John Barrister

[Bainbridge] There is only one person who knows how Avery Bainbridge came to be at the southern end of Grant Park, at what is more accurately termed the Museum Campus, just in front of the Field Museum of Natural History. Even deluged by tourists, one am does not usually find many people anxiously awaiting the museum's opening hours seven of those hours in advance. The woman is sitting on the lowest step, fiddling with her shoe. Presumably, God also knows why Avery Bainbridge is where she is, doing what she's doing, but neither Authorities have Yet Seen Fit To Speak On the Matter.

[J.B.] First: a dog, big, floppy-eared and loose-jowled, dashing past helter-skelter and barking. Baying, actually. Hot on the scent of some ... unfortunate squirrel or other.

Second: a man proceeding at a slightly more sedate pace -- a run, but not a sprint, one that eats up the concrete with deceptive ease. The first blasts past Ms. Bainbridge close enough for the wind-o'-passage to riffle her hair. The second too passes her, and then stops and turns around, plants his hands on his knees and huffs for a moment.

Then, straightening, he points a blunt finger at her and squints one eye closed. "The woman from the pub. Whiskey, straight-up. Literature. Unpronounceable instrument. Avery Bainbridge. Am I right?"

[Bainbridge] He huffs; she looks at him and smiles. Her smile is generous; is promiscuous; is mulling spices in cider. But first: the dog dashes by, baying like a part of the wild hunt, and she looks up startled just in time for her 'bangs' to be disturbed by his passage, dark kink-curls shifting over her forehead, heavy on her shoulders -- as if she'd just got out of the shower, or just got out of bed, after spending an entire delicious day under the covers, so to speak. Second, in her crisp, precise English: "The man from the pub. Makes instruments, but doesn't play. Dances, but only after a few drinks. Johnathan Barrister. I do remember. Who's that bagle, then? Yours, I take it?" And she's waved a cheerful and impractical stiletto boot. (...and sometimes she takes her cloven hooves off and dances without feet on the moss.)

[J.B.] He huffs; she smiles; he smiles back, somewhat self conscious, but better this than panting words at her.

"Hnh?" -- sort of a grunt, that. Beagle? "Oh, Bruin. He's a coonhound. Bloodhound-coonhound mix, actually; don't suppose you have either where you come from. Well, maybe bloodhounds," he tries to remember, gives up. "Yeah, mine. Unfortunately."

A wry grin -- distant baying. He flexes his shoulders back: one thinks of boulders rolling on a mountain, and is surprised his shoulder-socket doesn't make the crunching grinding sound of stone on stone. A few thousand years of far-northern breeding (and a few hundred in cold, old England, and another hundred or two across the pond in cold, New England) has given him length and weight of bone, and heavy, supple musculature. He tugs the round collar of his jogging sweatshirt up to wipe the lower half of his face. There's a V of sweat down his chest, and it's hard to say if by wiping he's made his face cleaner or the opposite. His brow he mops against his forearm, and then he looks around, asks the obvious.

"What are you doing out here? It must be ten below freezing."

[Bainbridge] The smile changes texture; there’s something of a chuckle in the back of her throat: husk-sound, low-thrum from the belly; little delight. Avery is naturally warm toward people, and attractive men in particular – even damaged attractive men with monstrous dogs. Anyway, rasp of amusement, low-key. "Bruin? Suits him." As she speaks, she refits the stiletto boot on her left foot, fingers yank-yank-yanking until it’s up over her calf and she can fold her jeans over it again. "Is rather cold, isn’t it? I was walking the long way home when this bloody heel caught itself on a crack and decided to break. Not all the way off, mind; just enough to cause trouble. Do you always walk your dog late at night, Johnathan?"

[J.B.] Is rather cold, isn't it? -- and he looks at her with a look that says: yes, yes it is. Then she goes on; explains her presence, her misfortune, and his look changes, becomes sympathetic, genuinely sorry.

"Oh. Ouch. I'm sorry; I didn't know." And, "Actually, yes, I do. A little earlier than this most days. A little later, some days. I live pretty close, and this is about the only time and place I can let Bruin off his leash without much fear of him devouring a toddler alive. Listen -- " there's a sort of take-charge-ness in this listen, " -- I can run back to my place and get my truck. Give you a ride home. You shouldn't have to hobble all the way."

[Bainbridge] - of him devouring a toddler alive - gets an appreciative laugh. The listen and following offer takes the smile from her mouth and, indeed, from her eyes too; she gets serious. Frowns, even. "You're certain it wouldn't be a bother?" Not a rhetorical question. Avery arches one dark eyebrow to punctuate the question.

[J.B.] "I'm certain it'll bother me a lot more to leave you to your own devices," he replies, wry again. "Wait here. Bruin!" A whistle -- fweet! -- and a pattering of dog paws on the path. Man and dog depart in the direction they'd been going. He was apparently already on the homeward stretch when he ran across her.

Some minutes go by; a good ten or twenty. The parking lot is too distant for Avery to hear the rumbling of his enormous gas-guzzler of a truck's engine, even on this cold and unpeopled night. When J.B. reappears, he reappears alone, dogless, still running. Let's hear it for Fenrir stamina. Presently he stops in front of her. It's like deja vu: he leans over, huffs. Hasn't changed and he certainly hasn't showered. Such misguided courtesies have been put aside for the sake of getting back her speedily.

Straightens, "You can walk on it? Here, take my arm." You'd think she'd broken an ankle, not a boot-heel.

[Bainbridge] Man and dog depart and Avery watches them go. MmHmm. And it's cold. While he was gone, Avery put her gloves back on and pulled her knees up to her chest. Wrapped her arms around and under her thighs. There's snow in the trees and on the museum's roof. There's snow, fine and white and fragile, dusting the stairs; there's even a few flakes in her Maenad-wild hair, white against the black. He huffs; she gets to her feet and is one of those women who can walk in heels without trouble, as long as the heels are attached; can stride in heels; dance in them; run in them. But, well: "As long as we take it slow, I think I'll be okay," she says, and accepts the offer of the helpful arm readily enough. Not her usual style, but if fate sees fit to give her a Jane Austen moment, who is she to deny it? Besides, J. B. is giving off warmth. "If I suddenly fall and crack my ijit head open, it'll be what I deserve."

[Bainbridge] Romantics
for Johannes Brahms and
Clara Schumann

The modern biographers worry
“how far it went,” their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone’s eye could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and a dark cascade of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear.
to J.B.

[J.B.] He slants her a glance, and a crooked sort of smile. "Now," he says, very gravely, "you're just being dramatic."

She gets to her feet; he offers his arm. He's giving off heat, true, quite a bit of it after all the recent running to and fro. He is also giving off a potent stink. But -- let's not be shy here: his forearm under her hand, even through a layer of sweatshirt, another of thermal longsleeved undershirt, is hard as a wood banister.

A few paces on, John suddenly laughs; a quiet laugh, and short, but real. "Sense and Sensibility," he proclaims. "That's what we've become here. All we need is a little torrential rain."

[Bainbridge] "Bite your tongue," she says, and Avery has never been a shy woman. (After all, there is a reason she can lean just so against J.B.'s supportive arm -- or not, if she chose. There is a reason she didn't lie and tell him -- nearly a stranger -- that she had a ride on the way; that there was no problem. There are dangerous people these days.) Then she laughs, too. "But, honestly, I was just thinking the same thing, although I don't think Marianne and - what was his name? Knighton? Knightly? Bingley? Something else with a -lee at the end? Rochester? - had to contend with the disaster of snow plus rain and slick city streets when they were pelted with appropriate weather."

[J.B.] Her litany of -lee's; he laughs; Rochester?; another laugh -- "That's not even Austen anymore. That's one of those mad-eyed Bronte sisters.

"True," a concession, "but then, I'm pretty sure Marianne had a sprained ankle to contend with. You, on the other hand -- " they pass under the shade of a bare-branched oak, and emerge onto a small parking lot, one of many that bud off from the parkside road, "only need to hobble so far as the Silverado there on a cracked heel."

Said Silverado flashes its lights in response to his alarm beeper. It's one of those monstrosities with a fifty-million-liter-displacement engine and a gas tank roughly as large, huge, with a double-axle in the rear, but likely never driven anywhere rougher than the potholed streets of the Cabrini-Green projects.

[Bainbridge] His correction; it gets a shrug J.B. can feel even through layers of clothing; perhaps she's a bit surprised. J. B. -- well, she still doesn't have him pegged for a type. "Big," is her comment on the truck. "American," is her second comment.

The snow looks lovely, and utterly dangerous, all amber-gilt from the street-lamps; it's begun to snow again, just light flurries which don't quite make it to the ground, and they look like petals as they pass from the dark night sky through the immediate vicinity of the lamps. As for a third, well, she does actually have to pay attention to where she puts her feet for a moment or three.

Then they're at the truck door, and Avery smiles (slow like honey). He'll open the door; he seems like the sort. Before he does, she'll squeeze his arm; lean in and against for a half-a-second. It's a nothing gesture, just a touch. Unnecessary. Avery is earth, y'see.

Then, good heel first, it's into the truck, search for the seat-belt and snap it shut while the driver settles himself.

[J.B.] The driver does, indeed, settle himself. When he gets in the truck rides a little lower on its springs. It's quite a step up. Sit in the cab and you feel ten feet tall. The reality might not be too far off. The cabin itself is spacious, with a full back row of seats; it's all nice upholstery and wood accents and beige leather. This ain't your daddy's work truck anymore. Nowadays your average American wanted the works -- the GPS, the mp3, the ABS, the SUV -- all these acronyms for consumerism.

Anyway. The driver settles himself, buckles in, and before starting the engine, turns to his passenger.

"I'd like to take you to dinner sometime." He's serious about this, and rather sincere. "No expectations. I think I'd like to get to know you better, is all."

[Bainbridge] Avery looks out the window until J. B. speaks. When he does, she turns her gaze -- faintly quizzical, the muddy, uncertain color of tea -- on him. His invitation, the qualifier, makes her smile, not so much with her mouth; more with her eyes -- simmer. "I'd like that, J. B." For a moment, it looks as if she's going to add something, but all she says is: "No pressure." Then, with a faint smirk: "Ready for the directions, then?"

[Henry Allard] Once he's settled himself on the seat of the stool, Henry refolds his jacket arm-over-arm and in half and secures it across his lap, anchors one sneaker on the floor of the shop and rests the opposite heel on the lowest rung. He is just getting settled as John is hoisting himself standing, and his eyes follow the other man up and into the back before he looks to Kemp. He says nothing, in the end, if there were any question as to whether the kinsman was going to open his mouth or not. Henry simply brings his left hand up to worry the side of his face, as if he's trying to wake himself up. If Kemp is looking his way as he does this he'll be able to see a gold band on the man's fourth finger.

Not that there is anything terribly exciting or noteworthy about a gold band in its own right. The noteworthiness comes out of the fact that this man, whose sexual orientation has become a topic of conversation on more than one occasion when he would have rather it not come up at all, was not to anyone's knowledge wearing one prior to this month.

If Kemp isn't looking his way, then Henry can consider himself safe.

John returns after a moment's absence with two new mugs and his own refilled. Henry murmurs another round of voiced gratitude as his thin fingers wrap around the cup of hot water first, attempting to loosen them up before he does anything else. A question comes, then, and it has Henry's brow furrowing in on itself.

"I met a woman like that recently," he says, peeling his fingers from the mug to pick up one of the teabags and carefully tear it open. "Didn't get her name, though."

[Henry Allard] (blu, you h0r!)

[J. Barrister] "Hm, well." John takes his time steeping his fresh mug of tea, fishing the teabag up and down several times before winding the string around the handle and wrapping his big hands around the mug. "I thought she might be Garou. She said a few things that might've been hints, but she was never explicit about anything. Even when I went out on a limb, she never let on." He shrugs. "Maybe I imagined it."

[Henry Allard] "You know Nessa... Malik... Malikoff?"

He looks to Kemp for assistance with the woman's last name, the consonant combinations sounding absolutely awkward on his Chicagoan tongue. It comes out sounding something like Meh-leh-kav, an entirely different Russian name altogether, but the idea is the same. When he has an affirmative, he looks back to John.

"The Lord kinswoman? She told her she was a, ah, 'distant relative'. I got the same impression, if we're talking about the same woman."

[J. Barrister] Barrister makes another thoughtful sound -- hm or something like it -- and sips his newly brewed tea. "Don't think I know the woman. But Shadow Lord, eh?" His mouth quirks. Irony again: "Wonderful. No wonder she didn't say anything about it."

[Henry Allard] Having thoroughly distracted himself from steeping his tea, Henry finally remembers to do something with the bag in his hand and unfolds the string, straightens it, lowers the pouch into the water as carefully as if he expects the thing to physically react to the heat. Green eyes float away from the other man's face as he does this, as John ponders the information that has been laid out there in a fashion no Lord would have liked. A few tugs of the string has the pouch completely saturated, and Henry folds it over the side of the mug before folding his bony hands around the warm ceramic again.

Wonderful, John says, and Henry laughs a laugh that often has him pegged as shy: it is short-lived, heavily restrained, and barely rises above his speaking voice.

"How'd you meet her?" he asks, either out of genuine interest or out of a perceived need to make small talk. He quickly adds: "If you don't mind my asking."

[Kemp Oates] ((Sorry had an emergency call, let me catch up here.))

[Kemp Oates] "I ain't never heard of her, but met this oddball woman a couple times now. Kin from the smell of her. Fenrir."

He had reached for the packet of chocolate, giving it a few sharp shakes to settle all the powder at the end before ripping it open to dump into his cup. Adult or not, he didn't care, give him chocolate over tea any day.

"Ya ain't got whipped cream, have ya?"

Looking up from the project of adding powder to hot water for a second.

"Anyway, ain't heard of no Nadia but this other was named Roxanne. I figured I'd freak her out and scare her off with telling her I was taking applications for a Harem. Heh."

A heartbeat went past before he added just as casually.

"How come ya got so skinny Henry? Ya got cancer from them smokes?"

[J. Barrister] Barrister starts to answer -- then Henry adds, quicklike, if you don't mind my asking. And Barrister slants a glance at him, even more wry now.

"At a sex club," he says blandly. "In Amsterdam."

A sip of tea hides his burgeoning grin. He adds after he sets it down, "No -- I ran into her jogging one night. Bruin -- my dog -- tried to attack her. He tries to attack anyone, so he's usually not off his leash. But it was late. We met for lunch a few days later, and that's where the more interesting conversation happened."

Kemp shares his own strange-woman story, and John laughs under his breath. "I'm sure that went over well. And no. Does it look like I keep a fridge here?" He waves a hand at the mess behind the counter.

[Kemp Oates] "Well what about a damned spoon?"

[J. Barrister] "There are a couple 'antique' spoons on aisle seven." John nods at the shelves behind Kemp. "I washed them, but they've been sitting out for a while now."

(*stops running roughshod over jamie's post now*)

[Henry Allard] That bland response is taken as the joke that it is, and Henry almost laughs--his lips pull, his teeth flash for a moment, air leaves his sinus cavities, but no laugh comes. Within a moment his mouth centers itself and John continues on his explanation, only to be asked if there's any whipped cream in an establishment with no refrigerator.

How about a spoon.

Henry just shakes his head and blows steam from his tea.

[Kemp Oates] He got up, dumping his coat in the floor in the process. Calling back as he went down the aisles.

"Well, it went over as well as can be expected. I mean, she got that look of disgust I was looking for, yet it didn't repell her was well as I had hoped for."

Muttering under his breath.

"Women."

He quirked a brow at Henry as he reseated himself. Wiping the spoon on the hem of his tee shirt.

"So? Why ya getting so skinny and who did ya marry or is it a friendship ring?"

[J. Barrister] "There a reason you're trying so hard to repel her?" John's question is mild.

[Kemp Oates] The spoon made a rattling sound on the side of the cup as he started to stir the contents of the packet into the water. Long hair hanging over his eyes when he looked up from the cup to John with the question, exposing the scar across his throat. His own tone was just as mild and matter of fact when he spoke. His voice a low raspy sound.

"Cause she is female."

[Henry Allard] That quirk of the kid's brow does not go wholly unnoticed. Henry glances over at him, raises his own brow when a slew of questions come his way, and transfers the mug into one hand in order to sit up straight.

There are any number of responses Henry could toss back at Kemp that would be mildly amusing if only for the reaction they would garner, yet would be decidedly off-putting for anyone who hasn't got the gallows humor he and those whose jobs are in a similar vein have to cultivate in order to survive.

"Um..." is what he comes up with instead. He glances at John, quickly, laughs an uncomfortable laugh, and scratches at the scar on the back of his head with his free hand.

"I'm skinny because I've been stressed out, and I think you can guess who I married."

[J. Barrister] The matter-of-fact comment makes Barrister laugh; he can't help himself. A single chortle escapes him before he controls himself and schools his features.

"You realize you sound about nine years old, Kemp? I think I said something like that about Susie Wimpleton in third grade."

And, to Henry, "No -- the abusive girlfriend?" It's mockery, yes, but gentle; goodhumored. Barrister doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Doesn't seem to, anyway. If he'd thought Kai was genuinely abusive, he wouldn't have said anything of the sort. Of course, if he'd known Henry's orientation, he wouldn't have said anything of the sort either.

[Kemp Oates] "Well congrads Henry. Tell Tris I said the same. And stop stressing. It don't do no good, I decided that."

He stirred the cup a moment in silence before lifting his head to smile at John as he spoke.

"Yeah, well I ain't nine, I'm nineteen. And in that time I trusted, much to my dismay and poor judgement, a few women. The first one was my first sexual experiance. One time and she tells me she is pregnant. Next thing I know, she is dead. Five years later, I find out from her freakin ghost she was never pregnant, just said it to hurt me. Heh. Second one. Well cause of somethings she pointed out, I questioned someone that didn't want to look at things too closely and admit to himself or nobody else why he done something. Thanks to that, I ain't been in a pack since and honestly, I ain't looking to be in one. I don't mind running with whoever at the time and keeping to myself inbetween. That woman up and run off. Just poofed without a word. I don't know if it's cause I pissed her off with questioning her too or questioning the just add water and ya got a pack, thoughts she had. Third woman, I felt guilt about. Felt guilt cause she was left alone in the world after we done killed her mate. Let my guard down. Let myself do something I shouldn't of one night and ended up with another kid after a one night thing. Again. Only this time it's a real one. Third fourth woman. Well, thought there could be something, but she's full of secrets and so is a fucking lot of others associated with her. I was more pissed at the secrets than anything. Said some shit I shouldn't of. And well...."

Shrugging as he lifted the cup.

"Like I said. I do best alone. Best for all involved."

[Henry Allard] There's mockery in John's question, but that mockery doesn't strike a nerve--it is taken for what it is, and Henry nearly laughs again. That is until Kemp congratulates him, and tells him to stop stressing.

"I'll do that, Kemp," he says. It is far more likely that he is going to tell Tristan that his kid said 'Congrats' than it is that he is going to stop reacting poorly to stress, but he is not going to qualify. He simply leaves it as it is, and sits back to drink his tea as Kemp prepares to respond to John's telling the kid that he sounds nine years old.

He sits quietly, the only sign that he is still alive being the rising and falling of his thin chest, the occasional blinking of his eyes. At one point he glances over to John, the look fleeting; the two don't know each other well enough for there to be any reliable translation of the reasoning behind that look. It may just be to gauge the other man's reaction to the information they've just been given. Around 'fourth woman' his brow knits itself into a concerned frown, and it does not dissipate once Kemp has finished speaking.

His knee jerk response to most heavy confessions is "Jesus."
Here, he doesn't utter a sound.

[J. Barrister] There's a long pause.

Let's be honest here. JB hardly knows Kemp. They've met maybe a half-dozen times, all told. They share blood, some distant ancestry, and a role in the war -- though their roles are vastly different. Other than that, they have little in common, little to hold them together.

Another in JB's shoes might've cleared his throat awkwardly, let the silence hang a beat, and then changed the subject. Barrister does clear his throat. The silence does hang a beat, but it's only so he can decide on phrasing.

Then -- "Y'know, Kemp. I don't pretend to know you or your life, but it rather sounds like you've made a couple mistakes and gotten burnt for them. We all do. I wouldn't blame or think poorly of the entire female contingent for it, though." He grins a little, ruefully. "You'd end up rather lonely if you did."

[Kemp Oates] A wide smile full of teeth shone as he lifted his face from the cup after a sip.

"I ain't gonna live that long John, so it don't really make no difference. 'sides, what I get from my own is, shit happens."

The smile grew ironic before he lowered his head, letting the dark hair fall across his eyes again.

"Be responsible for the world. What you might think or feel don't really mean a fuck. Buck up. Take it all on and er..oh yeah, keep your dick in your pants. So ya see."

He looked up again with another overly wide smile.

"Alone is best."

Winking as he turned the tables.

"So this woman ya met at the strip club. Was she a stripper?"

[Henry Allard] (I'm gonna quote Lessa, here: WHY AREN'T YOU PEOPLE IC?)
to dotdot, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[Henry Allard] Henry would be lying if he said that he couldn't identify with Kemp when he was Kemp's age. There is a world of different between them, a considerable discrepancy between their genetics and their roles in the world they inhabit, but they'd both had a decidedly bad run and had developed a "fuck it all" outlook as a result. The difference is, Henry wasn't convinced he was going to die before his time. That is where he cannot say with absolute honesty that he can understand where the kid is coming from. He can imagine. He can certainly empathize. But he can't say, "Oh, haha, I've been there, you'll be fine!"

Perhaps if they were alone the conversation would be heading in a different direction. If they were alone, Henry would be speaking, period. He would not be holding back while the other members of the conversation carried on merrily. It isn't that he has nothing to say. It's that he doesn't want to interrupt.

This is why he simply sits and continues drinking his tea rather than speaking up.

[dotdot] ((*l* I'll get here. They're at the pawn shop, right? Does anyone mind if I pop IC?))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[Henry Allard] (Okay, we have another entry in the Jamie's Shittest Post contest. ::doesn't even bother fixing all the things wrong with that one::)

[SHAMELESS SPY] (because I wanted to give you a chance to quote me, of course. sheesh.)
to dotdot, Henry Allard, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O

[Henry Allard] (I would absolutely love it if you'd pop IC, Mindy.)
to dotdot, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[Kemp Oates] ((Heh, I am crosseyed, looked fine to me. ))
to dotdot, Henry Allard, J. Barrister, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[J. Barrister] At that, Barrister has nothing to say. Perhaps, like Henry, he has nothing to add when a Garou's short life expectancy is laid down. There's a truth in that he can't get around.

The subject change is accepted, though with a faint grimace. "I was kidding about that, Kemp. I met her jogging in the park. I was wondering if you knew her, actually. A Nadia Bashir. Possibly a Shadow Lord, Henry thinks."

[Kemp Oates] "Naw, despite my rep for fucking all the girls and dumping them afterwards? I ain't never heard of her. If ya want, I can see what I can find out."

Once more the spoon was clanking on the sides of the cup as he watched the small swirl go round and round in a chocolate dance. Ironically the swirl kind of reminded him of Maelstrom's waters.

"Heh."

Shaking his head as he lifted the cup to take a drink.

"Think it would of been more interesting if she was a stripper."

[J. Barrister] "Yeah, would you please?" Maybe Kemp didn't expect JB to take him up on the offer, but he does. "She seemed to know a lot about us, but wouldn't own up to being Garou." The kin shrugs, his massive shoulders moving under the old sweater. "Call me paranoid, but I'd rather know for certain."

[J. Barrister] (i gotta clear outta here soonish to attend to my other scene :D dammit mindy, you shoulda come in sooner)
to Henry Allard, Kemp Oates, Nate Gregory

[Henry Allard] Almost subdued eyes watch Kemp's spoon as it moves in a circle, crying out every time it comes into contact with the ceramic, as the two attempt to figure out the background of the woman whose name Henry had just recently learned. When the spoon stops, Henry looks back up, and he snorts out a laugh as Kemp supposes it would be more interesting if she were a stripper.

"I think he might be right," Henry concurs.

[Nate Gregory] ((s'cool. These things do happen. prod me sometime, we shoudl play. I think I'm gonna stick to lurkin' tonight))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O

[Kemp Oates] "Fuck, if that's her name, I can find her myself."

He nodded with a long study of John's face.

"Find her and see what I think. I'll also ask around some."

He stood retrieving his coat from the floor.

"Thanks for the chocolate John. I'll get back to ya on that Nadia. Won't take long."

Patting Henry on his skinny shoulder.

"Henry. Get some rest, eat more. Don't want to make Tristan a widow before his time, do ya? Ya look like shit man."

With those parting words he was heading for the door, tugging on the coat and hat.

[J. Barrister] Barrister's smile is lopsided and wry. "A nineteen year old's dirty mind trapped in a celibate's body. The tragedy of it." Behind the counter, something begins to buzz. Barrister pushes back and reaches under it. There's a shotgun back there -- security system, Southside style -- but he pulls his cellphone out. It's absurdly sleek and modern, a black brushed-steel casing that fits in his hand the way a porsche might fit in the middle of the Yosemite river valley. He flips it open, looks at the name, and sighs.

"I have to take this, fellas." Standing -- "Thanks, Kemp. Take it easy out there."

Tristan. The name is heard clear and unshortened this time. Barrister's dark eyes flicker once toward Henry before he can catch himself; then he tucks the bit of information away and doesn't demand details or pounce Henry with personal questions. A gossip, Barrister is not.

[Kemp Oates] ((Thanks for the scene guys. Sorry I vanished on ya back there. Had to go pull a car out of ditch, though no one was hurt. So all's good there. Me, I am heading to bed. Night! ))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister, mold spore, Nate Gregory, o.O

[Henry Allard] (Glad everyone's okay! Thanks for the scene, blu, have a good night!)
to J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, mold spore, Nate Gregory, o.O

[Kemp Oates] ((are you doing a final post or am I waiting for nothing? LOL! ))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister

[Henry Allard] (I'm typing, I'm typing! *LOL*)
to J. Barrister, Kemp Oates

[Henry Allard] Kemp stands up to take his leave, and Henry does likewise, sliding himself to his feet and tapping the mug on the glass countertop as the Ragabash is thanking John and arranging for continuation of the business they've set up between them--and with one added syllable and a dropped pronoun, Kemp manages to completely upend whatever play at heterosexuality Henry might have had going for him.

The look on Henry's face is something eloquent along the lines of Oh, shit. He grimaces, as if Kemp had just said something completely vulgar, and he catches that quick glance of John's eyes towards him as he is pulling on his jacket.

"Hey, man, thanks for the tea," he says, playing at nonchalance as he turns to follow Kemp out the door. "Night."

A gossip, Barrister is not.
A mind reader, Henry is not.

He and Kemp go their separate ways, and the first thing Henry does, after clapping his hand to his forehead and dragging it down his face, is reach for his cigarettes.

He doesn't have cancer, after all.