please.

[Lee] She's back. Not so very long ago, she was here on the Mile, in a jazz club, trying to enjoy a simple evening. Relax. Enjoy herself. Pretend to be something like normal.

And, as usual, everything went to shit. Ever since Lee moved to Chicago, it's been one thing after another. Spirals. Formori. Motherfucking zombies. It's amazing, really, that she managed to go nearly twenty-four years of her life with little more excitement than sleeping with the wrong person or getting into a bar fight of some kind.

And now here she is, coming out of a store on the Mile in brand new clothes. The weather is getting cooler as the seasons swing toward her favorites. Lee was made for colder weather. Her pale skin and copper colored hair look better set off against dark colors. And she always did prefer long sleeves and jeans over shorts and t-shirts.

She steps out of Neiman Marcus in a new pair of dark washed bootcut jeans, a black v-necked sweater an ivory paisley pattern, and a pair of black suede clogs with a two inch heel. She likely could've gotten everything at Target for much, much less, but the fashion photographer doesn't care.

[Alexander] And who should be on the curb but Alexander.

Or, not on the curb, exactly. He's on his motorcycle, the engine off, the kickstand down. His helmet is on the fuel tank. His feet are flat on the ground. He's slouched a little, relaxed, and he's picking blood from under his nails with the point of a swiss army knife.

Alex has not gotten changed. Or showered. He wiped his face perfunctorily, so the blotch of blood where his face had destroyed another man's face is reduced to a reddish flaking crust at the hairline. And he's got his motorcycle jacket on, so the scratched red elbow is hidden.

The blood on his heel is still there, though. It's barely visible against the heavy black heel of his biker boots.

He looks up as Lee steps out. He doesn't look surprised to see her, which means he must've seen her go in and decided to wait for her. Alexander isn't smiling; isn't snarking, for once.

"Aren't there better times to go clothes-shopping?" He folds his pocketknife away, dusts his hands on his pants, and then swivels around. She can't see where he took a couple hits to the stomach, but the careful way he turns proves he didn't escape unscathed. It's healing, though. He's not human, either.

Alex grabs the spare helmet off the back of his bike and holds it out to her without bothering to ask if she needed a ride.

[Lee] Neiman Marcus is an upscale, ritzy establishment. Trophy wives and heiresses and run-of-the-mill rich bitches shop there when they're bored. When they want to exchange last season's fashion for this one's when their old clothes have only been worn maybe once. Tops.

Lee has the income to warrant shopping in places like Neiman Marcus. However, when she walked in her clothes had strange stains on them, where blood had splattered when Alex cut a man in front of her. Her hair was a mess, tangled and finger-combed into some semblance of order. And there's a bruise, large and ugly and purpley-blue, blossoming along the line of her jaw. Her appearance gained her many strange looks, an upturned nose, a sneer or two that she ignored. The only reason she went in tonight is that she wanted to maybe go out and get smashed, she didn't want to do it in bloody clothes, and it was the first place she saw when the cab dropped her off.

When she comes out she doesn't see Alex at first. There's a bag in her hand. It contains the clothes she was wearing when she walked in to the store, and it gets shoved into a nearby trash bin.

Aren't there better times to go clothes-shopping?

Lee turns and sees him then. She stares at him for a handful of seconds, reddish brows slightly furrowed as if she can't quite fathom what it is she's looking at. Alex, a man she hates for a reason she can barely remember right now. Someone she's never really liked, even from back before she started hating him. Sitting there, holding out a bike helmet to her.

“I had red on me,” she answers simply. Then she eyes him suspiciously. “What're you doing here?”

[Alexander] "Waiting for you," he replies, which is an answer, but hardly the whole story. It doesn't explain why he's still here. It doesn't explain why he was on the Mile in the first place. Knowing Alexander, though, there's nothing particularly deep or secret about any of those answers.

"Get on," he adds, and holds the helmet out a little more.

[Lee] She's in no frame of mind to refuse. Or ask any more questions, though that air of suspicion is hardly dissipated. It hangs around the Fiann like a shawl upon her shoulders, a blanket that protects her from getting too close, but also keeps others from getting too close to her.

Lee accepts the helmet. She takes a moment to twist up her long hair before sliding the helmet over it, to keep it from getting tangled in the wind. She gets on as commanded, and she doesn't ask where they're headed. He could be taking her to The Brotherhood, or her studio, or some back alley somewhere out of sight and she couldn't care less.

[Alexander] Lee climbs on. The bike is a Buell sportbike, hightailed, fat tires that stick to the asphalt, stiff shocks that barely compress under the redhead's weight. It's bright red; redder than her hair; red as blood.

Alexander smells like blood, faintly. He zips his motorcycle jacket up and claps his helmet on, clipping the strap shut, tightening everything down. He imagines she knows how to be a passenger on a motorcycle. When she slides her arms around his waist, he feels rather the way he did the first night: hard, compact, humming with a sort of vicious energy that was almost electric. Alex sucks in a breath and then adjusts her grip, avoiding the contusion where the goddamn bartender had struck him.

Before he broke his fucking face.

The Glass Walker kin starts the motorcycle, revving a few times -- short, choppy bursts of raw horsepower -- before ripping away from the curb. Acceleration on a motorcycle is a wholly different beast from that of a car. It's sharp, sudden, brutal, the sort of torque that hits low in the spine. As one might expect, Alexander is fast and reckless, swerving around cars and between lanes, gunning through yellow lights as they turn red.

He doesn't take her to a back alley. Or a motel. Or the Brotherhood.

He actually takes her home, to her studio. And brakes sharply, leaving the bike in neutral, the engine running. The helmet turns; she can see a slice of his face -- brow to cheekbone, cut of nose. His voice is a muffled in the helmet, the visor down.

"Home sweet home."

[Lee] Lee actually does have some experience riding on the back of a motorcycle. Alex adjusts her grip around his waist, and she allows herself to be moved without protest. Her feet find the passenger foot pedals, and she keeps her heels slightly out to avoid burning them on hot metal. Just before he blasts off from the curb she leans in, and he can feel the press of her body against his back. It helps, at least a little, to keep her grip from spasming around his midsection in surprise or fright at the sudden burst of speed. He drives much the way she would have expected him to. Fast and hard, showy and loud.

He's reckless, and Lee...Lee just holds on, closes her eyes, and leans her helmeted head against his shoulder, careful to keep from obstructing his ability to move his head. It helps to keep her loose, keep her from bracing herself or shifting her weight when she sees he's about to run a yellow light or make a sharp turn.

So she doesn't realize they're headed for her place until he stops, and she looks up at a familiar red and beige brick building. It surprises her, really, that he remembers it. The first and only time he was ever here was months ago, when she invited him over on a whim and wound up hurling her laptop at him. They've seen each other a handful of times, and most of those meetings have been less than pleasant. The fact that he remembers where she lives might, if she were another woman, make her think that she was in some way special, that she stood out from the crowd. Maybe she does.

But Lee is not that naïve, and in any case she wouldn't care if he thought of her as special or not. She dismounts from the bike and removes the helmet, letting long red hair fall about her shoulders. She should probably be chilled. All she has on to protect her from the elements is a sweater, after all, but Alex's stocky body blocked most of the wind.

“Thanks,” she says as she hands the helmet back. Then, “You wanna come up?” There's no specification as to what he would be coming up for. Coffee, booze, video games, sex. For all he knows, she could be inviting him in so she can hurl another laptop at him.

[Alexander] Alex lets go the handlebars and sits back as Lee dismounts. His weight rests low in his back, easily, like was born to ride a bike just like this. He doesn't take the helmet off, though he does push the visor up after a moment, his gloved hand soundless on the hard curving plastic.

It's not really an answer he gives Lee. He looks at her, then at the building behind her; then her again.

"Word's gong around you're pretty serious with some Irish wolf or something. That true?"

[Lee] Lee doesn't know the rumors circulating about her. She doesn't know how many people know about Curata, what anything thinks about her sleeping in Hatchet's room, or that she was spotted some weeks ago going into a club bathroom with a stranger and coming out slightly disheveled.

She knows now, though, that word is getting around that she spends an awful lot of time in the company of some Irish wolf or something. Her answer is a shrug of her shoulder. “I guess.”

[Alexander] (going. jesus. not gong. rumormills ain't THAT loud.)

It's hard to read Alexander's face, not because he isn't transparent as glass but because he has a goddamn motorcycle helmet on and it hides most of his face. It's hard to read his tone, not because he isn't transparent as air but because he has a goddamn motorcycle helmet on and it muffles his voice.

He looks at her a little longer. Then he smirks. Or maybe it's a grimace. It's hard to tell; all she can see of his face, really, are his eyes and nose.

"Then it's probably not a good idea for me to go on up."

[Lee] [The eyes are the window to the soooooul!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Lee] Lee tilts her head as she looks at him, studying what she can see of his face. The helmet masks everything but his eyes, but that's enough. Enough for her to tell that he's smirking at her, and that if they go up to her place there's only one logical conclusion to be made. He may even be right.

There's a flash of anger in her dark eyes, not at being denied the...pleasure...of Alex's company tonight. She had no particular agenda when she asked if he wanted to come up, much like she'd had no particular agenda the last time she invited him over. The thought of fucking Alexander Vaughn again does not make her giddy or weak in the knees. She doesn't even want to be friends with him, exactly. It doesn't matter that it's Alex who can't come over to play.

It's the fact that sleeping with a trueborn determines who is or isn't allowed to come up into her home. Her space. Her life.

She quirks a brow. “Aw, but I thought thumbing your nose at Garou was your favorite past time?”

[Alexander] Alexander looks at Lee for a silent moment.

Then, with a swiftness that echoes his earlier, vicious quickness of motion, he buckles the helmet, tugs it up off his head. His hair is still cropped short as it was when he first came to chicago. The helmet pushes it out of shape, but only a little -- disarraying the directionality at the temples, the back of the head. He scuffs it with his hand distractedly, his eyes dark and rather intent on the kinswoman.

"Let me ask you something, Lee," he says. "And I'm not asking to be an asshole, so I want you to think about this seriously before you answer.

"Why are you such a bitch? I mean. I know why I'm an ass; I like to watch people twist on the hook. But I don't get that vibe from you. So. Why?"

[Lee] Alex asks her why she's not just a bitch, but such a bitch. As if Lee doesn't ask herself the question nearly every single day. Why is she the way she is? What is it that drives her actions, her thoughts, now that she's trying not to pretend anymore?

The answer is simple and disheartening.

He's not asking to be an asshole, and it's the only reason he doesn't get a bitchy reply.

Lee simply tips her head back slightly, and regards the Glass Walker thoughtfully.“You bring it out of me.”

[Alexander] Alexander gives a short, soundless huff of a laugh. It's disbelieving, scoffing. Then it passes. He looks at her for a moment. Longer. The reflexive, mocking curl to his mouth smooths. Then he frowns.

"Is that why you're with your Irish wolf? Because he brings it out of you?"

[Lee] A shadow passes over her pale face, a slight morphing and changing of expression that is gone almost as soon as it registers as a change at all.

“First off, he's Scottish. Secondly, no.”

Still holding the borrowed helmet, she presses it into his chest and lets go so that he's forced to grab it or let it drop to the pavement.

“Thanks for the lift.” She takes a step back, heels clacking on the concrete as she turns to go inside her building. Lee only gets a step or two away before she stops and turns. “And for the record? Me inviting you up doesn't automatically mean I'm inviting you to come up and fuck me.”

[Alexander] (oh look, the asshole has some empathy after all!)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Alexander] Alexander, in fact, does not take the helmet. He grabs Lee by the wrist instead. If she lets go of the helmet, it indeed drops to the pavement, bouncing two or three times, stiffly as a cue ball, before rattling to a stop.

"Hold on a second," he interrupts; this is around when she's telling him thanks for the ride. "Why are you angry?"

[Lee] Lee turns to go, but finds herself held in place by a firm hand on her arm. The helmet drops as her free arm drops to her side, but Lee doesn't struggle to free herself. She just stares at him, all disbelief and suspicion.

“Why do you want to know? So you can run around telling people how butt hurt I am?”

[Alexander] It's another one of those scoffing laughs. "Don't flatter yourself. If I wanted to spread nasty rumors, I've got enough fodder to last me til next summer, and I'm betting your little secrets aren't half so interesting. Besides, contrary to popular expectation, Liadan, once in a while I actually don't have a goddamn ulterior motive in mind."

A beat. Then he tugs her abruptly closer, looks her right in the eye. Even standing straight, Alex is an inch shorter than the tall woman. Slouched on his bike, he has to look up at her. Beneath dark eyebrows and in this light, his eyes look black and hard as flint, the streetlights a spark on the cutting edge.

"Why are you angry?" he asks again.

[Lee] When Lee finds herself being tugged closer to the man on the bike, she lets out a wordless sound of surprise, neither a shout nor a cry but a quiet, “Ah.” This time she tries to resist, tries to pull herself back, keep the distance between them. She doesn't even argue the mispronunciation of her full name.

He looks her in the eye, or tries to. Lee's dark eyes fix on some higher floor of the building across the street and she raises her chin. At this angle he can clearly see the dark stain of a bruise along her jaw. She swallows once, and looks down into his face. Barefoot, the difference between their heights is negligible. But slouching as he is and in heels as she is, Lee towers over Alex. And yet there is nothing about the redhead that's particularly intimidating, or would be intimidating to someone like Alexander.

“That's none of your business."

[Alexander] Alexander is not an animal.

He is an unkind man, a selfish man, a bully, and very likely a bad man, but he is not an animal. Not the way Liadan's Irish (Scottish) wolf is an animal; not the way Liadan's friend and sometime lover Hatchet is an animal. Not the way Sinclair is an animal. Not the way Marrick is an animal.

But in the tilt of his head, the penetrating and unabashed directness of his stare, there's some echo of that. Some reminder of something wilder and older than humanity's cities and skyscrapers, humanity's civilities and civilizations.

Moments pass.

"Last chance to tell someone who won't give enough of a damn to spread a rumor, Liadan." He can't remember, actually, having called her anything but Babydoll or -- occasionally -- that bitch, crazy bitch, other choice phrases. It comes easily to him tonight, mispronounced or not. "Last chance to tell someone who won't smother your trying to fix it."

[Lee] Lee is tired, wiped out, exhausted from fighting. Her legs are not quite shaky yet from the fight, compounded the unaccustomed weight shift caused by wearing heels. She doesn't have the strength, either physical or mental, to really try to twist out of his grip and away from that stare.

He tells her he has no ulterior motive, that he's someone she can tell without fear of rumors or being smothered. A part of her wants to confide in someone. It was that part of her which spoke out when he was in her studio, when he set her in a chair and picked up a few of the broken pieces of her laptop. But Lee does not trust so easily, especially not this man, who threw her words back at her when he saw her later.

If things had gone differently between them...well, there's no point contemplating what ifs and what might have beens.

“Please let go of me.” He doesn't know her well enough to know how often she uses that word. Please. She asks him to release her in a voice gone quiet and low, her eyes downcast. As if she's asking for some great boon for which she is wholly undeserving.

[Alexander] This time it's not even a scoff, but merely a breath out. Without another word, Alexander lets Lee's hand go.

She may as well cease to exist at that point. He doesn't even look at her again as he leans down to pick up the dropped helmet, hooking it onto the back of his bike before pulling his own on over his head. The Buell's engine is still going, a steady low rumble.

[Lee] She is released, and when her brief moment of surprise has passed at finding her request granted, Lee steps back away from the curb. She doesn't thank him for the ride again, doesn't say anything at all as she turns on her heel and heads toward the main entrance of her building. Her heels clacking on the pavement as she does not quite flee the scene.