schoolboy might a backpack: a concerted shrug of shoulders and tug of hands. Her bare feet catch raindrops. He notices; it's oddly endearing.

"Maybe we oughta get packed," he says. It's blurted, to be honest, but he covers it up with that wry brand of humor: "I bet if we go to Vegas we can even get Elvis to do the rite."

Ingrid

She doesn't assure him that she's not lying. For all he knows, she's directed him on a wild goose chase for no other reason than 'because.' He doesn't know all she's done 'because', but he knows enough. It's a definite possibility. However, when the time comes for him to finally trudge that way, he'll find it on the block she indicated, black and rain-specked. There's a coat of wax on it, obviously. The rain water beads up and rolls away, leaving nothing in its wake. Ingrid takes good care of her belongings, at least until they are no longer hers.

For a week the car will be in someone else's care. She hasn't forgotten the day they first ran into each other. And still she agreed to the trade.

The rain soaks into her coat, validating its existence beyond looks. It drips into her hair, trickles down her face. Collects on her feet. She doesn't notice. Her name is Dances With the Hurricane, after all. This rain is little more than a drizzle.

He notices when she starts to slide down his back, not simply because of the change of weight distribution on his back, but because when she's low enough she rests her chin on his shoulder. Then he shifts her up, and she's up again, for a little while at least.

Maybe we oughta get packed, getting Elvis to do the rite. "Hm," he hears, fairly close to his ear. The sound is amused.

For now I'm happy to be free. Her words, spoken at their little Thanksgiving dinner a little over a week ago. She could say it again. One week isn't enough time to change her mind, or is it?

"Why?" she asks, and for the first time her tone is not dry, biting, condescending. It's curious more than anything, and a little amused. He hadn't seemed terribly interested in joining a pack then, either.

Erich

And there's the million dollar question. Erich walks a little slower now; strolling, really. If there's one thing an Ahroun can be counted on to do --

besides the obvious. besides: ripping, tearing, rending, shredding, crushing, obliterating, decimating, devastating, destroying, killing, slaughtering, massacring, butchering, and ravaging.

-- it's to have a seemingly endless reserve of strength. It doesn't seem to bother him that walking slower means he'll be carrying his burden, his louis vuitton monkey, that much longer. It gives him time to think. And in all that time to think, the best he can come up with is:

"Just a whim." It's a touch sheepish: "Not a very good reason, I'm afraid. But thanksgiving was fun. That thing you found in the woods was fun." That's what he calls it, the ripping, tearing, rending, shredding, crushing, obliterating, decimating, devastating, destroying, killing, slaughtering, massacring, butchering, and ravaging: he calls it fun. Another small pause; then he adds, "Tonight was fun."

Another few moments go by. "Or maybe we should just leave it like this," he adds. "Maybe we'd both start to chafe if this turned into some sort of obligation."

Ingrid

He thinks about it, taking his time. Some Ragabashes wouldn't let him do that. Within seconds they'd be pestering him, questioning him, askingaskingasking. Ingrid is surprisingly patient, but then she is currently moonlighting as an incredibly expensive, over-sized backpack.

Her arms shift when he says this idea is just a whim. With her on his back, he can't tell if this means she's about to say something, or ask something. She could be making a face at the back of his head for all he knows.

She listens. She's good at that. "Hm." For a few moments that's all he gets in response. It's fun, but maybe they should leave it like this. Hm.

"I don't think I'd hate being packed with you," she says at last. An interesting choice of words that probably speaks more about her past pack than about the Ahroun carrying her. Or maybe she just hates a lot of things as a general rule, and not hating them is something of a novelty.

Erich

If someone were to ask Erich if he thought of Ingrid as a hateful person, he'd say no. He'd be surprised, even. She seems glassy calm so often; if that facade breaks, more often than not it's with a startling show of humor. Always a sort of humor that he feels not-quite-privy to, but humor nonetheless.

So: no. Not hateful. Not the type to hate this, hate that, hate everything. When it comes to packs, though, there's a different story. Hate rose easily in her tone when she spoke of packing under Merrin. Hate seems to tinge the blurry picture Erich has of her past pack.

He's thoughtful. He doesn't press. They're almost at his car, anyway. Her car, for the week. One wonders where the hell he thinks he's going to sleep: his sleeping bag and pretty much all his worldly belongings -- not that there's much of it -- is still in the back of the Mustang.

"Don't think I'd mind much either," he says. "Maybe we can keep it in mind. Mull on it a bit. Here,"

they're next to the white Mustang. Up close it's possible, with careful inspection, to see it's not a professional paintjob. Here and there are little patches that aren't quite evenly buffed. Near the chrome accents, the tires, the glass, there are sometimes faint etchings in the paint where masking tape and newsprint had lain. Ingrid can still see it's the same car he was driving when they met, though. Just a different color. And with different plates.

He lets her down: unhooking his hands from behind her knees, leaning backwards a bit to let her dangle down to the sidewalk.

"Lemme pack a bag before you drive off with all my stuff," he says. "And try not to crash it, all right?"

Ingrid

"Yes, let's." And with that the discussion of pack is suspended, for now. It's a big decision, at least it is for her, because joining a pack means being tied down. She'll no longer be loose, free to go wherever the wind or Erich's Mustang takes her.

She drops lightly, the balls of her feet hitting the ground first, absorbing the impact. There isn't even a faint tmp of bare feet slapping pavement. She's very good at fitting the expected roles of her auspice. Usually.

The car looks different. Ingrid steps toward it, oblivious to the rain and the cold. Reaching out, she trails her fingertips over the chrome. When her skin connects with an imperfection, she leans in to examine it. For one week this car is hers, and as such she must know all of its current defects and imperfections.

Usually when Erich says something, Ingrid takes it as a challenge, or turns it back on him in a dare. Either she doesn't feel a desire to rise to the comment of a crash, or something else he says has distracted her from it.

"You keep all of your belongings in here?" She sounds surprised, looks it, too. Advantage Reinhardt. He's now seen two expressions on the aloof Ragabash's face that no one else in the city has.

Erich

"Most of 'em."

While she's inspecting his handiwork, he's gone around the back. He still has a copy of the keys; he uses them to unlock the third door, which he swings up. The back seats are folded down, converting the coupe into a sort of covered pickup. Half of the expanded trunk is cleared out to make room for a sleeping bag and a pillow on a thin pad, which is presumably his bed. The other half is stuffed with his worldly possessions, haphazardly organized into two duffle bags, a few boxes, a backpack, and a suitcase.

If Ingrid looks, she can discern a vague order to the chaos. There's the corner where he stores his toiletries - a washcloth, a tumbler, a toothpaste, some soap and all-in-one shampoo, some toothpaste. That's the bag that contains what looks like all his clothes. There's not a lot of it, and different compartments in the bag hold different articles: shirts here, pants there, socks here, boxers there. There's the box with his cookware: a propane camping stove, a single pot, a single wooden spoon, a single fork and knife. It goes on and on. Not a lot of stuff, all told, but a complete collection. Everything a man -- a werewolf -- needs to survive, all packed into a mobile format.

If he were a man, this would be an obvious sign of abject poverty. He's not a man, though. As it is, it's a sign of something else together. A lack of roots. A readiness, and perhaps even a tendency, to up and leave with no warning whatsoever.

She's not the only one who likes a little freedom.

"I'm wearing the rest," he adds, wry. Meanwhile, he's packed himself a bag: the backpack, stuffed with the bare necessities. That finished, he straightens up and pulls the trunklid closed. "I like to travel light."

Ingrid

There is something so strange to her about keeping all of one's belongings in one mobile place. Erich could lose everything he owns to one little theft. Not that anything she sees looks important, and just because they're not expensive doesn't mean a thing isn't important. From the looks of things, the most personal item that he owns is that mass of keychains that tell the story of his progress through the country.

It's also apparent that the Mustang doubles as a mobile home. How...interesting. It gives her ideas, ones that might surprise Erich given what he's surmised about his wouldbe partner-in-crime.

Not that she could say anything on the matter. She lives out of hotels, not all of them in this city, or even anywhere near Virginia.

"I see," is her response when he tells her he likes to travel light. She looks him over, brow lifted. It occurrs to her briefly that they are oddly mirrored. There are differences of course, obvious ones. She is slender, elegant, graceful. He is big and fast and powerful. She wears fancy clothes, he does not. But they both lost an article of clothing tonight. They both enjoy their freedom, and they are both considering pack - just a little bit. If they were aware, would the traded vehicles even know their owner had been switched?

"Take care, Erich."

Erich

I see, she says, and his answer is nonverbal: a small, quirky lift of his lip. Wry, perhaps. Or sardonic. Or simply what it is: a slight and crooked smile.

"Yep," is his answer to the rest of it. The hoodie's gone, probably for good, but he's not too devastated. He'd brought something else out from his car, some sort of sweatshirt or zip-up or something. As she steps into it -- that Ford with its muscle-car lines and its big engine and its rather unmistakable scent of possession by this particular Ahroun -- he turns to head back the way he came. If she watches him go, she sees him tug his replacement outerwear over his head. It's a sweatshirt, quarter-zip in the front. Big enough to fit his shoulders. Too big at the waist, where he's leaner than your average American XXXL. Halfway down the block he slings his backpack from one shoulder; he looks for all the world like an overgrown, too-old, far-too-ferocious high schooler hoofin' it home.

It doesn't take him long to find her car. It is as he remembers: sleek, dark, hugging the ground with wide, thin tires. It responds to the fob. He has to move the seat back, but when he gets in the interior smells pleasantly of leather and new car, and perhaps even of perfume or moisturizer or bodywash or any of the myriads of scents girls bathed themselves in daily.

All that, but not of Ingrid at all. She's a phantom in her own property.