ArchivedLogs:Bad Dog

Bad Dog
Dramatis Personae Killian and Anette	2015-09-20 "He's immortal and you're a puppy. It doesn't rocket science to see who won that fight."
Location <BOM> Common Room - Main Lodge - Ascension Island
The common room's rustic-lodge feel has been somewhat mitigated by the modern amenities inside its sturdy wooden walls. It has comfortable couches, several chairs, a refrigerator (stocked with snacks and drinks!), a pool table, a pinball machine (METALLICA!), an assortment of books, a television -- with several game systems! -- and a splendid view out the windows (when their lacy yellow curtains are drawn open) for the rest of the island. The pale wood floors have been covered in places -- by a pair of soft thick blue rugs, by a large squishy pair of beanbags that stand in front of the stone fireplace. There's also a board up on the wall, half corkboard, half whiteboard, with a variety of community notes (and occasional insults) to other Brotherhood members. Large doors on the right-hand side lead off to the kitchen and dining room. In the back of the room, the council room's heavy oak door bears solid locks that are almost never actually barred. A short hall adjacent to the council room's door leads to a trio of multi-stalled bathrooms; these might once have been marked with the typical man-woman-handicapped signs, but someone has given them new plaques on the door; a stick figure with horns and a long tail, one with wings. One -- the large single-user toilet -- has instead been given a helmet and a cape. It's been a long day for some people. It's that point in the evening when most people would be getting off work, going home to their families, unwinding in front of the TV. Unless of course, you're Anette, who between the broken leg and being in hiding, has had plenty of unwinding and relaxing for the past month. Still, she's camped out on one of the couches, an Xbox controller in her hands playing some fantasy RPG. She's leaned up against on the arms, wings draped over the side, her right leg laying length-wise across the couch. A plate of chocolate chip cookies, still warm, rests on her lap. He might be overlookable in a city, but it's doubtful many of the brotherhood bring pets out to the island. And even if they did, it probably wouldn't look identical to Killian's go-to canid form. Nor would it look like it's on a mission like the dog does now. The black and white Border collie had spent some amount of time at the rocky beach, nose to ground, nose to air. On alert. His hackles are up, as if despite the fact that this should be a /safe/ place, new does not necessarily facilitate that feeling. Scents of mutants he's never met before, of course, give the dog intermittent pause as his zig zag of the beach eventually narrows to coming up onto the porch. Click click of dog nails on the harder surface are rhythmic but go unchanged. The door, unlocked, is nudged open with face and perked ears shoved through first. Stalking gait is slow, deliberate, as curious eyes, ears, nose investigate everything much like a regular dog just might. But it's a familiar scent that quite suddenly changes his pace as he hones in on the couch. An attention seeking abrupt bark is loud, and coming from the floor near where her feet are on the couch. With the gift of owl-enhanced hearing, Anette is aware of Killian's presence before he enters the room, though all she is aware of is that there's a dog somewhere in the house. Definitely not something that happens every day, she pauses her game and sits up, eyebrows furrowed as she tries to figure out why the hell there is a dog loose in the house. It's right about the time that he barks that she finally gets a good look at the dog, recognizing the coat pattern though she can hardly believe it. "Killian?" she asks, still not quite sure it's him or if she's now talking to some stray. Both furry ears are perked towards Anette, listening. But there's no shifting. Not yet. Maybe it really is just a stray that someone brought over? Maybe, and unlike the Killian of before it does approach closer. Unfortunately, those intense brown eyes shift from watching her to watching her /plate/ and a lunge to steal a cookie from the edge of the plate is made. A little chocolate can't hurt, right? "Ah ah ah, NO!" Anette says firmly, lightly swatting the dog's snout as she quickly pulls the cookies out of reach. "Chocolate's bad for dogs!" As if the stray can understand her. She doesn't shoo him away yet, still watching him with a slight frown. She /swears/ it's Killian but she's...still not sure. Thinking a moment, she decides to go in for the pet, just to see how he reacts. Those ears pin back, displeased as the nose is swat, a longing whine accompanying the equally as longing look those eyes give her. Hungry, they say. Starving, they plead. Puppy dog eyes, fully simmering and well-practiced. Oh, but the pet. It's a good call, because despite all the friendliness, the canine immediately ducks its head and backs up a step. Synchronized with that step, that head dodge, the black and white head lengthens to humanoid black hair, fur melts into tanned skin and clothing, brown eyes turn to blue- though perhaps no less simmering. Killian's squated where the dog had been, if only an inch back from that pet-attempt, grinning broadly, mischieviously at Anette. "Told you about petting." "I fucking knew it," Anette says, grinning pleased with herself as Killian transforms back into a human. "I figured either it was you or I was just about to get rabies from a random stray. Glad it was the former." Now she decides Killian deserves a cookie, grabbing one from her plate and holding it to him. "Interesting seeing you on the island. Have you started stalking me or have you joined up?" she asks. The squat turns into a sit as he shifts and leans back against the couch, though not before taking that cookie with a soft chuckle to accompany it. "I wouldn't be a dog if I was doin' that. Maybe something sneakier, or at least with better claws." He muses, though seems maybe tired. "Yea," He shrugs then, "Last night. Dusk texted me, and ended up meeting up with Regan." He's not so tired as to have lost the smirk to go with that though. Killian tilts his head to regard Anette from his lower spot, "And how you doin, sweetheart?" Anette groans and gently rubs her eyes. "Nasty case of cabin fever but otherwise, perfectly fine," she says, her voice only dripping with a little sarcasm. Suddenly she looks up and over towards Killian. "Oh! Daken told me he had a run-in with you. It looks like he wasn't lying when he said you survived. You alright otherwise?" Her voice does carry some concern as she briefly glances over Killian looking for any obvious wounds or scars. Killian slouches back, both feet on the floor with bent knees, a little sprawled and lazy-appearing. Arms rested on knees, he takes a bite of the cookie as he listens. A breath of a laugh follows the reference to Daken. "A run-in. That's one way of putting it." He shrugs though, a one shouldered thing. Even if he was still hurt, would male bravado and pride allow him to tell her that? "I'm fine." He pauses and then adds, "He didn't try to kill me." Although he's not said anything, the jeans he's wearing must be the same ones, as one leg is torn at lower calf and partially shredded. His jacket prevents view of anything else telling, however. "He said as much. Apparently the only reason you're alive is because you did help me," Anette says, grabbing a cookie off her plate and taking a bite. "I really am in your debt for that. I honestly didn't know if I was going to make it back here." Her eyes do notice and linger on the torn jeans but she doesn't say anything, apparently no stranger to male pride. "I really should be more angry with him but I'm not any better, really." "The only reason?" There's a lot of bitterness in the young man, usually very well hidden beneath all the smug sarcasm and inappropriate wit, but it was heavy in those words. "Ass." Is in reference to Daken, and apparently the subject made him lost interest in the rest of that cookie. The fact there's no cocky remark to follow is probably not a good thing, as he's quiet in thought for moment or two. At her appreciation, there's another shrug, "Anytime, love. Just don't make too much a habit of getting shot, eh?" Not shot at, clearly, as that's rather routine all things considered, "Y'gettin out of housearrest anytime soon?" "Well, you implying I was easy might have had something to do with your beating," Anette says, raising an accusing eyebrow. It's more of a 'really?' kind of look than an actually offended look. "I'd say getting shot isn't a habit but this is the second time in two or three years." She ponders Killian's reaction to Daken's words a moment, choosing her words carefully. "He said he saw himself in you. He's been trying so hard to change, I don't know if he could handle seeing it in another person." "I didn't get a-" Killian's response to her word choice of 'beating' is a little too defensive for his own tastes. He sets his jaw, blue eyes focused on the half-eaten cookie as he rotates it inbetween his fingers briefly. He doesn't appear to care to defend himself on what /he/ said in regards to Anette, but clearly Daken's words have gotten under his skin. "Touching." Is sarcasm, but dry. "If he wants change so bad, move him into a retirement home or some shit." "He's immortal and you're a puppy. It doesn't take rocket science to see who won that fight," Anette responds, having a pretty good idea of where that first sentence was going. "I don't doubt you did well for yourself, the odds were just not in your favor." Killian's next comment about retirement homes does seem to hit a nerve. "What's that supposed to mean? He's lived longer but he's been through more hell than most of us will see in our entire lives. He's as good a man as you'll find in the Brotherhood." "Adorable." Killian draws his legs up under himself and shifts to stand. He lingers at an angle from her, but his intense pale eyes are averted from her. As if the rest wasn't spiraling the situation in a good enough direction, her explanation of his hell earns her a look. But it's hard to read, given his eyes change species, the pupils and colors changing briefly but it doesn't appear to be intentional. But instead of explaining the details to clarify? "Don't need your pity." He says evenly, "And I sure as fuck hope not. Unless it's one of the unwritten rules that everyone gets stabbed in fist fights." Never mind that he started out as a jaguar. That's fine. "I never said I pitied you. I said the odds were stacked against you but I'm sure you did well regardless. Some might call that praise." Anette takes a bite of her cookie, apparently not phased much by this conversation. "Well, the way I heard it, he only brought the claws out when you did. Though if it makes you feel better, I did warn him that if he did anything like this again, I would be honor bound to nurse you back to health. The idea of us being alone in the same room again didn't sit well with him for some reason so I have a feeling you might be safe for a while." The humor is beginning to return to her voice and there's even a faint smile on her face. "That's a good version." Of the story, he implies. But he doesn't correct it, either. Killian looks down to one of his hands which he flexes the fingers of once or twice, as if suddenly stiff or sore. He takes a breath, exhales a sigh. There's a subtle grin that turns one edge of his lips at her description of her warning, but he still seems simmeringly volatile, laced with weak humor, "That's very sweet of you." There's an implied 'but' after that statement, but he seems distracted by that hand again, a shake of his head playing it off, "Don't worry about it. I'll manage." Seems to make that 'if' it happens again into a 'when'. Anette seems content with the little bit of humor she had been able to return to the conversation. "Just...please try to stay on his good side. I like you. I'd like for you to stick around for a while before getting yourself killed. I'll rein in Daken as best I can." She frowns slightly at Killian's half sentences, knowing full well he's hiding information. "You're part of a family now. You don't have to like them, you just need to trust them. They'll have your back if you have theirs. None of that works if you keep to yourself and remain an island." "I don't die that easily." Killian says offhandedly, still distracted. "And with our," he makes the inclusion clear, "line of work, can't expect to trust just like that." He shrugs, "Not something to just,” he gestures idly, "give out." The young man starts to turn from her as if to leave the commons, dismissive of much of the wisdom she offers, "Gotta go. It hurts if I try to stop it."