tell me about you/tripoli.

[Sinclair] They talked about this just a few days ago, this business of coming by more often. Not taking two weeks or more before they see each other. It was mutually agreed-upon that this would be a good idea. They should have lunch, or dinner, or hang out and watch movies. The week is on its downward slope, heading towards the weekend, and Warcry's moon is waning in the sky overhead.

Which means she feels like shit. Her skin is pale, her eyes a bit sunken -- she hides this with makeup by accentuating it, pretending it's all just eyeshadow and liquid liner -- and occasionally her throat gets painfully dry for no goddamn reason. Tomorrow she'll have a touch of vertigo. The day after, probably some nausea and aching joints. In general, she'll be fatigued, a bit more edgy, and strangely: more manipulative. Darker. Meaner.

To sum up, a waning gibbous moon is the last night that Sinclair would want to see Alexander. Rather: the last night she would want him to see her. Not like this. Not sickly and crabby, not harsh and unpleasant.

All the same, a waning gibbous moon it is when she gets online, sees him on her list, and pings him:

cheerleaderofwar: i was thinking about coming over
cheerleaderofwar: hurr. coming.
almightyololrus: lulz k. when?
cheerleaderofwar: like 10-15?
almightyololrus: can we make it like 30? im down at quizzes
almightyololrus: fukkin predictive txt
almightyololrus: quiznos
cheerleaderofwar: is there cake left?
almightyololrus: um like 1 slice lol
almightyololrus: more like 1/2
almightyololrus: I TRIED TO SAVE IT BUT IT WAS GOOD
almightyololrus: om nom
cheerleaderofwar: fuck your sandwich! i kan haz cake.
cheerleaderofwar: (philly chzsteak plz)(
almightyololrus: ill bring back some - lol k
almightyololrus: xtra cheez?
cheerleaderofwar: xtra MEAT
cheerleaderofwar: also a dr pepper
cheerleaderofwar: and a cookie.
almightyololrus: dr pepper ftw
almightyololrus: so you brining ur pet?
cheerleaderofwar: i'm bringing m--
almightyololrus: bringing wtf
cheerleaderofwar: wow
almightyololrus: lol
almightyololrus: what is it like a dog?
cheerleaderofwar: LOL
cheerleaderofwar: that was weird
cheerleaderofwar: no
cheerleaderofwar: i'll show you. is v v kewl
almightyololrus: you better not have gotten a chihuahua
almightyololrus: cuz chihuahuas arent dog
almightyololrus: s
cheerleaderofwar: my parents' neighbors had a chihuahua
almightyololrus: theyre overgrown rats
cheerleaderofwar: i don't know how i lived next door to that thing without changing, omfg
almightyololrus: lulz
cheerleaderofwar: go hooome
almightyololrus: im stuffing face
almightyololrus: :-D
cheerleaderofwar: stuff face on way. i want to see you
cheerleaderofwar: lol
almightyololrus: omnomnom
almightyololrus: lulz k
almightyololrus: head over ima head back
cheerleaderofwar: w00t! k
almightyololrus: :-D
cheerleaderofwar: see you soon.
almightyololrus: k
cheerleaderofwar: don't trip and smash my sammich.
almightyololrus: lol
cheerleaderofwar: kbai!
almightyololrus: bye!

As usual, they talk for longer than she thinks they will, tangential and mostly ridiculous. While they do, she lies on her side in bed, occasionally smiling dimly, occasionally actually laughing out loud like she claims to. She is already getting off the bed to get under it and find her shoes when she's telling him kbai, wiggling her feet into her sneakers. She doesn't bother with more than a light jacket when she heads out, checking in the front pocket for the metal... thing... that is apparently sleeping right now, snoozing away with a quiet, whirring

eeeee (inhale)

eeeee (exhale).

She smiles to herself, slings a backpack over her shoulder, and leaves Room 3 to go down to her car.

Sinclair waits outside for Alexander, sitting on the hood of the El Camino, wearing skinny jeans, blue Nikes, and her denim jacket over a ribbed red tank top. Her hair is up in a clip, off her neck to reveal the tattoo beneath it, an aging backpack that used to be bright canary yellow slumped next to her. She doesn't smile when she sees him.

Even with the makeup working to keep him -- and everyone -- from noticing, there's definitely something off about her.

[Alexander] The last time Alex saw Sinclair, she was at her peak. She was glowing, brilliant, at the very zenith of her cycle, and... nearly a different person from the dark-eyed, hungry creature waiting outside tonight.

Alex's grin spreads when he sees her, then falters a little when he really sees her. He's dressed ridiculously: in board shorts and flip flops, and then a heavy jacket up top to make up for it. It's warm in Chicago, but it's not that warm.

"Hey." He hands her the quizno's bag containing the philly cheesesteak, extra meat. A pause. "You all right?"

[Sinclair] If she stays over tonight, Alex will notice something particularly bizarre: Sinclair's feet will be cold. They're never cold. She never tucks her hands or feet against his body anywhere while sleeping to try and keep them warm, because they're never cold. But that's later. This is now: her flat stare when he arrives, her pale eyes dark with instinct.

"I've been throwing up a lot lately," she says, offhand, shrugging it off like an annoying hand placed on her shoulder. Sinclair shakes her head and slides off the hood of the car. "I'm also ravenous. I'd kill for that sandwich right about now."

[Alexander] His eyebrows draw together. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Because. Well. Throwing up.

Alex has to control an impulse to step back when Sinclair slides off the hood. She's ravenous. He knows. She'd kill for that sandwich. He's rather she didn't. So he hands it to her, then fishes his apartment key out as he heads for the door.

"Let's go in."

[Sinclair] The way Sinclair reacts when Alex frowns and hopes she's not pregnant may chill him to the bone. She doesn't scoff, or laugh. She doesn't burst into tears. She just stops, and looks at him, a faint clenching to one jaw that isn't even mistakeable for anger.

And then she sniffs, and closes her eyes, and turns her face upward to the sky, exhaling.

[Alexander] [no really ARE YOU? empathy!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 6, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Sinclair] [manipulation + 'subterfuge' LAWL]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Sinclair] [THINK, ALEX THINK. THINK OF WHAT DAY IT IS.]
to Alexander

[Alexander] When there's no answer he turns at the door, hand on the handle, paling under what's left of his tan.

"Wait--"

-- he stops, looks at her suspiciously. And then he suddenly exhales something that's equal parts snort and laugh. "Jesus Christ, Sinclair, you freaked me out. Let's go in." He pulls the door open and ushers her in.

Old buildings have one thing going for them: steam heating. Radiators. A lot of heat pouring through this creaky old dump with its narrow halls and yellow lightbulb covers and ugly carpet. It's stiflingly warm inside, especially after he shuts the door and then starts up the stairs two at a time.

"Are you okay, though? Seriously. Are you really barfing up?"

[Sinclair] At the first flicker of Alex's eyebrows together in that suspicious furrow, Sinclair's nose wrinkles and she starts to snicker. She didn't see him pale, or a part of her would be flailing internally, wracked with sudden guilt for genuinely fucking with his heart rate just now. But she doesn't see that. She just hears him exhale the way he does, almost-laughing, and she snickers.

Her backpack gets slung over her shoulder again, and she falls into step alongside him, letting their shoulders brush through two jackets. "Happy Fool's Day," she says, with a rather wicked grin, as they head inside.

"Ew, no," she says, when he asks if she's actually barfing. She says it like someone who probably hasn't barfed more than ten times in their life, if that. But she's taking the steps more slowly, and she actually puts her hand on the rail. The sound of the radiators eclipses the faint whirring inside her jacket.

"I just feel kinda shitty," Sinclair explains, shrugging. "It'll pass." All things do.

When they get to his door, she cocks a half-grin, more tired than lazy. "It was really hard not to make this face--" she grins full-on, sort of gleeful, "-- when I saw you."

[Alexander] "Yeah well," the door unlocked, he leaves the key there long enough to reach out and take her face between his hands, leaning forward to smooch her, "that's why it worked."

His apartment is a little cooler than the hall; not so suffocatingly warm. It's still warm. The window's cracked open to let some cool air in. Alexander gripes that he wishes they'd turn off the building steam already, though if they actually did that he'd gripe harder about how cold it was. His jacket gets dumped on the couch, and then he heads to the kitchen to find her the last bit of ice cream cake.

"So where's your pet? What is it, like a hamster?"

[Sinclair] Her skin is faintly chilled, but it's a thin surface that's quickly melting away. She's too warm for the breeze outside to do more than touch her before retreating. Her lips are hot. They begin to open to his, just barely, just enough to sigh faintly when he gives her that quick smooch. She smiles, while his hands are still on her face, and picks up the Quiznos bag and cup of Dr. Pepper. She's starting to look for a straw in the bag when they go into his apartment, closing the door behind her.

"Not quite," she says, putting the bag down on the coffee table and ripping open her straw to stick it in the cup so she can take a drink. Dry throat. Gah. The nectar of her Kansasian ancestors seeps into her, and she exhales happily, setting it down.

There's a rustle of paper in the living room as he's getting the box of cake out of the freezer, Sinclair opening and unwrapping her Philly cheesesteak. But she doesn't dig in. Not right away. She reaches into her front jacket pocket and cups her hand around something, taking it out and putting it on the coffee table.

"Come on," she says, in a soothing, tickling sort of voice, the gentle tones some use with sleeping children. "Come on, little guy. Wakeup."

Quietly, then, curious-sounding, not that different from that creepyass Wall-E:

Eee?

[Alexander] Eee? is not the sort of sound a hamster makes.

Alex is elbows-deep in his freezer, digging past personal pizzas and tv dinners and large hunks of frozen meat that he can just drop in the oven or on the grill to get out the tupperware box containing the last slice of cake. He pauses, sticks his head out from around the side of the freezer door, and asks:

"What was that?"

[Sinclair] "Tripoli," Sinclair says, and it sounds like triple-e, which is... well. What it sounds like. She sounds endeared, even girlish, and there's a whirring coming from the living room. "Come see. He's not skittish."

She picks up her sandwich, still half-wrapped, and starts to dig in. Meanwhile, the materialized metal gaffling she has adopted as a 'pet' is unfurling on the coffee table, wobbling a bit at first on its single sturdy wheel -- it's got off-road capability, even if in this form the wheel is roughly the size of a silver dollar -- and letting its arms out. It wiggles the digits that count for fingers, the miniscule antennae on either side of its helmet-like head sparking gently with blue light.

Eee! it says, with happy recognition and greeting, twisting its head around to look up at Sinclair after it has made sure that its arms and fingers and wheel all still work properly. She grins at it, this...robotic thing that is about five inches tall at the moment, and offers it her pinky so it can wrap its fingers around the tip of one of hers.

[Alexander] "What, like the city in north Africa?" Alexander shuts the freezer door, prize in hand. Fridge door opens and shuts, and then strolls out of the kitchen. He has a carrot stick in his mouth, which he nearly drops when he sees Tripoli. To say he jumps would not be inaccurate. "Holy shit. What the fuck is that?"

He's still in the kitchen. Well: in the doorway, staring at the tiny metal ... robot ... thing on his coffee table.

[Sinclair] "Nooo," she says, around a mouthful of cheesesteak. Swallowing, and correcting: "Tripoli." The difference: Tripoli versus Tripoli. Sinclair takes another bite of her sandwich, and the familiar itself spins around about ninety degrees, head first and then body and then wheel, rearing back an inch or so as though it needs more space to take Alex in.

After all, comparatively, he's quite large.

Tripoli looks him up and down, rolling back and forth a bit, then swivels his head around to look at Sinclair, pointing with one slinky-like extended arm.

Eee?

Sinclair picks up her soda to suck down a few mouthfuls, and nods. "Alex. You'll like him. He makes noise."

Eee.

Sounding pleased, Tripoli wheels over to the edge of the coffee table and waggles its arms at Alex. It's... sort of a wave.

[Alexander] "Is that like a ..." Alex is still across the room, though inching forward slowly now. Slowly, because who knows, maybe the mini-terminator there will pull out a laser gun and zap him.

"Is that like ...some sort of new Glass Walker robot?"

[Sinclair] Alex does not wave back. Confused, Tripoli pauses, tries flapping its arms again more excitedly, then gives up, wheeling back over towards Sinclair,

except he's not watching where he's going

and he runs into the Quiznos back. Rolling backwards, Tripoli lets out an aggravated Eeee! at the bag, rushes forward, and bats at it til it falls over. As small as he is, it actually takes a few strikes to get the job done, but the empty paper bag does indeed flop onto its side, and with a sort of seething triumph in his whirr:

Eeeee.

Meanwhile, Sinclair is looking up and over at Alex, smiling at him in between bites. "Nah. He's, ah..."

Tripoli's antennae spark again, giving off sparkling blue pulses.

"He's a spirit. A metal elemental. Pretty weak one, actually."

Tripoli suddenly whips around, letting out a disgruntled and offended Ee!. Sinclair sighs, rolling her eyes.

"Sorry. Jesus." She takes a bite of her sandwich.

[Alexander] Actually, the second time Tripoli waves, Alex puts up a cautious hand and, feeling slightly absurd for waving at a possibly non-sentient, yet cleverly designed thing, returns it with a tilt of his hand.

Then: Tripoli runs into a Quiznos bag. And vanquishes it. And Sinclair explains that he's a metal elemental, a weak one, and Alexander lets out a disbelieving little laugh.

"What's he doing on, y'know. This side? I thought spirits hung out in some spirit mirror-world."

He comes closer at last, though, folding his legs under his as he sits on the floor. He hands the cake to Sinclair and then, very carefully, extends a finger to prop at Tripoli. Triple-e.

[Sinclair] Well, in that case: Tripoli is actually quite pleased when Alex waves back, straightening up his little body with something much like pride, waving excitedly because the not-wolf-male-thing that the wolf-girl-he-loves brought him to clearly decided his waving was well-done, if he deigned to return it. Waving. Check. Down. Perfected. Mastered. Eee.

Sinclair is watching the little gaffling zoom around the table, because now he seems to be taking the measure of this new land, which is flat and does not have a laptop on it, which makes it something like a desert to him. He finds a remote and wheels around and around it, staring down, until he hears himself being talked about.

So he wheels back over, peering up at the two Glass Walkers who are, when he's formed like this, so very very big.

"That playdate I mentioned? There was this factory, and... yeah. Long story story: corrupted elementals, asshole Spiral. They turned a stray dog into this fucked-up people-eating thresher-thing, and had all these little guys doing their bidding."

Alex reaches out, and Tripoli peers at his finger, then reaches over and wraps all four of his digits, opposable one included, around the tip of Alex's finger. He shakes it. Eee, he says politely.

Touching the gaffling is like touching water, except for a slight shock, less even than one would get touching the lightswitch after scuffing across the carpet. He barely even seems to be there, except he is, and it's cool, and electric.

"After we took care of the bad stuff, the elementals went back to normal. And this one just like... latched onto my leg and doesn't seem to want to wander off. But to answer your question: he's materialized right now. He doesn't have to be, though. Isn't, all the time."

[Alexander] Alex lets out a surprised little laugh as the elemental wraps its digits around the tip of his finger. "Wow. Wow, this feels... wow." They shake hands. Sort of. "Hi," Alexander says. "Wow." He rubs thumb and forefinger together, looks at Sinclair, amazed. "I thought he'd feel more, I dunno. Solid, like metal. But that felt like..."

He trails off. He doesn't really have words for it. Crosslegged on the floor, he watches the little guy zoom around his coffee table. Initial startlement and perplexion is giving way to fascination now, and curiosity. Alex has never met a spirit before. Alex, like most kin, never thought he would.

"So he's like... alive? And he can think for himself and all?"

[Sinclair] This girl can polish off a sandwich -- with xtra MEAT -- just as fast as she can devour steak and shrimp and mashed potatoes and tropical drinks, or Oreo ice cream cake, or any number of things. She's down to the dregs of her Dr. Pepper before he knows it, and licking grease off her fingers, too. Sinclair wasn't kidding when she said she was ravenous; but she wouldn't have hurt a fly to get that sandwich, truth be told.

She balls up the wrapper of her sandwich and puts it into the bag, righting it as Tripoli greets Alexander, who tries to describe the sensation of touching a materialized spirit. Sinclair watches them, a smile tugging at her lips, fond. For the robot, sure, it's cute and curious and that's adorable and all, but the quietness in her worn-thin eyes comes from whatever flavor of affection she feels when she looks at the other male

who she wouldn't really describe as cute and curious and adorable.

Tripoli, for his part, finishes greetingthe not-wolf-male-thing that the wolf-girl-he-loves brought him to, and goes back to examining Alex's remote control before tapping at its side, trying to talk to it. Ew. Plastic. Tripoli moves on. Stupid remote control. All shiny. The shiny is a lie.

"Yeah, I guess so," Sinclair says thoughtfully, watching the 'robot' while she reaches over with her hand and strokes what little hair Alex has, hairline to crown, and again. "I think he's only with me because he wants to be. But I haven't asked Caleb or Theron -- those are our pack's Theurges -- about it, really. I've never had a spirit go 'hey! that's the girl for me!' like this. But he's actually pretty affectionate."

She thinks for a second. "I think he's grateful."

[Alexander] When Tripoli starts wheeling around again, exploring, Alex puts his hand palm-down on the coffeetable for the little elemental to wheel over. When he does -- perhaps after a brief, uncertain pause -- Alex laughs, delighted.

Which is the way he laughs, too, when Sinclair strokes her hand over his hair. He has more now than he did in Rio, enough at least to deflect under her fingertips, though it's still short, and he individual strands still tend to stand upright.

"Well, he probably didn't like doing the bidding of asshole Spirals and a ... people-eating thresher." He pauses. There's something there behind his eyes, but he doesn't say it after all, instead putting his palms to the floor and abruptly bounding to his feet. "Wait a sec."

He disappears into his bedroom, comes out a minute later. He has a free weight with him: a small five-pound fixed-weight dumbbell, solid cast iron. He sets it down on the coffee table and waits for Tripoli to discover it.

[Sinclair] [Enh!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 3, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Sinclair] [ENH! -1]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Sinclair] Alex's hand stops Tripoli short when it appears. It's an obstacle! And it was not there before. He bumps lightly into Alex's hand, then rolls back, peering and bending and examining, then gets a headstart and speeds up and bump bump bump bumps right over the man's four splayed fingers. He goes on his merry way, continuing to explore the vast land of Cah Fe'Tabul, until he realizes it is not really that vast, and starts to roll back and forth, getting bored.

Her hand strokes again and again, slowing a bit at that pause and that twinge behind Alex's eyes. Sinclair's brow pulls, her head tipping to look more clearly at him. Her mouth opens like she's about to ask something, but then Alex is bounding up, up, and away, returning a minute later with a barbell. She laughs slightly. "Oh, god, you have no idea what you just --"

but Tripoli has already noticed the weight, and zipped across the table with a loud whirr! of speed, and wound his arms in overlapping coils around the bar, giving Alex's dumbbell a tight hug. Eee!

Sinclair would laugh, but that twinge caught her off guard. She's uneasy, and she's obviously uneasy, and it's because of whatever made him pause before he left the room. It's the same discomfort he felt, and she felt, when they were telling each other to be careful. Her hand flexes. There's no way Alex can know that it was the arm the thresher grabbed and gnawed on. She's never going to tell him, that's for damn sure, but

that makes her uneasy, too.

She leans over, suddenly, and kisses the top of his head. "Where's my cake?" she says, smiling then.

Tripoli is trying to lift the dumbbell. It isn't going well.

[Alexander] Alex sits on the couch this time, though, next to Sinclair. She can't tell why he didn't want to think about it, the thresher, the spirals, all that -- she can't tell the why, but she can tell, easily, that he doesn't like the subject.

That he sits next to her now means something, though. Should, anyway. His knee touches hers lightly; his shoulder, the outside of his sturdy, warm arm. She kisses him: probably his temple, or the side of his head, and he leans into his the way he leaned into her touch, smiling.

"Here." He reaches down and picks up the tupperware, handing it to her. When she takes it, his hand wraps gently around her leg, just over the knee.

"It sort of freaked me out when you said you were going on a playdate," he admits, then. "I mean, I figured it pretty much meant you were going to go kill shit. And I know you're not stupid or weak, but still. It was kinda ... it made me worry a bit. I'm not really used to that."

A pause. This might be a deliberate subject change:

"Dude, is he gonna hurt himself?"

[Sinclair] Something inside of Sinclair is coiling, tightening, unfurling, only to squeeze again. She feels like there are snakes around her heart, and it makes her ache. She takes a breath, letting her body and Alex's body talk to each other via familiar channels. They meet at the joints: shoulder, elbow, hip, knee, ankle. She does kiss his temple, and he leans into it, and this is a deeper conversation than many that they have out loud.

She takes her cake, smiling as she grasps the fork and takes a bite, but the smile is a bit tight at the edges, just like her eyes are a bit tight at the edges. Everything about her is rougher right now. She's never good at lying, not even that good at reading other people, but it's worse than ever. She can't understand why Alex doesn't want to think about the sort of 'playdates' she gets up to, but she's smart enough to guess.

It's familiar.

Sinclair doesn't blush and smile, charmed and endeared, when Alex confesses that he was worried a little, and that he's not used to it. She doesn't ask him how he feels about his brother being involved in the exact same sort of shit, killing monsters and getting his arms flayed and his guts ripped open Gaia knows how often. She doesn't ask: do you wake sometimes in the night, thinking you can feel him dying? She will never ask him that, though she wonders about the bond of twins, and about what it would be like to have a sibling.

She also isn't flattered that he doesn't think she's not stupid or weak. After all: duh.

"Nah," she says, about Tripoli. "He's a tiny piece of basically ...the essence of metal. He's a tough little guy. Smart, too. Watch."

And if Alex watches, he sees Tripoli give up on lifting the dumbbell. He's going to push it inside, wheel skid-turning on the coffee table as he applies all the force his tiny self can exert on pushing the thing to the edge, so it can topple off to the carpet and make a loud THUD.

EEEEE! says Tripoli excitedly, zooming around and around in a tight, happy circle. And then zooming right off the edge of the table, careening to the carpet. There's a rattle that sounds like a jar full of shrapnel being shaken as Tripoli waggles his head post-fall, followed by an encouraging Eee!, as though to tell them No worries! Meant to do that! I'm fine. He even dusts himself off as he gets back up onto his wheel. Thank god it's made for rough terrain; he goes slower on the carpet, but is soon enough zipping around the apartment floor, Eeeing over all he discovers.

Sinclair is halfway through her half-slice of cake. "I haven't seen my parents since I left for college," she says, somewhat out of nowhere. "So they don't really... have any concept of who I am now." She puts the mostly-empty fork in her mouth, licking off smears of frosting thoughtfully. "I mean, I know that the tribe gave them all these materials about So Your Little Princess is a Rarbeast and stuff, but... yeah. I don't..."

She can't finish that sentence. So she works on finishing her piece of cake.

[Alexander] Considering how deep and old the bond between him and his brother is, Alex speaks of Aaron very, very rarely. In truth, he rarely thinks of Aaron -- or rather, of Aaron as Nightfall's Edge, whatever the hell that name meant: as Garou, as Philodox, as Fostern of their tribe with a pack now, a new sort of family, a war.

It's hard for Alexander to consider that. Aaron is not a frontline fighter. He's a lawkeeper and a thinker, and Alex knows this, but Alex also knows that these are the end times, the last days, and even thinkers and lawkeepers

(songkeepers and historians)

must fight. And become good at it. Or die.

So: they don't talk about this stuff, but it's there, and neither of them are stupid or weak, but perhaps there's not much to say. They talk about Tripoli instead: watch them flip the dumbbell to the floor with a THUD that his neighbors all around can hear, and most especially the ones downstairs. They watch Tripoli go sailing off the edge, which makes Alex sit upright in alarm, though it hardly seems to faze the little gaffling.

The essence of metal, Sinclair says. "Huh," says Alexander, who does not, and cannot, really understand. "Well, I'm glad you brought him here. He's cool."

She talks about her family, then. And he looks at her, and she looks at her cake, and after a short silence he says, "When did you change, anyway?"

Strange; it seems like one of those basic facts they should already know about each other.

[Sinclair] Sinclair actually laughs, briefly, when Alex sits up all sudden-like at the plummeting of her Eeeing spirit familiar. She doesn't think of Alex as someone who can never understand the spirit world, who could never understand the Garou, who could never understand her, or what she is. All of it may be true; there is a vast gulf between empathy and experience, and it cannot ever be crossed. It is why I know how you feel is such a treacherous phrase, and so often a lie.

It's just: Sinclair doesn't think about the differences between Alex and herself, much. It makes it easier. It makes her happier.

"You should play your drums sometime while he's around. He'll explode with glee." Beat. "Not literally."


They watch her pet zoom around, exploring. She eats her cake. She talks about her family, which is made up of two people back in Wichita. She eats a little more cake, and there wasn't much left, but there's a cookie in that Quizno's bag with her name on it, too. She shrugs one shoulder. "After winter break, my first year of college. So like... a little over three years ago. They fast tracked me through my Rite, but then I tried to go back to school that fall." She shoves her fork into her cake. "That was a bust. So then I was just bumming around being a dick til I came to Chicago. And then I was a dick s'more."

He may not realize what she's explaining: This is why I'm still a Cliath. After three years. Doesn't matter if he does or not. Either way, he knows more about her, now.

[Alexander] "Yeah, I bet," he says when she says that was a bust. The rest, he listens to. When she's finished he's quiet for a while, following Tripoli with his eyes. The little critter's found his drum set; seems more fascinated by the metal fittings and pedals and stands than the drums themselves.

Alex gets up, then. Goes to the kitchen, where Sinclair can hear him banging around. Comes back with a couple beers, one of which he hands her. It's icy cold from the fridge. He throws himself down again, not beside her this time but against the end of the couch, swinging his legs up and stretching out.

"Come on," he urges, tugging her feet up until she's sprawled against the opposite end of the couch. They're so closely matched for height that they're almost perfectly antiparallel: her feet tucked between his shoulder and the back of the couch, his beside her shoulder. "Tell me more. Tell me about ... I dunno. Whatever you want. You."

[Sinclair] If there is one thing that Sinclair knows how to do as a Galliard, it is tell the history of herself. She's not the sort to get up at a moot and tell fairytales-turned-epics, and she's not the sort to do interpretive dance. She tells the truth. Emotion, for her, comes when she sings, and that is where she evokes it in others. She sang for Marrick, and she sang for Arthurt. She did not sing for Fons. When Alex tells her to tell him more, tell him about herself, she gets off the track of thinking

I can't stand the thought of seeing my parents again and watching them realize how quickly I'm going to die. I can't bear the thought of facing them, and watching what happens to their eyes when they realize this life hurts me and knowing it makes them hurt, too. I'm not sure I can handle you worrying about me. I'm not sure I can handle any of this.

Though when you get right down to it, that's what she's been thinking since the late, wet 'winter' of the start of 2007, when she curled up in a ball in her standard-issue clothes in her cell and tried to figure out what she hated most: the captivity, her Rage, or herself.

Sinclair moves easily, plucking her cookie from the bag while Tripoli whirrs around the apartment, banging into things occasionally and poking around where he probably shouldn't. She kicks off her sneakers before putting her feet up on the couch, and she has on bright red and black striped socks.

"These," she announces, wiggling them into place against Alex and the couch as she unwraps her cookie, "are my sunburned-bumblee socks." And she takes a bite. "I like chocolate chip," she confirms, and takes another.

Tell him about. He doesn't know. What she wants. Her.

She has beer and a cookie. She tells him about that, too: "I don't really like beer much. It doesn't taste that great. It takes forever to get a buzz off it. Makes my tummy feel all foamy." She drinks it anyway. "I think it's like... the idea of beer that I like. Beer and a burger. Beer with a friend. Beer on a porch in late summer."

Thoughtfully: "My parents were pretty chill. I think it's because I'm an only child. They trusted me a lot. I mean, I gave them no reason not to. I was a really good kid. Maybe kinda uptight." She drinks a little more.

[Alexander] He catches her feet in his hands, props them on his chest, and laughs. "These aren't sunburned. These are like... roasted bumblebees."

Something in the bathroom goes crash. They both ignore it. It's all right. Cats would do more damage.

"Beer's an acquired taste, young padawan," he counsels, mock-wise. "Seeing as how you've only been alcohol-legal for a year, I'm gonna tel you to wait another two or three before coming back to me with a verdict."

And, smiling, "You? Uptight?"

[Sinclair] Eeee!

It's alarmed and yet excited; intrigued. He has discovered very little metal in the bathroom. But! Chrome fixtures. Very cool.


Back in the living room, Sinclair smiles wryly at the sound of her gaffling running around. She pokes Alex in the chest with her toe. "I've been drinking beer since I was twelve. I 'acquired' the taste for it when I was about fourteen. I just don't like it that much. But I like drinking it." Her big toe pokes him again, wiggles against his pectoral, then goes still again.

Her eyebrows quirk up. She nods. "Yeah," Sinclair says dryly, "seriously. I was a driven little shit. Student council. Leadership camp. Choir. Cheerleading -- at school and at Eclipse, which meant competitions and all that. AP classes left and right. Swim team. Track team. Honors. I was all over the fucking year book, man."

[Alexander] "See now," he says, his smile sort of lazy, sort of just ... content, "that I can see. A gunner.

"Tell me about bumming around being a 'dick'. Tell me about why-Chicago." He thinks for a moment. "And where'd you get that car?"

[Sinclair] A gunner. It makes her chuckle. She... was. As a child, maybe not. As a child, it's more likely that Sinclair tore ass up and down her neighborhood on her bicycle, made friends with anyone that would talk to her for more than five minutes -- or rather, listen to her talking -- and showed up at the tea-party-themed birthday parties of other girls with a skinned knees under her frilly dress.

Not that she didn't like girly things. Pink. Purple. Dolls. Boys, when she got older. Makeup. She used to draw on her own skin, doodling pretend tattoos when she was doing homework. Never during class. That might indicate to the teacher that she was bored. And that might possibly lower her participation grade, in classes that had them.

Sinclair doesn't tell Alex about any of that, though. She tells him about what he asks about: bumming around and being a dick.

"Well," she says, gnawing on her lower lip for a second, "after I dropped out, I just... stayed the fuck away from the Walkers in San Diego for awhile. My mentor was a total fucking hardass. I wasn't really... 'Walker' enough for her. Not her kind of Walker, at least." She shrugs. It doesn't seem to bother her overmuch that Regina, one of the names on her arm, didn't approve of her style.

Then again: Sinclair's a shit liar. And he can see right through her: it bothered her. Some.

"I hung out with a lot of Gnawers after I struck out on my own. And I literally did just bum around. I lived on the street. I crashed on couches. I slept in my car. I occasionally did some work. Like, online tech support, so nobody had to deal with me. I traded a lot in favors. I fought the Wyrm and all. I went to moots when I heard about where they'd be and stuff. Didn't really go back to the high-rise moots at the sept that fostered me, though."

She picks at the label on her bottle. Swigs from it, swallows. "The car I got when I was sixteen. My dad and I found it and basically rebuilt it from the inside out. There was still shit to be done when I left for school, but I did a lot of that to wind down."

Sinclair frowns to herself, briefly. She's halfway through her cookie. Not quite halfway through her beer. "I should've changed when I was like... sixteen, I think. That's when the nightmares started. I repressed it for a long fucking time."

[Alexander] Alex slings one arm behind his head, a pillow. The other hand curls over Sinclair's ankles, and as she speaks, starts tugging her sunburned/sunroasted bumblebee socks off.

They fall to the floor. He strokes his hand up her shins, under her jeans, warm against her smooth leg. "And what kind of Walker was Regina?" he asks.

[Sinclair] Her jeans are quite tight, especially around the lower leg. She laughs as Alex tries to wiggle his hands under the denim. "Shoulda worn my boot-cuts," she muses, and her brow flickers as, almost instantly, her feet start to get that much colder. She doesn't say anything. It'll be awhile before he feels it. It annoys her, though, and he probably can pick up on that.

Even if he doesn't know why she seems momentarily, faintly irritated.

"I don't know," she says, which doesn't mean anything. She does, actually. "The kind who wore tailored clothes and had expensive gadgets and a household staff of half a dozen or something. Rigid. Controlled.

"Alone."

[Alexander] "Oh."

That's what most people think when they think Glass Walkers. Technophiles. Masters of the human world. Corporate wolves and digital beasts. Sometimes Alex and Sinclair seem very far from that ideal. Maybe that's why he almost forgets that's a type of Glass Walker -- the main type, maybe -- until she says it.

Then he's quiet for a while, because she seemed irritated for a moment after he pulled her socks off, and because he doesn't know why. There's a pause, and then he takes his arm out from behind his head to start pawing around the floor for her socks. To put them back on, one supposes.

[Sinclair] It isn't quite that the two of them are attuned to one another, instantly picking up on the other's emotions. Most of the time, in fact, they can't figure each other out at all. Why he twinged when she mentioned her playdate. Why she looks irritated when her socks come off. But other times, just as often -- especially as they get to know each other, especially as they each realize in turn that the other isn't hiding much of anything, as they realize they can trust their gut instincts -- they know exactly what's going on.

Instinct, maybe.

Sinclair starts to lean forward, touching his arm, trying to stop him. But gently. She barely lays a finger on him. "No, it's cool. Just... my feet are gonna start getting cold. And that bugs me. Not you taking my socks off. That part's okay."

[Alexander] "Oh."

A different sort of oh this time, surprised, pleased, and a little bit abashed. He stops pawing for her socks. Alex pulls his shirt up and over her feet instead, tucking them against his sides, between his biceps and his ribs. He's so solid, so built, packed tight, dense, hot. He grins at her like he's solved some great conundrum, his hands reaching down to rub over her denimclad knees, and then to lace over his stomach.

"So, why Chicago?"

[Sinclair] That makes her laugh. His abashed pleasure. Him putting his shirt over her feet to keep them warm against his own body. And it reminds her of something she read, once, which she dismisses quickly from her mind before she lets it take her down a path more intense than she can justify. Sinclair grins back at him. She drinks her beer while he paws at her, touches her.

She shrugs. "You remember when I told you about meeting Joey and Dee and making that first pack and all? Well. Dietrich was heading to Chicago to meet Gabriella cuz their parents wanted them to get hitched or something, I don't know. So Joey and I came with him. I mean, it's not like I had very deep roots anywhere in California."

[Alexander] "Oh my god," Alex says, and laughs. "Gabriella. I almost forgot about her. Now that was a lolfarm and a half. Did I tell you that when I moved into room 4 she pitched a fit? Like... huffed and puffed and threw all my shit out in the hall. So I threw all her shit out in the hall, and she was screaming and crying the whole time. One point for the Vaughnster."

That's a glint of the viciousness that, on some level, first drew Sinclair's attention. Or at least, first drew a certain sort of respect from her. Not because he was an asshole who expected to get away with it, but because he was an asshole and expected to be beat for it, but did it anyway.

Anyway: there's a viciousness in both of them. Not so much to each other anymore, if ever. But it's there, like the heat under their skin. Neither of them have really seen the other fight -- not spar, not brawl, but fight. If they did, they'd recognize each other in a way.

"After that," he concludes, reaching over to the coffee table to snag his beer, "we were actually pretty decent roommates. I mean, I hardly ever saw her and vice versa. Then after that day in the park when I grabbed your arm, she started acting like we were buddy-buddy and all. God, Fangs are so nuts. I don't even know who to pity more if that arranged marriage had gone through -- Dietrich or Gabbie."

[Sinclair] Her eyebrows go up when he tells her the story of him moving in with Gabriella. She laughs. "God, that's like a sitcom. Though, for fuck's sake, why was she even living there? I've seen her sister's place, Jesus. That makes no fucking sense."

She drinks more of her beer, and slouches down a bit more. Her cookie is gone now. Tripoli is a distant whirr and hum and occasional crash; he's in the bedroom, hunting for more of Alex's metal toys to introduce himself to. She moves her free hand down, puts it over the top of his ankle. There's a tenderness, an ease to it that doesn't match up with the viciousness they're both capable of -- the viciousness that is, in a dark way that few can quite accept or reconcile, simply a part of them, inextricable.

Wild.

He's seen her torn and bloody, seen her snap into hispo and rip into another Garou, but she wasn't trying to kill Marrick that night. Wouldn't have. He has seen her remain in her birth form while beating on a Garou who had changed shape to face her, but she was just annoyed that night, not raging, and not even going for blood. He himself has tussled with her, under the waxing moon, and actually managed to (technically) knock her out, even though he knows at the back of his mind that she wasn't using a fraction of her whole strength against him.

And wouldn't.

But they've never seen each other literally fighting. For life. Against death. Or: to the point of death. Once upon a time, she wouldn't have gone out of her way to protect him above others. She hasn't really thought about whether or not she would lunge between him and something coming at him, snarling in her enormous direwolf form, blue eyes like nearly colorless crystals and fangs dripping with hungry saliva and some other beast's blood. She has not thought much about whether or not she would rage herself into a frenzy at the prospect of harm coming to a man who is quite likely the biggest fucking asshole in the Great Lakes region.

Though truth be told: that is probably what would happen.

She holds his ankle, and smiles fondly at his foot briefly, while he's talking. She looks tired. Worn thin, stretched out. Bizarrely, she even looks smaller than she usually does, as though she's lost weight, when she can't possibly have. "I think," she says, "I'd actually feel worse for Gabriella. And to be honest, I wish I could hunt that girl down and beat the fuck out of her for everything she's put her sister through. But Dietrich... I don't know. The longer I knew him, the more something about him made my skin crawl. I think he hated women, for one thing. And 'lawl, lookit the stupid kingirl getting what she asks for' would probably stop being satisfying after he broke her ribs for the fortieth time."

[Alexander] "She was probably living there," Alex opines, "'cause she thought it was cool to slum it. If by slum it you mean sleep on 1000-thread-count sheets under five hundred dollar down comforters. Heh."

What Sinclair says, then, makes Alex's eyes darken, his mood grow somber. His eyes flicker down to Sinclair's jeans, Sinclair's ankles. He doesn't suck her toes or nom her feet; truth be told, he'd be pretty grossed out at the idea after her feet just came out of socks and shoes. It'd be different if she'd just gotten out of a clean bath, but ...

well. Digression. He frowns faintly, then looks at her again.

"Yeesh," he says. "I didn't really even know Dietrich. Saw him once or twice, heard you talk about him. But yeah. Gabbie's dumb and naive and spoiled, but she's pretty harmless. She wouldn't deserve that sort of shit."

His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. He sighs it, "Fangs. Whatever."

[Sinclair] "He was an Ahroun. And a Fang," is all Sinclair has to say about Dietrich after that. As though that may as well clinch it: he would beat someone he claimed to love. he would hurt someone he thought was beneath him. he would disregard a tenet of the litany and tell himself he was excercising some divine right of leadership. he was a wolf of highest rage and least stability.

She sets her beer down on the coffee table, sitting up off the bright orange Ikea pillow that she had wedged behind her. And, breathing in deeply, she draws her feet out from under Alex's shirt, plants them on the cushions, and completely rearranges herself on the couch. Rises up, leans forward, slides her legs back, lays down on top of him, tucks her feet under that hideous pillow.

Wraps her arms around his waist, and lays her head on his chest, and closes her eyes.

"Mmgh," she says, grumping quietly in satisfaction.

[Alexander] As uncharacteristically cool as Sinclair's feet are tonight, his skin nevertheless feels somehow cooler still for her absence. But she's not leaving: she's sitting up, rolling over, crawling over him and laying down again.

He watches her as he does this, unlacing his hands from over his stomach, holding them careless and open and waiting while she moves, and finds a comfortable place and position, and settles again. Then he wraps his arms around her as she wraps hers around him.

Mmgh, she says. Rrrgh, he replies, and laughs, and nuzzles her hair, and closes his eyes.

"You staying tonight?"

[Sinclair] Even when her feet at chilling, because for some reason her fucking circulation has to go down the shitter with everything else this time of the month, the rest of Sinclair is as warm and real as ever. She doesn't nuzzle his chest or rub her face into his belly; she just lays down against him, most of her weight on her lower body, between his legs, and on her elbows. They grunt in recognition at one another, familiar, and it makes her laugh quietly.

Reflects: it wasn't awkward, when she unfolded and then laid down. It wasn't awkward, the way he resettled his arms around her, his hands on her back. Her breath is heavy in her chest for a moment, an odd little ache that passes.

Somewhere in Alex's bedroom, Tripoli is whirring happily at the radiator, telling it all about the wolf-girl-i-love and asking it questions about the not-wolf-male-thing that the wolf-girl-he-loves brought him to. But the radiator isn't awakened. So it mostly just listens. Tripoli is quite patient, waiting for answers. He's trying to be polite. Some metal-things are stupider than others.

On the couch, Sinclair wraps her arms a little more tightly around Alex. "Yeah. I brought some more stuff." The backpack. The yellow backpack, hanging out on the floor by the couch. "Clothes and stuff. Don't get freaked out by the tampons. I'll put them in the back of the cabinet behind the toilet paper stash, where they won't offend your delicate sensibilities."

[Alexander] "Oh my godddd, you brought tampons?" Mock horror. Mostly mock. "I'll get you a garbage bag. Like a big black garbage bag, so you can shield me from dangerous estrogen-vibes."

He thinks for a minute.

"And I totally need to put a fliptop trash can in the bathroom."

[Sinclair] She laughs, chuckling between his legs, against his stomach, eyes closed as though even the dim overhead light bothers her eyes. "It's just in case, Jesus. Mostly I'll just go hang out with Katherine. And eat ice cream. And bitch about how Men Just Don't Understand, or whatever." She laughs, and on a whim, suddenly, turns her head and kisses his stomach through his shirt.

"You're ridiculous," she says, and lays back down.

[Alexander] "Nah," he says, and with her ear to his stomach, she can hear his voice as much under her as through the air. "You should come here if you feel like shit. And we'll eat ice cream. And you can pwn my ass on the Xbox til you feel better."

[Sinclair] "Aww, you're a sweetheart," Sinclair says, half-muffled against his shirt and his abdominal muscles. But she's quiet then, at least for a few seconds.

"I've been avoiding coming around you when I'm like this since, y'know. Ever. Lately I've just gone to the Loft and hidden in one of Kate's guest rooms. Last month she and our Alpha even like... I don't know. They kinda gathered around me. Didn't like cuddle or coo or whatever, they just stayed close, like to let me know they were there. And Lukas slept nearby, like... to watch over me, I guess?"

She's quiet again, a longer pause. "I don't usually know how to deal with it when people try to do stuff like that. Take care of me. Not cuz I'm like 'oh no, someone might care, heaven forbid' or even like 'eh! I'm a big girl!' Just... I don't know. It's hard to deal with."

Sinclair is a warm heaviness atop him. Eyes closed, encircled by his arms and framed by his legs, as frail as she will ever be until the day she dies... and still stronger by a far cry than most Garou, even those that outrank her.

"And I didn't really want you to see me like this."

Again: a pause. It isn't quite fits and starts, as though she's thinking of something to say and then deciding not to say it, then changing her mind. Mostly, she's listening to what's going on inside his body, and listening to her own voice, and thinking this is warm. this is nice. i like this.

i like him.

"Tonight I just really, really wanted to be here with you, instead. I don't know why. I don't wanna eat ice cream or play Xbox, I just... yeah." She breathes in. Out. "I just wanna be here with you."

[Alexander] In that quiet, there's only the idle sounds of the world around them. The steady thump-thump of his heartbeat the ticking of the radiator, which is a form of heating too old to roar or thrum. At least up on the fourth floor, far from the boiler.

She starts to tell him things, then. About herself. Which is what he's been asking her to do all night, prompting her to reveal little tidbits here, there. It's not the Sinclair is a mystery wrapping in an enigma, or even that she really hides much from him. It's just that --

to be honest, they haven't had a lot of time together, yet. They're still learning each other.

So he listens. And he knows: that she just wants to be here with him. Not to have ice cream cake or eat quiznos or play Xbox or perhaps even romp around bed. Just to be here. He knows that, and he lets her know he knows by squeezing her gently, tightening his arms briefly and loosening again.

"Why are you 'like this'?" he asks quietly.

[Sinclair] "I don't know."

This time it's not the beginning of statements that reveal she does know. It isn't meaningless chatter, the speech of a woman in her early twenties, a useless throwaway phrase. She honestly does not know why. She can only explain what's observable:

"When my moon's in the sky, it... has a really strong effect on me. More than most Garou. When it's waxing, I feel like I could take on the fucking world. My mood's fantastic. I look fucking awesome. Good hair days. I'm faster. Stronger. More powerful." She's still for a moment, eyes closing again, and exhales slowly. "But then that goes away when the moon's full. And then it wanes. And I feel like this. Nauseous and sore and weak and cranky. To be honest, I'm surprised I haven't bitten your head off for some stupid thing tonight."

She thinks about that for a minute. Her eyes open. She comments, offhandedly: "You're being really nice, though."

Sinclair thinks on that for another minute, then. "I think that's one of the reasons I like being around you so much. Not, like... cuz you're nice. I don't mean that. I mean. I was just thinking: I feel really calm when I'm with you. Not all zen or whatever. Just.

"I can relax. And even around my pack, I'm... okay, I'm not saying I don't trust them or whatever, I do, and I can let a lot of my guard down and stuff, but... um."

She closes her eyes again, and settles down -- snuggles down -- further, tighter. Closer. "Anyway. I basically said all this in Rio. I like you. I can be myself around you. Blah blah. Etcetera. Stuff."

[Alexander] Which was, in fact, what he was asking. Not: what makes you like this. Not: why tonight, why now. Not that, but: why.

She doesn't know. And he thinks about this for a moment. She tells him what he does know, and he listens. And then he's just quiet for a while. She relaxes. He shifts a little, relaxes too. They don't hear any tinks of metal on metal anymore. Maybe Tripoli fell asleep again.

"I'm glad you're here," he decides. "I mean -- I'm glad you came here even though you feel like crap. I wouldn't like it if you only came here when you felt great. Weirdly enough I'd feel as used like that as if you only came here when you felt like crap, you know?"

[Sinclair] You know?

She doesn't respond at first. Tripoli is quiet because Tripoli is still waiting for the radiator to answer him, goddammit. And he's starting to lose patience. Stupid radiator.

Finally: "I worry about that occasionally. Not a lot, just... sometimes I think about it, and wonder if you ever feel like I'm using you. I mean, I'm not, and I think you know I'm not, I just don't want you to feel like that."

[Alexander] "Listen." He shifts under her, raises himself up on his elbows and looks at her, suddenly serious, suddenly intent. "If I feel like that -- like, ever. I'll tell you. Okay?"

[Sinclair] Of course, the way they're laying, him rising up a bit means Sinclair has to cock her head up, bend her neck, peer back up at him while he tucks his chin to his chest and looks at her from a distance measured in inches rather than feet. She doesn't let go of him, but she looks back, and then

she just nods. "Okay."

Too tired, maybe, to worry that she's upset him. Too tired, maybe, to doubt him. Too tired, right now, to do anything but what she does: say Okay, and lay her head back down.

[Alexander] Early on, when they first sat down together, she wanted to kiss the top of his head, but he got up first, came back, sat beside her. He has no idea that ever even occurred to her.

He kisses the top of her head now, though. And then he lays back, his hand rubbing slow lines down her back.

Quietly, "You wanna go to bed?"

[Sinclair] She can't tell him now just how much she wished he'd rub her back, or stroke her hair. She wouldn't have asked. But when he does -- when his hand starts to smooth over her tank top again and again -- she lets out a long, quiet sigh. It sounds something like relief, like a lot of the crap she's feeling just got exhaled with all that air. Her back sinks under his hand, then moves up again as she inhales once more.

"Yeah," she breathes. "I'll unpack my shit tomorrow or something."

CLANG. CLANG. CLANGCLANGCLANG.

EEE!

Tripoli is fed up.

"I'm going to make him a pet box," Sinclair says, opening one eye, "for when he's materialized but bugging me. And fill it with shrapnel. And he can roll around in it like it's a ball pit or something."

[Alexander] "Let's go--" he begins, and then:

CLANG CLANG CLANG.

"What the fuck?" Alexander sits up with a start. "Did he get stuck?" -- but no, Sinclair's still relaxed, grumping about ball pits and sharpnel boxes, and Alex thinks for a minute and then says, "I can toss some cans in my laundry bin. And he can roll around in there tonight. Here," he nudges her upright, "you go brush your teeth. I'll make him a ball pen."

[Sinclair] That makes her laugh. Cans in a laundry bin. Neither of them have any clue that this will alter Alexander in Tripoli's odd little reality, changing him from the not-wolf-male-thing that the wolf-girl-he-loves brought him to to the not-male-wolf-thing that brings me metal, which Alex has done at least one other time tonight. He is fast working his way into the heart of the wee gaffling. Though truth be told, it doesn't take much.

Sinclair kisses his belly, exhales in a rush, then allows herself to be nudged. She moves onto her knees, rolling her head on her neck and wiggling her shoulders as though to work out kinks... even though she knows they won't quite go away for another day or two. She knows she'll wake up stiff tomorrow morning. It's okay. She'll take a hot shower in Alex's bathroom and unpack her backpack, tucking things away in the cabinet, in the nightstand drawer --

the nightstand that was not there the first time she slept over, or the second, but was there on the night of her birthday. She noticed. She didn't say anything.

Anyway. Tomorrow she'll put things that belong to her in the space that belongs to him, not quite marking his territory with her own scent or anything but simply... making it easier for her to be here. Leaving reminders like notes that even when she's away, she intends to come back.

Right now, she's getting up off the couch and starting to clean up the coffee table, to take the Quizno's bag and her empty Dr. Pepper cup and their beer bottles and the cookie wrapper and the tupperware that had the cake in it all back to the kitchen. Tripoli, for his part, is zooming out of the bedroom, down the hall, ranting about the radiator, arms flailing.

Eee! Eee eee EEE eee eee EE. EE.

"Go with Alex, Tripoli," she says mildly, longsuffering, "he's gonna make you a playpen. Then we're going to sleep."

It's possible that Tripoli can no more understand what she says than they can understand what he says. It's intuition, all of it, figuring out 'ranting' from his noises, or curiosity, or affection, or triumph. Similarly, maybe it's intuition that has Tripoli understanding Sinclair's weariness, if nothing else. It's pure curiosity, however, that has him zooming over to Alex, looking up

from five inches above the carpet

expectantly.

Sinclair, meanwhile, hums to herself in the kitchen, tossing most of her burden in the trash and putting the tupperware in the sink.

[Alexander] "All right, little guy," Alexander says -- the sort of cheerful bluster one uses with small children and small pets, "let's go."

He bends down to put his hand out, and if Tripoli latches onto his arm -- or better yet, wheels onto his palm and up the unfamiliar terrain of his arm and shoulder -- carries the little spirit with him into his bedroom. There, he finds the big plastic bin that serves as his laundry basket, dumps his clothes out on the floor, ducks his head to give it a surreptitious sniff. Not too bad. "Here we go," he says, and lets Tripoli down into it.

The basket gets set up in the living room, on the tiny patch of floor between coffee table and TV. God forbid they have a housefire in the night. Alex goes to the kitchen, and by then Sinclair's gone over to the bathroom and he can hear her brushing her teeth and washing her face, and he puts not only a few cans (chili, campbell's soup, even spam) in with Tripoli, but also half the silverware in his drawers. That ought to keep him busy for a while, Alex thinks.

"Okay. You have fun. Night-night," he says to the gaffling, and waves.

Tripoli waves back. Alex is endeared.

The bathroom door has come off its hinges, Sinclair will notice. It's down in storage, Alex explains. He was sick of having to brush up on the toilet every time he wanted to close the door. If she needs to pee he won't look, he promises, and goes to floss and brush his teeth, and then to grab a quick shower.

It takes maybe ten, fifteen minutes in all for them to get ready for bed. It's getting near Alex's regular bedtime by then anyway, and he's yawning as he drops his towel on the floor, scuffs the last of the water out of his short hair. She has to crabwalk past the radiator to get in what's fast becoming her side of the bed,

just like that nightstand is hers, and the hangars at the end of the closet, and the space under the sink where she'll stash, horror of horrors, her tampons.

The lights go out. Sinclair curls up to Alex, wraps her cold feet around his warm shin. He strokes her back, drawing a long deep breath, and then closes his eyes.

"Goodnight, baby," he murmurs.

In the morning, when she wakes, he's already back from the gym, and his hair is still wet, and he's smiling when he sees her wake.

Morning, baby.