MATE.
|
It's
late by the time he gets back to Joe Van Der Graff's old place, where he's
shacked up at. 2am. He'd gone to survey what had become his territory,
leaving soon after dinner. The scent of the woods clings to him; forest
debris wedges into the tread of the tires. The Fenrir village is quiet as
a graveyard. What few kin and Garou remained were asleep or gone. The old
american boat of a car rattling up sounds hideously loud. He likes it that
way. Old cars had character, and every time they broke down he had a new
project that, for once, didn't involve ripping someone's head off. |
|
She
had heard him, how could she not? In tune to him as he to her. Or
so such things were meant to be. But he, always his distant, remote self.
Loyalty to the pack, to himself, to her - in the odd way he would have of
expressing it. And she, though she would know her place, yearn for
something more she does - in silence. And so she is sitting, and waiting,
in the pose of obedient, loving wife when he arrives. |
|
He
doesn't jump. Anton Krajner does not jump in his own home. If the surprise
is pleasant, he reacts as he does now, smiling quietly in the dark. If
it's not, he'll react the other way that comes as easily as breathing. Rip
rend tear. We've been through this already... |
|
"No."
Her brows begin to hike on that tanned forehead (tanned, how could she
be German, in a land of sun and heat, and not be that deep golden bronze?)
as eyes of piercing blue flow over his appearance. She stands, wordlessly,
as much to go with her monotonous reply thus far, to find the shorts he
bids her - and returns but momentarily. "Here." |
|
"Any
food left?" Half-naked, he's a beast: big, ravenous, heavily muscled,
hotskinned. The house is old and the plumbing clicks and creaks in the
dead of the night. The swamp is full of poisonous snakes and madmen. In
his presence, though, such things seem to recede before the force of his
presence. While she's off getting his shorts, he's thumping barefoot into
the kitchen. She hears the cupboards bang open and shut, and then he finds
something to eat. Eggs, three, and a skillet to fry them on. It's
breakfast food, but it's about the only thing he could make reliably. He
told her once, laughing, in one of those rare moments when he had time to
talk to her, when he didn't come home just to drag her to bed, or come
home just to fall into bed himself and sleep, or come home with a pack of
tense, irritable Garou behind him to bark out orders and lay out plans -
he told her once that before he met her, and when his pack had all been
killed [how easily he spoke of death, how acceptingly], that there was a
time when he ate fried eggs three meals a day for months. |
|
She
had been about to say something but it ends with an abrupt, audible click
as her jaw snaps shut. Irritable. "Of course. I would not wish to
worry you." Her hip leans against the benchtop as she watches him -
not immune to the effect of the play of muscles along his back, along his
upper arms. And that is the way it is. He, with the blatant power of his
kind, and she - with irritation fading away as she is allowed, allowed
to watch it. Ahh, mateship. She would not have it any other way. Or so
her heart is convinced. |
|
His
eyebrow quirks up as she snaps her jaw shut. It's dark blond, almost
brown; his is the kind of hair that started out purely flaxen in
childhood, but has since darkened. His fork pauses. "What?" he
prompts, unfazed. It's a good mood tonight. If it were a bad, he might
glare a hole in her, though thus far he's stopped short of ordering her to
confine herself to her room. |
|
"Sauerkraut
and good German beer." Her face is perfectly straight as she blandly
says her reply, her thick accent wanting to curl around each syllable with
relish. "I'm saved some for you." And this time she cannot help
the grin which pulls at those short-of-full lips, knowing how he hates the
first. "Those eggs will not be enough for you." |
|
The
corners of his mouth turn down: sauerkraut. Yuk. Good on franks and
nothing else. "I'll take the beer. I can make more eggs--" he
breaks off, noting the grin. Cautiously, "You weren't serious?" |
|
"Of
course not." Ulrika's smile is smug, like a cat in the cream. |
|
He
stares at her for a moment. "You--" you what, she'll never know,
because he breaks into laughter and swats her ass. "Damn it, Ulrika!
Go get your mate something better than these goddamned eggs." |
|
Reaching
the fridge she is quick to toss him one of those much-touted drinks, its
bottle frosting at the warm room temperature. "I cooked something
American for you." American? In her words then, not the meaty
sausages of which her countrymen are so fond, nor any of the heavy side
dishes which correspond. No, it seems, its quite simple - steak. Very
rare, so it seems, and only needing a modicum of heating. And she busies
herself doing just that, taking over the pan and bodily pushing him away
from the stove, the thoughts she had hidden upon his earlier pronouncement
come to the fore. |
|
Evicted
from the stove, he scrapes his plate of eggs clean. Goddamned or not, it
was still food. The plate goes into the sink. The water goes on. He scrubs
it quickly and efficiently. It's housework, but when she was heating up
top sirloin for him, he can grin and bear it. |
|
He
had told her before. It seemed like over and over, and she thanked him for
his understanding, that each telling of it would be patient and not
prompted by anger at having to repeat that which already should be known.
And in many ways, she needed to hear it again - needed to remember.
As so the muscles beneath his fingers ease at his gentle, firm
ministrations - and as much from the soothing familiarity of his voice. |
|
He
thinks for a minute. She can feel his warmth behind her, and hear the
quiet slow cadence of his breath. "Yeah," he says. "'Fact I
was gonna ask you to make it a point to try to meet more Get kin. We're
trying to get something started for the tribe around here. I know
Luke's," she's heard this name before; it's his packmate, "got a
mate, Angie. Lives across the way there with Luke's folks." He makes
a vague gesture in the direction of the Geiger house. "Could always
visit with her if you get bored, and if any shit goes down I want the two
of you to stick together. |
|
"You
sure I won't need to be running back down at the smell of charcoal?"
She tilts her head back, the silken strands of her hair brushing easily
against his chest as she looks up at him with a gentle smile. But she is
exhausted, dark rings forming in the fragile skin beneath her eyes, and
does not argue with him further than that. |