ArchivedLogs:Other Kinds of Looks

Other Kinds of Looks
Dramatis Personae Anette and Killian
In Absentia	2016-04-27 '
Location <BOM> Beachfront - Ascension Island
Largely rocky and desolate, the majority of the waterfront on this small island is an unwelcoming place. Craggy and forbidding, lined with jagged black rocks, the coast here can take a fair bit of scrambling to navigate. Here and there, though, the coastline levels out to narrow sweeps of pebbly beaches littered with shells and seaweed carried in on the frigid tide. Occasional old trunks of fallen trees dot the narrow beach, victims of the storms that frequently plague the island. One small stretch of the western shore holds a small dock, a few boats usually moored there. Tucked off the mainland coast in Jamaica Bay, the buildings and lights of the city can be seen far across the water. It may be just before noon but Anette is already camped out on the beach, sitting cross-legged on a rather large boulder beside a long burnt out campfire with a bottle of whiskey in her hands. Despite the warming weather, it’s not quite warm enough to do without one of her many coats. Though it does hang loosely about her shoulders, bits of feather peeking through and a hint gold from her tattoo visible, though most of it is still covered by the coat and tank top she wears underneath. For now, she just seems to be relaxing, sipping at the bottle periodically as yellow eyes peer out over the water and scan the horizon. Not looking for anything really, just looking. From within low cloud cover in the distance, black birds that in silhouette from afar can be made out as crows hamper the progress of some bird of prey soaring island-wards. Exhaustion bars significant enough reaction from the larger of the three winged creatures to fully rid it of the pests that have been following it for some time now. The red tail hawk, flustered in all its unkempt and ruffled feathers, spins as it drops towards the water below, evading nature’s assault by yet another tumbling spin. Wings spread to their lengths as altitude plummets to catch the hawk within meters of the gently undulating bay and abruptly levels it out. A gentle swoop that nearly touches keel to small wave crests is at too high a speed to reclaim height enough to not take an overly fast- yet entirely intentional- landing on the rocky beach of the Brotherhood’s island. But rather than backwinging, the form shifts, molds in the somehow elegant, somehow unsettling grace of a practiced shapeshifter. Feathers flatten, becoming fur-soft, smooth black-and-white that flows in the dog’s medium coat. Border collie paws skid on rock as it halts all that momentum, turning around right next to Anette so close as to pelt her lightly with small pebbles and sand. He’s rough, that coat and the flesh beneath. Some wounds partially healed from frequent shifting, others more vibrant against the stark white of certain realms of fur. One forepaw is held up after he comes to a stop, as if sore, just as canine teeth bare. Barking that could at once be loud enough to raise alarm of half the Brothers is instead somewhat hoarse, but enough to utterly confuse and give fluttering, chattering pause to the persistent corvids. The flock of birds gets Anette's attention but only briefly and only for being the only other sign of life she's seen since she first sat down. The hawk and it unusual behavior keeps her attention though and she straightens (with a slight wince) to focus on it, yellow eyes staring down. Yellow eyes stare at the bird as it lands, its shift into the dog seeming to confirm her theory. The corners of her mouth seem to twitch in the faintest of smiles but concern ultimately overwhelms it, especially once she can better see the various wounds covering the dog's body. She slips the coat off her shoulders, stretching out the wing to curl it about the dog as it nears her in a comforting embrace, feathers fluffed for added insulation against the chill. At the raised paw, she holds out her hand and, if allowed, gently rests the paw on her palm in order to examine it for any obvious problems. "Are you going to tell me what happened this time?" she asks, a bit firmly but not entirely unkind. The noise of the canine’s barking simmers to a growl and bared teeth, and then finally to quiet as large wing envelopes him. Flatted black ears slowly relax, though the agitation is clear enough upon him even as hackles are smoothed over by feathers not his own. The embrace turns his attention to where it should be, the dog limping closer that short distance until fur brushes against her shoulder. Request for a paw is granted, though just as red-tainted white fur-covered foot is placed in her palm, toes lengthen into fingers. Forty pound dog gains in mass until it’s the human version of Killian that sits beside her. Light eyes look down at her hand as he makes the effort to intertwine his fingers with hers, despite the large gash across his palm that has healed enough from shifting that it isn’t actively bleeding anymore. “Hello, love.” He breathes quietly, tiredly, though with a faint grin that charms his features. “Do y’really want to know? All that.. really matters is that I’m done.” And it’s good that he is, considering the state he’s in, even if it does little to change the ruggedness of his face, and the chill of the blue eyes that watch her. As the dog shifts into the more familiar human form, Anette's smile returns, though only the faintest hint of it shows through her concern. As fingers entwine with hers, she gently closes her hand around his, careful not to disturb the wound. "You know I hate seeing the dog like that," she says, turning to look over Killian again once he's fully transformed. "Done with what? This job? So you can disappear tomorrow on the next one?" This isn't said quite as lightly. "I worry about you when you're gone this long. Especially when you come back looking like...this." Though judging by the bandages wrapped around her chest and peeking out from the top of her tank top, she hasn't been inactive either. "Besides, I have been patiently waiting to show you something." She grins and pulls her wing back, tucking it behind her as she reaches for her left shoulder and slips the strap to her shoulder, pulling her top down just a bit to fully reveal the tattoo now covering the scar. “Just the dog?” Killian asks with his slight smirk touching the edge of his lips, his attentions falling to the bandages that wrap her, only to be drawn back up by her words and her indication. He adjusts just enough to be able to bring his free hand to appropriately admire the mark. If allowed, he traces his fingers along one pheonix, then the embered one ‘round the circle they create. But his jaw tenses as he’d place his palm over the scars they’re meant to cover. There’s a pause before he answers her, though whether it’s because he’s tired or he doesn’t have a quick answer for her, is difficult to say. “But I came back.” Is a first attempt at his playful turns of phrase, in that way he has of being so smug- if made gentler by degrees as he calms in the moments following his landing. “And I’ve no more jobs for now. I was planning on staying in the city. It’s better-” A more cruel touch to his tone slips as he looks up at her with light eyes beneath black hair, “If I don’t go anywhere for a little while. For more than one reason.” Unless she moves, he would lean into her just a little more to so-lightly kiss her shoulder where his teeth had before marred. “Who injured you?” Not meaning, of course, this scar, but the much more prevalent injuries hidden beneath wrappings. "Well, when you look like a walking Sarah McLachlan commercial..." Anette counters, watching Killian reach to feel her tattoo. When he tenses and pulls away, she knows exactly what causes it, she frowns. "And that...is exactly why I got it. You need to stop blaming yourself. I thought if I covered it, made it less visible, you'd stop with.../that/ look." His explanation of why he's staying doesn't appear to impress her, she tries to smile but it seems her mood has already dampened. "Until the next job comes along," she says quietly, lifting the bottle she came out here with to her lips, taking a quick gulp, "and you disappear again and come back looking like that." She sighs and sets the bottle down, gently rubbing her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired. Ignore me." The questioning of her own bandaging is met with a quick shake of her head. "No one, I’m fine. It's just precautionary, nothing worse than some bruises. Had a little run-in with some rioting bigots. Apparently I’m better at withstanding crowbars than bullets." “Then I’ll do my best to give you other kinds of looks.” Killian’s dark smile is thinner, but still there, and his light eyes narrow in that way of suggested meaning, watching her from their corners until he turns his gaze downwards briefly before back to the bay from the direction he’d come. “I’ve always disappeared.” He says in a lower voice, faded in the poor taste of the way he makes it sound like a good thing, “I’m good at that, and surviving, always have been. But I’ve also never had a reason to keep coming back. Or a reason to stay longer.” Despite the slender red slice across his palm, there’s a squeeze of the hand of hers that he holds. “Nah, beautiful, I don’t have any intention of ignoring you. Quite the opposite actually..” There’s a ‘hmh of an amused sound beneath his breath at the rest of the explanation before he reaches for the bottle she sets down. The shapeshifter lifts it first, hesitated long enough in front of them risen as if a cheers of some degree, then takes his own drink of it, quiet for the draught he steals. The hissed sigh that follows is long, gratifying, and comes with a curious pause that’s in the same way amused as it is unapproving, “Did you at least give ‘em something to remember you by?” Anette smiles faintly at the flirt, though she seems a bit preoccupied with her thoughts as she stares out over the water to give much more of a reaction. “I don’t run. Never have, even when I should. I just keep distant.” The squeeze to her hand is met with a gentle squeeze back, though she frowns softly at his words. “Why? Why me? Why do you keep coming back?” she asks, turning to study his dark features carefully. “If staying alive is the goal, I am the /last/ person you want to be with. I only end up hurting anyone I lo-...care about. Just ask Dusk and his friend, they have the bullet wounds to prove it.” She watches Killian take a drink, her features softening a bit once she’s vented some of her frustrations. She smiles a bit at his question though just the faintest hint of one. “Afraid not. There were a lot more of them then there were of us.” “I have… a very good track record of getting out of shit no matter how deep in it I am. It’s true that you make it a little harder, busting into old houses after drug dealers and all before I can even case the place. But I’ve never had…” Killian lowers his head here, letting his focus staying on the alcohol instead of her. “Someone that made me want to do that before. Run in, be reckless. Spent my whole damn life in a cage or trying to stay out of one. I thought I could never feel grounded, with all the.. things in my head.” Things, being all those instincts, drives that are not his own. There’s a flicker of something at the edge of his expression at her correction, and it derails him. His brow furrows, his jaw tensing for a moment as if he considers what exactly that means. “It’s hardly you that’s hurting anyone. You aren’t one the bastards with guns and fucked up logic. My apologies, love, for taking that job. Hardly made a dent, of course, but it was something.” A faint laugh leaves him, something barely a breath, barely a sound, “Should’ve taken you. You would’ve enjoyed it.” This, punctuated with another long drink before he hands it back to her, light eyes following it until it’s crossed the small space between them, and he returns to study her expression. "You know, telling me that I do make your life riskier while I'm upset that I make /everyone's/ lives in danger doesn’t help." Still, Anette can't help but crack a smile at his revelation, though it's incredibly brief, lasting only a second. "As much as I appreciate your...help, you really didn't have to do it. You shouldn't have. It was my mess. The last thing I need is you getting hurt or killed because of me. You or anyone else." She takes the bottle again, eyes trailing up to Killian's face, meeting his eyes for a few moments, the yellow not quite as piercing as they usually are. Her face softens a bit as he studies her though she quickly turns away, taking another swig from the bottle and looking out over the water. "Like the plague. I refused to believe that's what it was until I started hurting people. And then I refused to get the treatment because I didn't trust anyone but Regan. I could have killed Pedro. I could have killed you. I /gave/ you the flu." She sets the bottle down beside her, glancing towards the tattoo covered scar with a frown. "I was going to just keep the scar, as a reminder. But every time you looked at it..." She fades off, clearly not comfortable continuing further, instead stretching her wing out once more to wrap gently about Killian's shoulders in a soft, feathery embrace. "Well, the tattoo has its own meaning." She drums her fingers against the bottle beside her, as if contemplating taking another swig though she apparently decides against it, turning to face Killian. She grins, relaxing a bit as she changes the topic. "You keep suggesting I tag along but you still haven't invited me. I could do with getting my talons bloody again. It's been too long."