endings

Billy McCann

Wed 08:40PM CST
Night or morning - she's sleeping, or attempting to sleep, fine pillowcase cool beneath her cheek, her hair spread out loose around her. The room is cast in multiple overlapping shadows, deep and grayed, city lights bleeding into the condominium from the big fancy windows, the city strewn beneath her feet like diamonds for her to walk on. Ain't no telling what wakes her, or if she was already awake or if she was in some no-man's land that's stuck itself between the two, some nightmare flatness that ain't sleeping and ain't rational, neither. Ain't no telling what drags her from whereever she is, either.

Her alarm clock bleeds into the blank blackness of the night, digital numbers, red, smeared, 3:47 with a dot in the corner to indicate A.M. There's a sound, a pop, like someone pulling a cork from a bottle of cheap dandelion wine, a moment of nothing and then a moment of something. There was nothing at her window, and now there is a lean hard shape blotting out half the city view, and now there is a smell that is not entirely pleasant in the air: acrid ash and blood. Blood beneath it all.

Arabella Eberstark

Wed 08:45PM CST
Her sleep had become troubled since her news, the loss of Tucker was a blow, that few could understand. The disappearance of the McCanns on some unnamed dangerous mission [the evasions, illusions...all torn] had layered itself upon the weary young mind. She had nightmares, that cool pillow was so cool with the drying remnants of now chilled tears. They'd been hot when they fell. She was in mourning, a grief laden state barely relieved in sleep. The dark thoughts of many kinds which had come in the wake of everything had frightened her guardians, her few remaining friends.... Silver Fang mental states being what they were, her deep depression was understood.

But there's a degree of restlessness, slender frame caught in twisted pink sheets and the thin cotton nigthgown beneath. Only breif moments when she was still, somehwta peaceful, and looked like Sleeping Beauty amongst the trappings of yuothful affluence. And into that cma eunfamilair scents... which made the dainty nose twitch, which roused groggy senses, her eyes sunk into pale shadowed hollows in her face. She wore grief well too, a watcher might note. Finally head rolled to the side and eyes cracked, taking a frowned inhale and confused...

Billy McCann

Wed 08:52PM CST
"Arabella." Her name, a hard familiar voice gone raw, meatgrinder raw. Not Miss, no, none of the damn trappings that go along with everything else. Her name and a midnight voice dragged from a hoarse and bloodied and blooded throat. They keep this part of it from girls like her, don't they? The figure doesn't move. He ain't facing out, he's been facing in all along, staring hard at her as she sleeps, the outline of her body beneath the sheets, her hand tangled, her mouth slack, the tracks of tears across her soft cheeks, flushed with sleep, wonderin' whether he's selfish to wanna wake, compromising on the distance between coming and going by staying, but out of her immediate reach. "I ain't got much time."

Arabella Eberstark

Wed 08:56PM CST
It wasn't a voice she expected to hear, in her bedroom, now... they'd layered the levels of deadly certainity on her over and over again until she'd broken into profound emotional pain. [Cursed... my care is a curse...] How everyone she cared about could so suddenly be gone tore at the carefree spirit.

"Billy?" The astonishment, and the concern which rapidly follows. She's heard similar sounds, though it was Rasputin and she nursed him back to life in a room just down the hallway from this one.

Pushing up in her bed, still mostly modest in attire, the faint scent of roses waylaid by the aroma he brought with him, of blood, of battle... she still prayed it wasn't his death too.

"I thought I wouldn't see you again... are you..." Voice breaks on the question he can likely anticipate. Please please don't leave me too... everyone leaves me, is leaving me, has left me...

Billy McCann

Wed 09:06PM CST
"I ain't here fer no more'n a minute, Arabella." His breath comes harsh and raw, each one's a fight in itself. There's something wrong with his abdominal muscles, then pulls and scream fire along his nerves each time he breathes too deep or too long. There ain't no hitch in his voice, though. He bears it like he's done born everthang else. "I just knowed I couldn't leave without sayin' somethin' ta you. Without seein' you agin."

The figure at the window doesn't move. She gets up, astonishment and concern, sleep still in the back of her throat, hair spilling around her shoulders, the sheets catching against her shoulder, then her arm, her abdomen, the little girl's nightgown, the modest neckline and her skin, luminous in the darkness.

Arabella Eberstark

Wed 09:12PM CST
Lips press together in a pained line and she's still moving. If he won't she will, and unless he has the fight left in him to stop her, she's sliding from the bed, robe and slippers nearby forgotten so its only bare limbs and scant cover of her nightgown in the soft warmth of Chicago's summer night. "You're... Oh Gaia, Billy... you can't leave me again..." It breaks in ehr voice again, mellifluous tones normally are strained with the pain coming to life once more inside. Green eyes glitter in half light and full shadows, the minefield this has made of her heart and soul livid in their reflection.

"Aurich's gone, Jaan, Rasputin, Viktor, Tucker, Jodi, your brothers... I can't lose you too..." She'd barely begun to explore the emergence of feelings along that road from friendship to more. She could vividly remember the frantic beat of her heart as he whispered poetry harshly into her ear, as he promised he'd kiss her, as they walked, talked and simply sat in silence at times.

Bare feet moving in silent pad as she crossed the room to her window and him, ghostly in the pale shade of her ngith clothes, her dark hair darker without daylight giving it dimension. "You're hurt... I've tended others who were hurt. I can find... the healers, or call Josephina..."

Billy McCann

Wed 09:29PM CST
Roses and - beneath that, beneath that manufactured fragrance, so pleasing to humans, men and women, beneath the stuff ripped from the hearts of flowers and graced softly across her skin - there's something else, as familiar and natural to her as the dark-water scent is to a deep forest pool. He breathes in deep - she can see his shoulders twist, his hard features lit suddenly by a splash of red from the next tower's private helipad, nostrils flaring, hard mouth set in a dark line - and takes in the mixture of scents that sloughs off her skin.

Healer? Josephina? The litany of her lost: he don't seem to hear any of it. He don't respond to none of it. He just stares hard at her as she crosses the darkling room, steps from pool of light to puddle of shadow, bare feet whispering across the plush nap of the expensive woolen carpet, soft as new spring grass. There's the sound of her voice like water, she's talking but he can't really hear her. He had things to say but they ain't so much in the forefront of his mind no more, though death's at the back of his throat, death's in his eyes. Death's in his eyes, and life is in hers.

He makes a noise, not so much strangled out of him as tamped down, firmed back into place, pushed deeper, and puts out a hand like he's going to push her away, the level of her shoulder - there's something dark, leaking on that hand, the broken knuckles cracked and raw, the grime and dried blood caking the blunt nails. Puts out that hand like he's going to push her away, but instead it hovers there a moment and the distance between them (he can hear his heartbeat, bloodroar, battlesense and something else loud in his ears) is measured by his reach, and then suddenly - his hand glides over her shoulder, buries in her hair and he drags her forward until she's hard against him and kisses her breathless and the distance between them ain't measure by the length of his arm but by the weave of her nightgown.

Arabella Eberstark

Wed 09:37PM CST
She'd half expected him to hold her back, the pride and distance she'd seen so often in her Silver Fang relations and friends always in the back of her memory, even beyond the hazy remnants of the Raptors. Bear their burden's alone... always alone and she was so tired of being alone. The tiny details about him were secondary things she saw, and would likely remember at another time... now was only the half surprised sound as his hand slid over nearly bre shoulder to find the thick wealth of chestnut curls, so like he had on a rainy night walking to his truck. Only now, its not poetry whispered in terrible tormenting whispers to her ear but the promised kiss instead.

Her eyes were large, so close to him now, very much like the forest pools in themselves, and lips were still against his a moment before surprise faded into acquiesence, and she was returning that kiss. I might lack the studied touch of one who did much kissing but it had her feeling behind it.

One could only hope it was enough, because knowing he was probably dying against her was tearing her up inside and outside all she gave back were bright eyes with the watery edge and warm kiss.

The cream cotton of her gown would likely be ruined, and she couldn't care less, what coated him, bled from him, no doubt soaking into the fine weave of the cloth. She came up against him, as if she alone could keep him with her. Finally, he was released from her gaze aas lids drooped over them and she gave over to him completely in that moment.

Billy McCann

Wed 10:00PM CST
His left hand is balled, fingers tangled with the fabric of her nightgown, a fist at the base of her spine, five hard knuckles pressing against the fine cotton, heat bleeding through to her skin, counterpoints to the hard facets jointing her supple spine. His right hand is splayed open behind her neck, calloused fingers, slippery with blood that flows still from somewhere, that dampens the back of his hand and her dark hair, that soaks into her nightgown a spreading stain. Fingerpads, rougher than the rest, the callouses from a lifetime of playing and playing and playing the steel-stringed guitar until his fingers were bleeding and the strings was broken and there wasn't nothing left by the hollow thumb of his hand against the body of the instrument.

He breaks the kiss and leans forward, into her, unable to release her, breathing hard, rough chin against her cheek, cheek against her forehead, several days' growth of whiskers scratchy against her fine skin, breath coming hot and hard, deep, ragged gulps. The fingers of his left hand tighten reflexively around the fabric, the hem of her gown rising against the back of her legs as if it were a curtain. His grip on her neck tightens, then, and where it seemed like he couldn't get enough of her, he's letting her go like she's on fire, the twisted nightgown that had crept up her calves to her knees, half-way up her thighs as he gathered the fabric in his hand like fishing line in a reel falling back to its modest level, he's pushing her away from him, breathing hard. Maybe she can't see it: maybe that kiss is an innocent thing to her, Florence Nightengale's cool hand on the fevered forehead of a dying man, but he's not just dying, he's also living. There's more than pain at the forefront of the instinctual mind that lives like a fucking animal beneath his lean human skin.


Arabella Eberstark

Wed 10:09PM CST
The sticky warmth cooling against her skin where the nightgown clings now with the stains left by his wounded body. She's gasping herself, the kiss robbing her of air that she now seeks to draw back... so when he pushed her away it was with less then her usual grace leaving her a stumbling marionette in the moonlight and city glare. The small sound uttered was protesting and pained all in one. Whatever else he was feeling, she was most easily read as afraid he would leave. Fear, it drives her, and the care she had, which might have blossomed towards more in time and perhaps no one will ever know?

"Where're you hurt, Billy... let me help you, please..." Plaintitive sound with the heated undercurrent his kiss had raised threading sweet European accent.

He's pushed her away and she comes closer again, trying to see where it was he was hurt now, as she watched him. Caged animal or simply a man she cared too much for to simply let go... her whisper was poetry this time. Something she'd read in ehr weeks of mourning her brother, then Tucker, adn hoping it wouldn't also be him.

"Live for my living,
or else I must die.
Don't leave me alone,
a world hear that cry."

It summed up her thoughts nicely as she reached for him once more.

Billy McCann

Wed 10:32PM CST
"No." His voice was raw. Now it's feral, near a snarl, a hard knot of sound that tears through the back of his throat. She reaches for him; he grabs up her hands in one of his, hard fingers curving iron bands around her own, soft and fine and shaking - is that her shaking? Is that - god, fucking hell - him? Softer then, but in a voice threaded with iron, with hard-edged fire-forged steel. "No. Y'cain't come no closer. I ain't reasonable, I ain't responsible, an' next time y'touch me I'm gon' do more'n kiss you, Arabella."

The scent on his breath, Scotch - alcohol, something fermented - suddenly asserts itself beneath the blood and grime. He should turn around and look at himself and see the echoes of his brothers in his eyes. He's turning aside when she quotes that, raw and forceful, and he sucks in a deep breath like he's been gutshot, the sound whistles dark through the thick night air. The edges of the world are dancing dark rainbows, now. The room folds in on itself. "Let go. Turn around and git back in yer bed." The command strips past his tortured vocal chords, harsh and hoarse, but threaded with all the authority of his blood, his moon, his tribe. "Go on. Git back in yer bed - " as his grip tightens on her hands, he grabs her upper arm with his free hand, fingers digging into the soft flesh, steering her stumbling backwards. In this darkness, the deaths of his brothers riding hard on the curve of his consciousness, the pack and its bond to the totem disintegrating fasted than a sandcastle at high tide, he doesn't know his own strength. " - git back in bed an' close yer eyes. Fer me. Go on - "

Arabella Eberstark

Wed 10:40PM CST
His harsh gutteral sound, words so raw they make her blink pull her up short, not that his hard grip hadn't done likewise. Years glittered now, understanding beyond what she wanted to know dawning. She wasn't completely innocent of what could happen, simply had not done such herself... and his last.

"Billy..." Choked around a sob that wanted to break loose and she refused to allow it. The pain which flares though fragile seeming body as he exerts command [strength of wolven kind beyond] upon her. That flare of the eyes where she'd disobeyed Aurich so many times, even till the last, she'd followed him until she no longer could... why should it be any different now. "Please... don't make me just... leave you, like this..."

Falling back from him before she headed for her sleep tosed bed, sheets in disarray, blankets folded neatly on a nearby stand unused in summer warmth. It took every ounce of her she had to do as he asked, trembling as a few hot new tears slid free finally and she settled in bed, but those eyes won't leave.... she watche dhim, trying not to break down.

Billy McCann

Wed 10:51PM CST
"Close yer eyes." He all but snarls, the tension bunching in his broad shoulders, curdling in the lean musculature, the slow extrusion of blood from somewhere, drip drip drip onto her fine, fine carpet like a slow-leaking faucet. But she doesn't close her eyes, she's crying in her bed, and instead of crossing the distance between them, instead of going to her, instead of any of a thousand almost kind things he could do for her, he turns his back on her, turns to the window and the city's lights beyond that, his own reflection like a ghost against the black shell of filth prettied up by the endless twinkling lights, diamonds and dust and dust and diamonds. Not his words, but another's, because that's all he has, that's all he's ever had, and his words aren't enough, the wolf inside his head eats them up, scrabbles through him, and it takes fucking effort to turn his back, to stay here when she's beyond him, her purity, her scent, his words, no - another's - his death, his brothers.

"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core."

His rough voice is now a tarnished golden thread, the power and grace of his singing voice still implicit in his ragged tones. His breath makes a hot circle on the glass with every line he utters, but it disappears with the next. Her eyes aren't closed, she won't close her eyes, but he almost closes his, sees his reflection and a different one, an impossible future, bee-loud glad and purple evenings, lake waters, peaceful nights, green eyes - impossible - and chestnut hair.

The last line ends. His voice is still and silent, and maybe in the spell cast by the Moon Dancer's skilled weaving of another's skilled words, maybe for a few graceful minutes, she won't realize that there's no one standing at her window anymore, maybe she won't realize that he's gone.

es car gots

Billy McCann

Sat 09:03PM CST
Lights spill from the fancy awning with the fancy carpet over the wet pavement. Raining tonight, intermittent-like, and the sky is raw with stormclouds. Two valets stand at attention in their red velvet vests, waiting to run out into the storm with umbrellas not for themselves, but for the patrons coming and going. Arabella's car pulls up to the sidewalk and he unfurls his umbrella, leaning forward to provide shelter for her while crossing the dozen feet between the awning and the door her driver is circling the car to open for her. There's another shelter offered, though, not an umbrella but half a jean jacket raised up by one country boy, standing vigil in the rain. Blonde hair's wet, rain's streaming down his solemn features, stains the denim jacket a darker blue. He don't say nothing. But he looks at the valet, and the boy backs off a half-step, hesitant. He don't wanna come near, but don't wanna leave Arabella neither. "Drive ya home?" Billy asks, not really looking at her. More looking at the kid standing there, holding the umbrella down halfways, staring at the bizarre pair, gape-mouthed.

Arabella Eberstark

Sat 09:09PM CST
He had this tendency of finding her when she least expected it. The restaurant? French. The attire? A more formal then he's seen though she'd not dressed up too terribly much, drapped in dark grey silk, the black rosette patterns stitched into the dress artful and tasteful. The rain had merely been a backdrop for the night as she'd dined alone, enjoying simply being out of the condo's echoing rooms, immersed in candlelight and soft music and other people's quiet conversations.

And outside, she was surprised to see him, dripping rain and stepping up like a shadow divulged from the night. Her hand wrapped around a small strapless evening bag, thin shawl draped over her arms, since she'd not needed the convenience of an umbrella between her driver and the valet, and face smiled after a moment's stun. "Billy... you are quite a welcome surprise." The wave to the valet showing it was alright and she nodded.

"I'd like that." Worried about getting wet? She apparently didn't care if it happened.


Billy McCann

Sat 09:21PM CST
Arabella dismisses the valet, and the nervous young man backs away, unconsciously grateful for the reprieve. Still, he stares after her, worry knotting at the base of his neck, stiffening his spine. Wondering if he maybe shouldn't call the police. Wondering if she knew what she was doing. Billy drops his gaze from the boy to the Silver Fang, pale eyes swallowed by the darkness. Maybe she remembers their color, the hard washed-out blue flame. "Glad ta hear it." The corner of his hard mouth rises. It's almost a smile, and it is folded back into the rest of his expression, the hard features swept with rainlight and shadow. The staring sweep of his hungry gaze. Her fingers around the beaded evening bag. The shawl - already wet as she steps out beneath the dubious shelter of half-his coat - conforming to the shape of her arms as the rain splashes against her skin. His gaze tracks the path of a single drop of rain down her cheek. Then, belatedly, he shrugs outta his denim jacket, lean torso moving in hard concert, and swings the whole of it above her, holding it with surprising care. "Good dinner?" Gaze sweeping back a moment, at the name of the restaurant, eyes narrowing to read it. Low-voiced, raw. Strange humor sunk in the texture of his voice. The roughness belies the clarity of his singing voice. "Didja eat up some snails 'r somethin'?"


Arabella Eberstark

Sat 09:29PM CST
The valet dismissed beyond thought and her driver knew enough to step back and as she moved beyond his need, settled himself back within. She'd call if she needed him afterall. For her part, Bella's attention had become focused on Billy too, but with less intent. She was pulling details from memory, superimposed upon the shadowcast figure before her, rain drenched and chivalrous. "Thank you... I don't mind the rain truly, but I would hate to get sick." Imags of Bella wrapped in fluffy pink pajamas and nursing tea and chicken soup might be cute and touching and rather down to earth considering the elegant appearance of her now, the upswept coiffure of darkened curls, damp rain making it slicker, shinier, drawing some of the curls down towards pale line of her throat and face. His ending comment made her pause and then she laughed. "Hardly... I don't like their taste. It was a fancy chicken dish I could never hope of making, and hence... I came here."

She moved closer to him, to diminish the space with which he was holding the coat for her and the rain hitting them both, now glancing about for his dubious pickup. "Besides, the conod was too quiet, even when I was playing piano, so I went out."


Billy McCann

Sat 09:46PM CST
She steps close; he watches her, as he always does. Pale eyes spark in the darkness - back from the nameplate of the restaurant, receding in the rain, to her damp curls and the line of her throat. It ain't poetry he's thinkin' on, neither. His arm above her, her slender, elegant figure close in beside his body. They're walking on the sidewalk, but he stops suddenly, turns to look at her, standing close in. He doesn't touch her, still holds the jacket over her head more than his, the worn shoulders spread wide, the bulk of the jacket falling from his raised arms. His wifebeater wet and clinging to the sinewy lines of his lean, powerful torso. Corded arms, split knuckles of his large hand near enough to her head to snag a few errant curls. Studying her face, the line of her neck, the shape of her nose. Nostrils flare to steal her scent from the wet air, fine perfume mixed with garlic and herbs from the chicken. Close enough that he can feel her body heat, that her humid scent coats his senses. His pale eyes hood, and the flat mouth splits into another rare almost-smile. "I like 'em." Hard to remember what he's talking about. What he's saying. He's staring at her, and reaches to pluck an errant curl from her face, to smooth a rough thumb across her soft cheek. Breath catches in his throat, and the clarification comes bizarre and from out of nowhere, rough and strange. He could near about kiss her. "Snails, I like 'em." But he's waiting for something, and even he cain't tell what. "Maybe me an' th' boy kin liven up yer fancy condo."

Arabella Eberstark

Sat 09:57PM CST
There's an undertone now. Before, well before they'd watched the sunset together, she'd existed in the idea he was a friend, someone who found her interesting as much as she did him. Underlying agendas had been absent in her mind, not thinking he had any other rationale in his. Her experience lacked men who expressed interest in her, to a large degree, and somehow, these days, Tucker wasn't counting high on it regardless.

Then came the sunset, and now there were undertones to what happened and what could. Did she look for the meaning in his words, actions? She still somehow missed cues, naivete what it was, which lent her a lot of her charm actually. But she walked with him, comfortable in the closeness, body heat making it a warmth that came limned in moisture and scents were nearly touchabe things. She actually felt a good deal of guilt he was getting wet for her sake, which had propelled her to move close without impeding his movement. That problem ended when he stopped and she turned her head, to watch him, the smile tugging at the corner of her lips, a progression upwards he could practically time and bet upon. Without the grief and troubles brought on by Tucker, she smiled more like she used to. Glimpses of the girl she was hidden in the girl she is.

"You do? Well next time you can come and have snails..." Would probably prefer company to dinner and the idea of watching him indulge in french cuisine intrigued her. Heart beating a touch faster as he stroked over her cheek, damp, the faint floral scent of her perfume smelling more 'clean' with the mix of rainwater, and food. Simply Bella... bottled up, it could probably sell quite well. It was not unpleasant.

She was watching him more acutely, shifting under his coatheld canopy, mind unable to sit still on what she wanted to say. "Liven up?"

Billy McCann

Sat 10:10PM CST
He takes his time. He always does. Deliberate and confident. Maybe even bold, he just keeps standing there. The rain falls, and the wind rises, catching stray strands of her curling hair, flinging them across her cheek. After a moment of silence. "Wouldn't let me inna a place like that. Wouldn't wanna dress up, anywise. They do take-out?" His voice is still low, but now there's a gold threat to the raw tones. Light shines from the streetlamps onto the pavement. Glints off her hair, reflects in her eyes. He catches an errant lock with his free hand, twines it around his fingers, thumb hardly leaving her skin. Cool and soft, like nothing. He thinks of clouds, not clouds, rain, rainwet stones like satin, pale, solid, the sky reflecting across their surface, the spaces beyond. "Me 'n th' boys. Liven up yer silent place. Someone's always yapping. 'Cept Morgan'd probably break th'lamps a-swangin' from th' chandeliers. Ain't th'best idea I ever had." He looks up at last, toward his rusting ole truck parked not fifteen yards away now. Looks back at her, a strange expression on his face. "C'mon. Yer gittin' wet."

Arabella Eberstark

Sat 10:16PM CST
"I think... they can be persuaded." That answer could be to so many things, watching him, or more feeling, heat of his hand, strong, rough [welcome] against her cheek. No makeup to speak of, nothing disasterously smudged or ruined by the rain or wind. She could look pretty in maybe most any situation, with a natural draw in her.

Trying to imagine the McCanns in her condo, and somehow not able to, for the most part. She hardly knew a few of them to place it. Breath had caught in ehr throat a moment, wondering at the expression, eyes large, luminous under streetlight and in damp night, deep dark emeralds n ehr face when he could even catch a color.

"I'm not minding, truly..." Almost as if the truck would break the mystery of the moment, the wonder she had in him and what went on behind that rarely changing expression.

Billy McCann

Sat 10:43PM CST
She doesn't mind. He doesn't smile. His eyes don't flicker, don't come near to wavering from his face. His hands tighten against her cheek. She can feel it: sudden and sure. "I do." There's nothing soft about him, not even his poet's dreams. "I mind you gittin' wet. I mind you gittin' - " The sentence ends, abrupt, like it's done been chopped off midgrowth. The hard forearms flex with repressed energy, misappropriated, inappropriate, the storm that rides hard within him, diverted and changed and always changing. Ropes of veins sliding around the muscles. He says it again, like she didn't hear it the first time, like he can't let go of it: dog and bone, and he don't watch his language none at all. "I fucking mind." His momma wouldn't be pleased, but he ain't been a boy fer years. "C'mon." He says again, leaning forward, over her, hand falling from her cheek to graze the back of her elbow. Then rising to curve behind her neck and open her head, lift her face to his. Hard fingers splayed through her hair, making a ruckus of her elegant hair, pins falling like hard black raindrops to the damp sidewalk. Palm warm and strong on the back of her neck. She can feel his strength. He can breathe in her in. His body shifts and he leans forward, without ever dropping the jacket that is her shelter from the rain. She might think he's going to kiss her, and he comes close to it, hard mouth a half-inch above hers, breath rough and hitching up through his chest and throat with each of them. Then his mouth moves, a half-inch. It could be the half-inch between them, but it's a half-inch closer to her ear.

"We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love."

He stays there a full nother thirty seconds, breathing hard, like he's run a damned race and is oxygen starved. Mostly, he's just tasting her in the back of his throat, in his mouth, her scent on his tongue. Human, sweet, herbs, everything. Sweat and rain and the heat of exhaust from a passing car. Tastes it all, breathes it in and makes it her and hers. Abruptly, he releases her, steps back and starts walking again, slow enough that he doesn't leave her behind in the rain. The old high way of love. "C'mon." Again, his pale gaze, rough knuckles flexing beneath denim. "Yer gittin' wet."

Arabella Eberstark

Sat 10:54PM CST
She simply watche shim, eyes growing a size or two larger, as if to catch more of him in them, to read deeper, but understanding doesn't come from merely seeing more. In every way he throws her new conflicts and confusions, and she likes it, she looks for more. The tightneing through him, which touches her and others don't and she doesn't flinch. The fact he could tear life fom her without even breaking a sweat uncomfortable to some, but trust lingers deeper in her dark eyed gaze.

Eyes drift towards half closed, as he tilts her face up, lips only parting to emit some soft surprised sound which was neither protest nor plea and simply dies before it grows past the initial utterance. Quite frankly didn't know what to think, nor had much mental faculty to do so. His heat, sharp scent of man that was him, tensed and wet and earthy, it wrapped around her senses much as his hand did her neck.

She'd have to buy new hairpins one of these days...

Eyes do fall closed as he whispers, as much feeling the poetry as hearing it, and a soft tremor going through her at the words. Poignant and touching and deep. It made her heart beat faster, pulse jumping like a living thing beneath the taut skin of her throat. Then he's moving, away and she's breathless, scattered and nearly stumbling to follow. How -did- he do that anyways?

"Mind my getting what?" Feedback loop to his first broken sentence was her whispered reply for the time being.

Billy McCann

Sat 11:14PM CST
He steadies the jacket over her head, holds out a hand to her - automatic and real polite, natural - as she stumbles. Rough blunt fingers a calloused counterpoint to her fine, soft hands. He don't say nothing in response to her question. Don't say nothing more as he walks with her, sheltering her, to the truck. Opens the passenger's door and flashes her a look that has more fire and less humor than usual. Stands back, offering her a hand instead of lifting her up, like he done the last time. Like he can't trust himself to touch her, to wrap his hands around her waist. Like he don't know what he'd do. He drops the jacket and offers her a second hand if'n she needs it, hands her up into the cab without manhandling her, then looks up at her. Stares from below at her, and looks from her damp, curling hair and the rainshadows crossing her pale face, her fine features, to the the buildings that form the backdrop, to the stormclouds above. There's a moon up there, somewhere. Maybe he takes something from that, for he drops his pale eyes from the sky back to her. Stands there in the rain, lifts his chin toward her, or the world beyond her. "Mind you gittin' rained on. I mind you gittin' any kinda trouble. S'all." He doesn't smile, face still and solemn as a preacherman, or an undertaker, except for his eyes. He steps back then, closes the door behind her, closes her in. Stalks around the front of the truck, banging on the hood several times like he needs to wake up the engine from its slumber, then climbs in the driver's side, the scent of the rain invading the close, damp air. Steps up in one easy motion and swings into his seat, has the engine started before he has the door closed. Hank Williams, Sr. wails quietly in the background, honkytonk from the speakers. The engine hums and thrums and lurches, the whole cab vibrates with the engine's reassuring power. He don't say anything else. He just drives her home.

Arabella Eberstark

Sat 11:19PM CST
She doesn't understand him, or maybe its because the slim experience she does have is with those who weren't restrained, weren't toiling with their own demons. She remembered what Jodi had told her off and on, and somehow wondered if he thought about that other woman, when he looked at her...

Wondering which Wiliam had been the source of tonight's poetry, she remained silent though,climbing precariously into his truck, needing both those hands briefly in her heels, the edges of silk catching at legs were water had dampened in spots. Bedraggled and carrying it off with supreme confidence she merely smiled, and nodded.

There were going to be more tormented dreams that had nothing to do with her fading grief and everything to do with one welter of a confusing Fianna likely. He made her wonder now, when...

sunset

[Missed first posts. Downtown, in front of Arabella's Condo.]

-phone call-

Thu 07:00PM CST
From Arabella's purse the digital strains of Bach or Beethoven, or Chopin, or whatever she has her ring tone set to, chime out.

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 07:05PM CST
"Well, no one else had, and you and your family have done a lot to cheer me up lately... it reminds me a lot of my own." The slight smile, seriousness dripped through her words. So serious for seventeen. Its been a few months now since she's done anything simply for fun until recently. She turned some to glance at Starbucks, and then his truck, her answer carried in her smile. "A drive would be nice. Getting away from people is always good, and I've had enough of them from my piano instructor." The strains of Chopin that begun to play in hesmall handbag getting a bemused expression.

"Ohh... excuse me, Billy... don't know who could be calling..." The slim flip phone pulled out and she opened it, a glance at the caller ID as she answered. "Hello?"

-phone call-

Thu 07:06PM CST
From the phone Billy can hear the static sounding wha-wha-wha of a loud and familiar voice. Chattering away enthusiastically.

Billy McCann

Thu 07:16PM CST
Keys jangle as he digs around his front pocket for 'em. Ain't got but a few on the ring. Don't have much to lock up except the truck and the toolbox across the back. Ain't nothing in the houseboat that anyone would want, and they's almost always a brother at home. They slide on out, he picks through 'em, turning back toward the passenger's side. Fits his hand through the handle and pulls it open for Arabella like he's some sort of gentleman (which he ain't) an' looks at her with that intense gaze, like he's near about ready to boost her up in there. An' it's a bigass old thang, needs about a ladder to get up to the cab, so maybe he's gon' boost her anyway. She answers the phone and he just nods in that implacable manner. Looks up and away, but don't leave. Don't give her extra space to have her half of the conversation in private. Watches her from beneath half-hooded eyes, the crawl of expression across her face. The way her mouth moves when she talks. The flashes of white teeth behind pink lips. The way her fingers spill over the sides of the phone, the way she - pianist she - moves them. Just watches.

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 07:22PM CST
She didn't seem to be wanting privacy, in fact might not have answered the phone at all since she was with him if she'd thought to turn it off to voicemail already. Alas for hindsight. It was a smile that brightened some at hearing Jodi's voice though. "Well hello to you, Jodi Lynn. I'm doing well... actually with your cousin right now talking."

She looks up at Billy from her study of the scenery while she talked and chuckled softly. She spoke with deliberation, each owrd perfectly formed with lips untouched by lipstick, and only occaionally by gloss. She rarely wore any form of makeup beyond a touch of perfume, which, if he tried to catch, was some sort of exotic floral blend. "No, riding would be lovely. I know I have somethings going on tomorrow but I typically exercise my horse at some point. I'd love for you to come along."

She moves closer, perhaps thinking to climb into this monstrously high truck while she chatted with the owner's cousin on the phone. Young woman chatter though who could ever say Bella was a chatterer she didn't know. "Just between you and me, then, and I will. Have a good night."

Billy McCann

Thu 07:44PM CST
Billy's mouth splits into one of his brief grins as he hears his cousin's voice on the phone. As he hears her name, too. The smile lingers as Arabella steps up close. He swings open the passenger door the rest of the way as she steps up, then falls in behind her, tall and close. "It's real high Miss Arabella." Voice quiet like always, and near her ear again. Rough, like he's in the middle of a long night and dawn ain't nowhere in sight yet. "Lemme help you on up." He don't ask no more. Just wraps his hands around her waist and lifts her on up, like it warn't no big thing, until she can slide into the passenger's seat real easy. Rough hands catch on the fine silk of her gown, the fingers strong and warm. He holds her like that about two shakes longer than necessary, watching the shape of her shadowed through the dress. The way it rucks up and uncurls and flows, but it's just moments, like he forgot what he was doing in the motion of doing it, then remembered again a moment later. Hardly worth mentioning.

Once she's settled, he checks for fingers and toes, then slams the door closed. The sound rattles on through the whole of the truck, like they's about 5000 loose parts holed up in the frame, marbles and ball bearings what got unstuck from more important duties an' have just settled in to make rustbucket noise. Slaps the side of the door, then walks around the front, squeezing past the big old shiny SUV parked in front of him. Swings hisself on up and into the driver's side in an easy motion and starts the truck up. Something grinds somewhere in the engine, and the sounds seems like it amuses him. He flashes her another grin - this one near hang-dog - before it settles back off her face. "Morgan said he done fixed that rattle." The cab's large, the bench seat near torn-up, the struts shot, the springs old and either too springy or not enough. There's a distinct underscent of whiskey, even if there ain't no evidence he's been drinking. Something's rattling around in the well at her feet, and some papers is sticking out from the sunvisor, tucked above it. Country music is quiet on the radio as he looks away from her. Puts the truck into gear, swings his arm across the back of the seat and strains to look behind him as he pulls out.

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 07:51PM CST
She tries not to suirm as he lifts her easy as he pleased up to a level to slide into the passenger seat. She's not tiny, but it was high. It rather amused her, though she might have meneged if not so attired. She did ride horses afterall. "Thank you Billy." Doing a lot of that tonight, for assistance rendered, for compliments given and just being a subtly uplifting mood usually. Then, while he came around to climb in, she closed her phone, slid away again but this time voicemail on and calls forwarding so she wouldn't be interrupted again. Her hat pulled off her head and settled on her lap and gloves lightly tugged free of her hands. Shge didn't much enjoy those in the summertime, and it was only for the appearance of things she'd worn them to her lesson. Those were shoved rather haphazardly into her handbag as she settled herself as comfortably as she could.

"I don't believe I've met Morgan..." And she wondered how mnay more McCann clan might appear in Chicago as truck rattled and groaned and made all manner of noises she's never associated with a vehucle before. It was a bit intimidating. She watched him drive while he watched around them to do such, a level of trust in him that he won't wreck, or his truck won't fall apart somewhere inconvenient.

Billy McCann

Thu 07:58PM CST
"I said it before an' I'm'on'a say it agin, you don't need to thank me, Miss Arabella. Ain't necessary." Reaches up, adjusting the rear view mirror until the sun ain't blaring right into his eyes, then shifts back into first gear and swings the big old truck out into traffic. The vehicle handles easier than Arabella might think, given its ponderous size,. They ain't no power steering, though, so Billy has to work at swinging the wheel hard around and into the tight spots. "Morgan's the second-youngest. Cody's the youngest. Tommy - you met him - he's the middle boy, an' Ryan's the oldest." Once they're out in steady traffic, he drapes his arm across the seat again, so his hand is settin' near her shoulder, the nape of her neck, or thereabouts. The tips of his rough fingers tangled in a few free strands of her hair. "You said what Cody done reminded you of somethin'?"

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 08:07PM CST
"Its polite, Billy... and habit." She smiles almost sheepishly, the fact she might be one of the most well taught in etiquette of her generation not entirely impossible. her eyes drifted from traffic, indeed amazed at how the vehicle handled, and him driving. She knew how to drive, even did it on occasion, but her mother had felt safer that she have someone driving her around in crazy American traffic.

She nodded some, soft curls drifting around her fce and shoulders freely. She didn't shrug away from his hand, if anything, it combined with the topic made her glad of it. She was remarkably fragile in a few ways inside, and this period after the Raptor's was making her so. "Something, yes. Its very... fuzzy... I can't really remember now who or what, but it was similar... I got so angry that night, some at his inconsoderate prank, but more because it made itself plain then that I was beginning to forget..." Her voice had fallen to a soft tone,a quiet whisper of sweet tones and personal thoughts.

Billy McCann

Thu 08:22PM CST
The car sweeps around a traffic circle, and where they had been driving away from the slant of the setting sun, now they're heading toward it. Billy don't bother flipping down his sun visor, he just squints even more like always, like he was made to squint. The sunglare is harsh only when the shadows of the buildings aren't sprawling across the road, getting in their way. But the sun's slipping down rapidly, and Billy shifts up and shifts up, accelerating through traffic. There's still some raw uncertain sound somewhere in the frame - struts, maybe - and the ride ain't easy, but they're getting through traffic at a pretty good clip. He doesn't answer her normal like. He don't respond as soon as she does, and her explanation falls into a silence that don't seem uneasy, if only because Billy's pretty near silent an awful lot of the time. The radio croons - he shoots her a look and shakes his fingers free of her hair to reach to turn it up - "That's Patsy Cline." - offering an explanation in case she don't know, because likely she don't. Fingers drift through her freeflowing curls, but he doesn't quite touch her, not completely. His hand is just a presence. At last, when they're pulling off Lakeside Drive onto some little spitting peninsula of a park that faces west out over the lake, he looks up and over at her. "You don't have to 'pologize fer gittin' angry over that. Seems t'me like it's about yer right t'get angry. Happens t'everone." Reaching out to brush a thumb across her cheek. "You let yourself get angry about that. Maybe it'll slow it down some, maybe it won't. Don't do not to feel what you're feelin', though." He looks at her serious another moment, then puts the truck in park and sets the brake. Looks away from her, out through the windshield. "Got here near about in time fer sunset."

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 08:33PM CST
She winced some at particular sounds, seriously wondering how long the truck might hold up as she rode inside of it. She liked stability in some things, like automobiles. Their lives were riding on flimsy shocks and who knew how many other troubles, afterall.

"I didn't know that." Country is not her forte. Her hands fold around the hat she'd worn until she was in the truck, looking ove rat him or down more as sunlight kept trying to blind her. If she wondered why he was silent, it didn't show. He was silent a lot, and she didn't feel the need to fill it with more words. There were time when more said only took away from what came before.

"It was just a bad night all around. One among many lately..." The slight smile as she glanced at him, the almost comfort, somehow touching brush of his thumb sothing in a way. She had few to talk to anymore.

"I'm sure they're lovely over the lake." Letting the new subject intrude on what was a somber moment, well longer then moments.

Billy McCann

Thu 08:45PM CST
The last strains of Crazy drift through the cab. When the song's over, Billy reaches across his body and shuts off the radio. Nothing that comes after can compare. Arabella lets the subjects drift like ice floes in the north atlantic or clouds in the sky - one to another. Billy falls silent again, just nods maybe, a sound of appreciation in the back of his throat, fingers warm near the nape her neck, almost brushing her skin through the clouds of curls. He gets up at last, though - pausing to grab something from beneath the seat, maybe one of the things that had been rolling around beneath her feet - then tramps around to the other side of the truck. Opens her door and lifts her out with the same care he give her before, hands spread out around her waist, thumbs to the front, fingers splayed across the small of her back. Sure, she could just jump down, but then he couldn't pick her up, could he now? He sets her down and sets her free and starts walking at her side, up the path to the edge of the lake and a lookout with old coin operated binoculars splashed ochre and crimson by the violent eruption of the setting sun across the sky. Walks in silence a bit, before shooting her another near unreadable look. Pale eyes squinting, but not against the sun, now. "Ain't no one else there fer you? Yer folks 'r nothin'?"

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 08:54PM CST
It was a pleasant sort of soothing. There were no messy entanglements, no demands, no ties, no troubles... and she sat in the silence, comfortable, feeling him near and not bothered. She wasn't embarrassed, blushing, or tense, simply watching the day wend into night and thinking. It was good for the soul perhaps.

Billy's movement disturbs that radiant peace but not in a bad way. Curiosuity for what he grabbed and then he was out and moving. She let him lift her down, the trace bit shy finally with it and stretching a little once on the ground again. They walked in the silence again until he spoke and she let it hang there, unanswered, begging for one, or needing one as she thought. Face turned towards the setting sun, hands bare of gloves and free of hat and purse for the moment. She was picking her way carefully in heels.

"My mother is in germany, and the brothers I have left are away to various places in business." She didn't elaborate what kinds, but all were kin or Garou, and all had their own places. "I'm the youngest of six, and Aurich was the oldest. We always had a special relationship, a certain closeness I didn't share with my other brothers. Now that he's gone his mate and two guests we've had for some months now are with me..." But Genenvieve was cold comfort, if she deigned to acknowledge a need for grief outwardly and Josephina and Jocelyn were busy with their pack concerns much of the time. "Everyone has their own lives..."

Billy McCann

Thu 09:09PM CST
Like near about always, Billy walks beside her and while he ain't touching her, he near about is. His hand hovers just at the small of her back, a constant presence, but don't never breach the little bit of distance. Giving her space and not presuming (all that much), but never letting her forget his presence, neither. They come on up to that little spit of land jutting out into the lake. The highway noises recede, but they's still a dull roar. The city's lights splash and smear across the dark waters, which ripple and twist like loosened, heedless silk in the everpresent Chicago wind. The wind catches her hair, sweeps it back behind her like a flag. His left hand gets all tangled up in the longest strands but he shakes them free, letting the wind have them. It's hardly an idyllic scene, the chemical plants and docks lining the lakeshore near as far as can be seen, except for tracts of land like this one, devoted to greenspaces. But the sun is spilling fire from the west, and the dark, befouled waters are reflecting it back to the sky, and if you half close your eyes, you can pretend that the worst of the blight don't exist. And if you pretend that, you kin pretend that the war is winnable, and this is just a pleasant idyll. You can pretend an awful lot, if you've a need. Maybe Billy thinks Arabella Eberstark von Doenhoff has a need.

"Yer always talkin' about lessons. You thinkin' what you wanna do with 'em? Or is that a family matter?" Pale eyes slice away from the sun to her face, her eyes, which reflect the dying sun's rays. The green's lost beneath the reflected flare, and her fine skin is painted sunset colors. His hand drops from behind her as they come to the edge of the little peninsula. He reaches out in front of him, grabbing the flaking railing meant to keep people from falling off into the dark waters. Flexes his right hand, bruised knuckles popping audibly, then his left. Then reaches into his right pocket with three fingers, fishing out a quarter. Circles back around her and puts the quarter into the old binoculars, bends forward to look through, then steps back so's she kin have a turn.

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 09:17PM CST
When her mind finally forgot and her heart settled to an unknown ache that was vaguely painful at times, she might resume that light hearted smile and easy carefree mischieviousness that had endeared her to many over the years. Nothing had ever dimmer her until this loss and its subsequent problems around it. She might try to pretend, looking out on industry and devestation, and somply relaxing into the here and now, but it never works. Nor should it, probably, though the thought always counts.

"I don't really know. Its not something I think anyone's cared to consider. I'm sure sometime after school is complete marriage will be expected and settling into some household like my mother did, having and raising children, tending to things while they're away." It almost sounds pathetic as a future, so plain, so flat, for her. She doesn't seem to mind, but likewise, doesn't seem excited. Moving closer to the binoculars, she bent to peer through them, to gaze on some piece of the view which wasn't chemicals and human depredation. The sunset was lovely at least. She was moving to stand straight again, when she continued. "I'm not really good at anything, rather kinda average at a lot of things. I like the piano and I know I'm decent at that, but... its nothng more then a hobby I suppose."

Billy McCann

Thu 09:24PM CST
"'n what if you could do anything?" Rough hand settled on the binoculars, the broad flat section between the two sharp points holding the optics. One foot hitched up on the heavy forged base, leaning forward and near over her was she looks out at the great beyond. The timer ticks away - just clockwork, some collection of gears an' all - its strange loud little song. She steps away and finds him studying her again. "Be good at anything, pick anything you wanted to do. Anything in the whole dang world you could be or do. Any idea what you'd pick?"

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 09:33PM CST
She stands by the binoculars, space left for him to look again if he so chose. She watched him, around them, hand toiling to contorl some of the hair whih blew across her face, obscured her eyes at times. It rippled over the silk dress she was wearing, making a soft sweet whisper of a sound. Silk itself could sound so enigmatic, so seductive without any real effort. She pout forth none, in fact seemed oblivious.

"If I could do anything... thats hard. The only thing I ever wanted to do was help my brother... and thats done now. I never thought beyond that... I never really imagined this time afterwards and what my future might be. It always seemed so... distant." She sighed some, figuring it sounded lame and tired. She'd never pondered her future for worrying about others... Aurich and the Raptors, her family, even Tucker... but not herself.

Billy McCann

Thu 09:52PM CST
"You'll figger it out. Find somethin' t'do that's worth doin'. It'd be a waste if'n y'spent it just waitin' fer someone else. Y'ain't just some pretty girl, yer a whole person. Them lessons gon' be good fer somethin', someday. I aim t'help you figger that all out, if'n y'don't mind it, none." It's a long speech for Billy, but doesn't have any particular urgency. His sentences amble around on their own. Take their time gettin' around to the point sometimes. He ain't hurried. He falls silent after he finishes, then leans forward, in close. Maybe she thinks he's gonna take another look through the binoculars, which are so old that they make the world wavy and wobbly more than anything else. Don't bring much you wanna see closer, but at least the details are still sort of erased. Just a dark-edged shoreline, the flash of distant lights. Don't think about that, though. Braced against the binoculars, he leans forward and reaches to catch the the flying strands of her hair. Patient, he catches them, smoothes them away from her forward and holds them behind her face. He leans in like he's gonna kiss her.

But he don't kiss her.

Just stands there with his mouth a few inches away from hers, and her dress swimming across her body like water or a flag, the supple sounds of the silk, the strange exotic mixture of her perfume, which is something he ain't really never smelled before her, and something he can't name. His pale eyes are intense, the last of the sunlight reflecting across them makes them some other color, but the regard is the same as always. Maybe harder, sharper. More taut somehow. "I'm gonna kiss you someday." There's alcohol on his breath. She can smell it. There about always is. But he don't sway, and it ain't on the clothes or in his hair, just the hint of it on his breath. "But I'm savin' up fer it."

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 09:59PM CST
She thought about it, about how she told Tuckr once she was the future where there were white picket fences and supportive spouses, domesticity and comfort. It fit her and yet she wasn't sure she wanted just that, anymore. She was questioning everything now, in her confusion, in her life. "I'd like that, I think." The light catch of a smile at the corners, wher elips look to create it, but it never becomes fully realized. It stays half formed and chamring, in her odd sort of way, as he leans in, as he gathers up hair almost as silky as her dress and she watches his eyes for some indication of his intent.

She didn't need to since he was telling her just a few breaths later but green eyes glitter as they catch on his more, watchful, wondering. "Are kisses like bank accounts, to save for?" It would have been coy from most anyone else but she whispers it like a genuine question, as if she truly wanted to know, or understand him.

Billy McCann

Thu 10:16PM CST
"Th'best ones is. An' they's a difference between them and th' rest of them." He grins a moment, and it don't disappear so much as it seeps away. His serious face seems softer for it, though. Or maybe that's just the twilight shaving the hard edges from his features. His left hand stills behind her and shakes free of the strands of her hair. Instead, he wraps calloused fingers around the back of her neck, the base of her skull. Lifts her head the better to see that half-formed smile that tugs the corners of her mouth, and then lifts his right hand off the time-ticking binoculars to brush a calloused thumb across the corners of her mouth. His eyes drift down from her eyes to the shape of her mouth beneath his hand, go near unfocused with remembering. He straightens, and the edge of his grin returns.

"How many loved your moments of glad grace?
And loved your beauty with love false or true?
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face."

Finishes his reciting and tips his head forward, like he didn't mean it at all and he had to go through with it. Entranced by her, or the moment, or maybe by the old eloquence of those recited words. But he just sweeps close, releasing her easily from his grasp while settling his arm around her shoulders. Turning to walk back to the truck. She can feel the solid shape of his arm over her shoulders. The lean strength inherent in the way his body moves over and around hers, the animal confidence of it all. Her hair is caught half by his arm, and half by the wind, and blows about the two of them like its near possessed. He shakes free of it. "Figure its near time fer you t'get home. Wouldn't want no one there t'worry."

Arabella Eberstark

Thu 10:23PM CST
"Well, someday, perhaps I will see." She can't help but smile a touch more, curiousity in this thing. There was a kind of intimacy, almost entrancing in the way he touched her, studied her features like they were an object of art, or intrigue. It made her feel warm inside, that fact she's encountered few who actually looked at her this way, a surprise few could imagine. She stays still, half smiling, under his touch and gaze until he began to recite his verse... and it bloomed more full force. "You do know exactly what to say sometimes, Billy... you've a perfect knacl for it."

Settling into his arm to walk with him, the night made more perfect by the lack of things. She didn't know if she wanted to explore other levls of this... thing... they had, which she'd viewed as friendship until very recently. Walking with him felt eeriely like walking with Jaan, or Rasputin, or Aurich... "Its probably best, if anyone's home, they might wonder. If is the keyword there of course." Feeling a bit lighter and more relaxed now.