picking up the pieces.

[Warcry] Jesus God. Six hours ago she was in this stupid pink bikini, this little chain of daisies across the lower half, swooping along as though to accentuate how flat, how taut her stomach is. Daisies on the ends of the strings that tied behind her neck, behind her shoulderblades. Leaning back on her elbows, smirking at him from behind her sunglasses, her freckles coming out in the sun. An hour ago she had her feet up next to his lap, her eyes frowing lazy with margaritas, and so very fond of him.

The only thing left is the blueness of those eyes. And that intense fondness, even now, as the rage and bloodlust fades, as she looks at him and wants him to go get his car, go get big bags so they can get rid of these bodies. Even as he startles, the monster-girl doesn't flinch. She knows exactly what she looks like.

He hasn't run, though. Not away from her.

Sinclair seems like she's going to move towards him -- there's the precognition of it in her body language, the hint that she wants to be close. And he says, whispers almost, a request.

The truth is, she needs this strength to quickly dismember the hounds. Put them in different bags, put those bags in different dumpsters around the city. And she can drive, she can do this by herself if she needs to, but the reality is that she didn't want to tell Alex to go home and let mommy handle it. She starts to move, and he asks her to change,

but that word barely gets out of his mouth before she's a girl again. Untouched, unhurt, but covered in blood. It sticks to her lower jaw and covers her throat, drenches her shirt. No wonder she buys such cheap clothes. Dedicated or not, she goes through them fast enough. Not worth washing blood out over and over and over again, really. Not to her.

Her hair is down still, loose and dry now except where it's matted at the ends with red. Her presence is still predatory, animal, even bereft of the rage that makes her so intolerable to humans. Without the rage, the reaction is different. It's like facing down a wolf or a bear in the wild, knowing it might be as afraid of you as you are of it, knowing that if you just back off slowly and leave it to its prey it might let you live,

but the truth is, that's not exactly a situation you want to find yourself in either. No more than you'd want to, say, be standing there watching a true monster tear into its enemies. Those that trespass on its territory.

She rises from her crouch even as her form is snapping back to its first state, it's most natural state -- though even Sinclair might argue that warform is the most natural, the true form of Garou, the one that marks them so entirely as what they are. She's not sweating. She's barely even breathing heavily, though her heart is still racing. She thinks; she changes her plan.

"Let me hide the bodies," she says quietly. "Just to get them out of the way. I'll go home with you, and ...I can come back and finish cleaning up." A beat. "You don't have to come with me for that. I can't do it in homid, and I have to call the sept anyway, and..."

Her brow furrows. "You don't have to decide now, either. Just give me a few minutes to drag them out of sight and we can go home and... go from there."

[Alexander and Friends] When she snaps back, he relaxes visibly. It's almost stupid: out of sight, out of mind, like he's some sort of macaque too low on the evolutionary pole to understand object permanence. Still, in this shape she looks like a girl, looks like his girlfriend, looks like something familiar and beloved and

bloody. His eyes flick over her, find no wounds. Come back to hers. A moment later she can all but see his hackles go up, his jaw square. He spoke earlier about being like a wounded feral animal; well, this is similar. A scared feral animal, ready to take offense at any perceived attack on its weakness.

"I'll go get the car," he says. Insists. A quick, humorless huff, "That's my goddamn job, remember?" He licks his lips, then stops when he tastes blood. "You don't have to coddle me and leave me at home with the babysitter. I'm not ... fragile. I just needed to see you in something other than tower of doom form for a second."

Another breath, deeper, steadying. He tosses the surfboard down at last. Fuck if he knows what he's going to do with it, but he knows this much: he's not carrying it all the back right now. He's enough of a sight without a bloody surfboard bouncing on his back. He comes toward her. There's blood on her face, but there's blood on his hands too. He takes her face between his hands for a moment. Contact, as though to say: see? I'm still with you.

"I've seen it now," he says, quieter. "I'm cool. You do what you need to; I'll be back with the car in ten."

[Warcry] Her brows tighten together when his hackles go up. My goddamn job goes over a little better than coddle me, leave me at home with the babysitter, but not by much. She looks away before he's done talking, looks at the side of a building, tense with sudden anger, waiting to exhale until she can calm down.

Sinclair doesn't look at him again til he's coming near her, and she damn near snaps his hands off her face. Relents, though, staring at him. He can see how angry he's made her, how fucking perfect what he just said was. Her jaw is tight.

She reaches up, and puts her hands on his wrists, and holds them. Doesn't shove him away, but holds his hands right there, eyes locked on his.

"I'm not coddling you," she says, her voice low and tight with... anger, a blanket over all the rest, but it's not all there is. "I'm not trying to babysit you, Alex, and lashing out at me about what your 'job' is here doesn't make you look less fragile, it's just you treating me like you're the good kinsman and I'm the Garou who's in charge of you. And any time you do shit like that, you're straight-arming me away and it pisses me off."

She exhales, turning her head so it's not right into his face, flecked with blood and smelling of worse. She looks sidelong at him, hands still on his wrists. "And have enough faith in me -- and respect for me -- to think that maybe coddling or babysitting you isn't actually the reason I wanted to change plans and go with you."

There's something in her eyes there, a tight, hard little ache. Maybe he hates seeing it. Worry for him. Worry for a lot of things. Maybe even hurt that he jumped so quickly to that conclusion, that his knee jerked that hard, that soon after what was such a successful battle when you look at it.

Sinclair draws back now, slowly, because even with that wave of aggravation, she doesn't want to push him away. Least of all, that. She heads towards one of the hounds. "If we hide the bodies first and come back cleaned up and with supplies, we can watch each other's backs to and from the apartment. I can call the sept and find out A, if they have a cleanup team who can get to the area and do a better job than dumpster-stuffing and B, if they have any good dump-sites if there's no team available. If I go back with you I can get the fucking materials for a cleansing rite and not have to waste time giving you a laundry list of what to bring back, which just means it'll take longer, which means me sitting out here in the veritable open with some fucked-up monsters waiting for you to get back. If I sit here waiting for you to get back, I have no fucking clue if you're going to get jumped on the way home or not and right now it's not a risk I can take, and your fucking ego can blow me if that bothers you. And if you're so fired up to do your 'job' then you can help me more as a lookout while I dismember corpses and bag them up."

She's hauling up the hound as she speaks, dragging it towards the shadows, back towards where it hid at the start of all this, as she is talking. Her eyes snap up to him. "Unless you want me to send you home because I don't think you can handle that part. Because I don't know what the hell to do, Alex. I don't want to sit there making you sick and making you look at me the way you're looking at that surfboard like you're not sure you ever wanna touch it again, but if I ask you to maybe not watch me while I tear apart bodies in warform then you think I'm coddling you. So just... fight with me about this when we get home, okay?" she finishes finally, a little exasperated. "I would love to argue with you about this til the sun comes up if we have to, but right now it's just... I've done this a few times now, okay? I just need you to trust that the way I'm doing it isn't based solely -- or even mostly -- on whether or not I'm worried about you."

[Alexander and Friends] She gets to about unless you want me to send you home when he interrupts. Quietly, for what it's worth, saying, "Stop. Sinclair, stop," in a voice that's not so much resigned or raw or bare as it is --

well. Apologetic.

"Baby," he says, quieter still, "stop. I totally misread you, okay? I thought ... you told me to go get the car, and then you saw me blanch because you were growling at me, and then I thought you just jerked way back and started acting like I was too fragile to perturb. And yeah, I should've trusted you more. But can you at least look at it from my perspective and see why it looked just like that to me?

"Anyway. I get you now. And I don't want to fight with you 'til the sun comes up, and I don't think we need to. I get you. So let's just ... go get the car, okay?"

A pause.

"Also, I'm gonna ride that goddamn board again if it takes me three weeks and a whole box of Clorox to clean it up."

[Warcry] She doesn't stop. Not right away. Gets mad when he wants her too, and with a sort of insistence finishes what she has to goddamn say before it all ends up rushing out of her in a breath,

because the truth is, it matters that she doesn't want him looking at her like that surfboard. Looking at her like she's never going to be anything but a tower of doom dismembering corpses of hounds that wanted to kill him. She honestly isn't sure if he can handle that, and that's the truth of it. She honestly isn't sure if they can survive that. She doesn't know how any couple does it, not when one is Gaoru and one's not. She wonders if it just depends on the kin in question.

It matters, too, that he hear her -- or at least that she get the chance to say -- that she's not new to this. That it isn't just about him. Spoken in anger or not, she needs to say that, needs to know he hears her. That she isn't going to act stupid about her plans during or after battle because he might be worried, he might be fragile, he might be afraid.

Sinclair does look at him in the end though, frowning with something more like sadness and weariness and stress than anger now. He admits he misread her, how he saw it. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't tell him yeah, she can understand. Right now, the truth is, she doesn't have the patience for this. Any of it. She doesn't have the patience to talk about it the way she could at the restaurant or even fighting at home. She just huffs a spare laugh when he mentions Cloroxing the fuck out of the board and gives a quick nod.

"Just give me a minute and we'll go," she says. Turns, then, because she has two more bodies to drag out of sight.

[Alexander and No Friends] "Okay," he says.

He doesn't really just 'give her a minute' though. When it becomes apparent she's dragging bodies out of sight, he helps without being asked. If she stays in homid, he lugs bodies with her. If she shifts, he lets her handle it -- goes to gather up their other debris instead. It takes a while to find the surfboard leashes in the dark; the curtain rod.

The night settles quiet and cool around them. San Diego isn't so large a city as Chicago, and not nearly so large as LA. It settles down after dark. They can hear the waves clearly now, a steady rush against the shore.

When they're done, and the bodies are stowed, and the makeshift weaponry are put out of sight, they pick up their surfboards again. Alex uses their beach towels to wipe the blood from the decks, then puts them face to face again, colorful undersides facing out; tucks them both under his arm. Sinclair stuffs the bloody towels into the cooler along with their magically-compressed wetsuits. Not the ideal solution, but better than leaving a pair of surfboards, bloody surfboards, out in the middle of a lot they were trying not to draw attention to.

Then they're ready to go. And leaving the lot, their bodies growing sticky with half-wiped away, cooling, coagulating blood, Alex reaches out for Sinclair's hand again. Their fingers link. Southern california girl with a her southern california boy.

A block or two from that lot, and a block or two from their place, he speaks --

"I know you've done this before. I sometimes forget it because you're so young. My god, you were a virgin. And most the time we're together, you're just... Sinclair, who got all glee'd out because I got her a birthday cake. Sinclair, my girl. So I forget. But I'll try to remember, okay?"

It's a little longer before he adds, "I'd also like it if you'd remember that I've done this too. Maybe not as much as you, but some. So next time, if you've got a plan in mind -- like how to get rid of bodies or whatever -- maybe you could just let me know."

[Warcry] It was never the idea that he wouldn't help, or couldn't help. She stays in homid for now. Maybe that's for his sake. Maybe it's because even if it's unlikely she'll ever be as strong as her Alpha, she's stronger than the average 23-year old female. Maybe, just maybe, it's because not wanting to take warform in front of him unnecessarily is as much for her sake, her comfort, than his. She'd be lying if she said it didn't hurt her to see him so freaked out, frozen, even if she knows it's not, really, her that he's scared of.

So they drag bodies out of the way, two poster children for regular exercise and a healthy sleep schedule. They wipe blood off their faces and move quickly, lashing boards together and stuff bloody cloths out of the way, hiding curtain rods and the like in dumpsters. When Alex reaches for Sinclair's hand, she startles a bit, but then links hers with his tightly, despite the drying, sticky, flaking blood between their fingers.

Expecting silence on the walk home, quick as their steps are, Sinclair looks a little surprised when Alex talks. She sighs, but tries to keep it quiet, and she doesn't interrupt, roll her eyes, or ignore him.

"Okay," is all she says to the first part, quiet. Because in a way it makes her happy that he forgets. In a way, she doesn't want to say goddammit Alex I'm nearly an Adren. She doesn't want to tell him that she's been killing things like this since she was eighteen and wanting to since she was fourteen. She's a little glad that he thinks of her so strongly as his girl, who glees at birthday cakes and hasn't even had sex with anyone but him, who likes to surf and beat his ass at racing games, that he forgets that she's a Fostern Galliard of the Nation, member of a war pack under a totem of war, twice Wyrm-ridden,

Warcry,

Brutal Revelation.

Her hand squeezes his, and they keep walking, and a little while later, he speaks again. This time she looks at him, and they're near his place, which means there's more light, and she's keeping her eyes peeled for people who might see them and freak out. Her brow furrows a bit, but she nods. "I know you have. That's..." she shrugs. "I had one plan in mind. And then I looked at you and you asked me to shift and I thought about you walking home and driving back alone and it changed. So that's what I told you." She shakes her head. "Alex, I'll work on like... communicating to you what the plan is and why, but I'm not used to doing that, or needing to do that. I'm really not used to fighting without my pack, much less with kinfolk."

That might make him tense up. If it does, she lets it go. And when it passes, if it's there at all: "When we get inside, I'm going to use the second shower to scrub the worst off real quick," she says. "It's not you, it's just that it'll go faster that way. And when all this is over and we're home, I know you probably just want to crash but it would mean a lot to me if you'd like... let me ...cook for you, or give you a backrub, or stay awake til you fall asleep, or... just... let me take care of you without it being this big deal about me thinking you're weak or something, okay?"

They're at the apartment complex. In through the gate, towards the stairs. She's looking ahead now, still holding his hand, and her voice is very quiet. "I just need you to let me care for you sometimes. Not because you need me to do it for you. Because I need to do it, and you're the one I want to do it for."

This time it's her turn to look at him and say: "Okay?"

[Alexander and No Friends] She's right. There's a flicker of tension when she says she's not used to fighting with kinfolk. God, but he's so sensitive on that issue sometimes - the line between Garou and kin, the fact that he is, in fact, kin.

He forgets, when he's with her, that she's Garou. And on some level that makes her happy. Makes them both happy. But at the end of the day it's impossible to set it aside entirely. Because sooner or later, something like this happens. And sooner or later, everything they talked about in theory, as a distant possibility, is suddenly in their face.

That flicker of tension passes, though. They talk about showering, about making this all be over, about --

her taking care of him. And he frowns at that, and weirdly enough it's that -- not talking about kin and Garou, but that -- that makes him straighten up, look at her.

"Wait," he says. "I don't really get it. What do you mean, take care of me? And what do you mean, do it for you?"

[Warcry] As much as it might make Sinclair smile inwardly to know that when Alex sees her, he doesn't see the woman who can, even in homid, call upon her totem and quite possibly snap a grown man's neck with her bare hands. He doesn't think of the enormous monster who was crouching in that lot not more than a few minutes ago, growling at him, trying to communicate without wasting energy shifting -- until it seemed that energy wouldn't really be wasted at all.

The truth is that no energy is wasted, for Sinclair, if it's for him. And she even understands that he at once appreciates that, is warmed by that, and resists it, rejects it, rebels against it. She's not a stranger to that kind of internal conflict. Love me as I am, she feels when she looks at him, even as she's thinking but please don't see me as I really am. Sometimes please see me as a 23 year-old girl who squees because of birthday cake lives right alongside please see me as the near-Adren I am, the Galliard, the warrior, the monster, battle-ready but not battle-worn.

Their hands stick together by blood. There's poetry to that, if she had the time right now for poetry.

"Huh?" she says, already going elsewhere in her thoughts, already elsewhere because there's a lot to do and not much time and they just left the bodies out and she's worn out, she's distracted, she's feeling needy and hating it and knowing he needs X but she can't give him X because then he'll --

and so on.

Sinclair looks at him, and takes a breath, looking away again, ahead of them. They're coming to the stairs of his apartment, the gate, heading into the courtyard now to go up to his floor. "I just mean...I've always ..." Telling him -- anyone -- this is hard for her, and it shows. She frowns, climbing the stairs with him. "I like taking care of the people that matter to me," she finishes, a bit stiffly, prematurely defensive. "Sometimes I feel most myself when someone just lets me hold them."

A beat, as they head down the upper story sidewalk to his door. "Most people won't let me."

He can almost hear the undercurrent to that: nobody lets me. not for a long time.

I'm not allowed to be that.

[Alexander and No Friends] They're standing just outside his door now, speaking in hushed tones. They do this because they have a houseguest, and this is a private conversation. Their hands are stuck together by blood. They fought and killed and were victorious together. There's poetry in all that, but neither of them have time for it.

He's frowning a little, that heavy brow of his shadowing his eyes in the wan light of their porch lamp. It's not an angry frown. It's a thoughtful one.

"I'm not really used to being taken care of," he admits. "Even when we were really little, I took care of my brother. And now I kinda take care of my students and my team, you know? I hear you, but it's ... hard for me not to equate being taken care of as being somehow weaker. Or less. Or just weak.

"I know that last part's not true, though. And I ... kinda understand how taking care of other people can be important. I kinda get how letting you take care of me is like taking care of you. So I can try, Sin', but ... just don't wait on me hand and foot or something, okay? Or make me feel like you're doing something for me 'cause I can't do it by myself. 'Cause I can."

[Warcry] She gives him a strange look. It's part wry. It's also part hurt. And that defensiveness hasn't dropped. That sense of rejection lingers in her eyes. And all she can say to that, really, is the truth.

"Sometimes nobody lets me take care of them because I scare them, and they don't want something like me trying. But the rest of the time, that's... basically exactly why. I just wish it wasn't something I have to constantly keep in check, like everything else about me, because ...I don't know."

She shakes her head, and she looks at the door like she wants to go in and get away from this conversation, but she can't remember where her keys are right now, or if she even brought hers with her to their day of surfing. "It sucks that you even think you need to ask me not turn into some like... 50s housewife or something," she says quietly. "And to be honest, Alex, right now it feels like... I'm asking you to please just let me be myself and you're telling me again that who I am makes you uncomfortable. It just makes me... tired."

That last word sounds like what it is. She blinks a couple of times as though clearing sleep from her eyes. "I never would have even been interested in you if I'd thought you couldn't take care of yourself. Or weren't strong." Her head turns, eyes flicking in his direction. "I am an animal, baby. I wouldn't want a ...boyfriend or whatever,"

she doesn't say mate, she doesn't have the right,

"that wasn't fit. But I also wanna keep you warm. And give you food. And make sure where we sleep is safe."

A beat. "And I kind of want the privilege to be the one that is allowed to take care of you, when you won't let anyone else."

[Alexander and No Friends] "Baby..."

He hasn't let go of her hand yet. And he steps closer to her, and this fit strong mate of hers is only a handful of inches taller when they're both in flipflops so it's easy for him to look her right in the eyes.

"Baby," softer, "I know it kinda hurts when it sounds like I'm stiffarming you away just like everyone else. But you gotta understand you're asking me to bend from the way I've always lived in pretty contortionist ways. And I know we talked about this earlier and I know you're not really gonna baby me or make me feel weak, but ... it's still something pretty big, okay?

"I'll try. But you gotta be patient with me. And maybe also not get so hurt or put off if I don't immediately let you in. I'm for real, with you. I'm planning to be here for the long haul. We don't have to hurry on any of this, and you don't have to worry that if things aren't perfect right from the start that they'll never be.

"Work in progress. Right?"

[empafee: seeing how she takes that!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Warcry] "I know you are," she says quietly, when he says he's for real. Her brow is furrowed, and she steps closer, allowing herself a moment to rest against him, turning her head and laying it not quite on his shoulder but between shoulder and neck, hair against his throat.


[She's definitely tired and feeling uneasy about this conversation because of that (as well as distraction/stress). She's worried more about being allowed to be herself with Alex (ie, being accepted) than about the stability/longevity of their relationship. She's a little frustrated at being misunderstood, but she wants to be close.]

[Alexander and No Friends] Alex nuzzles against Sinclair as she steps into him. They're the perfect height for that, too. His shoulder is warm and firm under her cheek; his neck corded in muscle and tendon. There isn't an inch of him that isn't trained to a sort of fanatic fitness.

They stand together for a moment. Then he speaks softly, "I guess what I mean is, please don't feel like just because you have to restrain what you are a little bit right now that means you'll always have to. There was a time when I didn't really believe you'd really just let me go free if I wanted to leave. There was a time when I would've probably run away from you after we put down that last dog tonight.

"Shit changes. I'm getting to know you more and more. And I'm learning to accept you too. Every part of you. I guess it's a little weird that I accepted the part of you that's a nine foot tower of doom faster than I can accept the part of you that wants to take care of me even if I'm not weak, but ... I'm getting there, too."

[Warcry] They are warm and fit and strong. And bloody. They wiped most of it off their faces but she can still taste it in her mouth. There are still flecks on his face, in his hair, where it flew when Sinclair tore beasts apart not three feet from where he stood. She hasn't put her arms around him but he nuzzles against her, and they stand together at his doorway, time ticking away around them.

She listens, and he can't see her face or her eyes now to try and tell how she's taking it, but after he finishes speaking, her hand comes up and rests on his back, between his shoulderblades. He can feel her take a deep breath against him, and he might be able to tell that her ear is against his chest, listening to his heart beating, as strong and steady as ever.

Then she lifts her head and looks up at him. Close, he can see the faint remainders of what she is drying on her skin, in her hair. He can see the hints of all the extremes she is in those pale, ethereally soft eyes of hers. She just nods, and smiles a small smile. "Let's go in," she says. "We've got Shit to Do."

[Alexander and No Friends] [i look!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Warcry] [That helped. It's not clear just why it helped, but she seems much more settled as far as the two of them are concerned and ready to Get On With Bizniz.]

[Alexander and No Friends] When Sinclair lifts her head, Alex is looking at her, searching for her eyes. Searching her eyes. Whatever he sees there makes him return that small smile of hers. He squeezes her hand gently.

"Yeah," he says. Then he takes a breath, lowers his chin and gives her a look. Half of the intensity is real: is focus, is Getting Shit Done. The other half is -- a sort of play, almost. Like whatever else, he's sort of glad to be working with her like this.

"Let's do this shit."


And they go in. And they're all business then, because there's Shit To Do. They have a houseguest -- a dreadlocked young man that introduced himself as Fire-Bright, Uktena Galliard. He's chilling on one of the top bunks; blinks, stunned, as Warcry comes through bloody and half naked to barge into the guest bathroom. Alexander's right behind her. He flings his clothes off (also bloody) and goes into the master bath (also barging). The showers turn on almost simultaneously.

Five minutes later, they shut off almost simultaneously. Alex dresses in clothes more or less indistinguishable from what's been dumped in the hamper: t-shirt, board shorts. He scrubs his head dry-ish while Sinclair stalks back and forth in the small living room, cell phone to her ear. The other end, the office of the Chief Combat and Tactics Coordinator, aka the warleader, is an endless ringtone. Brrrrring. Brrrrring. Brrrrrring.

Fire-Bright asks him what's going on in an undertone. "Ran into some weird dog-things," is all Alexander says in return.

Just when Sinclair's fairly sure no one's going to pick up, someone does. The voice on the other end sounds slightly peevish; she recognizes it as one of her fellow fosterns, the Executive Assistant CTCC. It's afterhours, he's probably home watching a game or something. She explains what happened and he sighs heavily and tells her to call the ERC. Evidence Removal Crew, he explains when she asks wtf, and then gives her the number and hangs up before she can repeat it back to him.

The ERC picks up immediately. The voice on the other end is businesslike and crisp. They ask for a location and a general description of the 'problem'. They explain their crews are currently busy, but give her an ETA - thirty-five minutes - and ask her to stand guard until they get there. When Sinclair hangs up, Alex stands, tossing the towel aside.

"We going back or what?"

[Warcry] For what it's worth, Sinclair does know what ERC stands for. She swears when the Exec. Asst. CTCC mentions them, but not because she's confused. He starts to explain. She snaps, "I know!" and hangs up a minute later. She doesn't need to repeat the number back to him. When Fire-Bright is sitting there watching her pace the living room on the phone, hair saturated and soaking the back and shoulders of a baggy Runaways t-shirt, long legs sticking out from red shorts, feet in a pair of old sneakers sans socks, he just doesn't try to talk to her. Avoids eye contact.

Sinclair rolls her eyes at the ERC's office and just says, "I'll be done by then."

Hangs up. Looks over at Alex and gives a nod. "Yeah." She looks at Fire Bright. "We could use the help if you don't mind," she says, trying to nudge the aggravation out of her voice, making it sound like a request wrapped in a simple statement. It doesn't really matter if the Uktena comes with, except that two pairs of Garou hands and a pair of kinfolk hands are going to get things done a lot faster.

Whatever Fire Bright says, though, Sinclair's tying her wet hair up into a ponytail, leaving it in a loop at the nape of her neck, and grabbing her keys, too. "Might as well take both cars," she says. "Get the shit to different dumping grounds faster."

And she's out the door. Now is the time to act, and to act faster than the goddamn sept in this town seems to be able to.

To tell the truth, as she heads down to the El Cam, she's thinking more about their response to a cub on the verge of changing right in their midst, and the first name on the list on her bicep.

[Alexander and No Friends] Fire-Bright's wandered back to his borrowed room by the time Sinclair gets off that second phone call. He's reading Life of Pi, and his eyes are getting big because he's getting to that brutal last section. When Sinclair asks, though, he tosses the book aside and vaults over the edge of the bed, landing on the floor light and easy as a gymnast.

"Sure Rhya," he says. "Lemme grab my cleanup gear."

'Cleanup gear' turns out to be a US Army canteen with a custom cap. When he unscrews it to fill the canteen, Warcry sees that there's a brush fitted to the inside of the cap, like an overgrown nail-polish bottle. The better to scatter water with, one supposes. He screws it back together when the canteen's full and slings it over his shoulder, rangy and slim as he tails the Fostern and the kinsman out of the apartment.

They take two cars. Alex has a tarp in the spare tire compartment, which he pulls out and spreads over the trunk and the folded-down back seats. It might be a fucking hyundai, but he still doesn't want blood in the back. Fire-Bright rides with his elder, explaining offhandedly that he's en route to his home sept in Arizona and stopping over to visit his sister at SDSU, but will stay an extra day or two if she needed some extra help.

"You've been putting me up for free," he says. "I figure I owe you a favor."

Then they're there, and Alex is reaching over to the glove compartment. When he steps out of the car he has a gun in hand, a medium-sized semiautomatic, nothing spectacular but serviceable, dependable. He cocks it, uncocks it, and then slips the safety on and tucks it into his shorts before going around to pop the trunk of his car.

A whistle to catch Sinclair's attention and he's tossing her a Costco-sized roll of black trash bags. Another one goes toward Fire-Bright. He leaves the trunk open but reaches in to turn the light off, then comes over to them. He's wearing closed-toe sneakers now, his feet bare in them.

A walk, a talk, a shower and a drive and he's as good as new. He glances at the half-hidden carnage without revulsion. There's a hint of swagger, of been here, done this in the way he asks them, "You guys want me to keep watch while you hack 'n slash?"

[Warcry] "Who needs the fucking ERC," are the first words out of Sinclair's mouth at the site.


Sure, in the car she makes some politely-interested phrases come out of her mouth for Fire Bright, oh yeah, you have a sister, my cousin's at UCSD, all that. She thanks him for coming along, because he didn't have to. It's a safehouse and a crashpad, she says, and it still means something that he has the honor to help. She still appreciates it. She tells him about that asshole who stayed there awhile ago. She leaves out the part about her slamming him by the throat to the wall. Leaves out the part about her and Alex fighting over it later.

At the lot, though, she's getting out of the El Cam and pointing the hiding spots of the corpses out to the Uktena, glancing over at Alex when she hears the slam of trunk, the cock of the gun that, were she in lupus, would make her ears flick in his direction as well. She catches the bags, snatches them out of the air with a one-handed grab that says something about the strength of her grip. Would have been a good gymnast, but she likes to say she sort of was, almost, kinda, not really. Cheerleading isn't quite the same.

And she says that line about the ERC, throws it out there. Alex asks if they want him to keep watch, and she gives a nod. "Yeah. I'll signal when it's all bagged up." Jerks her head towards Fire Bright. "Get started. I'll be behind you in a second to help you cleanse."

When he heads off towards the bodies, Sinclair looks over at Alex. Just catches his eye for a moment. Smiles at him, something warm in her eyes. Then she turns, heading towards Fire Bright.

It's been awhile since she's needed to help do a cleansing rite. She's glad for the Uktena's help, because frankly, she's not that great at the whole rituals thing. Wants to get better, but she wants to get better at a lot. She's still so young, Fostern, near-Adren or not. It works better with the other Galliard there, and soon enough they know there's no taint of Wyrm anymore, not on Sinclair or Alex, not on the corpses or in the lot.

She glances over her shoulder at him, checks on him keeping watch, being the Face. Slowly she shifts to crinos.

Much faster, she and her auspicemate snap and twist joints apart, tear through muscle, making short, calculated work of dismembering corpses. A human would need a chainsaw. They rend and tear with tooth and claw. Behind him, Alex can hear the wet, heavy thump of body parts being lumped together in those bags, the rustle as those bags are knotted off and double-bagged.

She gives a whistle when they're done, in a human voice. One low, one high. The sort of sharp, clear, quick whistle you give to a dog or a friend to get their attention, to say hey! over here!


Body parts in car trunks.

Werewolves in Southern California. Monsters that surf.


A great deal of time later, give or take, they're back at Casa Vaughn. They split up, drove opposite directions, no more than 1 bag to a dumpster, no more than 1 dumpster in a two-mile radius. It takes awhile. This time, Fire Bright goes with Alex. They get back to the apartment before Sinclair does, and when she does, she checks the parking lot for his Elantra first, before heading up. To go home.

[Alexander and No Friends] That warm smile -- given in the moment the Cliath turns away, in the moment Sinclair and Alex meet each other's eyes -- is returned with a quick wink. Just a little cocky.

It's not overblown, that arrogance; not interfering with his good judgment, thankfully -- though if we're honest Sinclair hasn't really seen that sort of blind arrogance happen all that often since she Came Back -- but it's there. A sort of subdermal, physical assurance that these days is a little closer to true confidence.

They split up. He takes post on a low dirt hill, crouching so he's not too visible. Sinclair heads off to hack'n'slash, as Alex puts it, and he watches the street mostly, alert and on guard. He thinks about the fight, the savage speed of it, the terror, the fact that even terrified, he didn't panic. Give up. In some small way he's proud of that.

In a very big way, he's glad they made it. Both of them. In every sense.


Once in a while he checks to see how Sinclair and Fire-Bright are doing. When it's clear they're wrapping up, he gets Sinclair's keys and pops the big trunk on the El Camino. He helps them carry body-bags, and when everything's stashed away he tosses the surfboards on top and slides the makeshift spear in the side.

They drive around the city making dumps. It takes a long time, but it's weirdly fun. At least, Alex thinks it's weirdly fun. When fear passes and tension blows over, there's a sort of exhilaration. He has to remind himself over and over not to drive too fast, not to draw attention, but his mood is infectious and it turns into a bit of a game, pulling to a stop, popping the trunk, tossing garbage bags full of horrid horrid meat at Fire-Bright, who slam-dunks them into dumpsters all around Mission Bay.

They finish before Sinclair. There's two of them, and the Elantra's smaller; can't carry so much. They stop by a gas station car wash and drive on through. They pass a Wienerschnitzel and it's got chilidogs and chiliburgers 5 for $5, so they stop and pick up ten of each. By the time they get home, they're only a few minutes ahead of Sinclair. When she gets there, she finds his Elantra there, gleaming clean, engine still ticking. She can still smell chilidogs and chiliburgers all the way from the carport to the apartment door, and even more strongly inside.

The bounty's heaped on the tiny kitchen table. Alex and Fire-Bright are working on bagging the surfboards so they didn't drip gore on the kitchen floor before Alex has a chance to bleach them down tomorrow. The Cliath waves at Sinclair as she walks in, points out the food on the table, and then excuses himself to go take a shower. He snags three burgers, two dogs, grabs his large drink, and bids them goodnight. It's a pretty good indication that he has the good sense to retire to the guest room and give Sinclair and Alex privacy in their own den.

For his part, Alex finishes bagging his surfboard and straightens up. "So I know you kinda wanted to cook," he says, "but these were like five for five bucks, and I had such a craving suddenly. I think we should go shower, then pile into bed and nom these and then snooze for like. Ever."

[Warcry] Alexander is, sometimes, so much like rubber. He bounces back from everything fast, and maybe that has something to do with his perpetual motion, his endless energy. And she doesn't tell him this at the lot because she's not sure how he'd take it, but she's proud of him. Proud of the way he grabs whatever the fuck he can to use against his enemy. The first lesson she gave Katherine in fighting, she tried to make the Silver Fang see the dishonorable, ignoble weapons around her. Like the very asphalt at her feet. And if she hadn't been inwardly freaking out that he might get hurt, he might not just get hurt but die so suddenly that she wouldn't be able to help him

-- and she thought about not using her rage to fight, to meet all foes on equal footing. What if she needed to heal him? What if she missed a bite and couldn't

and then one of the hounds turned around

and took him away from her? --

then she might have felt more of that pride in his tactics, in his quick thinking, in his strength, in all of it. The threat of loss was, at the time, too great. And too much to bear.

Coming home, she smells dogs and burgers and truth be told, she's a little disappointed and a little relieved. She's even more tired than she was before, so she's not sure she could have done more in terms of making food than taking something out of the freezer and hitting a few buttons on the microwave. Sinclair opens the door and tells Fire Bright thanks again before he excuses himself, then walks over and wraps her arms quite unceremoniously around Alex's midsection, putting her head on his chest again.

"What is it with you and eating in bed?" she wants to know.

[Alexander and No Friends] An honorable fighter wouldn't fight the way Alex did. They wouldn't grab whatever was at hand. They wouldn't use a goddamn surfboard as a shield and a curtain rod as a spear. They wouldn't entangle the opponent with a surfboard leash; that would be both ludicrous and low.

Then again, an honorable fighter wouldn't fight in a cage, either. They wouldn't train in MMA, which might be correctly called the art of doing whatever the fuck you can to beat the other guy up. They wouldn't ground'n'pound as their primary mode of attack -- they wouldn't entangle, pin, and otherwise take whatever advantage they could in a fight. They certainly wouldn't corner a defenseless babyfaced kid in a park, far away from his big bad Garou lover, and kick the shit out of him in revenge for a fight they started. And they sure as hell wouldn't smirk every time they thought of that little tussle even now, years later. An honorable fighter --

would probably be dead.


Sinclair comes over. Hugs him. They're still messy -- they mildly clean for a while, but then it was hacking and slashing and grabbing and tying and heaving and dumping for something like an hour and a half. He doesn't mind that there's blood and dirt on her hands. She doesn't seem to mind that he smells a bit like a dumpster from the times he and Fire-Bright traded places and he stood on top of the dumpster slam-dunking body parts. She doesn't seem to mind, at all, that her boyfriend is not honorable.

He's tough. He's a survivor. He puts his arms around her and gives her a squeeze, laughing.

"It's like the ultimate indulgence for me. Most days I'm like. Get up. Drink protein shake. Run and work out. Have lunch. Train people. Have dinner. Run. I never just eat and vegetate, y'know? So if I'm not just eating and vegetating but eating where I vegetate, it's a huge deal."

He wraps his arms a little tighter around her, squeezes, lifts her up for a second and sets her back down. Then he swats her on the bum.

"Come on. Shower, eat-vegetate, sleep."

[Warcry] Failsafe tried to teach Sinclair to fight a little more nobly. It was the Gnawers and Walkers on the streets who taught her to use other advantages. Not because she's small or weak, not because she had a chip on her shoulder. The reason she fits so well with the Unbroken and the reason she learned to fight the way she did is that Sinclair has known for a long time that there is no dishonor in doing everything you can to win the fucking war. She doesn't quite believe that the ends justify the means.

But to an extent, that saying comes a little close.

She wraps herself around him, holds him, holds onto him, and there's an exchange in that they might have lost track of in the earlier discussion. Taking care of him doesn't mean she doesn't want him to take care of her back. Wanting to be taken care of doesn't mean she feels weak, feels needy. Not unless he sees it that way. Not unless he rejects her for it.

When she's feeling playful, bouncy, bounding the way he does, Sinclair usually responds to a swat across her rear with a yelp and a laugh, with kissing him and letting him chase her to bed. Tonight he does it after he lifts her up, squeezes her, and... she's just holding onto him. Come on, he said, and she just ignores it. Stands right where she is, longer than she could before, holding him in her arms and listening to his heartbeat.

Which is still steady. Still strong. Still there.

After a little while, she breathes in again, just as last time, and squeezes him back. Draws back. Gives him a sudden, sharp slap on the ass. "Grab the food," she tells him, "and I'll meet you in the shower."

[Alexander and No Friends] Alexander doesn't quite yelp when she slaps him on the ass right back, but he jumps, and then he laughs, and then he leans forward and smooches her on the forehead.

"Kay," he says. He sounds happy. He sounds immeasurably fond.

Then she goes off to the shower. He moves the remaining dogs and burgers -- and there are a lot of them -- into the bedroom. Dumps them onto the bed, puts their sodas on the nightstands, tosses a roll of paper towels on the sheets so they can wipe the chili off their faces. By the time he joins her in the shower, there's already steam everywhere. They have a shower curtain here instead of the frameless sliding glass door Kate has at her place. Kate had a lot of things that Alex doesn't have, but

he doesn't think for a minute that Sinclair would trade one home for the other. The packhouse was the packhouse. This is her den, and after so many months without it, she's finally found her way back again.

That's the thought in his mind, curious and feral, when he strips off his clothes and climbs into the shower with her. She's already washed her hair and brushed her teeth. They squeeze around each other, wet and soap-slippery, occasionally elbowing each other as they maneuver around the narrow tub. They wash the blood and the gunk and the dirt and the night off. It all goes down the drain, leaving only a memory in its wake.

He'd bounced back like a rubber ball. He was even having fun while he and his houseguest were doing the midnight dumpster run. But here, now, the day and the night catches up to him. So much physical exertion. So much to talk about, think about, think through. He was tired when they went to get burritos, and though that dinner conversation wasn't angry, wasn't rough, it was still a lot for them to work through. One more detail in their work-in-progress of a relationship.

And then came battle. The threat of death like a spectre, even if neither of them has said a word about it.

So he's quiet, when the shower's winding down. He wraps his arms around her and they lean against the wall together, eyes closed, drowsing as the water beats down.


When it starts getting cold they get out. They dry off, Alex helping Sinclair towel her hair, then sitting down on the toilet lid for her to do the same. They go to bed wearing towels around their shoulders and nothing else, climbing under the sheets, grabbing chili dogs and chili burgers and pigging out. It's well after midnight when they're too full to eat another bite. Alexander balls up the napkins and the wrappers and stuffs them into the bag, moves the remaining few dogs and burgers onto the nightstand. Drops the trash bag over the side of the bed, brushes the crumbs to the floor.

"Totally getting a Roomba," he says, and reaches to turn out the lights.


In the dark, they shuffle under the sheets, and together. It's so long past his bedtime that Sinclair might expect him to just drop off and sleep in seconds. He doesn't, though. He turns toward her, and he finds her under the sheets. He pulls her close and he says what he couldn't in the light --

That was scary.
and
I'm glad we're okay.

She kisses him, then. She kisses that confession off his lips, and the kiss builds, and he rolls her under him. They kiss as they make love. She holds him in her arms and her legs, holds him so near to her, so close that their lovemaking is slow and tidal, gasping, quiet, rhythmic as the sea outside. He's going to miss that ocean when he moves back to Chicago, he realizes,

and wonders that he's so certain that she'll go back. And he'll come with her. And this doesn't frighten him at all.


Afterward, she holds him, and he sleeps. Eventually she has to roll him off of her, and she does it so gently, so tenderly, that he barely even wakes. Just enough to mumble something incoherent, sky is blue bagels, that she laughs softly to and agrees with. He snuggles her closer, mumbles something else, wholly unintelligible, and slides under again.

She holds him just a little longer. Just long enough to be sure he's safe, and the den is warm and dark, and everything is secure as it should be. The animal part of her relaxes.

She sleeps, too.

[Alexander and No Friends] Alexander doesn't quite yelp when she slaps him on the ass right back, but he jumps, and then he laughs, and then he leans forward and smooches her on the forehead.

"Kay," he says. He sounds happy. He sounds immeasurably fond.

Then she goes off to the shower. He moves the remaining dogs and burgers -- and there are a lot of them -- into the bedroom. Dumps them onto the bed, puts their sodas on the nightstands, tosses a roll of paper towels on the sheets so they can wipe the chili off their faces. By the time he joins her in the shower, there's already steam everywhere. They have a shower curtain here instead of the frameless sliding glass door Kate has at her place. Kate had a lot of things that Alex doesn't have, but

he doesn't think for a minute that Sinclair would trade one home for the other. The packhouse was the packhouse. This is her den, and after so many months without it, she's finally found her way back again.

That's the thought in his mind, curious and feral, when he strips off his clothes and climbs into the shower with her. She's already washed her hair and brushed her teeth. They squeeze around each other, wet and soap-slippery, occasionally elbowing each other as they maneuver around the narrow tub. They wash the blood and the gunk and the dirt and the night off. It all goes down the drain, leaving only a memory in its wake.

He'd bounced back like a rubber ball. He was even having fun while he and his houseguest were doing the midnight dumpster run. But here, now, the day and the night catches up to him. So much physical exertion. So much to talk about, think about, think through. He was tired when they went to get burritos, and though that dinner conversation wasn't angry, wasn't rough, it was still a lot for them to work through. One more detail in their work-in-progress of a relationship.

And then came battle. The threat of death like a spectre, even if neither of them has said a word about it.

So he's quiet, when the shower's winding down. He wraps his arms around her and they lean against the wall together, eyes closed, drowsing as the water beats down.


When it starts getting cold they get out. They dry off, Alex helping Sinclair towel her hair, then sitting down on the toilet lid for her to do the same. They go to bed wearing towels around their shoulders and nothing else, climbing under the sheets, grabbing chili dogs and chili burgers and pigging out. It's well after midnight when they're too full to eat another bite. Alexander balls up the napkins and the wrappers and stuffs them into the bag, moves the remaining few dogs and burgers onto the nightstand. Drops the trash bag over the side of the bed, brushes the crumbs to the floor.

"Totally getting a Roomba," he says, and reaches to turn out the lights.


In the dark, they shuffle under the sheets, and together. It's so long past his bedtime that Sinclair might expect him to just drop off and sleep in seconds. He doesn't, though. He turns toward her, and he finds her under the sheets. He pulls her close and he says what he couldn't in the light --

That was scary.
and
I'm glad we're okay.

And she whispers back, her fingertips touching the curve of his ear, fond and tender,

Me too. Kissing him the first time, then: I was proud of you. I would have been proud for my pack to see the way you fight.

She kisses him again, then. She kisses that confession off his lips, and the kiss builds, and he rolls her under him. They kiss as they make love. She holds him in her arms and her legs, holds him so near to her, so close that their lovemaking is slow and tidal, gasping, quiet, rhythmic as the sea outside. He's going to miss that ocean when he moves back to Chicago, he realizes,

and wonders that he's so certain that she'll go back. And he'll come with her. And this doesn't frighten him at all.


Afterward, she holds him, and he sleeps. Eventually she has to roll him off of her, and she does it so gently, so tenderly, that he barely even wakes. Just enough to mumble something incoherent, sky is blue bagels, that she laughs softly to and agrees with. He snuggles her closer, mumbles something else, wholly unintelligible, and slides under again.

She holds him just a little longer. Just long enough to be sure he's safe, and the den is warm and dark, and everything is secure as it should be. The animal part of her relaxes. One last kiss then, on his temple, and a whispered secret as her own eyes close:

I'm proud you're mine.


*Kai helped write the Sinclair parts of the post! :]