milliways_bar | (no subject)

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(no subject)

[OOM:A pack disagreement turns ugly. Warnings for violence, mentions of death, profanity, gore.]

Sylvie stumbled across the threshold, catching the doorframe with her free hand.
She held a dampened towel to the side of her neck, the fabric and her fingertips smeared with blood.
Bruises covered both her arms and one side of her face. Quickly as she healed,
it'd still be some time before she recovered.
She went to Bar, moving slowly but not unsteadily.
Anger simmered below the surface. She made herself choke it down, while she asked Bar for a few necessities. A room key was added to a small pile of
clothes, and first aid supplies.
"Thank you. I don't suppose--Right. No weapons." Sylvie picks up the other stuff, one-armed.

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Spoon's head turns toward the scent of blood and he says in a very matter of fact tone, "Wash your fuckin' hands, please. Scenting up the room."

She looks over at him, and replies, equally casual, "No more or less than the cigs are. I will when I can. No point to it before these close up."

"I am addicted to blood and flesh." Spoon says, quietly, "The fag is about all that's keeping me from drooling at you. Please wash your hands."

Narrowed, yellow-eyed gaze, before she firmly pushes down her Wolf.
"Just. A. Second, and I will, I said."
She peels away the towel, and sets it down, quietly asking Bar to dispose of it. Bar obliges quickly, and leaves a bottle of rubbing alcohol in its place.
Sylvie rinses her hands and the half-healed(but no longer seeping) laceration.

His own wolf, such as it is, is always right there and barely leashed. Spoon's eyes don't waver when she glares at him and his voice is even when he says, "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Boy has come a long, long way from when he first entered the bar. After the alcohol has blunted the blood smell he returns the favor by stubbing out his fag; her comment made it appear that she didn't care for the scent of smoke.

She looks away for a second, then back, no longer glaring. Sighs.
"Silver doesn't heal right, so," she shrugs. "And I'm perhaps a little too used to how blood smells, to realize it'd bother someone else. Sorry."

"I know." he says, and his hand doesn't lift to touch any one part of his body, "I know. Fuckin' takes forever, dunnit? Hurts like a son of a bitch, too, all burning and shite." Yeah, Spoon? Doesn't cuss because he's mad. He cusses because he's Spoon and he just talks like that, "Got addicted while I was an experiment in the company of the fuckin' British government. I'm doing better...haven't eaten anyone in half a year or more...but it's a fuckin' problem when people bleed at me."

She just shakes her head. "Take it up with the Landlord, man; I
don't pick my arrival dates. Given that the sonofawhore I was tangling with will think I ran, the timing freaking sucks like a leech."
Then she looks past him, toward the front door, and stiffens.

"..."

"Not blaming you." Spoon says, instantly, "Don't blame bleeders for bleeding, just needed it gone." His eyes follow hers, but his door is perfectly visible. It's only disappeared once, and that was when he was having a flashback. "Sommat wrong?"

As much as she'd been told the basic rules, there's a few details Sylvie does NOT know.
Actually, more than a few.
Like the one where sometimes the door decides to sneak off on you.

She remembers what happened just before she came over, and takes a minute to repress sudden anxiety. "No. Just--apparently the door's playing a trick on me. You can still see it?"

"As you don't see me howling, screaming, and generally having a post traumatic breakdown it is safe to assume that I do. Got yourself Bound, did you?" He asks, reaching for his fag and then not picking it up, "That happens. I'm told time stops when it does."

"Go on, smoke if you want," she says after a minute. "I'll be outside.
Last thing I need right now is to be shut in altogether." She mutters a few other curses in various languages, before she turns to go for the other door.

Spoon is not quite so socially inept that he's going to push in on her necessary alone time. So he nods and says, "Alright. If you need anything, let me know and I'll see if mum or da' can help you." Only fair to extend the offer to the other wolves around, after all.

She glances back at him, curiosity now damping her anger a bit. "Thank you." Headtilt,"I'm sorry. I don't think I caught your name earlier. I'm Sylvie."

"Spoon." He says cheerfully, "Unless you're talking to the giant, invisible alien. She mostly calls me curved-broken-piece-of-shell, although the Bar tends to translate it as Spoon." He can't help having asked her to wash her hands; things have been rougher than usual the last moon or so and as the full moon creeps closer and closer...he can't help having asked her to wash her hands. He likes being sane. This doesn't mean he's at all mad at her for bleeding at him.

"So noted," she replies, with a deadpan expression that's trying not to laugh.

She'd understand about the full moon, to be sure; it's half the reason she and the wolves in St.Louis are on edge, too. As for the rest, well, mad or not wouldn't make any difference to the circumstances. She smiles ruefully and slips out.

The second Spoon stops being able to laugh at himself, he'd start howling and not quit until someone knocked him out. He waves in return to her smile and then settles back to his Shakespeare and smoking.

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