[Alexa Thanos] Truth is, he's tracking as much ice and snow, as much frozen mud around the room as she is. His boots are muddy from the trip to the tree farm, crusted with scattered salt from walking on a treated sidewalk, all the filthy slush of the season. Once his scarf and cap are off, he unzips the old parker and tosses it, too, on top of the table at the top of the stairs, at last taking a moment to unlace his boots and step out of the shoes into a pair of moccasin style leather slippers left haphazardly near the door.
There rooms are clean enough, but far from neat, and the scattered way he leaves his boots behind just adds to the sense of lived in clutter about the place. Just the tree has that clean shape, a blanket of rich dark green, like the quiet heart of a forest. He misses the way his frown changes her body language, the way it stiffens her body, makes her feel (again) like an interloper, an alien in an ordinary world. And it is ordinary - now he's sorting briefly through the mail left on the table, still frowning that vague frown - considering what's in the fridge, whether they need to duck downstairs for a meal. When she asks about the shed.
" - the shed?" His back is to her, broad at the shoulders, tapering to the waist. He's wearing a fine-gauge sweater over a white t-shirt and jeans worn enough that they seem as lived in as the living room. A recent haircut has his close-cropped brown hair even closer to the skull. That frown worms its way across his brow as he cuts a glance back at her. "You said the shed, right?"
Then he gives a decisive shake of his head. "There's a studio apartment over the garage, but the heat's not on and it's too cold. You don't have someplace warm to sleep? We can make room here for a night or two."
And with that, he disappears down the dark hall toward the kitchen, to through together dinner.
[Alexa Thanos] Before her mouth opens to protest he's already walking off, but maybe he hears a quiet: "You don't need to do that." and the imploring way that it comes across. She really doesn't want to wedge herself in their private life here. Well, okay, maybe some part of her does. She'd love to have some of this herself, the warmth, the comfort, the home that they share. It's nice and thaws out some part deep inside her. But it still feels stolen, this little slice of happiness.
After hesitating, standing there as if her shoes are glued to the spot, she begins to take off her belongings, starting with the back pack and following through with the scarf and jacket. She piles them into a barren corner just behind the door rather then hanging them up, because it just doesn't feel right to have her things hanging next to the childs or even the Kinfolks.
A quiet huff comes from her, dry and a little amused, as she images that curly, red-haired Metis popping out of nowhere. While the Fianna Metis had never said anything to Alexa, just the fact the other Garou almost always shows up was enough to remind the Strider of her place. It's no wonder she's half expecting the same thing to happen now.
"Can I help you with anything?" She called out, just loud enough. Looking down at her shoes she drops down into a crouch, ear craned to listen, while fingers pluck at wet, red laces, which are much harder to get off then dry. Lean fingers have to be persistent.
[JB Cavanagh] "I got it - " he calls out from further down the hall. The house itself is eighty years old or more, a warren of narrow, chopped up rooms that would be joined together in a contemporary build to create an open floor plan. From the living room, a set of closed French doors lead into a small dining room, dark just now, while on the other side, a long dark hall disappears into darkness. At the end of the hall, a slanting rhombus of light cuts into the shadows, occasionally disturbed by the movement of his shadow. " - thanks, though!"
His voice comes from a distance. The kitchen proper is at the back of the house, tucked behind the dining room, overlooking the oblong addition to the downstairs built to accommodate the cafe's professional kitchen and the barrow back garden. The snow glistens pristinely in a distinctive cone shape from the security light above the garage.
The hardwoods creak underneath his weight; every inch of the old house has some distinct sound. He turns on the water in the kitchen and pipes groan open somewhere in the walls, water rushing audibly through ancient pipes as groaning valves open and close in shifting succession.
After a moment, he calls out, " - you want a beer?"
[Alexa Thanos] "Just water." One lace is pulled free. "Thanks."
Soon enough she's got her boots off and set them to the side and two layers of socks have been pulled of her feet, rolled together and stuffed into the open tongue of her boot. She makes sure there's no lint between her toes before she gets up, snags out her bag from under her jacket and begins to wander the hall in quiet, bare feet.
When she speaks again, she's just approaching the kitchen, watching his dancing shadow before flicking her gaze up and around the corner to peer inside the door frame. "Do you mind if I make a quick trip to the bathroom? I need to change from jeans." Which were wet down on the legs from tromping through snow, and just generally being outdoors almost always. Her bag dangles from her hand, and without her jacket on, she's in several layers from a sweater to two different colour t.shirts beneath, red and yellow.
[JB Cavanagh] Like the rest of the apartment, the kitchen is cramped. The cabinets are old, and the countertops chipped formica. The stove's gas, but that's the only thing about it that makes it a chef's kitchen, as suburban house hunters (who never cook) are always going on about. Humans have been cooking great meals for centuries though - long before Sub-Zero refridgerators were invented, long before every McMansion in the greater Chicago region was outfitted with a matching set of granite countertops and faux-custom faux-cherry cabinets.
There's a small table - 50s style, chrome and formica - tucked into a corner of the cramped room, but he fills the space that remains, working efficiently - though not quite as efficiently as he would downstairs, with a full mise-en-place prepped and laid out in front of him. It's more casual here, the food simpler.
He's got his sleeves rolled up enough to reveal the lower third of the complex tattoo covering his right arm, and the silicone bracelets - LIVESTONG and a handful of sillybandz - look soft against his solid forearm and big hands, the hard articulation of his wrist joint.
A beer is open on the counter, and the radio is on, playing some old Pogues song. "Half-way down the hall," he tells her, looking up as she appears in the doorway, lifting his chin in the vague direction of the bathroom. "Second door on the right."
[Alexa Thanos] Nodding, she turned and disappeared down the hall. She doesn't snoop but goes directly to the bathroom. There, she takes in details but makes quick work of changing clothes, washing up and making herself a little more presentable. While she might like to soak in a hot shower she doesn't take that liberty. It's not like she stank anyway. She smelled of outside, sandalwood and some rose, only if one were to get close enough to bury their nose in her hair.
Since the indoors are warm, she comes out in a pair of shorts and minus a t.shirt and a sweater, both of which were tucked into her bag again. Her jeans hang over the shower to dry the bottom before she has to head back out into the cold again. She steps down the hall and drops her bag off by the front door, then reappears back at the kitchen.
"Do you have a broom and a dirty cloth?" While he's doing dinner, she can clean up pine needles and mud trampled through the place. Her fingers curl against the edge of the door frame as she leans a hip against it.
[JB Cavanagh] The bathroom is as old-fashioned as the kitchen, with dark midnight blue tiles on the wall and a matching powderblue toilet, sink and shower. The shower itself is cluttered with soap and bodywash, bubble bath in a plastic bottle shaped like a glitter-covered dolphin, and two different shampoos. The grout has pulled away from the tiles in places, and part of the shower surround has been temporarily repaired with duct tape and plastic wrap.
As he cooks, he's nodding in time to the beat of the CD playing on the wall mounted stereo. The beat is fast, but there's a wheeze of accordian in the background that gives the song an Irish feel - like slam-dancing an Irish jig. When she reappears in the doorway, he says - "Your water's on the table - " and lifts his own bottle of beer in vague toast. Things are just heating up now, meatballs in a sauce and pasta boiling in a big stock pot, and all that remains is a light hand with the former and an eye on the latter.
"A broom? - " he enquires, then, shooting her faint smirk. His tone of voice is mild, a bit incredulous. "There's one in the hall closet. What the hell does a Garou want with a broom?" He continues with a laugh.
[Alexa Thanos] Finding herself grinning at his smirk, more so at the look he gave her, she gave a shrug with one of her shoulders and managed to look on this side of sheepish. Without bothering to answer him she trundles off to find it and search for something like a cloth or an old towel, something, in the same closet. In short time she's in the main room and cleaning up the mess from the tree and both of their boots, enjoying the fact that she's able to do something in return, even however small. The needles would be swept up and offered for the trash, before she set the broom back and the cloth into some dirty laundry. All of this happens with this quiet efficiency that she won't be swayed from.
It lets him cook without being bothered or having her looking over his shoulder and invading his space, and makes one less job he has to do later. Then she comes in and finds herself a seat at the small table where her water has been placed, letting herself relax as she takes in the smell of the food. Her stomach cramps uncomfortably, but she's ignoring it, and listening, instead, to the lyrics and beat of the song playing from the radio that the Kinfolk had been previously bopping to.
"Whats your tattoo represent?" She asked, out of nowhere. Curious and observant.
[JB Cavanagh] The lyrics are borderline incomprehensible on the first go-round, the combination of the singer's Irish accent and the pub noise evident in the background. When the start to make sense, though, to resolve themselves, it's clear that it's not Oh Danny Boy, some manipulative, emotional paean to Irish loss or Irish faith -
When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne
And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone
Frank Ryan brought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid
And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids
At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer
And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair -
The head bob is more the abbreviated remnants of the physical gestures of the younger man who would've been down in the pit, front and center, ten years ago than anything else. It appears when he's working, and disappears when he is still. The scents of tomato and basil and cooking meat fill the kitchen. Occasionally, he stirs the sauce or tests the pasta but otherwise he's leaning back against the edge of the countertop, arms crossed.
The question he's heard before, no doubt. The intricate tribal piece covers the whole of his right arm, all intricate blackwork, but instead of stretching it out, explaining something of knots and lives, he unfolds his arms and turns over his left forearm, where a pair of chef's knives are inked into the paler flesh of his inner forearm.
"Chef's knives." - he says, contracting the muscles to make the blades seem to move. "Got them when I got my first sous chef position. First official sous chef position."
[Alexa Thanos] "Better then some skulls or a naked lady," she murmurs to him lowly, a slow smile creeping across her mouth and through the deep blue of her eyes. Looking up from the moving knife-flesh, she trailed her gaze up to watch his facial features. He's nice to look at. But there's more then that. He has some breeding. It's not a lot, but in this day, it's plenty. It gets her attention, not only the human guise she was born in, but also to that which lies beneath.
For now though, she's just watching him and listening to the lyrics, the cooking in the pan and the boiling of the water. It's a very domestic scene. While it is alien, foreign to most of her days or nights, she's spent plenty of time around people, Kinfolk and Garou alike, in various places like this. Food cooking, wine flowing and voices chatting. It's these times that keep Garou like her going. Without it everything would just be cold and miserable, like the outdoors.
Small snippets. Like a scrapbook. That's her life; a scrapbook.
[JB Cavanagh] "Or a great big heart with an arrow through it and the word Mom - " he returns with a laugh, tipping back his bottle of beer for a last long swallow before returning the bottle to the narrow slice of counter behind his right hip, between the sink and the stove. "Or a screaming tombstone with angel's wings and a harley bursting through the middle, wrapped about with barbed wire..."
" - yeah." he continues, smile eliding into a brief smirk, brown eyes lightened with humor. "The big arm piece, that was the creation of an old friend of mine. I could go into the symbolism, but then I'd sound fucking pretentious. Usually, I save that shit for the philosophy club." With Lucy elsewhere, JB curses freely. Were the girl in the room, he would work to control his tongue.
As it is, he lets loose freely and easily while keeping the tone light. The next time he tests the pasta he decides it's done, and soon enough he's dumping off the hot pasta water with a rush of steam into the sink, holding the big stock pot over the sink as it drains.
He dishes out two discs of spaghetti, topping them with the homemade tomato sauce he canned over the summer, with fresh organic tomatoes, and lamb meatballs.
" - sure you don't want a beer?" he says, as he retrieves his from the counter and tugs out the second chair at the table for himself.
[Alexa Thanos] Chuckling under her breath, her eyes smile just as much as her generous mouth does. The chapped lips have vanished and the cold red that had bitten her cheeks has faded too. In the bathroom she had rid of any sort of minor problem with a quick shift and the miraculous genetics of being a mythical creature born to save the planet. "It's less about the tattoo and what it means to you." She shrugged lightly, and drank from her water, eyes following the cloud of steam that rushes for the ceiling.
They roam then, around the room and the decore of the squished room, taking in the clash of colours and the older styled apartments. She likes it much better then white washed walls she's seen in the suburbs, where every house is a carbon copy of the one next to it, mirrored and neutral. Reminds her of the Weaver.
Her attention is instantly drawn back when he comes to the table with food for them both, sitting himself in the other seat. "No. Thanks." Pushing her water to the side to make room for the mouthwatering food, she takes in the scent and sight of it, savouring both, and casts a glance to him, smiling. "Dehydrates you." Alcohol, she means.
[JB Cavanagh] "I don't think you'll need to worry about heat stroke in Chicago for another couple of months, at least," he returns, sitting back in the chair and setting his beer bottle firmly down on the laminate tabletop. The plates are artfully arranged so its difficult to gauge, but hers contains rather more food than his own.
"Shit - " he says then, as soon as he has managed to sit down, jumping up to the oven, pulling out half-a-loaf of his pastry chef's excellent sourdough boule from the oven, set to its lowest setting. " - forgot the bread."
It fits neatly on a cutting board wedged onto the narrow table, close to the wall.
"The tattoos - mine anyway? They're not so much about meaning." he says with a broad sort of shrug, the bulk of his upper body moving with the thoughtless gesture. "Mostly it's decoration. Art. Not specifically symbolic in the way folks think. Sometimes I make shit up though, just to have something to say when they ask me."
[JB Cavanagh] (pause!)
There rooms are clean enough, but far from neat, and the scattered way he leaves his boots behind just adds to the sense of lived in clutter about the place. Just the tree has that clean shape, a blanket of rich dark green, like the quiet heart of a forest. He misses the way his frown changes her body language, the way it stiffens her body, makes her feel (again) like an interloper, an alien in an ordinary world. And it is ordinary - now he's sorting briefly through the mail left on the table, still frowning that vague frown - considering what's in the fridge, whether they need to duck downstairs for a meal. When she asks about the shed.
" - the shed?" His back is to her, broad at the shoulders, tapering to the waist. He's wearing a fine-gauge sweater over a white t-shirt and jeans worn enough that they seem as lived in as the living room. A recent haircut has his close-cropped brown hair even closer to the skull. That frown worms its way across his brow as he cuts a glance back at her. "You said the shed, right?"
Then he gives a decisive shake of his head. "There's a studio apartment over the garage, but the heat's not on and it's too cold. You don't have someplace warm to sleep? We can make room here for a night or two."
And with that, he disappears down the dark hall toward the kitchen, to through together dinner.
[Alexa Thanos] Before her mouth opens to protest he's already walking off, but maybe he hears a quiet: "You don't need to do that." and the imploring way that it comes across. She really doesn't want to wedge herself in their private life here. Well, okay, maybe some part of her does. She'd love to have some of this herself, the warmth, the comfort, the home that they share. It's nice and thaws out some part deep inside her. But it still feels stolen, this little slice of happiness.
After hesitating, standing there as if her shoes are glued to the spot, she begins to take off her belongings, starting with the back pack and following through with the scarf and jacket. She piles them into a barren corner just behind the door rather then hanging them up, because it just doesn't feel right to have her things hanging next to the childs or even the Kinfolks.
A quiet huff comes from her, dry and a little amused, as she images that curly, red-haired Metis popping out of nowhere. While the Fianna Metis had never said anything to Alexa, just the fact the other Garou almost always shows up was enough to remind the Strider of her place. It's no wonder she's half expecting the same thing to happen now.
"Can I help you with anything?" She called out, just loud enough. Looking down at her shoes she drops down into a crouch, ear craned to listen, while fingers pluck at wet, red laces, which are much harder to get off then dry. Lean fingers have to be persistent.
[JB Cavanagh] "I got it - " he calls out from further down the hall. The house itself is eighty years old or more, a warren of narrow, chopped up rooms that would be joined together in a contemporary build to create an open floor plan. From the living room, a set of closed French doors lead into a small dining room, dark just now, while on the other side, a long dark hall disappears into darkness. At the end of the hall, a slanting rhombus of light cuts into the shadows, occasionally disturbed by the movement of his shadow. " - thanks, though!"
His voice comes from a distance. The kitchen proper is at the back of the house, tucked behind the dining room, overlooking the oblong addition to the downstairs built to accommodate the cafe's professional kitchen and the barrow back garden. The snow glistens pristinely in a distinctive cone shape from the security light above the garage.
The hardwoods creak underneath his weight; every inch of the old house has some distinct sound. He turns on the water in the kitchen and pipes groan open somewhere in the walls, water rushing audibly through ancient pipes as groaning valves open and close in shifting succession.
After a moment, he calls out, " - you want a beer?"
[Alexa Thanos] "Just water." One lace is pulled free. "Thanks."
Soon enough she's got her boots off and set them to the side and two layers of socks have been pulled of her feet, rolled together and stuffed into the open tongue of her boot. She makes sure there's no lint between her toes before she gets up, snags out her bag from under her jacket and begins to wander the hall in quiet, bare feet.
When she speaks again, she's just approaching the kitchen, watching his dancing shadow before flicking her gaze up and around the corner to peer inside the door frame. "Do you mind if I make a quick trip to the bathroom? I need to change from jeans." Which were wet down on the legs from tromping through snow, and just generally being outdoors almost always. Her bag dangles from her hand, and without her jacket on, she's in several layers from a sweater to two different colour t.shirts beneath, red and yellow.
[JB Cavanagh] Like the rest of the apartment, the kitchen is cramped. The cabinets are old, and the countertops chipped formica. The stove's gas, but that's the only thing about it that makes it a chef's kitchen, as suburban house hunters (who never cook) are always going on about. Humans have been cooking great meals for centuries though - long before Sub-Zero refridgerators were invented, long before every McMansion in the greater Chicago region was outfitted with a matching set of granite countertops and faux-custom faux-cherry cabinets.
There's a small table - 50s style, chrome and formica - tucked into a corner of the cramped room, but he fills the space that remains, working efficiently - though not quite as efficiently as he would downstairs, with a full mise-en-place prepped and laid out in front of him. It's more casual here, the food simpler.
He's got his sleeves rolled up enough to reveal the lower third of the complex tattoo covering his right arm, and the silicone bracelets - LIVESTONG and a handful of sillybandz - look soft against his solid forearm and big hands, the hard articulation of his wrist joint.
A beer is open on the counter, and the radio is on, playing some old Pogues song. "Half-way down the hall," he tells her, looking up as she appears in the doorway, lifting his chin in the vague direction of the bathroom. "Second door on the right."
[Alexa Thanos] Nodding, she turned and disappeared down the hall. She doesn't snoop but goes directly to the bathroom. There, she takes in details but makes quick work of changing clothes, washing up and making herself a little more presentable. While she might like to soak in a hot shower she doesn't take that liberty. It's not like she stank anyway. She smelled of outside, sandalwood and some rose, only if one were to get close enough to bury their nose in her hair.
Since the indoors are warm, she comes out in a pair of shorts and minus a t.shirt and a sweater, both of which were tucked into her bag again. Her jeans hang over the shower to dry the bottom before she has to head back out into the cold again. She steps down the hall and drops her bag off by the front door, then reappears back at the kitchen.
"Do you have a broom and a dirty cloth?" While he's doing dinner, she can clean up pine needles and mud trampled through the place. Her fingers curl against the edge of the door frame as she leans a hip against it.
[JB Cavanagh] The bathroom is as old-fashioned as the kitchen, with dark midnight blue tiles on the wall and a matching powderblue toilet, sink and shower. The shower itself is cluttered with soap and bodywash, bubble bath in a plastic bottle shaped like a glitter-covered dolphin, and two different shampoos. The grout has pulled away from the tiles in places, and part of the shower surround has been temporarily repaired with duct tape and plastic wrap.
As he cooks, he's nodding in time to the beat of the CD playing on the wall mounted stereo. The beat is fast, but there's a wheeze of accordian in the background that gives the song an Irish feel - like slam-dancing an Irish jig. When she reappears in the doorway, he says - "Your water's on the table - " and lifts his own bottle of beer in vague toast. Things are just heating up now, meatballs in a sauce and pasta boiling in a big stock pot, and all that remains is a light hand with the former and an eye on the latter.
"A broom? - " he enquires, then, shooting her faint smirk. His tone of voice is mild, a bit incredulous. "There's one in the hall closet. What the hell does a Garou want with a broom?" He continues with a laugh.
[Alexa Thanos] Finding herself grinning at his smirk, more so at the look he gave her, she gave a shrug with one of her shoulders and managed to look on this side of sheepish. Without bothering to answer him she trundles off to find it and search for something like a cloth or an old towel, something, in the same closet. In short time she's in the main room and cleaning up the mess from the tree and both of their boots, enjoying the fact that she's able to do something in return, even however small. The needles would be swept up and offered for the trash, before she set the broom back and the cloth into some dirty laundry. All of this happens with this quiet efficiency that she won't be swayed from.
It lets him cook without being bothered or having her looking over his shoulder and invading his space, and makes one less job he has to do later. Then she comes in and finds herself a seat at the small table where her water has been placed, letting herself relax as she takes in the smell of the food. Her stomach cramps uncomfortably, but she's ignoring it, and listening, instead, to the lyrics and beat of the song playing from the radio that the Kinfolk had been previously bopping to.
"Whats your tattoo represent?" She asked, out of nowhere. Curious and observant.
[JB Cavanagh] The lyrics are borderline incomprehensible on the first go-round, the combination of the singer's Irish accent and the pub noise evident in the background. When the start to make sense, though, to resolve themselves, it's clear that it's not Oh Danny Boy, some manipulative, emotional paean to Irish loss or Irish faith -
When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne
And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone
Frank Ryan brought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid
And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids
At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer
And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair -
The head bob is more the abbreviated remnants of the physical gestures of the younger man who would've been down in the pit, front and center, ten years ago than anything else. It appears when he's working, and disappears when he is still. The scents of tomato and basil and cooking meat fill the kitchen. Occasionally, he stirs the sauce or tests the pasta but otherwise he's leaning back against the edge of the countertop, arms crossed.
The question he's heard before, no doubt. The intricate tribal piece covers the whole of his right arm, all intricate blackwork, but instead of stretching it out, explaining something of knots and lives, he unfolds his arms and turns over his left forearm, where a pair of chef's knives are inked into the paler flesh of his inner forearm.
"Chef's knives." - he says, contracting the muscles to make the blades seem to move. "Got them when I got my first sous chef position. First official sous chef position."
[Alexa Thanos] "Better then some skulls or a naked lady," she murmurs to him lowly, a slow smile creeping across her mouth and through the deep blue of her eyes. Looking up from the moving knife-flesh, she trailed her gaze up to watch his facial features. He's nice to look at. But there's more then that. He has some breeding. It's not a lot, but in this day, it's plenty. It gets her attention, not only the human guise she was born in, but also to that which lies beneath.
For now though, she's just watching him and listening to the lyrics, the cooking in the pan and the boiling of the water. It's a very domestic scene. While it is alien, foreign to most of her days or nights, she's spent plenty of time around people, Kinfolk and Garou alike, in various places like this. Food cooking, wine flowing and voices chatting. It's these times that keep Garou like her going. Without it everything would just be cold and miserable, like the outdoors.
Small snippets. Like a scrapbook. That's her life; a scrapbook.
[JB Cavanagh] "Or a great big heart with an arrow through it and the word Mom - " he returns with a laugh, tipping back his bottle of beer for a last long swallow before returning the bottle to the narrow slice of counter behind his right hip, between the sink and the stove. "Or a screaming tombstone with angel's wings and a harley bursting through the middle, wrapped about with barbed wire..."
" - yeah." he continues, smile eliding into a brief smirk, brown eyes lightened with humor. "The big arm piece, that was the creation of an old friend of mine. I could go into the symbolism, but then I'd sound fucking pretentious. Usually, I save that shit for the philosophy club." With Lucy elsewhere, JB curses freely. Were the girl in the room, he would work to control his tongue.
As it is, he lets loose freely and easily while keeping the tone light. The next time he tests the pasta he decides it's done, and soon enough he's dumping off the hot pasta water with a rush of steam into the sink, holding the big stock pot over the sink as it drains.
He dishes out two discs of spaghetti, topping them with the homemade tomato sauce he canned over the summer, with fresh organic tomatoes, and lamb meatballs.
" - sure you don't want a beer?" he says, as he retrieves his from the counter and tugs out the second chair at the table for himself.
[Alexa Thanos] Chuckling under her breath, her eyes smile just as much as her generous mouth does. The chapped lips have vanished and the cold red that had bitten her cheeks has faded too. In the bathroom she had rid of any sort of minor problem with a quick shift and the miraculous genetics of being a mythical creature born to save the planet. "It's less about the tattoo and what it means to you." She shrugged lightly, and drank from her water, eyes following the cloud of steam that rushes for the ceiling.
They roam then, around the room and the decore of the squished room, taking in the clash of colours and the older styled apartments. She likes it much better then white washed walls she's seen in the suburbs, where every house is a carbon copy of the one next to it, mirrored and neutral. Reminds her of the Weaver.
Her attention is instantly drawn back when he comes to the table with food for them both, sitting himself in the other seat. "No. Thanks." Pushing her water to the side to make room for the mouthwatering food, she takes in the scent and sight of it, savouring both, and casts a glance to him, smiling. "Dehydrates you." Alcohol, she means.
[JB Cavanagh] "I don't think you'll need to worry about heat stroke in Chicago for another couple of months, at least," he returns, sitting back in the chair and setting his beer bottle firmly down on the laminate tabletop. The plates are artfully arranged so its difficult to gauge, but hers contains rather more food than his own.
"Shit - " he says then, as soon as he has managed to sit down, jumping up to the oven, pulling out half-a-loaf of his pastry chef's excellent sourdough boule from the oven, set to its lowest setting. " - forgot the bread."
It fits neatly on a cutting board wedged onto the narrow table, close to the wall.
"The tattoos - mine anyway? They're not so much about meaning." he says with a broad sort of shrug, the bulk of his upper body moving with the thoughtless gesture. "Mostly it's decoration. Art. Not specifically symbolic in the way folks think. Sometimes I make shit up though, just to have something to say when they ask me."
[JB Cavanagh] (pause!)
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