walking back.

[Alexander] It's past midnight in Chicago. It's fucking freezing. Neither of these are good reasons for Alexander being in Cabrini-Green, but that's where he is. The Buell at the curb is unmistakable: a singular point of gleaming red amidst a world of broken asphalt, run down brick.

Also, grunts, shouts, smacks of fists on flesh in a alleyway. Extracurricular activities.

[Liadan] It's past midnight, but for some it's not so cold. For those born to cold temperatures, and who were tempered in the forge of the Midwest's frigid winter, nineteen degrees Fahrenheit is nothing to be afraid of.

It's after midnight, and the only reason Líadan is in Cabrini right now is that she's just left a bar and drinks with one of the editors of FASHION, in town for just the night. The man was smart and well dressed, and knew all the right things to get a girl to want to spend the night in his hotel room.

Still, Lee is not anywhere near a hotel tonight. She swayed out of the bar and said her farewells. As soon as his cab disappeared around a corner, Lee headed north, her steps sober and sure. It's foolish for a woman to walk the streets of Chicago alone at night. Either Lee is an idiot, or she's bold, or she just doesn't care if something surges out of the alley to attack.

She hears a scuffle, the sound of a fist repeatedly smacking into someone else's flesh, and she ducks her head. Continues on.

[Alexander] Just Lee's luck, then, that that's right when Alex grabs his 'friend' by the hair and bashes his face into the brick wall. Twice. Thrice. Hard.

When he lets go, the man slumps to the floor. His foot twitches. There's blood on the brick. Fuck's sake, the guy might be in a coma. At the very least, badly concussed. Whatever; Alexander spits blood out of his mouth, picks up his motorcycle jacket, and walks out of the alleyway

right into Liadan's path.

He's a mess: a cut over his eyebrow, a rapidly expanding bruise on his face. The beginnings of a black eye, and cuts on his knuckles. Tooth-cuts. From punching someone in the mouth. Over and over.

He starts when he sees her. Then he smirks. "Well, well." A sniff. "Babydoll. What the fuck are you doing down this way?"

[Liadan] A figure looms out of the alleyway, directly into her path, and Lee stops short. She doesn't gasp or cry out. Without conscious thought, he takes a step back, settles her weight so she faces the stranger at an angle, tensed, ready. Only it's not a stranger.

It's not the first time she's seen Alexandor Vaughn bloodied from a fight. She eases, but doesn't completely relax. Just because it's him doesn't mean she's safe.

"Business," she answers simply and, for once, without aggression.

[Alexander] "Huh." And he sniffs again: it's not mucus, it's fucking blood trying it drip out of his nose. He can taste it, saltywarm at the back of his throat. No matter. He won. That's what matters, right?

Alexander shrugs into his motorcycle jacket. He's not tall; we all know that. In flats, Liadan is taller. In heels, she'd tower. But then again, Liadan's a tall woman. Alexander, though: he's fucking ripped. Tight, packed musculature, as stocky and compacted and powerful as some small, vicious predator. A badger, a wolverine, a bobcat. A pit bull. Or just what he is. Alexander fucking Vaughn, zipping his jacket up to his throat, velcroing the snap shut.

"Do you actually own a car? Why the fuck am I always offering you rides?"

[Liadan] "Because clearly you've been kicked in the head too many times," she answers with a wry lift of a reddish eyebrow. Lee is tall, taller than most women and men, both. In her Chucks, however, the difference between Alexander and her is negligible. If she slouches, even just a little, he's taller. She doesn't slouch, however. She stands tall and solid, shoulders straight but not back, not defiant or proud.

"I'll say, 'No,' again. Who rides a motorcycle in the winter in Chicago?"

He's bleeding, tries to sniff it up into his sinuses but it's dripping just a little too freely. Her dark eyes narrow behind dark-rimmed glasses, and then she's unwinding the dark colored scarf from around her neck and holding it out to him. In the dim light of a nearby streetlamp it looks green. "For your face."

[Alexander] Alexander seems about to decline the offer. Then he changes his mind, snaps the scarf over from Liadan, and -- before she can stop him -- brings it to his nose. Blows it. Snot and blood clog the wool. He wads it up and, if she'll take it, hands it back.

Smirks, shit-eating. "Thanks, babydoll." And, shrugging, "I haven't crashed yet."

[Liadan] Lee doesn't even hesitate. She takes the now ruined scarf back, wads it, and shoves it into her pocket. Who knows, maybe the snot and blood and gunk can be washed out. She's had worse on her clothes than the blood of Alexander Vaughn. Hell, she may have had his blood on her before.

"That inspires confidence." Sarcasm.

[Alexander] He snorts -- it's something like a laugh. "You didn't answer me. Do you own a car or not?"

[Liadan] "No," she finally answers. "But I have legs, and if I really needed a ride, I'd call a cab."

[Alexander] Another snort of a laugh. It's quiet now in Cabrini Green. People don't fucking come out after night here. Too dangerous. Too much crime. Too many crazy fuckers like Alexander Vaughn who come here looking to sharpen their skills on something a little livelier than a sparring partner. Too much bad shit.

Alexander, though. He's not afraid. Maybe he thinks he's invincible, something like those half-wolf cousins of his. Brothers of his. Maybe he's right; he's still alive, and he's pissed off werewolves and fomori alike. Stabbed a crazy wyrm-dog to death in the streets with kitchen knives. Or maybe he's just careless. Uncaring.

He's pulling his motorcycle gloves on, now.

"Now," he says, "here's what I don't get. On one hand, you're apparent so fucking devoid of self-respect that you'll open your legs for any guy that shows interest. On the other, you're hellbent on doing your own thing even when it means walking home from Cabrini Green." Beat. "At 12:30am. In fucking 20 degree weather.

"Explain that to me, will you? How does that make any sense?"

[Liadan] Lee shifts her weight from one foot to the other. There's no venom in her tonight, no furious accusations, no fire and wrath spat in Alexander's face. Maybe it seems odd. Then again, he was the one who said she picked her personality of the day by throwing darts at a board.

She sucks in a deep breath through her nose. The cold air tickles the hairs inside, makes her feel like she's going to sneeze, but she doesn't. Then she breathes out a sigh, the cold winter air between them clouding briefly.

"Does it need to?"

[Alexander] "I'm a fucking Glass Walker," Alex replies with a smirk. "We're Weaverbound, or whatever the fuck. Of course it needs to make sense."

[Liadan] Lee tilts her head up and back, her eyes falling not to his face but to somewhere around the middle of his chest, studying the zipper of his jacket. She sucks in her bottom lip, considering, evidently not caring if the expression of her thoughtfulness makes her lips chap that much faster on her proposed walk.

When she lifts her eyes to his face, they're dark behind her glasses, shaded beneath the brim of her hat. "Well, too bad. But, you're a smart guy, I'm sure you've already got it figured out. Now, if you'll excuse me." She steps to the side, moving around him.

[Alexander] "Liadan," he calls after her -- getting the name right, not because of any particular familiarity with Gaelic, no matter what his name, Alexander Madoc Vaughn, might suggest but merely out of rote. He's heard her introduce herself before. Liadan. Leeden. Líadan.

"You really wanna walk all the way back to wherever the fuck it is you're going?"

[Liadan] She stops, turns. Even at a distance, her face is too pale to be lost in the shadows of the night. She looks like a ghost, hair gleaming dull red in the lamplight, and yet she's bundled warm, in a mid-length coat and a hat, a bloody scarf dangling from her pocket.

"I'd rather walk than ride on a motorcycle in Chicago in twenty degree weather," she calls back.

[Alexander] "Coward!" he shouts back at her; halfhearted. She's leaving. He, turning toward his motorcycle -- which he was, indeed, going to ride in 20 degree weather, ice be damned -- is letting her go.