John Barrister

[Princess] There is a pawnshop; this has been established. The pawnshop is near a laundromat; this has also been established. The pawnshop keeps odd hours, a side-business: also established. The owner knows this red haired girl, this girl with hair so red that, so he may not be surprised to see her when she pushes the door open - testingly, as though uncertain whether or not it would really give, or be locked up - and enters his little store. Then, he might be in back, and not see at all.

[J.B.] He doesn't see her; but the bell over the door misses nothing. It rings, and from the dusty shelves, his basso voice: "We're closing in ten minutes."

[Princess] Doesn't say anything for a second. Takes stock; drifts over to the scarred glass counter where the tiny register is. Then, "Hey, I've always wanted to sleep in a shop before. I hear that elves come and make sure the dust is," she wipes a finger, experimentally, on one of the knick knacks, "just so."

[J.B.] J.B.'s head pops up from behind a shaky stack of books almost as tall as he is. He gives her a skeptical, amused look. "I hear it's just the pollen and the dirt. Plus industrial debris. Need another ride?"

[Princess] "No," she replies, and there's something; -- well. For a moment, she gives him a thoughtful, sidelong look that is not altogether like her usual thoughtful, sidelong looks. Beat. "Well, I'd appreciate one. But no. I needed to ask you some questions."

[J.B.] "Yeah?" This time when his head reappears there's a frown. THUMP, he stacks more books on top, raising a small puff of dust that makes his nose itch. Rubbing it vigorously on the back of his hand, he comes around the stack and, with the ease of custom, pulls a stool down to sit behind the counter. He folds his forearms over. "Go ahead."

[Princess] She fights a grimace, for a second; does not give into it. However, her eyebrows do draw together, intent; intense. "Did what Kendra said, about drama and Moira, strike you as mean-spirited slander?"

[J.B.] It's a strange and rapid sequence of expressions: surprise, puzzlement, then a darkening into a frown. And before all that, a glimpse, very brief, very very brief, of something that might've been -- something like -- relief.

But anyway: a frown now. "If you're here to gossip..."

[Princess] "I'm not."

[J.B.] There's a long silence in which he studies her, his brow knit, his eyes flat. There's a certain stiffness in this interaction that had not been there before; like the day by the lake, when he'd discovered her for what she is, there's a certain regret associated.

Still, eventually, he must seem satisfied with what he sees, because he nods and sighs. "Well -- yes. They are young, teenaged girls. Both pretty, by all accounts. It might only be girlfighting, except -- " he stops trying to find excuses for Kendra. "Yes. It seemed a little mean-spirited."

[Princess] There's silence, again. He's noticed the - well, the very subtle differentiation just now, the acknowledgment that they are - each to each - a different species. The same as that day at the lake. There's something - briefly, briefly - weary about her profile, too; a flash of something in her eyes. (This is chased by humor: "Well; you're not un-cute." ) "Did it make you think poorly of Moira, or of Kendra, or of both?"

[J.B.] It seems, for a moment, that he's watching him from someplace far behind his own shoulder. That he sees this tableau clearly: the large man hunkered on a small stool, faintly ridiculous, his shirt stretched tight over his shoulders because if he bought anything larger it would droop almost to his knees, and the sleeves would hang to his knuckles; the small girl on the opposite side; the two of them, speaking almost in formalities now, her with her carefully placed questions and he with his carefully truthful answers. It seems he's seen this before, too many times.

"It made me weary. It made me remember what it was about teenagers, and perhaps Garou teenagers more than most, that makes me steer clear."

[Princess] " - what's that?" The girl's eyes flicker; she would like, really, to look somewhere else. But she doesn't, because she needs to consider J.B., so that when this conversation is necessary to recall, she can recall it. Not just the words; not just the tone of voice. All of it.

[Princess] And, yes, her ears go a little bit pinker.

[J.B.] There's a faint flare of irony in his eyes now. "The gossip." A pause. A smile cracks, like dawn. "The little barbs. The thoughtless cruelties. The, what is it now, three way phone wars? The self-importance of a teenager, plus the ego of being quite literally Chosen by God." Maybe that was unwise. Maybe a lot of this is unwise; but Princess inspires trust, and J.B. did, for better or worse, trust her. "But -- mostly, the gossip." And fades, "Why the questions, Thaney? I imagine somehow the story went around and around and came back to you."

[Princess] Beat. "What," she says, with a faint, rueful smile - and then actually does not say something that she began to say. Usually, she stops before she ever starts; not this time. A quiet inhale. "Is it really any different when you reach your thirties, J.B.? I don't know. Do people change, stop gossiping, stop being thoughtless, become wise?" And she likely won't, ever. She doesn't kid herself. Then: " - well. Whatcha mean by 'the story' and 'came back to' me? I was there, wasn't I?"

[J.B.] The edges of his eyes crinkle: a real smile. "No. But at least," he adds, "we stop thinking we can change the world. Though maybe, given the state of the world, that's not necessarily a good thing." A sigh, and he leans back from the counter, reaches under it for a big thermos, which he unscrews. The no-scent of hot water; he fumbles around behind the counter for a handful of individually wrapped tea-bags, Bigelow's, nothing special, which he spreads on the counter for her to pick from. For himself, he takes a japanese sencha, which really only resembled the actual green tea brewed in japan the way a photograph of the Tour Eiffel resembles the real thing.

"You were there," he replies, "but you certainly didn't have so many probing questions then. I feel like you're trying to get at something; why don't you come ahead and ask it, Thaney?"

[Princess] "The death of idealism; I won't drink to that," she says, idealistically. Then, silence, quiet; hold it, cup it in your hands, there it is. The red-haired girl drags her hair away from her face, holds it back with one hand; keeps the hand on top of her head. "I don't waste questions, J.B.; well," temporizing, as usual, "I try not to. I just want to know: Do you think poorly about Moira because of Kendra?"

[J.B.] "I don't think poorly of her, Thaney." He pours hot water into the cap/cup of the thermos, plunks it down in front of her. As for him: the little paper wrapping is ripped effortlessly apart in his hands, the satchet of tea dropped directly into the thermos. "I won't lie to you and say I think well of Kendra, because I don't; but I don't think poorly of Moira. I just think -- I think it's more of a mistake than Skadi thought it was." Pause. "Moira doesn't know about this, does she?"

[Princess] She listens, of course; that's what she does. Doesn't, not yet, really seem to notice the tea-bags; notice the choice offered - at least not until J.B. plops the thermos of hot water in front of her. Then she gives it a glance, mild surprise, hello, what are you doing here? But, no: attention switches back. "You don't have to tell me - didn't have to tell me, I guess - what you think about either of them; I don't need to know that. I just asked:--well. You answered." Then she plucks a bag of tea off the counter and plops it into the thermos cap. Pokes her finger into it to stir, and, ouch! Stupid.

[Princess] Also, around sucking on her finger, "Don't know what Moira knows. Haven't seen her for a while; I doubt she "knows". There isn't any point to it, you know?"

[J.B.] "Well, good." He wraps both his hands around the big thermos, which is one of those good, quality ones -- the outside very cool to the touch, the water inside piping hot. He thinks about it for a minute. Then, again, "Good. Let's leave it that way.

"You want to know what I told Skadi? -- since," wry, "it's either her or Kendra that told you, I imagine, unless tongues have been wagging more than I thought."

[Princess] "Do I want to know?; sure. But you don't need to tell me; I don't really need to know. I don't think I really want to know." Her eyebrows draw together, again; it's a studious expression, and mildly perplexed. "Told me what?"

[Danny Jones] Bronzeville is slumming it, even by her standards cuz she's living it up in the 'Green, don'tcha know. better boxes in alleys there. But she passes through here now and again, because it's where Brodie and Rafi hang.

And thus, outside on the wall by a certain pawn shop, conveniently and all, walks Danny; she of the two-toned hair, the glitter t-shirt (PINK with Grumpy Care Bear on it, the thought bubble saying +$%@! in glitter. Yes. Glitter.) and jeans under a beat to hell army jacket, and the backpack covered with indy patches and little pithy sayings on her back. Same Danny, different day.

[J.B.] For a moment John Barrister visibly struggles with his temper. His mouth compresses down to a line. He squeezes the thermos between his big hands. Then he lifts it and takes a big gulp that, naturally, scalds his tongue and the roof of his mouth and makes him curse blisteringly afterwards.

"Never mind. But I want you to know, all I said to Skadi was that Moira was nineteen, and there are old nineteens and young nineteens, and Moira seemed to be a young nineteen. That was it; that was the slip of my stupid big mouth; and next thing I know she's got steam coming out her ears demanding to know who said what where and when, and next thing after that you're in here asking oblique questions and answering nothing. Christ."

And another gulp, onehanded, the other hand drumming on the countertop. He doesn't meet her eyes. He drums for a few seconds. Then, "Sorry." He doesn't quite sound it -- sorry -- but he does sound a little ashamed.

[Princess] Her jaw tightens, briefly; her ears go pink, again, and maybe her cheeks too. Just a little. Her gaze remains narrowed, however; focused, grayscale. Then: "It made me weary. The gossip," she says. "Why the questions, Thaney?" she says. "I imagine somehow the story went around and around and came back to you."

"So why do you want me to know things that I'm not asking for; that are yours?"

Beat. Beat. Then, exhale, again: "I'm asking you because I settle disputes, J.B. And it's easier to do so when I know what happened. You know, all the way down to the root; through the root. The dirt. All of that."

[Danny Jones] Maybe it's something in the window that catches her eye, maybe its not that at all. Whatever it is, she pauses in front of the Pawn Shop and peers intently at the windows, and whatever might be on display.

[J.B.] "Because that's what happened. Through whatever -- roots and dirt might've gotten in there in the meantime."

This time he sips his tea. His eyes are a dark, dark blue; it is more evident by day, and less in artificial light like the pallid fluorescents overhead. When he looks down, his upper eyelids fall with a slight slant down at the outer edges; the orbits of his eyes slope down similarly at the lateral corners: anglo-saxon eyes. He fishes the teabag out of the thermos and tosses it with a soft, wet thump into a waiting wastebasket. Like his home, the pawn shop is small, but with a certain orderly disorder that he seems to understand.

"And because," he's noticed Danny; he's getting up off his stool, heading for the door to greet his latest customer -- what is this, a late night shopping vogue? -- "I didn't want you to think I ran and tattled to Skadi."

[Princess] First, she listens; takes J.B.'s posture into consideration. Takes his tone into consideration. Then, that last -- well, look; she laughs, a little, really. It's a surprised (and, again, let us emphasize: little) laugh.

[Danny Jones] Movement, inside, and it's J.B. and she grins and lifts a hand to wave a little finger flutter wave, before the fingers tuck into the strap of her pack, the other shoving deep into the pocket of her cargo pants. She wasn't sure she'd intended to go inside, really. She was just browsin. Everyone browses at 2am... right?

Ok, so only the insomniacs do, but whatever. When he comes to the door to greet her, she grins. "Heya, Mister Barrister. How's it hangin?"

[J.B.] The door is pushed open -- the foggy, murky glass gives way to the clarity of thin air. "Oh, it's you." Barrister looks a little put out at the moment. He clears his throat way deep in his chest and holds the door open. "You looking for something in particular?" And, as though they were in his house and a visitor had just arrived, "It's Danny, Thaney."

[Princess] The red-haired girl has, finally, decided to take a sip of the tea; she didn't look closely at the satchel, but it tastes like mint and roses, with a nutty undertone. Far too good for simple bagged tea; she wonders where he got it. Then, It's Danny, Thaney, J.B. says, and she shifts away from the counter to walk over to the door. "Hi, Danny."

[Danny Jones] Oh, it's you, he says, a little put out, and a brow quirks upwards. Her hand moves from the strap of her pack to brush through her hair. A glance past him. "Hey." and then...

"Nah. Ain't even knowed ya was open." A step past him, a pause, and then a shrug and a lopsided grin. "Have a good evenin, Mister B. Catcha later, Thaney"

And she walks on by. Ain't one to intrude, Danny.

[J.B.] Bemused, John holds the door open long after she's walked off. Then he lets it swing slowly shut (the bell overhead jingles), turning back to the counter and the red-haired girl.

"I'm about to close down," he says. "Want to help me lock up?"

[Princess] Danny continues on; Princess, at J.B.'s side now, at the door now, folds her arms over her chest and nods a farewell. "Later, Danny; that cook out you promised - "

Jingle, jangle. The door shuts; she draggles her fingers through her hair. "Sure. What's that entail, dusting and stuff?"

[J.B.] Barrister stands at the door a moment while bemusement becomes some brand of amusement. He ruffles a hand through his hair, then spreads his hands to either side. The theatricality of the gesture is undermined by his gruff gracelessness. "Does it look like I dust in here? No," his keys from his pocket, tossed at her in a glittery skittery arc, "just lock the front door, but prop it open with this," he points at a doorstop with his foot, "so we can get out. I'll empty out the cash register and get the ledger. Then you can help me with the roll-up gate."

[Ash] Steven pauses, in thought, unsure, and then, suddenly resolute, continues.

[Princess] The keys glitter, skitter; are caught. "Well, maybe if you had help," she says, and doesn't feel the need to finish that sentence. Maybe then you'd dust. Then she leans into the door, so it's half-open; slides the doorstep over with, well, her foot, until it's wedged in place. Sifts through the keys until she finds the right one. Then, while she's doing it, "I don't mean to be thoughtless, you know? I try not to be; sometimes it's hard to think about everything - about all the words. The right words. You know?"

[J.B.] His back is turned to her when she says it, and of course, hers is to him. Still, his reflection is there in the dim glass of the door -- caked with so much dust that dust has become grime, and grime has greased on and stuck fast. His reflection, in that smeared mirror, pauses. Then it resumes. He pulls a ledger, a real, leatherbound, thick, heavy, weighty ledger from under the cash register (which is uninspiring and ordinary), thumps it onto the countertop where he flips it open to a ribbon-marked page and draws with a pen from his breast pocket, freehand, a very straight and swift line at the bottom of the day's transactions. The date is carefully annotated beside it, 5.17.07.

Barrister caps the pen and replaces it. Shutting the book, he lays his palms atop it a moment. "I hadn't meant you," he says, and this time he does sound sorry. "You're an old nineteen." And, hefting the ledger under his arm, "Fifteen. Twelve. Whatever."

The light switch, inconveniently enough, is under the counter as well. When he strikes it the pawn shop is awash in dimness, the only light coming in from the street outside.

[Princess] "Heh," she says, and sounds - briefly? - amused. The red haired girl does not hazzard the pawn shop in the dark; looks out at the street. Her arms are folded, again. "Still. All the right words. It would be nice sometime - " That's it. Princess waits for Barrister; waits for him to finish up; waits for him to show her how to 'help' him with the gate.