surf, turf, and assorted dinner conversations.

Avery Chase

The moon waxes. From a warmoot held under a thin moon, a warmoot that thinned the blood of those who came and then thickened it again with rage, to a half moon that saw true judgement being laid down, now almost full. It comes towards Erich's birth moon, the moon that makes him a berserker, a beast, warrior of a warrior race. And the garou he called rhya though law claimed her as equal to his rank

invites him to dinner.

He has been to her penthouse before: coming there after a patrol, walking in on Christina Black and then destroying her. Avery asks him by phone if she cannot reach him in person one day at either sept, in passing, suggesting that they have a meal together. Naturally his pack is welcome, perfectly welcome, but in the end, Charlotte is dutifully patrolling Cold Crescent's protectorate that night, and Melantha has work. In the end, it is only Erich arriving there, only Erich being welcomed into the many-windowed penthouse by a young housemaid in gray slacks and a pink blouse, her hair tied up in a bun and her indoor shoes soft-soled and silent on the flooring.

The house smells of cooking meat and a faint botanical scent underneath that, a clean smell that is edged with winter: those many windows were open at some point. It is a lovely place to walk into, slightly cool.

And Avery, Reverence of Dawn, Radiant Honor, hearing her housemaid let him in and coming around the corner beaming at him, wearing a calf-length sweater dress the color of lilacs over a pair of black riding boots. The dress has a cowl collar, a slit up the back, and follows the contours of her body nicely -- yet, of course, demurely. It does not cling to those breasts of hers that some cowboy she knows so readily and vocally adores, for example. She wears gray pearl earrings and a long pendant of glittering marcasite in an Art Deco diamond shape. Her hair is done in waves, looking a bit windblown and prettily mussed, though she is not windblown and is not mussed at all.

Her heels click on the flooring. "Erich!" she says, delightedly, as though this was somehow unexpected. "I'm so glad you've come."

Erich

Well, of course Erich knows the penthouse is safe now. There isn't going to be some weirdo preacher-woman standing there trying to Pass Judgment on Avery, and by extension, on Erich. There isn't going to be some thug or pack-of-thugs standing around trying to back said preacherwoman up. Still, Erich's kinda careful about looking around corners and checking his back as he parks his truck and gets out and goes in the lobby and signs himself in and -- eventually -- riding that elevator up into Avery's home.

Once those doors open, though, his wariness lifts like a shroud. The penthouse is different. It's clearly and wholly cleansed of Christina Black's presence; it is filled, instead, with what might be one of Erich's favorite smells in the whole world. His nostrils are flaring; he's sniffing the air audibly and visibly when the young maid welcomes him and asks to take his coat

(which, after a moment's awkwardness, he strips off and hands to her: a very plain, very soft-from-wear-and-tear fleece hoodie that possibly still smells faintly of one packmate or the other who might have borrowed it)

and, indeed, when the lady of the house herself makes her appearance. She looks good, of course; she looks well put-together and she looks incredibly wealthy and, if Erich had to append attractiveness-gauging words to a fellow wolf, she looks absolutely gorgeous. Her delight is infectious, and yet of all this, it's something else, something intangible, that instantly snags Erich's attention. His eyes widen and light up. He looks her up and down, and then he exclaims:

"Did you level up?"

Avery Chase

The housemaid, of course, is pleasant and friendly, taking his hoodie and folding it over her arm to take it to the closet and hang it up. She is slipping out of view when Avery comes into it, almost as though they timed it. They didn't. But they could have, if Avery were the sort.

She doesn't even hesitate to walk over to Erich and give him a light embrace, squeezing his biceps and leaning in til their upper bodies just barely touch. She refrains from kissing the air beside his cheeks, giving that moment of contact the sense of two animals just bumping gently against one another in passing, in hello. Stepping back again, she smiles as he looks her over, as his eyes gleam suddenly with recognition.

Avery laughs. There's only a half-second of pause before that where she processes his metaphor, then she laughs. "I succeeded in my challenge on Saturday and was rewarded with new recognition of rank, yes," she answers, stepping out of his way so they can go farther inside.

"I have heard rumor," Avery tells him as they stroll along the floor, "that you are one of our kind who is only comfortable digesting meat. I've had steak prepared -- I am dear friends with a cattle rancher up north, all organically-raised, humanely-butchered -- and I will only buy beef from vendors that he supplies now. There's also lobster, though I'm not sure if that fits within your dietary restrictions. We'll have wine, as well, if you like. I assume you take your steaks rare?"

Erich

Erich doesn't really know what to do with himself when Avery comes over to give him that polite, gracious rich-person hug. Does he hug her back? Where do his hands go? He just kind of stands there, stiff and awkward, laughing a little nervously until they part again.

Then! His eyes light up; he's so happy for her. Did she level up? She did! "That's awesome!" he says, shuffling out of his shoes. "You totally deserve it, Rhya."

They walk into her house. Her lovely 50-window penthouse, where he has been a guest only once -- and that was sort of a cut-short disaster, since she had another unexpected guest. He doesn't bother to hide that he's looking around now, though, gawking even, trying to restrain the urge to run around and just... sniff things. Or something.

His head swings back around as she refers to his picky digestive tract as his 'dietary restrictions'. So polite: as though he were Jewish or Muslim or Hindi or something. "I'll eat whatever steak however it's cooked," he says, laughing, "but to tell you the truth I've never tried lobster so I don't know. I can eat shrimp OK though.

"Oh!" He's suddenly reminded. "My mom taught me it's really rude to be a guest that shows up emptyhanded. So I got you this." He pull something out of his pocket: it's a keychain. It's a plush Plants vs. Zombies zombie on a keychain.

"Please tell me you know what PvZ is," he adds.

Avery Chase

That's fair: there aren't many places one can feel comfortable touching a woman like Avery, dressed the way Avery is dressed, being how she is, unless one is her gentleman caller or relative. She's so gleaming and brilliant and -- yes -- absolutely gorgeous. Her arms? Her waist? Mid-back? It doesn't feel like there are many places to touch her that wouldn't be awkward or too intimate. So Erich doesn't, and he's stiff and awkward and Avery doesn't even seem to notice or mind.

Erich shuffles out of his shoes. Avery keeps her boots on, but she doesn't take notice or concern for the state of his feet, either. Even with her in heels, he's quite a bit taller than she is. He gawks, and when there's something interesting to point out, she does so: the library is around that way; we should take drinks after dinner there! and I love this piece. My father found it at a new gallery and gave it to me for my birthday. and before I forget, the powder room is just through that hall on your left.

She brightens. "Oh, if you like shrimp you will adore lobster. I have to admit I'm terribly picky about it, myself; I grew up in New England. I'm sure you can imagine how hard it can be to get decent lobster in Denver." She pauses when he says Oh! like that, and looks curiously at him as he's digging into his pocket.

The zombie makes her blink. Then she tips her head. Then she lets out a bright, delighted laugh, clapping her hands together. "Oh, I do," she says, laughing as she takes it delicately from his fingertips, turning it over in her hands. "Because of the bridal shop!" she adds, still laughing, wiggling the wee zombie beside her cheek as though it, like Avery herself, is smiling at Erich.

"Thank you so much," Avery says, as though she is well and truly touched. Because: well and truly, she is. She cradles the little present, smiling at it, then looks around until she decides to stand the little plush on a bookshelf in the sitting room-slash-breakfast nook just outside the kitchen. It nestles between a shallow bowl of gold and silver baubles that serves no purpose but decoration, and she smiles at it. Avery turns on her heel to look at Erich. "Now I'll see it and think of you every time I sit to breakfast here," she tells him.

Then, a beat, and a grin, her nose wrinkling up: "They were so ridiculous, weren't they? That bride."

Erich

Well; the zombie isn't really smiling. It's more... zombie-ing, the way zombies do, all googly-eyed and rotten-toothed. But Erich bursts into bright, happy laughter as Avery wiggles it at him and thanks him, as though this tiny little toy were a truly worthy gift and tribute.

She puts it on a bookshelf. It zombies out at them from beside a bowl of precious-metal baubles, or at least baubles that look very much like precious metals. Erich rocks on his heels once, quite pleased with himself and his thoughtful gift, and grins back at her.

"As far as evil underlings of the Wyrm go," he agrees, "they were totally ridiculous. And kinda funny. Man, you did a number on them though. That was impressive."

Avery Chase

"You know," she muses thoughtfully, after the zombie is arranged in a spot where it stands out like a sore thumb, "I try to remind myself that not all things we encounter are of the Wyrm. There are stories of undead creatures who were somehow untainted, or creatures that appeared to be undead but were merely transformed... wizards, vampires, faeries, all manner of things. Demons, even." She shakes her head and shrugs at Erich. "Then again, the gifts of my auspice do tend to work best against those who have fallen from Gaia's grace, tearing them like tissue paper."

She smiles. A delicate little smile, so at odds with the topic.

Avery blushes a bit, laughing softly. "I try to be my best," is all she says to that.

She nods her head at the kitchen, then. "If you'd like, we can be served, but I thought... since it's just the two of us, something a bit more casual would be in order. I hope you don't take it as a slight if we just relax here in the nook and feed ourselves. The dining table seems like it would be a bit much."

Erich

"I know you do," Erich says, very earnestly, when Avery says she tries her best. "And it's kinda sad, but that's actually a lot more than most people try, I think."

A glance around: "To tell you the truth, I'd feel really weird if we got served. I'm totally cool with sitting and serving ourselves. Thanks for having me over, by the way," he adds, "though I gotta admit I was a little bit surprised. I mean, I don't ... I'm not really fancy. And my dinner conversation's gonna be horrible, just so you know."

Avery Chase

Avery almost looks sad at that. "Oh, no," she murmurs, with the sincerity that in her seems to be unimpeachable and swayed only by occasional playfulness. "It isn't that they don't try. It's that most of them just have no idea how much more they're capable of."

Her smile grows again, though soft and warm. "Why should you be surprised? We're friends. It's good for friends to share what they have with each other, whatever it is. But I must warn you," she goes on, more seriously, looking him in the eye,

"it is very important that you maintain only the proper degree, volume, and frequency of dining chit-chat. I've taken it upon myself to prepare a set of cards for you with acceptable topics and suggested phrasing, including your profound and bootlicking apologies for your..."

Avery pauses, giving him a mock-disdainful look up and down before uttering, with polite yet recoiling horror:

"denim."

There's a heartbeat. Then a bright little smile, impish and glinting in her eyes. "Don't be silly. The man I'm seeing is a cattle rancher, Erich. I'm hardly concerned with whether or not the people I have dinner with are 'fancy'."

Erich

For a moment there, Erich thinks Avery is serious. She can tell because his eyes get wider and wider, and he starts -- perhaps without even realizing it himself -- to edge doorward. "Uh..."

But then! Then she smiles, and it is impish, and he realizes it's a joke, and she tells him to stop being silly. He laughs, and it's maybe a touch uncertain, but then: she called him a friend. Which makes him happy, and happier than she, with only minimal understanding of his past and upbringing, could easily fathom.

"Well," he says, "good. 'Cause I'm not. But I'm happy to have dinner with you and I'm happy you invited me. And stuff." Pause. "Hey, and I'm glad your place didn't get trashed by that crazy lady."

Avery Chase

[Manipulation + Subterfuge + PB]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 6 )

Avery Chase

Silver Fangs.

Sometimes it might sting her. Right now, it might sting her. That he thinks she's serious, that it is probably because her kind are so well known to be crazy, broken, worthless. People sling it around these days like it's nothing, no big deal, to suggest that an entire tribe is responsible for the decline of the garou, that they should have died off years ago, that it's all their fault. One of the most unsettling and hurtful things she's heard in recent months has been someone saying

I think everyone knows.

but that's the truth. Everyone does know. And Erich may notice the flickerflash of hurt in Avery's eyes, but it's unlikely. She's so gleaming, so perfect, as to seem unassailable. And so she does: present perfection, even when it isn't there.

It is only a moment, after all.

"Oh, I am as well," she says, her seriousness unfeigned this time. "It certainly helped that while I dealt with her, someone else was killing two -- or was it three? -- of her lackeys at once." Avery smirks sweetly, waves a hand. "I'm sure it was three."

It was two.

Going to the kitchen island, she shows him where the steaks are resting, where the lobster sits under a steel dome. There are no vegetables, even for Avery. Only goblets, and a rich red tempranillo decanting in a wide-bowled glass jar with a narrow neck and swanlike handle. "How have you been since the warmoot?" she asks him, as she pours one glass for herself, another for him. Handing it over, she lifts her brows: "I do not mean in general."

Erich

q

Erich

[*corrals the q!!!*]

Avery Chase

[lol]

Erich

"Nah, it was two." Say this for Erich, if nothing else: he is honest to a fault. "We do make a pretty good team, though."

Following her into the kitchen, Erich pretty much instantly starts salivating at the sight of the steaks. The lobsters, too, so pretty and red that Erich decides then and there he's going to at least try it, even if it does mean he has to excuse himself in a hurry and spend the rest of the night miserably hunched atop a gas station toilet. Which he doesn't think will happen, it's meat after all, but still.

He hesitates, though, when she asks how he's been. A goblet is handed to him. He takes it and looks at the wine and sips it, careful not to spill.

"I've been pretty good," he says, which is the truth. "My pack and I live in a tinyhouse that we built on a trailer bed, so we can pull it along behind the truck, right? And we were living up in the mountains for a long time, like way out in the wilderness near a lake. But now it's getting cold so we moved down a bit, to Evergreen. It's a nice little town. You should visit sometime." A pause.

"I'm sorry about that whole ... debacle. At the warmoot. We were doing a good thing, organizing and trying to figure out what we were going to do about the mess at Cold Crescent, but I feel like I kinda derailed it and maybe lost the trust of some of my fellow Garou."

Avery Chase

That is what she's getting at. He gives her the in general part, but then Erich answers what she really wants to ask about. The debacle, as he calls it. Avery tips her head to the side, handing him a plate, taking the lid off the lobster tails, and using a pair of tongs to put one on her plate so that Erich can choose his steak first.

She is quiet for a moment, thoughtful, getting a slice of lemon and a little ramikin of melted butter, realizing that she'll probably need to give him some tips on how to devour it, then looks over at him again. "Would you like to know what I think? Not strictly as a judge or mediator?"

Erich

Erich gets a plate. He gets a glass of wine. He gets a steak knife and he gets a fork, and then he stabs one of the juicy-looking, red-on-the-inside steaks. There are no vegetables to be seen anywhere. While Avery adds lemon and melted butter to her plate, Erich grabs one of the lobster tails and goes over to the little table in the nook. His plate thunks down, and a moment later he drops into his chair.

He waits, though, until his hostess has joined him before he picks the lobster tail up in his two hands and just... starts... prying at it. There are neater ways to eat a lobster, ways that involve kitchen shears or crushing tools or the like, but Erich's hands are surprisingly (or perhaps unsurprisingly) adept at this business of tearing things apart. In no time at all he's begun to expose the tender white meat inside.

A glance, then, halfway between curious and cautious. "Um," he thinks, "I guess so. Unless what you think is going to hurt my feelings to hear."

He says it just like that. Hurt my feelings. Like he's a fifth grader who still talks openly about these things and announces when he's fighting with his friend, and whatnot.

Avery Chase

Avery hitches, as she slides her plate down gently on the table and watches him start to tear at the lobster. "Oh -- dear, wai --"

He cracks it open, pulls at it, and she lifts her eyebrows, watching him with mingled interest and tolerance, then she smiles as he looks up. "I'm not sure," she says, "but I hope you know I'd never knowingly hurt your feelings unless it had some possibility of also helping you in some way or performing some greater good."

She is much more delicate about her lobster. She has a lobster fork. There's one for Erich, too, if he wants it. She is practiced at this, though, sharp and quick and elegantly done. Smooth as shredding those minions of the Wyrm in the bridal shop: like tissue paper.

"Ideally, Siren of Persephone-yuf would have been shamed by a judge-mandated Rite of Contrition and embarrassed to receive such a thing over such a foolish ordeal, whether it was a suitable judgement or not -- and I would not have given it if I didn't think so. For a moment I hoped she would... not stubbornly refuse to accept it from you once given, but rush to offer forgiveness beforehand, removing the need for the rite at all. That, I think, would have been the wisest, noblest choice for her to make, showing a level of leadership and -- yes -- maturity that her decision to take offense in the first place was lacking.

"It was a decision," Avery says, looking at Erich. "And on occasion it is politic to claim offense on principle even when no sting is felt. Such occasions should be rare, however, and used both with caution and calculation. Such ready acceptance of that judgement on her part was not an example of that sort of thinking, however. But perhaps it's unfair to expect it outside of my own auspice... or even my own tribe. But among all of the garou, I think... in some cases, a well-considered forgiveness and erasure of debt is a far, far greater motivation to loyalty than mere dominance alone."

Avery gives a little shrug, squeezing lemon over her lobster. "I think you both lost trust that day. I think the only failure, however, would be to have left that room in denial of that fact. A judgement that leans more heavily in one garou's favor in the most base and obvious of ways does not always mean that the 'winning' party has not suffered a blow. I'm comforted to hear that you still think on this, and recognize it as a loss that must be recovered from. I'm afraid I don't know Siren of Persephone-yuf well enough to know if she left that day thinking that she did not also lose some respect from her fellow garou, or if she realizes that she must now strive even more -- as you do -- to regain it."

Her head shakes. She sips her wine.

Erich

Erich's crest quite visibly falls when Avery tells him that yes, in fact, he did lose some of the trust of his compatriots on that day. Up until then he might have clung to some delusional little scrap of hope that no, no one saw or remembered that incident, everything can just go on as it was and he'd still be in the good graces of his peers.

Avery, though, is as honest as Erich is. Even when it hurts -- as long as that hurt, in her own words, has some possibility of helping in the long run. There's that, at least, for Erich to hold on to and consider. There's that as he mulls her words; as she sips her wine.

Then he picks up one of the exposed shreds of lobster-meat. He dips it in butter, squirts a little lemon on it -- mainly because this is how he sees Avery eating it -- and tastes it. His eyebrows hop up. He's momentarily transported away from that dour topic: "This is good! Like, really good. It kinda tastes like shrimp crossed with crab."

He wipes his fingers on a napkin, then, and picks up his knife to attack his steak. "To be honest, Rhya," he says, "I don't think someone who'd make a big deal of something so obviously misspoken is gonna be big enough to just wave off an apology as unnecessary. I mean hell, she was still pushing to hang a Rite of the Jackdaw over my head at the end, sort of." A hint of bitterness creeps into his voice there. He grimaces a little, lips flattening, and cuts a piece of steak off. "I don't want to hold onto that grudge though. I was okay with the final verdict, and I think it's probably easier if we just leave that where it is. If I dredge it up I'll probably get all grumped up again.

"I am sort of sad that you agree that I've lost the respect of my fellow Garou, though," he says. "I've spent a pretty long time wandering around alone, and I'd kinda almost gotten to a point where I just started thinking of myself as the outsider and the outcast that no one really wanted to be around. It's only recently that I found Melantha and Charlotte, and it's only recently that I kinda started feeling more ... connected and invested and stuff.

"So," another shrug, smaller, his eyes on his food, "it's hard for me to remember that slipping up once and looking bad once doesn't mean that everyone's going to start hating me. It doesn't mean that the feeling that people like me and accept me and maybe even look up to me a little, from time to time, was just some sort of pleasant delusion."

Avery Chase

There is an interlude, there, after Erich is briefly bruised and Avery is wondering inside if she's saying the wrong things, if she's speaking ill of an ally, if even discussing it is pointless but she feels as though it is not, when Erich tries lobster for the first time.

Maine lobster, flown in and cooked to perfection. Warm melted butter, a dash of plump, juicy lemon. And it is good. Like, really good. Avery smiles, comforted. He goes after the steak, then, which is seared and rare and rested and when he cuts into it, reddened juices swell against the steel of the knife. The texture of the beef is decadent, almost buttery. It pleases her, watching him eat heartily, eat well, enjoy himself. It's a far cry from the rabbits and such that he hunts himself, a far cry even from the burgers or whatnot that he can find in Evergreen or the meat that they sometimes buy in the stores there.

What he says is right, and she gives him a wry little pull at one corner of her mouth. No, not wry: rueful. "I'm afraid that you are likely correct on that note," she says, regarding Phoebe's temperament.

His bitterness, his flat mouth: these things make her feel a stab of defensiveness, a firming of her spine, and these reactions do not entirely ease when he goes on to talking about getting grumped up. She frowns, and that frown grows as he goes on from there. Some of it is sympathy. Not all of it.

"Erich..." she says after a while, when he's paused to chew his steak. There's a beat after that, a hesitation, then a breath. "I do believe there's a time to simply... let things go, and let them be as they are. But if you have to tell yourself or those around you half-truths of acceptance in order to do that, then it is only ever a temporary solution." She twists her fork-handle slowly between two fingers, rolling it back and forth in thought. "Such as the matter of losing respect and trust or not. It is sad. It is frustrating. It is angering and disappointing to look back and see that the moments where you made missteps -- shouting at Phoebe, yelling insults, initiating a facedown -- and feel as though no one will ever see anything but that when they look at you. Worse, no one will ever stop to consider why -- or even that it made sense to you at the time.

"It is very troubling to feel that no one will even remember that Siren of Persephone got huffy, or dismissive, or talked to you as though she was far, far higher in rank above you than she truly is, or gave you backhanded apologies or tried to push for even sterner punishments, or that she wouldn't even look away from the facedown without assurance that you would, too. That no one will remember that Reverence of Dawn was undermined by and then turned around and undermined her packmate, then made a mistake in verdicts and judgement that had to be redacted and repaired. It is very easy, for all of us," she says, her voice growing a bit quieter, "to feel the sting of fear that any mistake, any misstep, will become the totality of our visage in the eyes of everyone who knows of us. And meanwhile, everyone else's stumblings seem so readily forgiven, so easily forgotten."

She looks at the tines of her fork, the way they glint, then looks back across the small oval table to him. "I think we all feel that way, more often than we'd like or are willing to admit. I believe that how we move on past our stumblings that honors us: never hiding from them, nor denying them, nor allowing these things to overwhelm how we see ourselves, not matter what others think of us. We are only defeated from within."

Avery stops there. She huffs a small laugh. "I'm rambling. I apologize for that. But I want you to understand the whole context when I say that as odd as it may sound to you, I understand in some measure the feeling that you are an outcast. That sooner or later, people will see all your failings and abandon you, or... hate you." She looks at him, her brow furrowed in earnest. "It is my true, heartfelt belief that if you can forgive Siren of Persephone, and me, and yourself, then it will shock you how readily you find yourself forgiven in turn, your missteps and failings forgotten as though they never were. The only person who really has to face and fight with that darkness is yourself."

Erich Reinhardt

A flicker of confusion on Erich's open face. He shakes his head: "You're already forgiven. Or well. No, but only 'cause I didn't think there was anything you did that needed forgiveness. I didn't think you'd made an error in judgment at all. It wasn't like I was arguing my point all that logically at the beginning; I was just pissed."About Phoebe though: the weird thing is at the time I had forgiven her. 'Cause at the time I was also seeing for the first time all the shit I did wrong, so what she did seemed not so bad. But then now that I'm a little ways out from it and looking back, seeing all the steps that led to that whole blowout -- okay, I know you said you didn't care about who started it, but she totally started it. And then all this crap happened and now everyone looks bad and, yeah."Erich heaves a sigh. He stabs at his meat, stormy-browed."I'll try to forgive and forget. It's just hard when she still doesn't seem to think she did anything wrong at all. And she's not going to, because she's not mature enough to. Which is uberironic because that was kinda the whole controversy in the first place, right?"

Erich Reinhardt

A flicker of confusion on Erich's open face. He shakes his head: "You're already forgiven. Or well. No, but only 'cause I didn't think there was anything you did that needed forgiveness. I didn't think you'd made an error in judgment at all. It wasn't like I was arguing my point all that logically at the beginning; I was just pissed.

"About Phoebe though: the weird thing is at the time I had forgiven her. 'Cause at the time I was also seeing for the first time all the shit I did wrong, so what she did seemed not so bad. But then now that I'm a little ways out from it and looking back, seeing all the steps that led to that whole blowout -- okay, I know you said you didn't care about who started it, but she totally started it. And then all this crap happened and now everyone looks bad and, yeah."

Erich heaves a sigh. He stabs at his meat, stormy-browed.

"I'll try to forgive and forget. It's just hard when she still doesn't seem to think she did anything wrong at all. And she's not going to, because she's not mature enough to. Which is uberironic because that was kinda the whole controversy in the first place, right?"

Avery Chase

Avery is watching him. Avery is listening. And her smile is brow-furrowed and rueful and apologetic and sympathetic and at the end all she says, with wryness and exasperation and acceptance is:

"Yes."

To all of it, in fact.

--

But that passes, and she sips her wine, nodding at the steak he's stabbing at. "I admit that I invited you to dinner out of simple friendship, but in a way I'm glad that your packmates could not make it tonight. I wanted us to be able to clear the air, talk over what happened a bit... more privately than we might be able to with others. One of the hardest things to grow accustomed to after I changed was realizing how much pressure there is in appearances. How much -- and understand I do not say this dismissively or in suggestion that it is not sometimes necessary -- posturing. It exists in every realm, but I suppose I'd had a pleasant fantasy at first that garou were not like that."

Avery seems a bit wistful. "I've come to see that most of them, like most humans and most kin and most doctors and most lawyers and most department-store clerks and most people... are like that. And so we must cleave ever more readily to those with whom we can be a bit more genuine."

Erich Reinhardt

Erich lifts his eyes to Avery again. Radiant, gorgeous, luminous Avery, who Erich is almost a little afraid to look at because holy god the awe-inspiring-ness. Especially now that she's Fostern. Surprise and -- quick on the heels of it -- an odd sort of delight makes him forget that for a second, though. He laughs, a sort of open and unfettered and young laugh that almost belies those deep dark scars in his psyche.

"Oh man," he says, "Garou are like nothing but posturing. I guess in a way it's good. We gotta figure out who's gonna dominate who, and if we didn't settle most of it with posturing we'd just end up fighting each other for real all the time.

"But yeah," sobering a little now, "there's so much posturing. The more people are watching, the more posturing there is. It gets annoying. Which is why I kinda hate moots, even though they're really important. I bet that stupid argument wouldn't have gotten nearly so out of hand if it was just her, me and you. And I bet the fact that it was just her me and you at the end was a big part of why it cooled off again.

"Urrgh." It's a disgruntled noise. "Well, I dunno. Maybe one on one Phoebe isn't so bad either. I'm gonna just hold onto that. And well. Maybe if we play nice at the moot, in time the playing nice will turn into being nice."

He pops another bite of steak into his mouth. And takes a gulp of wine. And then picks up the lobster tail and -- CRACK! -- exposes another succulent bite of meat.

"Sorry. I'm really gonna get off the subject of Phoebe now. Did you change pretty late?" Well -- at least he keeps his word, even if that shift in subject is abrupt as all hell. "I mean. I don't think I even started noticing posturing for what it was 'til I was like. Twenty. I still postured before that, I just didn't know it was posturing."

Avery Chase

Radiant, gorgeous, luminous Avery, who sometimes feels set apart from everyone because she changed so late, because she advanced so quickly, because she is a mad thing who cannot stand the idea of packmates in her head and sometimes runs away, runs away and hides, not from beasts or the Wyrm or enemies -- never that -- but from those who love her most, whom she cherishes the deepest.

She smirks wryly at his laughter regarding posturing, because he's right: it has some necessity. Even when it's annoying, and frustrating, and makes things worse.

They move on, perhaps gratefully for both of them, and she nods in answer. "I was out of college," she tells him. "I was a Cliath for... not quite three years." There's a brief pause. "I'm twenty-six."

Erich Reinhardt

"Pfft that's not so old," Erich says,

which is sort of a foot in mouth thing to say because obviously it implies he thinks 26 is kinda old, just not so old,

"I just turned twenty-three. And I've been a Cliath forever. Like, seven years now. You made it to Fostern in less than half my time. I bet you'll be Adren while I'm still slogging through Fostern, so you'll make the time up."

As though the Nation were a foot-race. As though the ranks were markers on the mile.

"Plus I bet you got a lot more living done, if you went to college. Where'd you go? What'd you major in? Oh man, did you play any sports? -- !!! -- Were you a cheerleader? Oh god please don't be a cheerleader, my brain will break."

Avery Chase

Avery just laughs. It's sort of foot in mouth but she doesn't take it that way. She laughs at him, shaking her head, her nose slightly wrinkled with the smile. "It's not old at all, you little monster!" she retorts, even though he's taller than she is, more heavily muscled than she is. He is younger. So he is given the little,

so long as it's just the two of them in her penthouse, after all.

Her eyebrows lift when he mentions being a Cliath for seven years. She didn't realize she was quite... that far ahead. "I'm sure you'll make it up too," she says, and means it. There's no questioning on her part that their ranks are markers on a footrace. Thus far she has little else to compare it to, even with the knowledge that the spirits will only trust certain gifts with certain garou of certain standing.

Her knife slices through steak again, patiently, as she is peppered with questions. "Princeton," she says, like nothing, "and I know this will shock you, but I studied law. I was going to go to graduate school but..."

Avery smiles at him, gives a little shrug. She never became a lawyer. She became a Philodox.

"The intent was to go into politics. No, I was never a cheerleader. But I did play sports here and there. Nothing very team-based. Some track and field; lots of 'personal best' motivation there, really." Avery's eyebrows lift upward. "What about you? Before you changed, I mean -- you must have still gone to school and so on."

Erich Reinhardt

"I could totally see you doing track and field," Erich says approvingly. "The four hundred meter, the cross-country. Maybe hurdles.

"I'm from Nebraska," he says, then. "I grew up on a farm. We grew corn, like everyone else in Nebraska, and also wheat and other grains. We're like a part of a big farming conglomerate. A lot of Fenrir were involved but it wasn't actually like a Garou-only thing. We processed a lot of our own grain too. Made flour and bagged-and-sliced bread and stuff.

"I never went to college. I Changed when I was sixteen, so." There's something there, a little part of the story that puts a shadow on his face. He just skips it. "I played varsity football in high school though. Center. Read the defense's play, call blocks on the fly, slam their defensive line hard, protect my quarterback and our runners and receivers." There's a fleck of lobster-shell on his cheek, which he scrubs away with the back of his wrist. "Guess it's not too different from being an Ahroun.

"It's not as impressive as it sounds though. My high school was so small there was like... a varsity team and then like maybe four stragglers."

Avery Chase

Also tennis, and some gymnastics, but the former just at the club and the latter just for a little while when she was younger. But what Erich tells her is wildly outside of her sphere. She has rarely thought about where her bread has ever come from, where grain is made, where corn is grown. She seems fascinated by that, as well as by the football talk. Avery has played a few games of Thanksgiving family football in unraked leaves at some estate or another. She... doubts that's the same.

That flicker of defensiveness makes her head tip, but she does not press. She imagines it can't be easy. Not any easier than it was on her.

"...Fenrir," is all she says, mildly, thoughtfully, quietly, only half-question.

Erich Reinhardt

Erich gives her a look: wry and a little knowing. Shrugs a little, shoulders moving under his hoodie, making that well-insulated hood shift on his back. "It's just kinda how it panned out at the end of my Rite of Passage. Fenris came for the rest of the cubs. Thunder came for me, and I just kinda ... knew it my heart it wasn't a mistake. It was right.

"The rest of my family didn't take it so well. I mean," an unhappy little laugh here, "I bet you'd be mad too if your cousin turned out to be a Shadow Lord. Most people want their family to end up in the same Tribe as them, but if they had to be something else, I bet a Shadow Lord is the last thing people would want."

Avery Chase

"I would be grieved," she says, without even thinking,

and it is not the same thing as mad.

Her brow is stitched. It became so when he gave her that look, grew only deeper -- there was a moment of relief when he said that he knew in his heart it was right, but all the same, her forehead has only furrowed more and more.

"If it were my brother, or one of my cousins... or my child? I think I would feel grief. To lose that sense of... sameness with them. And then," she says, more thoughtfully, "I would tear to pieces any wolf, Fang or otherwise, who spoke a word against them."

She says this so prettily, so lightly, as though she's considering what wrapping paper to use for a birthday gift. But it was green last year, this year it should be red. She slices off a bite of steak, then puts it to her mouth, chewing the tiny piece for a few seconds before swallowing, shaking her head slightly. "But that is me. And I cannot imagine how..."

This is a word Avery seldom uses. It is a word Avery seldom understands, because solitude sounds so much more lovely, is so much quieter and softer and appealing, but she does understand this one, too. She has felt it.

"...lonely that must have been."

Erich Reinhardt

I would be grieved, says Avery, and then I would tear to pieces any wolf who spoke a word against them.

For a moment something in Erich's heart caves in. For a moment he wants to nod, he wants to agree, he wants to lie to her and himself and everyone from here on out: tell them all that yes, yes, that is exactly what happened, he was Shadow Lord instead of Fenrir and his family grieved to lose him, but loved him still. Protected him still. Were proud of him, still. And then the Wyrm ate them! Or something! And that is his heroic origin story.

His brow knits. He pushes his lobster -- just a shell now -- around on his plate, and then he gives that little shrug again.

"Well, that's not really how it played out. And they weren't you."

She can't imagine how lonely that must have been, she adds. Erich's eyes drop back to his plate, well and truly heartsore, his appetite quite fled. There's a moment where he sort of wants to crumple on himself, sort of wants to put his head down in his arms like a little boy having a bad day.

It passes. "It wasn't fun," he admits. "But now I have a pack. And we love each other. We protect each other. So it's good."

Erich musters a smile, "Anyway. I'm glad you're Garou. I mean I bet it kinda sucked, living half your life one way and then having it all pulled out from under you. I kinda get that too. But ... I'm glad, 'cause otherwise we'd never be sitting here having this conversation. And you're a really good Garou."

Avery Chase

"No," she murmurs, when he tells her that his family was not her, that it isn't how all that played out. "I don't suppose they were."

He lives in a tiny house pulled by a truck in Evergreen with a mad little Silver Fang and a Black Fury kinswoman who has lacerations on her knuckles frequently so that she can be closer to her packmates. She doesn't imagine his Fenrir clan cradled around him to defend him... especially not after what he said earlier about one little mistake causing everyone to hate you. Especially not when he seems so lonely.

Even now.

Avery gets up from the table briefly, slowly, going for the bottle of wine to pour him a new glass and refill her own. She mostly ignores the way he wants to crumble, the way he is caving in, because she feels on instinct that he does not want her to comfort him, that it would only make it worse.

"Now you have a pack," she echoes, slipping into her seat again, looking across the tiny table at him. He goes on, and she laughs softly, looking at her plate. Her brows tug together a moment, and her smile aches. "I do try to be my best." This is repeated, softly, but she sounds like she's talking to herself.

Looks across at him again. "It sucked," she says, with a tiny, aching smile. It's not the way she usually talks; it sounds strange and perfect all at once. "I thought I was going to live one way, and then everything changed. I comforted myself thinking that certain things would change for the better, but... those things didn't. And that sucked, too."

Avery shakes her head a little. "It took me a long time to realize... this is just what it is. Who I am. And I could no more hang my happiness on whether I was Garou or Kin than whether I was blonde or brunette or tall or short. I am who I am. That core self... " She looks inward a moment, thoughtful, then shakes her head. "It doesn't change." Her eyes meet his once more. "It is unassailable by love or hate or circumstance."

Erich Reinhardt

Even Erich is not so obtuse --

Erich, especially, is not so obtuse as to not see how that applies to him, too. The core self: unassailable by love or hate or circumstance. You are who you are. That doesn't change, no matter what happens on or to the outside.

He smiles again, after a moment. And then: he sets his knife down, and his fork, pulls his napkin out from his collar (because that's where he tucked it, dear god, the poor bumpkin) and tosses it aside and gets up and walks around the little table and holds his hand out to Avery.

Who he wouldn't blame, if she were wary. If she looked at him askance, wondering what devilry this might be. He waggles his fingers, though: "Here, come here," and -- if she takes his hand, if she lets him: he pulls her up and a step closer, takes a step toward her, wraps his arms around her

and

just

hugs her. Close and tight and close-eyed, smiling. "Your core self is pretty awesome, just fyi," he tells her, a little muffled. "And your best is usually more than enough."

Avery Chase

The table is so small that they have to be careful not to bump each other's feet under the surface. It is really made for small, intimate breakfasts. Truthfully, though it has 3 chairs around it currently, it most often sees solo occupancy. That being the case, Erich doesn't have far to go when he pushes his chair back and comes over to Avery. Nor does she have much time to react to him getting up, dropping his napkin, or waggling his fingers. She just blinks at him, and he's saying come here, so she quirks her brows and folds her napkin to one side of her plate before rising, elegant as a sonnet.

Erich glomps her. Well. Hugs her, just shy of forcefully, just past politely. She huffs a breath, a laugh, gently wrapping her arms around him and giving him a pat on the back. It's very odd, and she is about as unused to this as Erich was to the little bump of contact she gave him when he arrived. Even so, she's not quite awkward about it. This is Avery, after all.

She's quiet a moment, then just says quietly: "Thank you, Erich."

And another moment later, she's drawing back, still slightly unsure about this hug, but not completely withdrawing. "What, may I ask, brought that on?" she asks him, a faint fond twinkle in her eye and a faint soft smile on her lips.

Erich Reinhardt

It was such a spontaneous, joyful thing, that hug: like one pup bounding up on another. Now that it's over, though, Erich is a touch awkward. He's pretty sure he broke ten thousand rules of etiquette. He's not sure where his hands go now, or how to get back to his seat, or what he should do with his meal, or...

He raises a hand, scrubs the back of his neck. Shrugs and grins kind of lopsidedly, a little sheepishly.

"I just felt like it," he says. "And... I guess I thought we could both use a hug. I dunno. I think it's easy to just look at you and be like, oh yeah, she's obviously perfect and her life is perfect. And I bet everyone just assumes you're perfect and looks up to you and expects you to be perfect and perfectly right and ... I dunno. I bet that's a lot of pressure, even if you are perfect.

"And you're not. You've got problems just like everyone else. Sometimes your life sucks as much as anyone's, and maybe more than most. And I think it's really ... really brave that you just soldier through all that without a complaint. I think it's admirable that you power through it with so much class and grace that people don't even see it. They just think you're perfect with a perfect life, and that you're this bottomless well of awesome that they can rely on without a shred of doubt.

"I dunno. I just wanted to hug you. Sort of as a 'you ARE awesome' and sort of as a 'thanks for being a rock for the rest of us, even when you've got your own shit to deal with' and sort of as a 'it'll be all right, your problems aren't gonna get the best of you'."

Pause.

"Also as a 'thanks for having me over for dinner. And for being my friend'."

Avery Chase

Truth be told, a large part of Avery's awkwardness is that she is not used to being thanked so profusely by someone she actually doesn't know very well. She has fought alongside Erich, she likes him, she thinks well of him, but to hear him tell her that he's pretty sure she's not perfect but everyone thinks she's perfect and maybe they don't realize how hard that contradiction can be to live with makes her feel simultaneously comforted... and exposed.

Then flattered, and she's turning a little pink with embarrassment, and this is why most people don't say what they think and feel quite so openly, Erich,

and this is why Erich and Charlotte found and were found by Volcano, of all spirits.

Avery huffs a laugh, a rush of air from her throat, and it is in her to just be light and laughing and breezy, smoothing over breaches of etiquette with aplomb and effortless grace, and a part of her is drawn towards doing that, but the stronger part of her is too honest for that. Avery is not gracious because she craves falsity. She is gracious because she is kind, and because she is respectful.

So she looks at him, and her brows tug together as she tells him: "Thank you, Erich. I... wish I knew what to say to you that would mean as much." Avery is almost quiet, saying this. There's no doubting her sincerity; she looks almost apologetic when she adds: "But I don't. I am just grateful, and a bit overwhelmed."

There's a beat, and she thinks. "Not in a bad way," Avery adds, which matters. "Perhaps in a way that makes me want to turn the focus off of myself somehow."

Which is an admission, for her: it is not so hard to be a rock, as he says, a bottomless well of Awesome, when you are focused on others. She doesn't entirely realize that herself, even as she says it. Avery leans toward him again, giving him a second, gentler hug, her arms around his shoulders even though her heels lift a bit with it. She smells really good, like... flowers or something, is probably how Erich's mind processes it, but the scent is only a faint overlay to her own sun-blessed smell.

"Thank you," she says again, whispering this time.

Erich Reinhardt

That second hug is a little less glompish. A little more tender, and gentle, even if Erich ends it with an awkward little pat on her back. When they pull apart he gets back into his chair, picking up his napkin and

tucking it into his collar again.

His t-shirt advertises some greasy spoon in Washington, D.C. His hoodie has been neatly hung in Avery's closet, perhaps alongside her brushed wool coats and her fur-trimmed puffer jackets and the like: as mismatched as he is to her. There's still some steak left on his plate, and he tucks back into it.

"We can focus on something else," he says amenably. "My pack just got a totem. We follow Volcano now. I think it's a good fit. Melantha takes a stand like nobody's business. I'm all about rolling with the punches and coming at problems head-on. And Charlotte doesn't talk much but she should, so maybe following Volcano will get her to express herself more.

"You should come visit us. I know Charlotte adores you. The tinyhouse is pretty cramped but if you don't mind close quarters we can have rabbit stew and baklava. Actually, I don't know if any of us know how to make baklava. But we can try.

"You should bring your packmate too. He seems like a good guy. A little hard to read sometimes though."

Avery Chase

It's fair: she awkwardly patted his back during that first hug, and he awkwardly pats her back now. This does make Erich the first person in Denver to have ever seen Avery awkward, much less be the culprit behind that awkwardness, but she doesn't alert him to how special he is to be able to claim that.

They slip apart and return to their meals: he with his napkin tucked to his collar, she with hers laid over her lap. He switches topics easily, painlessly, and she smiles as he talks so lovingly and so proudly of his packmates. Avery does not know Melantha, and does not realize that Melantha is kin, so she imagines perhaps she's a Philodox or Galliard, the way Erich talks. She agrees wholeheartedly with a quiet hear, hear when he says Charlotte should talk more.

And she smiles when he says that Charlotte adores her. It's a pleased little smile, warmed. She quite adores Charlotte, too. He's not wrong to think she might not like close quarters: she occupies a two-story penthouse with multiple terraces, a dining table that seats something like 12 people, and she lives in it alone. By choice.

He mentions Javed, and Avery nods, in understanding more than agreement. "He's very reserved," she says, which is the truth. "We both value honesty and respect. We both have our reasons for the care we take with our words and comportment." There's a pause, and a smile. "And he is a good guy. As are you."

Erich Reinhardt

That smile again, flickering quick and bright and young across Erich's face. He takes a sip -- well, okay: a gulp -- of wine, then lifts his shoulders again.

"I could probably use a little more care with my words, anyway. I mean not even because of ... all that. Just. In general. I got some books on public speaking! But uh, I kinda also got a whole bunch of trashy novels and I've been reading those first."

He looks down at his empty plate -- and then longingly at the food, the steaks and lobster tails still waiting to be devoured. He wonders if it would be rude to go for seconds, and then decides Avery isn't the type who'd tempt him with so much food and then berate him for eating more than one portion. So he picks up those tongs again and grabs another lobster tail. Places another steak beside it. Glances sort-of-sheepishly at Avery.

"These are really good," he says. "But you know: you guys should come out to the tinyhouse for Thanksgiving or something. We'll figure something out. It'll be awesome."

Avery Chase

Of whether or not Erich should better himself in public speaking or not, Avery does not comment. She has said all she wants or needs to say about it, and all she does is smile, wry and to the side, when he said he got a bunch of trashy novels and he's reading those first. She catches the way he looks at the lobster and steak and is about to -- not tell him to go ahead, but ask him if he would like seconds,

just before he gets up and gets some more himself. Avery grins, more pleased than amused at his expense, and sips her wine. "I'm glad you think so," because of course she is. He says they should come out for Thanksgiving and she just laughs softly. "How tiny is this tinyhouse?" she asks him, then, before she forgets: "You know, when you leave, you should take whatever is left with you. So your pack can share, since they weren't able to attend."

Erich Reinhardt

Just how tiny is the tinyhouse?

The truth is, Erich sometimes doesn't think of it as tiny at all. It is his den, and it is his pack's den, and it is a tinyhouse, but after living in his car for so long, his sense of space is somewhat changed. And besides: tiny it may be, but the tinyhouse has everything Erich needs. It has a place for food, a place for sleep, a place to wash, a place to store precious things. A place to light a fire. A place to curl up with a book. A place to look out at the stars, even, and out at the streets, the trees, the people outside. It is whole. It is complete.

"It's... about a third the size of your kitchen. Like, the whole thing, including kitchen and bathroom and my loft and Melantha's and Charlotte little bedroom. It's really pretty small."

He glances at the steaks and the lobsters again. "That's super generous," he says, "and honestly I'd love to, but my mother always taught me it was super rude to take all the food and leave your host with nothing. Especially if it's good stuff. So maybe I'll just take two steaks and two lobster tails? Like one each for my pack."

Avery Chase

About a third of the size of her kitchen.

Avery blinks. She turns her head to look at her kitchen, staring at it for a few moments while she parses it into thirds, builds wooden walls around that space, adds a roof. Blinks again, turning back to Erich, who does not think this is tiny at all given that he used to live in a Mustang, given that he has everything he needs and his packmates have everything they need and they are warm and safe and dry and clean and together and cozy and happy and yay.

From her end of things, however, Avery hears that the kitchen and bathroom and two lofts and a bedroom all fit in a space a third the size of one room in her house and she feels a vague stirring of something not quite like shame, but perhaps embarrassment.

So when Erich says it's rude to take all the food because then he'd leave his host with nothing, Avery cannot help but blurt out a sudden huff of laughter. "I'm sure a woman that wise and considerate also taught you how appalling it is to waste food. Which," she says, a bit ruefully, "is what will happen if you do not take all that the three of you can eat." She pauses a moment; she knows this is awkward, too, but she means it: "Erich, I insist. It is not charity; it is a gift of thanks for your friendship and a message to your packmates that I would sorely love to share such a meal with them in person in the future.

"Please," she adds, a bit softer. "I will not be left with 'nothing'. You will save me from the embarrassment of my own good fortune by permitting me to share it."

Erich Reinhardt

"Well," they are actually bargaining over how much food Erich is going to take with him, "I'll take more, then, since you put it that way. But I'm gonna leave you with at least two steaks and two lobster tails. 'Cause you can't tell me you can't put that away by yourself. You might be a lady but you're still a Garou who I've watched dismantle about half a dozen wyrmlings, Rhya."

He yanks the meat out of his second lobster tail out, then: all in a chunk, ripped out in his fist rather the way he might tear something's trachea out. Reducing the meat to bite-sized chunks, he dips them methodically in butter, drizzles them with lemon juice, and eats.

"We should do something after dinner. I mean, unless you have to get up early tomorrow? But if you don't, we should ... go run around the city and look for trouble. I love getting into tangles with you. It's so much fun."

Avery Chase

"Deal," Avery says, because two steaks and two lobster tails is more than enough for her, and she does -- shocker of shockers -- eat leftovers sometimes. She does, after all, have this home so she can retreat from everyone, and that generally includes her cook and kitchen staff. There was a time, when she was younger, where Avery being left on her own was considered a bit of a risk, given that she might just let herself go hungry, but that was before it was realized that she just didn't want to interact with anyone, not some aversion to feeding herself.

Had she been garou when she ran away from home that one time, she would have simply hunted. You don't have to talk to anyone to harry down a rabbit and tear it to bloody pieces. Not even the rabbit.

There is a little smile there, though, and she hesitates, but then says: "Erich... when it's just you and I, or an informal gathering... you needn't call me Rhya. I do mind my manners when I'm among garou, but in a setting such as this... you really don't need to. I know I have your respect."

Whatever his response to that, when he asks her if she wants to do something after dinner, her eyebrows lift a bit. The nonverbal signal is answer enough, and he is tuned in enough to these sorts of expressions that he would know that in another form, her tail would be wagging, her ears would be perked. She plays it a little coy in this body, however, thoughtfully musing as she slices into her steak yet again: "No, I haven't made any plans for the morning yet. What did you have in mind?"

Not too coy. Her smile, when it spreads back across her lips, is positively devilish. "Perhaps a tuxedo shop this time?"

Erich Reinhardt

"You do have my respect," Erich says, smiling. Somehow that makes him happy too: respect gladly given, gladly accepted. "You have a lot of respect, from me and from everyone else. But, okay. Avery it is, then."

And -- laughing, then, throwing back his head and letting loose an uncramped, unfettered shout of mirth. "We can start there," he says gamely, "but let's just go and see what we find. Or what finds us."

His plate is almost cleaned. He eats the last of his lobster, the last of his steak -- pausing briefly to deign to pick his knife and fork up for the latter, at least. When he's done he pulls the napkin down from his collar, wipes his mouth and his hands, lays it over the plate.

"Thanks," he says, meaning it. "That was a great dinner. Is your dishwasher over there? We can load it up, and then I can drive us if you want."

Avery Chase

Avery, perhaps predictably, waves a hand. "It's all right to leave it," she says, and she means it. They have both been drinking wine with their steak, their lobster, but the alcohol will not last ten seconds in the burn of their rage.

Laying her napkin beside her plate, she scoots her chair back, rising to stand. "Let me just run upstairs to change, though, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes."

Erich Reinhardt

Erich looks slightly uncomfortable at the thought of just leaving dishes lying around. It's not even just the manners drilled into him by his tough, no-nonsense farmwife mother. It's the simple pragmatism of living in small spaces. He couldn't possibly just leave the dishes lying around at the tinyhouse. They'd be buried in filth in a matter of days.

Still: she says it, she means it. He's already picked his plate up, and puts it down again with a hint of reluctance. "No prob," he says of waiting a few minutes. "I'll get my shoes on and stuff."

--

A few minutes later, when she comes down wearing her dedicated -- workout gear, shall we call it? -- she'll discover that he couldn't resist a bit of cleanup. The remaining food has been covered up. The dishes are soaking in the sink. And Erich is over by the shelving, reading some random book or other he picked up.

"Hey," he says, seeing her. Smiles. Snaps the book shut and replaces it carefully. "Good to go?"

Avery Chase

Avery notices his discomfort, and he may notice when her eyes track momentarily over to the kitchen, to the smooth front of the dishwasher, just in case he can't help himself. She says nothing of it, and the look isn't particularly lingering or meaningful, subtle enough that an obtuse person might miss it. But she doesn't want him to be uncomfortable. Not when he's her guest, in her home.

One of her homes.

Avery smiles, and she slips out of the room, walking through the rather open floorplan to the stairs and treading quickly up. When she returns, her jewelry is gone but for a dedicated pendant. Her hair is tied back a little tighter. She is wearing that yoga gear, looking like she must be running out to a candlelight session at her studio, only she's forgetting her mat. Her smile grows to see that he's cleaned up a little, more in fond amusement than anything else, and she doesn't mention it.

She glances at what he's reading, doesn't care where he puts it because someone else cares about those things for her, and grins. "Oh, yes."