Erich
They're all on the street now. Moving away from that grisly alleyway, varying amounts of grisly cargo in their trunks. Erich's about to get into his Mustang, but he looks over, and there's Jake and Ingrid, and then there's Ingrid doing that thing where she tucks her hands into her pockets, neat and sleek, and starts to walk away like the last frame of some noir movie.
Erich tosses his keys to Charlotte. "Wait for me a minute, okay?" he says. Jake's getting into his car when Erich catches up, jogging up on the driver's side, tapping the window to request a roll-down.
"Hey," he says. Hesitates. His mouth quirks; he adds: "So... not a Soviet James Bond, huh?"
Jake
The trunk of the BMW is full of body parts and frozen meat that will very, very slowly thaw in this weather. Jake is sodden to the bone, healed for now but his shirt and coat are still bloodstained. He pauses when there's a tap at his window and rolls the window down a crack, not to be standoffish but to keep the rain and snow from filling up his car, settling on his upholstery. He's already going to have to take care of the driver's seat and the trunk when he gets rid of the organic material in his trunk.
"Hey," he says back, the first greeting he and Erich have exchanged since... well. Since the winter solstice. They're nearly to the equinox. He looks tired, more than anything else. Getting a chunk bitten out of your side will do that to a person, even after being healed.
Because that's what he is. Jake is just a person. He's just a man. And like all men, like Socrates himself, Jake is mortal.
He smirks. "There hasn't been a Soviet Union since I was fourteen," he says dryly. He nods backward. "You good with your load?"
Erich
"Yeah well," Erich lays a forearm on the top of the car, half-leaning to talk to his friend. "It sounds better than Russian James Bond."
He glances over his shoulder at the Mustang. Might be his imagination that it's riding a little lower with the weight of corpses in the back. Might not be. He looks back.
"Yep." Wry, "If I get it dumped fast my den might even smell fresh again by next week." A beat. "Seriously though. Where'd you learn to shoot like that and keep your cool like that? Can I ask?"
Jake
That half-lean would make many people quail. Shrink back into their cars, huddle into their own warmth. Soaked as Jake is, many people would shiver under the shadow of the Ahroun.
Well: Jake shivers, but not because Erich leans. Because it's fucking cold and he's soaking wet. The gourd from Ingrid restored the blood he lost, as well, but it doesn't keep him from shivering. "I'm not Russian," he says, just as literal as before. So far he doesn't deny the James Bond bit, even if he doesn't particularly care for martinis.
Seriously though.
Jake exhales. He leans forward, stirring the engine. "Everyone's good at something," he says, then turns and gives Erich a small upward nod. "We'll have dinner again soon. Then we'll talk. All right?"
Erich
"All right." Erich straightens up. "There's that bar in Browntown. Wanna just grab a burger and drinks there sometime?"
Jake
"The Liberty?" Jake echoes, but they both know there's really only the one. He hesitates, then gives a shake of his head. "You've got my number. I'll just grill at my place." That makes it clear enough: whatever they might talk about, it's best not to do it in the open. At least not in a small town.
Erich
The edge of his mouth quirks up, surprised, pleased. "Yeah, all right. Sounds like a plan. You doing anything Sunday?"
Jake
Jake smirks, but it's not a harsh, bitter expression for his mouth to take. "Just grilling," he answers, like he doesn't currently have a few spots on his face still sprayed with the blood of the thing he shot. Like his trunk isn't full of body parts. Like he doesn't know that the shell casings still in the alleyway won't be traced to any registered firearm, least of all any firearm owned by Mr. Jake Novak, small-town baker, errant father, and all-around good chap.
He jerks his head. "Get driving. I'm going west." Which is to say: you go east.
Erich
Like they didn't just demolish a few horrors in an alleyway, like they're just two slightly-unlikely friends meeting up after a long absence, Erich grins and reaches through the cracked-open window to clasp hands with Jake.
"All right," he says, "it's a date. I expect red roses and wine and Barry White on the stereo."
He steps back, then, tapping twice on the roof of the car. As Jake starts to move off, Erich heads back to his car, hunching his shoulders against the rain that keeps trying to turn into snow.
Jake
Instead of thumbing the window up, Jake presses the button to slide it down further. Their hands meet. Erich's is searing hot, as always. Jake's is regaining its warmth. It's just one more sign of his humanity, his mortality, his difference from the three wolves he fought with tonight. Nevermind that he has a good ten years or more on the eldest of them; the main difference is how much more vulnerable he is compared to them. A second bite from that thing could have finished him.
The thing is, even knowing that, Jake never broke a sweat. Though he seems tired, he looks like someone who has just had a good workout. Sort of pleasantly wrung out, alert and relaxed all at once. His hand isn't shaking.
His hand retreats from Erich's. "I was thinking Marvin Gaye, but if you insist."
The window goes up. Erich thumps the roof; Jake begins driving away. East: to bury, to burn, to drown -- whatever it is a man like him does with the sort of thing now hiding in his trunk.
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