John Barrister

[Marissa Taylor] "Hey, Allard. Found this on sale in the used section of IU's bookstore - holy crap, textbooks are expensive even on sale and used and all marked up - and it was interesting, so I got it. It's about divination and the forms its taken throughout history and the way people react to it, or at least this section is."

Marissa is awkward, geeky, and a little shy in most circumstances, with most people, but seeing her interact with Henry, no one would ever think so. She speaks to him like she would a good friend, or even an older brother, but for the part where she ignores that concern (he has more important things to worry about, after all, and she's a tough girl who can handle her own problems) as surely as Henry'd ignored Danny's knowing look.

"More generically, it's about mysticism. Hi, Danny, right?"

It's not so much that Marissa's state has gotten worse as that when she and Henry met, and in much of the intervening time? She was better than usual.

[Henry Allard] At Danny's arrival, Henry turns, bumps Marissa with his hip to get her to move over, and slides in next to her. It's a respectful distance that he keeps, given the fact that he smells like fresh sweat and is still quite damp, shirt soggy with it, hair spiked.

That Marissa is reading a book about mysticism does not surprise him one teeny weeny bit.

Henry examines what's left on her plate while the two girls talk. He isn't examining it out of interest--rather, he's trying to judge how much food the girl's had. She's not holding onto her weight any better than Henry is. Hence, his concern.

[Danny Jones] She nods, slightly. "Yeah. Hi 'Rissa." It's said between mouthfuls. hurt or not, her appetite has not suffered, for all she denied herself all day. Now it's recharge time, and she eats like it's going out of style, like it might disappear if she doesn't hurry, as if someone might steal it away from her.

It's a family trademark, practically. She hooks an arm around the plate (...onguard) and digs in. And while the other two skinnies are losing weight, one has to wonder where the hell the Gnawer puts it all if she eats this way often... there's not scrap of extra flesh on her.

[Marissa Taylor] Of course Marissa scooted and sweat or no sweat, she'd let her head rest briefly on the older, taller kin's bicep (he dwarfs the girl, after all) affectionately. And if he's trying to guess how much he's eaten based on her plate? A guess would be about three bites, and other than that she's toyed with the bit of food she'd taken. Peas float in her mashed potatoes and gravy, bread crust forms a bridge over that particular canyon, and so forth.

"Good to see you - heard some things have changed."

Again, she glances over Danny, assessing her much like Henry assesses Marissa's plate.

"If you need some help with that, " she means the injuries, "I can hook you up."

[mothra] (eats godzilla!)

[godzilla] (*wrecks the city and leaves the scene!*)

[Danny Jones] She glances up and studies Marissa, before she shakes her head. "Nah. I could fixit m'self if I wanted too. Need to remember. Force it in." a slight shrug, and a lift of her shoulder slightly, only to have it fall again. "penance or somethin like it."

A lopsided smirk, and she pushes her fingers through her hair, and then attacks plate one again. Oh! Crispy Chicken Strips!

[Marissa Taylor] "Okay."

Quiet then, though with company here, now, she closes her book and sets it aside - that's the polite thing to do, after all, when other people join one at a table. She doesn't question further, just accepts what she's been told (for now). There's scrambling, then, for something to say . . . but it's only a few seconds before the early twenty-something gives up. She can get up on stage and perform, little to no problem, but keeping a conversation afloat with someone she doesn't know (and sometimes even with someone she does know) is a completely different animal.

[Henry Allard] ((God I suck at multitasking *L* Posting Henry back in, give me a second.))

[Henry Allard] Henry sits still while the two talk, for what it's worth. That's the least amount of words he's ever heard come out of Marissa's mouth yet, yet he manages to keep himself from raising an eyebrow in question. That would be broadcasting what he's thinking, and the world does not need to know that Henry Allard is silently accusing someone else of being entirely too quiet. That would be the equivalent of a small lake calling a rain drop wet.

He silently pushes Marissa's plate back in front of her, moving the book out of the way.

"I'm going to start chanelling my mother if you don't eat something," he tells her, solemnly, before hitching himself standing and wandering over to the buffet line. There he warily glances at the spread before picking up a tray and moving down the line.

[Danny Jones] She looks up then, a little bit, and tips her head slightly studying Marissa. Then Henry. Then.. well. she offers - she knows what it's like to be the third wheel, all too well. She's about to offer to go sit somewhere's else, if they wanted to talk or something, when Henry chides marissa for not eating and pushes her plate in front of her. That gets a wry smirk from Danny. "yeah - ya gotta eat somethin else I look like th'fuckin pig I am."

Halfway through plate one, picking at the fries on plate two, even as she continues to shovel. She ain't call the other girl skinny, cuz well - raindrops/lake/wet - metaphor works here too.

[Skadi] It's a cool spring night. Full dark has fallen, and the air is rich with the scent of the lake. On a quiet sidestreet in lakeview, a series of small, single family homes stand apart from the larger highrises, the developments and redevelopments in constant motion. The wind that rises from the lake has a straight shot, here, except where it is interrupted by garden walls and garden fences and garden gates and.. gardens, like the overgrown shadow of a garden through which a tall, singular figure stalks a longlegged stalk, the sweating chiminage of a four-pack of just-purchased beer brushing both her thigh and the long, tender stalks of the climbing rose now sending out suckers and shoots and new-grown red-tipped leaves.

The gate closes behind her, and she's careful to latch it. The porchsteps sad and creak their protest against her weight. The doorbell rings - perhaps just at the moment the owner's hound catches the first visceral threads of scent from beyond it.

[Marissa Taylor] With boys, particularly ones she finds attractive, Marissa runs off at the mouth and hardly allows anyone else to get a word in edgewise - she gets nervous and she talks a mile a minute, and the topic jumps at a whim. She doesn't hang around with many girls that she hasn't known for nearly as long as she's been here, but likely when they'd first met, it had been a lot like this. Too much quiet, too few words, and Marissa toying with something instead of talking.

It takes her a while to warm up to people, and the last person she was as open with as she is with Henry was institutionalized not long after her first change. That was no coincidence.

"But I'm not hungry . . ."

She eyes the plate with distaste, then takes a bite of her mashed potato canyon anyway, then chews for a moment before sticking her tongue out at Danny and showing her the lump of white on her tongue. Sheer class, is Marissa . . . but then she chews and swallows.

"When I used to eat like that, I swear, I was three times your size. Girth, not height."

[J. Barrister] From the backyard comes a mournful baying the very instant the doorbell rings. There's a few beats of silence, and then a man's voice behind the door, the higher harmonic overtones lost to the wood, the deep fundamental frequencies vibrating through.

"Hush up Bruin. It's just the doorbell."

The door opens with a rattle and John's big frame fills up the aperture. He looks at Skadi, the expectant open expression of a door-answerer becoming the smile of a visitor-recognizer. "Hey, Skadi. Didn't expect you to drop by." He steps back and holds the door open for her. "Come in."

[Danny Jones] Her smirk is lopsided and not near as fulla mirth as it would have been just... 48 hours ago. Now its more wry, pained, and falls into a hiss as she shifts positions slightly, trying to ease the pressure on her hip that just a few hours ago was shattered against a fire escape. that she then pulled off the wall. And tried to hit one of her best friends with.

Yesterday was not a good day.

She does her own 'see food' back at Marissa, before she shrugs. "Ain't know where it all goes. Ain't never put on weight, ever. Work this off in a couple hours by breathin." disgustin, ain't it.

[Skadi] Skadi's standing at the door, frowing down through the shadows at the yard, or perhaps the shadows of the evening's clouds passing over the yard, the stick-black crawl of a neighbor's tree, until the sounds beyond the door change from approaching to opening. The click of the lock, then. The whisper of the peeling weatherstripping across the hardwood floor.

"It ain't a bad time, izzit?" she asks, returning his smile with a hook-curve grin of her own, holding up the four-pack of Guinness by way of apology.

[Marissa Taylor] "That was back when I was a kid, still. My mom used to make up weekly meal plans and stuff, but I'd sneak stuff at school, or take my allowance and buy chocolate and peanut butter and stuff like that. I was a little porker."

She makes a face, gives a snort as if to prove her point, and pushes her plate away again - one bite will have to be enough for Henry for now. She's not wasting away . . . yet . . . nearly as badly as he is. And he knows, even if Danny doesn't, that Marissa almost never mentions her family. Now, to the one who doesn't know better, it would sound as if the Coggiebash had lost them when she was younger; it happens in a lot of ways.

"So what happened to you anyway, and is the other guy still conscious?"

[Danny Jones] A smirk twists her lips again as she lifts that shoulder negligently again. "I happened. Fire escape ain't conscious no more. Or attached, neither." She doesn't go into it any farther, really, and her eyes flood with the sudden pain of remembering again why she went off the deep end, and how she hurt ewan in the process.

And how he beat her ass down while staying homid. Damn that fucker was strong - was so freakin embarrassing.

[J. Barrister] "Nope. I don't sleep for another hour or two, most nights." The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You'd know he were smiling even if all you saw were his eyes. He takes the four-pack from her and thumps into the kitchen to find a bottle opener. Two of the bottles go into the fridge. The other two he holds by the neck while he bangs through drawers. Most of them are empty. A few rattle with unknown knickknacks.

The house is quiet, and there's a certain quality to the quiet that says he lives alone. It's different, somehow, from the quiet of a house that two people inhabited, even if only one of them is home. The kitchen window is open, as is a window onto the side-yard in the living room. The sounds of the night drift through the house, borne on a cool breeze heavy with the scent of whatever half-wild flowers were blooming in his (wife's) garden.

"So," his broad back to her while he goes through his silverware drawers -- which, Skadi might notice, have gained in population since her last visit. "Have you come to push more blind dates on me?"

The living room is also marginally cleaner. The boxes are gone; furniture has appeared. A sofa, a lot of bookshelves, a rug, a coffee table, etcetera and etcetera. The door to the basement is ajar and a light comes up from below. In the air is the faint pungent scent of carpentry and woodworking.

[Henry Allard] It takes him a painfully long time to fill up a plate, and what goes on the plate is as far from buffet food as could possibly be reached. Henry has managed to put together a salad, of all things, the one food that can either scream I'm on a diet or grumble I'm not hungry. His has a lot of stuff in it, sprigs of broccoli and chick peas and onions, a great assortment of vegetables, with shredded cheese in lieu of dressing, but the odds of him finishing it are slim to none. This has been happening lately: he will sit down to eat, and his mind will wander. If he sits down to eat. With the weather growing warmer and the days growing longer, the city's call volume has increased. His days are a blur, a tiring, miserable blur.

Henry sits back down as Danny is describing her evening, and he pushes Marissa's plate back in front of her before thunking down his own and stabbing a trio of chickpeas with the tines of his fork.

He makes no remarks on what happened to the fire escape, although the expression on his face is all sympathy and no judgment. All he is doing is listening.

[Marissa Taylor] An eyebrow raises but there's no judgment here, either; fights with fire escapes aren't terribly uncommon in a world populated by beings made of Rage, after all. Whatever happened, surely Danny had her reasons - and hopefully no one had gotten hurt too badly in the process.

"Remind me to call you next time a neighborhood fire escape steps out of line. I bet the two of us could take it."

There's even a hint of a smile there, though it doesn't last long, and it doesn't reach her tired eyes.

[Skadi] "Naw." She follows him into the kitchen, her boots a pointed counterpoint to the large kinsman's softer step, poking a noisy glance at the thin cone of light defined by the basement door; at the living room, populated since her last visit, when the Rotagar offered to unpack his boxes for him. When he wasn't him. In the unnatural wash of the kitchen's fluorescent fixture, her skin takes on a stark near-pallor. It's spring; not summer. She hasn't begun to tan.

"Naw, I ain't," he bangs through the kitchen drawers. She levers herself up onto the counter, familiarly. What's that they say: make yourself at home, right? "Figger once ya see Moira, y'ain't gon' wanna see no one else. Ain't had tha chance ta talk ta her 'bout it yet, though. When I do, ya mind if I give her yer phone number, direct? Cain't remember if I asked 'bout that, afore."

[Henry Allard] ((::sings the Smokin' Mah Cigarettez song::))

[J. Barrister] "Moira, huh?" He repeats the name half-tastingly, half-amusedly. Something clatters in the drawer. The echoes are hollow: the cabinet below it, mostly empty. He turns around armed with a bottle opener and pops the two bottles, handing one to her. "Sure, give her my number." Barrister points his bottle at the living room. "Want to go sit in there? My furniture finally arrived."

[Danny Jones] She offers that (pained) smile again, and then it fades as she continues to devour the massive amount of food before her. Steadily, even breaths, barely a pause between forkfuls. She eyes the salad with suspicion as Henry digs in and snorts.

"Clearly, ain't neither of ya BeeGees. Shit. Rabbit food and no food. Mama'd be disgraced."

[Marissa Taylor] "Fine, fine, I'll eat."

And she does - she eats everything on her plate, even the soggy bread crust, though by the end of it all her stomach is rebelling and she's looking less than happy about what she's taken in. It's been . . . well, she can't really remember the last time she had more than a yogurt at a sitting, with that occasionally being all she's taken in in an entire day.

"And you're right, we're definitely not BeeGees."

[Skadi] "Fuckin' hell," she curses, beneath her breath, half-rising and levering herself off Barrister's counter, dropping heel-first onto her boots, onto his floor. "I wasn't gon' tell ya her name, 'gainst tha chance she said no. Yannow, give her her privacy an' shit. Kin ya pertend ya ain't heard it 'less she calls ya?" She graps the beer carelessly, casually, hooking her thumb and forefinger around the long neck, letting it drift down her body to graze her hip, then her thigh.

She turns sidelong, slips past him, around the shape of the fridge, and ambles ahead through the arch toward the living room. "I'm 'onna guess leather couches. That whatcha got?"

[Danny Jones] The smirk she shoots Henry that time is smug. Marissa ate. Guilted into it or not, she's gotta have fuel to keep on movin. Ain't no one eat like Danny does, mostly, but leastwise they get they's fuel too.

First plate is emptied, and all but licked clean and scooted aside as she starts in on the second one. Probably makin Marissa sick just watchin her shovel it away as if it's gonna up and walk without her stabbing at it quicklike.

[J. Barrister] "Oh." John grins, rubbing his stubbled jaw. Twice a day shaves haven't managed to keep him smooth-cheeked. One look at the dense fur on the back of his hand gives a good guess as to why. "I'll do my best to pretend I have no idea who she is, should she say no, and should we later meet." He takes a swig of his beer, following behind her. He's in socks and old soft-worn jeans, his button-up open and untucked on a white t-style undershirt: comfortable, at home, master of his small domain.

Lowering the Guinness, "Mmhm. With wood trim." Of course, by then, she's seen his furniture, not new but quality, well made, heavy, with a rustic sort of taste to it. Barrister knocks his knuckles on the dark wood trim, "Last you a hundred years. Fabric is cheaper in the short run, but when you've got a dog like Bruin it'll fray in a year. Sit," he waves her at the sofa while he sinks into his couch, which is mismatched against the rest, and quite possibly older.

[Henry Allard] Henry smiles at the small stab at their lineage, smiles and goes back to stabbing at his salad. Running four miles had perked up his appetite, and now that he's distracted from his distractions, his stomach is fervently praising Christ Himself for Henry's smart decision to put food into it.

Something makes him laugh, once, and he puts a hand up to his mouth in the event that anymore is forthcoming.

He clears his throat, swallows, then looks back across the table at the one demolished plate of food.

"And I thought Tristan ate a lot," is his volunteered explanation. Only after he says this does he realize that he's just more or less confirmed whatever suspicions were brewing in Danny's brain, and he almost face palms at his own transgression.

Instead he keeps on eating.

[Marissa Taylor] She finds herself being very careful not to gag on the too much that she's just eaten entirely too quickly, and then she's nudging Henry, and giving Danny a smile as she gathers her book and pager.

"Lemme out, Henry, I have to call Ryan."

Bernie, the paramedics and drivers call him . . . and have for ages. Still, Marissa calls him Ryan (at his request, no less), and likely he gets razzed for it when she's not around.

"And I've got other shit to do tonight, too. See you back home, baby?"

[Skadi] "Looked when I come in," the girl admits as she sinks into the far corner of the sofa, one leg tucked under her body. Until, of course, she sits down hard on the heel of her boot, grimaces and rearranges herself into the sort of lounge one associates with straight men on game day. Her jacket - a western style blazer, the third coat of the winter - spreads a chocolate suede frame for the pale, lean line of her ribbed t-shirt, the old jeans, bootcut maybe, held up at the hips by a cinched leather belt that could easily be handmade.

She's grinning, if he catches her profile at just the right point of contact; and it's a sly expression, her head turned away, like she's surveying the room, the blue eyes cutting toward him like that was some kinda great joke, har-de-har-har, though she doesn't laugh aloud, naw. Just grins a half-grin that rises and then settles, somehow, on her face, the way earth does, after its been turned. Compacting. "My daddy had leather couches. An' a gator head over tha fireplace. Momma wanted 'em with pink flowers an' shit, never got 'em neither. So she put up flowers on tha wall'a his trophy room. S'weird, too. S'sorta why I come."

[Marissa Taylor] ((Bed time for tired, going on sick CCs!))

[Danny Jones] "I knew it." That's the statement that comes with a smirk. She just nods though, with a wink. "I could out eat him any day. Even if he's got hollow legs. An ain't no big thang. I aint one them weirdo freak out folks. Ya happy, then be happy."

A pause, as she chases around her last bite. "Lord knows we ain't all so fuckin lucky."

Speakin of, there's another stop she's gotta make tonight. business an' shit, that's gonna put her right back in the thick of all the shit that fucked her up last night. Again.

She belches, and then. "Hate to eat'n'run? but I gots somewhere to be - an' if I timed it right, ain't no one home." a pause, and. "Thanks for dinner, Henry. Later riss"

and she heads toward the door, slow and sure, teeth gritted agianst the pain.

[J. Barrister] "I figured as much," he replies to her admission, his own smile turning a little sly. "But far be it from me to discourage your budding ESP."

Then, only slightly nonplussed, he takes a moment to sip his beer before answering, "To put flowers up on my wall?"

[Skadi] "Naw." She tips her head back, then, loose blonde hair spreading over the mellow bulge of the overstuffed leather, carefully considering the junction of wall and ceiling as if measuring it for an assault with floral wallpaper. "Figger, if ya want flowers on yer walls, I'll letcha put 'em there yerself. Or - " a darting-straight look, her mouth contained, now, mobile at the corners, but quite flat. " - well, hell. Betcha Moira'll do that, y'all git tagether. Smells like a flower train exploded all over her. I meant my folks is why I come. Ya mind doin' me a favor?"

[J. Barrister] Smells like a flower train exploded all over her, she says, which causes Barrister to slant her a skeptical sort of smirk. But he grows serious as she asks a favor. "Not at all. What do you need?"

[Skadi] "Me an' tha Rotagar is goin' on a big strike this Sunday." Then concrete, grounded, whatever; her smirk has drained away, slipped nearly off her face, leaving a peculiar solemnity, broken only by the bright color of her eyes, alert, just narrowed - watchful. Or cautious: something like that. Measuring. The creature shifts from hip to hip, not to settle into the embrace of the sofa, but to sit forward, to brace her hands on her thighs, one flat, the other balancing her beer. "Spirit side. Some others is goin, but most'a them ain't Fenrir, an' none'a them's pack. Figger if I go, Kemp'll make sure my folks hear tha word tha way they oughtta be told, but me'an him are front lines. I go, maybe he does, too. Want'a back-up plan. I give them at tha Caern yer number, an' it goes down like that, I wanna know if you'll give 'em tha call."

[J. Barrister] A few beats of silence follow that. Barrister's eyes are narrowed, though not out of anger. He regards the young woman before him -- the Modi before him. A few things come to mind: don't be silly. you'll be fine, and why me? chief amongst them. The former is not a guaranteed truth. The latter is not something he'll ask.

So instead, John considers her request quietly and carefully, and he takes his time about it. Imagines what it would be like if he had to make the call. The call. Not that he hasn't before -- for some young man or woman caught up in dreams of something grander, who didn't really know what it meant to die for one's faith until it was too late -- but those were not Garou, and Garou were different.

Garou are no different.

"Sure," he says, quietly, more lightly than the situation required. "I'll call them and let them know."

[Skadi] "Thanks, man." - she says, just on the heels of his acquiescence, and just as lightly. And she's already standing, already on her feet, the beer held casually against her body, against the supple curve of her thigh, just above the worn-white knee, because how do you keep sitting, sprawling, smirking - talking to a stranger, when you're death's there, in the middle of the room. The modi lifts her beer to her mouth; she drains it all at a go, her throat working furiously to swallow it all as she drinks, and then she turns and sets the bottle aside. Sets it carefully on his mantle, just behind a framed photograph, perhaps, or a clock, ever-what he keeps on his mantle. "Preciate it."

Her grin is tight, brilliantly backlit by the color of her eyes, the slow-furnace-burn of her rage. She is already in motion; crossing one hand tucked awkwardly into her back pocket, the other swinging free, across his living room before he has time to rouse himself from his old couch, to pick up the thread of her motion through the room, the a backtrail bright, buring. "Might be best if'ya stay outta Chinatown, this Sunday, too - " she offers, pausing at the threshold to the room, looking back over her shoulder, before she disappears into the foyer. " - kin see myself out."

And the, out the door, leaving him to his home, returning it to the pleasant silence it has developed, and in which he lives.