[Imogen Slaughter] Early morning. It's so early it might be called late by some. The sun has not even thought of rising and the moonless night is black as pitch.
There are stars above, their light unhindered by clouds, but with the bright lights of Chicago's skyline they are barely more than dim pinpricks of light.
It is late (or early) enough that the streets are deserted, the denizens of the neighbourhood, sleeping, or perhaps hidden in small apartments with night cap drinks, speaking in low voices as they wait for the sun to rise before they finally tumble into bed.
And Imogen - well, she is running. If she were less athletically inclined, it would be jogging, but the word does not do justice to her speed, the pressure she puts on herself to keep up the rhythm, the speed, the distance.
She has been the only soul on the streets for - well, some time. Long enough for her skin to be slick with sweat for her breath to come short, her heart to pound.
Ahead a van, it's back door already closed, two men in the final steps of their interaction - the signature on a paper on a clipboard. One looks familiar - the shaved head, the tattoos. A second later, her location comes to mind - the location of a restaurant comes to mind, and her mouth draws infinitesimally tighter. Still, she begins to slow - some half a block away, beginning to bring herself to a walk.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] The van is a pale gray, old. There's a faint odor of french fries in the air around it, and the driver - now shifting the half-empty crates of picked-over produce back into the back of the van - has those long white-boy dreads and a Che Guavara t-shirt on. It's tie-dyed. There is a handmade stencil along the side of the van, which says: BIRCH RIVER FARMS on the side. Some organic, back-to-the-earth place, carved out of the rich, poisoned soil of the Illinois prairie lands.
The pair of them shake hands firmly; John Brendan is the taller of the pair, dressed in the morning in a pair of old jeans, torn at the left knee, the hems worn to insubstantiality, and an old Neil Young t-shirt. His bare arms are strong, tanned, tendons roped around muscle that comes from work rather than working out. It is cool enough this morning that there's a hint of fog at the edges of the seen, but the sky above is clean.
"See ya later, man," JB says as the hippie-dude climbs back into his vegetable-oil-powered delivery van. The former pats the flank of the reconstituted vehicle the way a rancher might pat a prime piece of horseflesh by way of farewell. There's a dull sound of impact, his flat palm against the sheet metal, and then the van is pulling away. He spots her before the van pulls away, and his eyes touch on her as he hits the side.
There's a pencil behind JB's ear. The restaurant is dark, the lights low. There is a single light shining through the half-open blinds of the living space above. Some single light, turned on the blind dark. He's still watching her as she brings herself from a run to a walk, lingering outside the dark front doors.
"Too bloody early to be out running," he remarks, when she's in eartshot. Then, with a glance toward the dark restaurant. "There's coffee on, inside. Can I offer you a cup?"
[Imogen Slaughter] Her attire is good quality work-out clothing, though the name brand emblems are subtle and mismatched, as if she were more interested in quality than designer. Her tattoo is clear on her bare arm, snaking around a defined bicep, her pulse beating heavy in her throat.
"It's too bloody early to be out working," she retorts, deliberately throwing his words back at him, albeit slightly breathlessly as she comes to a complete stop in front of him, her spine leaning forward as if she might rest her hands on her knees, but then lifting again to neutral as her pride or posture gets the better of her. She lifts a hand to push back a damp tendril of hair, tucking it back behind an ear, glancing toward the dim interior of the Café.
"Yeh got water in there too?" she enquires, though the question is more a placeholder, or perhaps, a point of faint amusement, as her faint and faded smirk may attest.
When he agrees, the smirk becomes more clear, etched across her mouth. "I'll ha' both."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Someone," he returns, this crooked half-smile on his mouth, edging toward a smirk, "has to bake the bread and brew the coffee." There's a sense of the sun at the edges of the world just now. The sky behind the stars is lightening. Only the brightest are visible in the east, while the whole of the sky - such as can ever been seen from the city's heart - still burns in the west.
He has his eyes narrowed briefly against the distant glare of headaches, the subtle thrum of some big engine. Garbage truck maybe. Streetsweeper.
"C'mon," he says when she accepts, pulling open the front door and holding it open for her. The gesture is casual rather than courtly, but there's no oh no you first go-ahead game with JB. He holds the door against his broad frame and slips in behind her, letting it fall closed, after.
Most of the lights are off, but there's music on. It's coming from the kitchen, the morning broadcast on the local college radio station, an up-tempo mix of indie and old-school rock. Just now, it's the Ramones, Twenty twenty twenty four hours to go - and someone in the kitchen is singing along to them. The lights spill out from the back, illuminating the dining room in patchwork.
The smell of baking bread is strong, here. Baking bread and good coffee. "Have a seat," he tells her when they're inside, indicating the counter rather than the tables. He slips through between the register and the bakery cases, lifting the movable counter, letting it down after, and serves her strong coffee and a glass of water the way a bartender would serve her whiskey, neat, with a Guinness chaser.
[Imogen Slaughter] He holds the door open and there is certainly no game over who enters first, no demure or attempt to do so. "Ta," she merely says and steps inside, absently rubbing the back of her neck as she enters. Her gaze flicks toward the kitchen, the sound of an amateur voice singing along with the Ramones.
She pauses as he indicates to at one of the counters before reaching down to the line of her capris. She removes a gun from her waistband, setting it aside on one of the counter seats, out of sight should anyone come in from the kitchen, before taking a seat herself.
She makes no production of what she does. Unless he's watching her, he may not even notice.
She takes her seat, watching him as he serves her the coffee, the water. She reaches for the former, first, picking it up between long slender fingers, nails carefully shaped and trimmed. "Ta," she says again; British thanks. She does not yet take a sip, the fresh coffee too hot. Outside the bay window, a garbage truck trundles by, coming to a stop and blocking their outside view. A man dressed in coveralls, a hat worn backwards over his dreads leaps down to pull the trash bag from the nearby receptacle, then whipping out another from his back pocket to replace it.
"Business pickin' up yet?" it's almost small talk, though the question is not absent or merely meant to fill the air.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] The coffee is good, even excellent. It is one of the few things not made, roasted, prepared, pickled, coddled, smoked, braised, or carved on site. The scent is strong, now. When she takes her first sip, she find the flavor complex, brighter notes peeking through the bitterness.
Ta she says, and "Welcome," he responds, the shape of his expression lost in the long shadows of the dark dining room. There are background lights on here. The display lights in the display cases, the lights behind the counter, where the bar would be if the place served mixed drinks. It's too small to support that trade, though, and still serve the sort of food he wants to cook. So the counter is a counter, not a bar. He has a cup of coffee already poured, half finished, cooling now. After serving her he tops his off. She has one of those fashionable pottery style mugs in warm subtle colors. Fiesta ware, or maybe something shaped by some local potter's hand. He is drinking out of a souvenir cup from Seattle. As he pours the hot liquid in, the outline of Mount Ranier appears hovering in the background over the painted city like some great goddess.
She leaves hers to cool; he drinks his coffee hotter than sin, gulping back a mouthful. It's early and he's not yet awake, but he's awake - not bright the way she is, from her run, still bleary-eyed.
He leans against the bar, the coffee cup in hand, looking at her, then past her to the dining room, considering the shadows, thoughtfully. "It's picking up," he says, "though it's not a going concern yet. Cooked for that thing down at the River, and we've had some business from it. We're starting to get a few regulars from the neighborhood, too. Regulars: folks who've been back more than once."
There's her gun, on one of the seats. There's no sign that he's noticed, until he glances that way, lifting a dark brow while idly rubbing one of the tattoos on his right hand. "The run can't be official business. Always carry that with you?"
[Imogen Slaughter] She nods absently at his answer, with nothing more to say to it. She had asked out of curiosity, and now with the answer, has little of it left.
Her own dark eyed gaze moves toward the weapon when he refers to it. He says the run can't be official business. "It's not an official weapon," she replies.
He can see the line of her shoulder blade through her shirt, the dip of her spine. Her musculature shows through her skin - not overtly, but with a solidity that speaks of more than an absent commitment to fitness. More than a casual desire for a thin, attractive body.
She takes a gulp of coffee as he speaks, she drinks it black, unadorned. It's a compliment of sorts. When she thinks the coffee will be sub-par she drowns it in sugar. When she trusts the quality, she does nothing to the flavour.
"Just about," she says, her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the countertop before stilling. "Anywhere I can keep it hidden, anyway."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] His laugh is an unsubtle snort of a thing, quiet enough that it won't drag attention from whoever is in the kitchen, warbling now to vintage Beck (I'm a loser baby - so why don't you kill me?) inexpertly. There's work being done back there, the sound of metal against metal, shifting scents - the yeasty bloom of bread, something sharper, sweeter, scones or muffins. - in the background, the low whirring of an industrial mixer, the occasional curse, some braying back and forth.
"Too-chay," he says, not a smidgen of good French pronunciation in him except for the culinary words, and even then they have that American flatness. His gaze lingers on the stool where the weapon sits, unseen. There's a moment of almost meditative blankness on his features, early morning he loses focus except when there is physical work to be done. Something to be hefted or wrestled or needed or carted about. Then he seems to come too, cutting her a lingering look in the darkness, teasing out the lines of her features from the shadows that have fallen all around them.
He takes another gulp of his coffee, before asking, " - that bad here, eh?" That's low, too. His voice is a tired rumble in his chest, but there's a sharpness to his features seen in profile in the low light, his mouth set and still, his eyes on her face.
[Imogen Slaughter] She is thoroughly awake. The epinephrine still pulses in her blood, giving a sharp clarity to her thoughts. She is a practised insomniac; trained by medical school honed by weeks of on-call schedules and - other things.
She sips her coffee while he appears to disassociate for moments, swallows it as he comes back, her gaze steady upon him. In the dim lighting here, her eyes offer only the faintest impression of blue, her skin visibly pale, untouched by sunlight, despite the ending summer.
"It wasn't here tha' got me in the habit," she observes circumspectly, before adding, "But it's bad enough 'ere, yes. The Full Bloods call it war," she says, her voice low enough to carry no farther than him.
"Though how they can tell the difference between this and the normal state o' affairs is beyond me."
[Imogen Slaughter] She is thoroughly awake. The epinephrine still pulses in her blood, giving a sharp clarity to her thoughts. She is a practised insomniac; trained by medical school honed by weeks of on-call schedules and - other things.
She sips her coffee while he appears to disassociate for moments, swallows it as he comes back, her gaze steady upon him. In the dim lighting here, her eyes offer only the faintest impression of blue, her skin visibly pale, untouched by sunlight, despite the ending summer.
"It wasn't here tha' got me in the habit," she observes circumspectly, before adding, "But it's bad enough 'ere, yes. The Full Bloods call it war," she says, her voice low enough to carry no farther than him.
"Though how they can tell the difference between this and the normal state o' affairs is beyond me."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Fuck if I know," he replies. The interjection is quiet, automatic, and heartfelt, though she's a fine enough counterpoint to his rough morning presence - unshaven, half-awake - that he gives her a rueful look, after, for the curse.
He is a solid presence in the shadows across the counter, tall and broad-shouldered, with the effortless physicality of an athlete rather than an animal. Of someone who works with his body, his scarred hands. Just now he's still - still in this thorough, early morning, conserving-his-energy way, except when he lifts the cup to gulp, not sip, his coffee down.
Soon he's ready for another cup. He turns around, grabs the put from the machine and wordlessly offers to top off her mug before he refills his own. Mount Ranier disappears as the heat fades, and reappears again when the mug is fool.
"Let's say," he says, while returning the coffee pot to its cradle as he turns back around. " - that some ordinary citizen wanted to be as prepared as you are. Are there some sort of hoops to jump through to get the right permits so I'm not committing a crime wandering down the street?"
[Imogen Slaughter] "If an ordinary citizen," she says quietly, "gets into the situations tha' I do, he should run." He tops off her coffee. She does not thank him this time.
"All a gun will do is make yeh think that yeh ha' any option other than that."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "I've got a kid," he returns low, with a glance at the ceiling that is thoughtless. She's sleeping, still. Tucked away in the dark of room. They painted it purple three days after they arrived, the walls and the ceiling, with lavender clouds and and soft gold stars, and no hint of the moon in the changed sky. That moment of knowledge, awareness - the thought of her up there sleeping, in four walls safe from the world that is going to find her soon enough - passes as quickly as it came.
When JB looks back at Imogen, there's a certain bristling, underneath his skin. The muscles of his forearms are tense, the tattoos crawling with the movement as he grits his teeth and shifts his grip on the mug, tightening it. He's stirring from the morning sleepiness, and a spike of irritation enters his voice. " - and I'm not a fool. I don't play a fucking hero on TV. So answer the question or don't, but don't patronize me."
[Imogen Slaughter] She had not been slouching, nor even leaning against the counter, but as she sets down her coffee mug, she seems to straighten nonetheless, laying her hands palm down on the countertop and fixing him with a steady regard, a sealed mouth and unwavering gaze.
Seconds pass in silence.
"You're right," she says finally, low and deceptively mild, "you have a child."
The words hang flat in the air between them, dispersed only as she speaks again. "So do her a favour and run.
"And if yeh don't want my advice, yeh can google 'gun licences Illinois'."
[Imogen Slaughter] (correction: "And if you don't like my advice...")
[John Brendan Cavanagh] The irritation is under the second layer, the third layer of his sky. Sharpened by her presence, suddenly, but the flat way she agrees with him. By the stillness of the room. In the back kitchen - a clatter of metal against metal, a curse in fluent Spanish. He looks up, but doesn't back there. Anything short of a fingertip amputation is an ordinary day.
Briefly, the singer is both still and silent. There's just the radio DJ, some college kid, stumbling through the day's weather forecast, low in the background. Then the silence breaks, the industrial mixer thrums to life, this deep mechanical noise in the background.
He looks back at her, his dark eyes closed, disengaged. There's no hiding the hint of truculence underneath. Then, the hint of a sour smirk, an exhaled breath. There's enough tension in his arms that she can see the tension in his bicep underneath his skin.
"Thanks," he says at last, that sour smirk deepening. "for the advice. There's something in his mouth that he clearly swallows back. It's not important. It's not productive. It's childish. He feels 12. He feels 23. It's just - he gulps back his coffee instead, swallows it all and swallows it hot. Then he sets the cup down on the workspace beneath the dining counter, down in some bar sink. The sound of porcelain against stainless steel is dulled but distinct.
"Stay as long as you like." Somehow, he manages to excise that sense of sourness from the invitation. He's waking, though, drawn back. A professional. "Scones will be up in a few. I've got to get back to work."
[Imogen Slaughter] She has an incredible mastery of her emotion. Better now than it was. When she looks at him, he cannot possibly imagine what she's thinking.
A few seconds pass, then she gets to her feet. "I'll be going, I think," she says, picking up the glass of water draining it with a grimace. She sets it down with a solid click.
"Thanks fer the coffee," she says, picking up her gun from the seat and sliding it back into the hidden holster, a flicker of her skin visible as she shifts her shirt for access.
"Enjoy yer day," and she turns away, heads for the door.
There are stars above, their light unhindered by clouds, but with the bright lights of Chicago's skyline they are barely more than dim pinpricks of light.
It is late (or early) enough that the streets are deserted, the denizens of the neighbourhood, sleeping, or perhaps hidden in small apartments with night cap drinks, speaking in low voices as they wait for the sun to rise before they finally tumble into bed.
And Imogen - well, she is running. If she were less athletically inclined, it would be jogging, but the word does not do justice to her speed, the pressure she puts on herself to keep up the rhythm, the speed, the distance.
She has been the only soul on the streets for - well, some time. Long enough for her skin to be slick with sweat for her breath to come short, her heart to pound.
Ahead a van, it's back door already closed, two men in the final steps of their interaction - the signature on a paper on a clipboard. One looks familiar - the shaved head, the tattoos. A second later, her location comes to mind - the location of a restaurant comes to mind, and her mouth draws infinitesimally tighter. Still, she begins to slow - some half a block away, beginning to bring herself to a walk.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] The van is a pale gray, old. There's a faint odor of french fries in the air around it, and the driver - now shifting the half-empty crates of picked-over produce back into the back of the van - has those long white-boy dreads and a Che Guavara t-shirt on. It's tie-dyed. There is a handmade stencil along the side of the van, which says: BIRCH RIVER FARMS on the side. Some organic, back-to-the-earth place, carved out of the rich, poisoned soil of the Illinois prairie lands.
The pair of them shake hands firmly; John Brendan is the taller of the pair, dressed in the morning in a pair of old jeans, torn at the left knee, the hems worn to insubstantiality, and an old Neil Young t-shirt. His bare arms are strong, tanned, tendons roped around muscle that comes from work rather than working out. It is cool enough this morning that there's a hint of fog at the edges of the seen, but the sky above is clean.
"See ya later, man," JB says as the hippie-dude climbs back into his vegetable-oil-powered delivery van. The former pats the flank of the reconstituted vehicle the way a rancher might pat a prime piece of horseflesh by way of farewell. There's a dull sound of impact, his flat palm against the sheet metal, and then the van is pulling away. He spots her before the van pulls away, and his eyes touch on her as he hits the side.
There's a pencil behind JB's ear. The restaurant is dark, the lights low. There is a single light shining through the half-open blinds of the living space above. Some single light, turned on the blind dark. He's still watching her as she brings herself from a run to a walk, lingering outside the dark front doors.
"Too bloody early to be out running," he remarks, when she's in eartshot. Then, with a glance toward the dark restaurant. "There's coffee on, inside. Can I offer you a cup?"
[Imogen Slaughter] Her attire is good quality work-out clothing, though the name brand emblems are subtle and mismatched, as if she were more interested in quality than designer. Her tattoo is clear on her bare arm, snaking around a defined bicep, her pulse beating heavy in her throat.
"It's too bloody early to be out working," she retorts, deliberately throwing his words back at him, albeit slightly breathlessly as she comes to a complete stop in front of him, her spine leaning forward as if she might rest her hands on her knees, but then lifting again to neutral as her pride or posture gets the better of her. She lifts a hand to push back a damp tendril of hair, tucking it back behind an ear, glancing toward the dim interior of the Café.
"Yeh got water in there too?" she enquires, though the question is more a placeholder, or perhaps, a point of faint amusement, as her faint and faded smirk may attest.
When he agrees, the smirk becomes more clear, etched across her mouth. "I'll ha' both."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Someone," he returns, this crooked half-smile on his mouth, edging toward a smirk, "has to bake the bread and brew the coffee." There's a sense of the sun at the edges of the world just now. The sky behind the stars is lightening. Only the brightest are visible in the east, while the whole of the sky - such as can ever been seen from the city's heart - still burns in the west.
He has his eyes narrowed briefly against the distant glare of headaches, the subtle thrum of some big engine. Garbage truck maybe. Streetsweeper.
"C'mon," he says when she accepts, pulling open the front door and holding it open for her. The gesture is casual rather than courtly, but there's no oh no you first go-ahead game with JB. He holds the door against his broad frame and slips in behind her, letting it fall closed, after.
Most of the lights are off, but there's music on. It's coming from the kitchen, the morning broadcast on the local college radio station, an up-tempo mix of indie and old-school rock. Just now, it's the Ramones, Twenty twenty twenty four hours to go - and someone in the kitchen is singing along to them. The lights spill out from the back, illuminating the dining room in patchwork.
The smell of baking bread is strong, here. Baking bread and good coffee. "Have a seat," he tells her when they're inside, indicating the counter rather than the tables. He slips through between the register and the bakery cases, lifting the movable counter, letting it down after, and serves her strong coffee and a glass of water the way a bartender would serve her whiskey, neat, with a Guinness chaser.
[Imogen Slaughter] He holds the door open and there is certainly no game over who enters first, no demure or attempt to do so. "Ta," she merely says and steps inside, absently rubbing the back of her neck as she enters. Her gaze flicks toward the kitchen, the sound of an amateur voice singing along with the Ramones.
She pauses as he indicates to at one of the counters before reaching down to the line of her capris. She removes a gun from her waistband, setting it aside on one of the counter seats, out of sight should anyone come in from the kitchen, before taking a seat herself.
She makes no production of what she does. Unless he's watching her, he may not even notice.
She takes her seat, watching him as he serves her the coffee, the water. She reaches for the former, first, picking it up between long slender fingers, nails carefully shaped and trimmed. "Ta," she says again; British thanks. She does not yet take a sip, the fresh coffee too hot. Outside the bay window, a garbage truck trundles by, coming to a stop and blocking their outside view. A man dressed in coveralls, a hat worn backwards over his dreads leaps down to pull the trash bag from the nearby receptacle, then whipping out another from his back pocket to replace it.
"Business pickin' up yet?" it's almost small talk, though the question is not absent or merely meant to fill the air.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] The coffee is good, even excellent. It is one of the few things not made, roasted, prepared, pickled, coddled, smoked, braised, or carved on site. The scent is strong, now. When she takes her first sip, she find the flavor complex, brighter notes peeking through the bitterness.
Ta she says, and "Welcome," he responds, the shape of his expression lost in the long shadows of the dark dining room. There are background lights on here. The display lights in the display cases, the lights behind the counter, where the bar would be if the place served mixed drinks. It's too small to support that trade, though, and still serve the sort of food he wants to cook. So the counter is a counter, not a bar. He has a cup of coffee already poured, half finished, cooling now. After serving her he tops his off. She has one of those fashionable pottery style mugs in warm subtle colors. Fiesta ware, or maybe something shaped by some local potter's hand. He is drinking out of a souvenir cup from Seattle. As he pours the hot liquid in, the outline of Mount Ranier appears hovering in the background over the painted city like some great goddess.
She leaves hers to cool; he drinks his coffee hotter than sin, gulping back a mouthful. It's early and he's not yet awake, but he's awake - not bright the way she is, from her run, still bleary-eyed.
He leans against the bar, the coffee cup in hand, looking at her, then past her to the dining room, considering the shadows, thoughtfully. "It's picking up," he says, "though it's not a going concern yet. Cooked for that thing down at the River, and we've had some business from it. We're starting to get a few regulars from the neighborhood, too. Regulars: folks who've been back more than once."
There's her gun, on one of the seats. There's no sign that he's noticed, until he glances that way, lifting a dark brow while idly rubbing one of the tattoos on his right hand. "The run can't be official business. Always carry that with you?"
[Imogen Slaughter] She nods absently at his answer, with nothing more to say to it. She had asked out of curiosity, and now with the answer, has little of it left.
Her own dark eyed gaze moves toward the weapon when he refers to it. He says the run can't be official business. "It's not an official weapon," she replies.
He can see the line of her shoulder blade through her shirt, the dip of her spine. Her musculature shows through her skin - not overtly, but with a solidity that speaks of more than an absent commitment to fitness. More than a casual desire for a thin, attractive body.
She takes a gulp of coffee as he speaks, she drinks it black, unadorned. It's a compliment of sorts. When she thinks the coffee will be sub-par she drowns it in sugar. When she trusts the quality, she does nothing to the flavour.
"Just about," she says, her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the countertop before stilling. "Anywhere I can keep it hidden, anyway."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] His laugh is an unsubtle snort of a thing, quiet enough that it won't drag attention from whoever is in the kitchen, warbling now to vintage Beck (I'm a loser baby - so why don't you kill me?) inexpertly. There's work being done back there, the sound of metal against metal, shifting scents - the yeasty bloom of bread, something sharper, sweeter, scones or muffins. - in the background, the low whirring of an industrial mixer, the occasional curse, some braying back and forth.
"Too-chay," he says, not a smidgen of good French pronunciation in him except for the culinary words, and even then they have that American flatness. His gaze lingers on the stool where the weapon sits, unseen. There's a moment of almost meditative blankness on his features, early morning he loses focus except when there is physical work to be done. Something to be hefted or wrestled or needed or carted about. Then he seems to come too, cutting her a lingering look in the darkness, teasing out the lines of her features from the shadows that have fallen all around them.
He takes another gulp of his coffee, before asking, " - that bad here, eh?" That's low, too. His voice is a tired rumble in his chest, but there's a sharpness to his features seen in profile in the low light, his mouth set and still, his eyes on her face.
[Imogen Slaughter] She is thoroughly awake. The epinephrine still pulses in her blood, giving a sharp clarity to her thoughts. She is a practised insomniac; trained by medical school honed by weeks of on-call schedules and - other things.
She sips her coffee while he appears to disassociate for moments, swallows it as he comes back, her gaze steady upon him. In the dim lighting here, her eyes offer only the faintest impression of blue, her skin visibly pale, untouched by sunlight, despite the ending summer.
"It wasn't here tha' got me in the habit," she observes circumspectly, before adding, "But it's bad enough 'ere, yes. The Full Bloods call it war," she says, her voice low enough to carry no farther than him.
"Though how they can tell the difference between this and the normal state o' affairs is beyond me."
[Imogen Slaughter] She is thoroughly awake. The epinephrine still pulses in her blood, giving a sharp clarity to her thoughts. She is a practised insomniac; trained by medical school honed by weeks of on-call schedules and - other things.
She sips her coffee while he appears to disassociate for moments, swallows it as he comes back, her gaze steady upon him. In the dim lighting here, her eyes offer only the faintest impression of blue, her skin visibly pale, untouched by sunlight, despite the ending summer.
"It wasn't here tha' got me in the habit," she observes circumspectly, before adding, "But it's bad enough 'ere, yes. The Full Bloods call it war," she says, her voice low enough to carry no farther than him.
"Though how they can tell the difference between this and the normal state o' affairs is beyond me."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Fuck if I know," he replies. The interjection is quiet, automatic, and heartfelt, though she's a fine enough counterpoint to his rough morning presence - unshaven, half-awake - that he gives her a rueful look, after, for the curse.
He is a solid presence in the shadows across the counter, tall and broad-shouldered, with the effortless physicality of an athlete rather than an animal. Of someone who works with his body, his scarred hands. Just now he's still - still in this thorough, early morning, conserving-his-energy way, except when he lifts the cup to gulp, not sip, his coffee down.
Soon he's ready for another cup. He turns around, grabs the put from the machine and wordlessly offers to top off her mug before he refills his own. Mount Ranier disappears as the heat fades, and reappears again when the mug is fool.
"Let's say," he says, while returning the coffee pot to its cradle as he turns back around. " - that some ordinary citizen wanted to be as prepared as you are. Are there some sort of hoops to jump through to get the right permits so I'm not committing a crime wandering down the street?"
[Imogen Slaughter] "If an ordinary citizen," she says quietly, "gets into the situations tha' I do, he should run." He tops off her coffee. She does not thank him this time.
"All a gun will do is make yeh think that yeh ha' any option other than that."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "I've got a kid," he returns low, with a glance at the ceiling that is thoughtless. She's sleeping, still. Tucked away in the dark of room. They painted it purple three days after they arrived, the walls and the ceiling, with lavender clouds and and soft gold stars, and no hint of the moon in the changed sky. That moment of knowledge, awareness - the thought of her up there sleeping, in four walls safe from the world that is going to find her soon enough - passes as quickly as it came.
When JB looks back at Imogen, there's a certain bristling, underneath his skin. The muscles of his forearms are tense, the tattoos crawling with the movement as he grits his teeth and shifts his grip on the mug, tightening it. He's stirring from the morning sleepiness, and a spike of irritation enters his voice. " - and I'm not a fool. I don't play a fucking hero on TV. So answer the question or don't, but don't patronize me."
[Imogen Slaughter] She had not been slouching, nor even leaning against the counter, but as she sets down her coffee mug, she seems to straighten nonetheless, laying her hands palm down on the countertop and fixing him with a steady regard, a sealed mouth and unwavering gaze.
Seconds pass in silence.
"You're right," she says finally, low and deceptively mild, "you have a child."
The words hang flat in the air between them, dispersed only as she speaks again. "So do her a favour and run.
"And if yeh don't want my advice, yeh can google 'gun licences Illinois'."
[Imogen Slaughter] (correction: "And if you don't like my advice...")
[John Brendan Cavanagh] The irritation is under the second layer, the third layer of his sky. Sharpened by her presence, suddenly, but the flat way she agrees with him. By the stillness of the room. In the back kitchen - a clatter of metal against metal, a curse in fluent Spanish. He looks up, but doesn't back there. Anything short of a fingertip amputation is an ordinary day.
Briefly, the singer is both still and silent. There's just the radio DJ, some college kid, stumbling through the day's weather forecast, low in the background. Then the silence breaks, the industrial mixer thrums to life, this deep mechanical noise in the background.
He looks back at her, his dark eyes closed, disengaged. There's no hiding the hint of truculence underneath. Then, the hint of a sour smirk, an exhaled breath. There's enough tension in his arms that she can see the tension in his bicep underneath his skin.
"Thanks," he says at last, that sour smirk deepening. "for the advice. There's something in his mouth that he clearly swallows back. It's not important. It's not productive. It's childish. He feels 12. He feels 23. It's just - he gulps back his coffee instead, swallows it all and swallows it hot. Then he sets the cup down on the workspace beneath the dining counter, down in some bar sink. The sound of porcelain against stainless steel is dulled but distinct.
"Stay as long as you like." Somehow, he manages to excise that sense of sourness from the invitation. He's waking, though, drawn back. A professional. "Scones will be up in a few. I've got to get back to work."
[Imogen Slaughter] She has an incredible mastery of her emotion. Better now than it was. When she looks at him, he cannot possibly imagine what she's thinking.
A few seconds pass, then she gets to her feet. "I'll be going, I think," she says, picking up the glass of water draining it with a grimace. She sets it down with a solid click.
"Thanks fer the coffee," she says, picking up her gun from the seat and sliding it back into the hidden holster, a flicker of her skin visible as she shifts her shirt for access.
"Enjoy yer day," and she turns away, heads for the door.
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