Not Tonight.

[Imogen] The night is cloudy, cool, and the air smells of rain. Imogen sits on a patio chair, an elbow leaning against the wrought iron table, a cigarette between her fingers. She sits outside of a pub, a nearby window open, the music and distant sounds of conversation drifting out.

She is the only one out at the moment, the only one participating in this particular vice.

The kinwoman lifts her cigarette to her lips, inhaling deeply, turning her eyes briefly skyward. There is nothing to be seen. No clouds, no star, no moon.

[Moira] The night promises to be wet, the air is thick with the scent of rain, even in the city, it is possible to still smell it. A familiar figure sits outside smoking on the patio of a pub, regulated to this zoned off area as most places don't allow you to take up such filthy habits indoors anymore.

The footfalls of the dark-haired kin will be heard first, the staccato of heeled boots on the sidewalk, adding an inch or more to Moira's already tall frame. She tilts her head to the side, noting the woman sitting outside by herself.

"Those are going to kill you one of these days."

[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow arches slightly as she lowers her hand, reaching out to tap cigarette ash into the tray. "I don't imagine it will," she says, mildly, as she draws her arm back again.

Imogen sits in the chair with enough poise that one might confuse her for a dancer. The subtleties are different, the underlying cause. Her grace is not a production, not a display. It is merely bone deep, built in her sinew.

"But I suppose if it ever does, you can tell me that you told me so." She takes another drag.

[Moira] Moira crosses over into the patio section, automatically gravitating towards Imogen's table. It is more out of habit than anything else. Her company is sometimes a welcoming distraction from one's troubled thoughts.

She pulls the chair out, sliding into it, glancing across the table at Imogen with a wry smirk. "Seems as if I was quite the entertainment last night at that gathering. Wolves fighting over me, and then Decker popping up out of nowhere to claim you as his mate and me as his kin..."

She shakes her head, settling back into the chair, long legs stretching out in front of her, crossing her ankles.

[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales sharply through her nose, a plume of smoke coming with it.

"Sounds like you enjoyed it."

[Moira] She cuts a look across the table. "No, I didn't actually. It was rather embarrassing. I thought I had taken steps to keep them from fighting, as Joe seems to think I like playing around with the Get."

Moira leans her elbow on the table, hand coming up to pillow her cheek. "Decker threw a curve ball I wasn't expecting. Have you dealt with him much since he's come back?"

[Imogen] "Moira," Imogen says quietly, "If you're embarrassed by it, it would behoove you not to bring it up the minute you see someone else. Furthermore, it would be wise not to insist on talking about it.

"I can't help yeh with Rohl's claim. And I don't particularly wish to discuss it or him."

[Moira] She is taken aback by Imogen. Her eyes widening slowly as she stares, tongue sliding her cheek. "I see."

Her head turns away, casting a glance up at the sky. "The weather is lovely - it's cold, might rain." she says casually, "Fitting almost."

[Imogen] Imogen's gaze remains, cold and gimlet on Moira for several seconds after she's looked away. Then, she looks away too, abruptly, sharply, drawing her cigarette back up to her lips for a deep inhale, filling her lungs with poison without much regret for the damage she does to her body.

Moira icily changes the subject. After she mentions the weather, there is a distinct silence. A muscle in Imogen's jaw moves, tensing and untensing as she watches a human walk by on the sidewalk, her ear pressed to a cell phone, her face split in a wide grin.

"I like it when it's like this," Imogen says finally. "Reminds me o' home."

She accepts the subject change as best she can.

[Moira] If Moira has learned anything from Imogen Slaughter it is how to be icy. Cool and aloof, the younger kin has tried many times to emulate that part of woman's demeanor. It is not within Moira's nature to typically do so.

The silence spreads between them, leaving Moira to question it. She didn't like this... didn't like the tension between the two of them - she had always looked up to Imogen for answers or advice, even when she'd been younger.

"The smell is different I think - the rain I mean. I remember when I was over in Scotland, it didn't smell the same as it might here." She sucks in a deep breath, her eyes remaining skyward, only listening to the woman that walks past chattering away on her cellphone.

[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, and now, she's turned her attention back to Moira, her gaze deliberately restrained.

Unlike Moira, Imogen has cool and aloof to an art. It is part of her nature, more natural to her than any other emotion. Reservation. Reticence. She wears each mask with such skill that it is impossible for most to see beneath.

"It's the peat," she says quietly. "Scotland always smelled o' peat when I was there. That and heather. And you're never far from the ocean. It changes the way th'air smells."

[Moira] Moira is uncomfortable. She has been in this state several times throughout the week in different situations. With Imogen, however, it makes her feel like an unruly child that has been scolded. She pulls her gaze down, letting it slide across the table to glance at Imogen again.

"I remember that. The smell of the ocean was everywhere."

[Imogen] Moira is uncomfortable. It is not hard for the older kinwoman to see that. It is not hard to imagine the cause.

(Her.)

Despite this, Imogen does no more than she already has to alleviate the experience. No apologies or apparent regret. She takes another drag from her cigarette, turning her head as she exhales, letting the smoke blow away from them.

"It's absurd to me," she says finally, slowly. "That I live so far from the ocean now. That I would ha' to drive twelve hours just t'reach it is - unfathomable."

Her mouth twists, a sharp, mirthless smirk, and she glances away.

"Where were yeh in Scotland, then?" She changes the subject, abruptly.

[Moira] The tension is still thick between them, Moira starts to feel it weigh down upon her. She shifts her body in the chair, unable to relax and get comfortable. Shoulders rubbing against the high back of the seat, her hands to fall into her lap, intertwining.

They aren't good at small talk, but manage it.

"Do you like the ocean, Imogen? I could never imagine you being someone that would like the beach much with your fair complexion." She says with a slight curl of her lips tilting up, "Then again, I imagine you would probably be a good surfer... riding the waves and all, spear hunting weresharks or some nonsense."

Moira had grown up near the ocean. She lived most of her life in a small coastal community along the coast in Florida, the sun and surf were familiar things. Things that she hasn't experienced in some time.

"I visited up near Inverness and a little farther north into Sutherland. My grandfather was up there... did this while I was away for those two years, visiting Europe before coming back last October." It was how she'd come across the other Rotagar in Germany.

[Imogen] "The ocean," she says, concisely. "Not the beach. They're different to me."

A beat. "But I'm a fair surfer. Or at least, I was. It's been o'er ten years." Her mouth twists slightly, "Though, I must say, I've not speared a were-shark yet."

The conversation is mild, deliberately so. The topics are safe.

Moira explains where she's been, and Imogen nods slightly. A pause. "My family has ties up near Aberdeen. So I used t'go up there fer - well." She takes another drag from her cigarette before lowering the butt into the ashtray, crushing it out. "A variety o' reasons." She exhales smoke, turning her head so it would blow in another direction.

[Moira] The topics were safe. There was no danger of bringing about Imogen's ire.

Moira considers the conversation, how quietly she skirts subjects and speaks of far off things. She knows from Imogen's earlier reactions that it is best not to breach the questions she has. Forcing herself to relax finally, she turns her gaze away, eyes drifting over a couple that saunter out of the pub together, drunk and swaying as they lean on each other for support.

"I miss surfing. It was fun when I was a kid. Down in Florida, I lived along the coast in Titusville, it was right on the Atlantic. We were maybe an hour drive away from the Space Center. I went to see shuttle launches sometimes, could really see them from where I lived with my family..." She grows nostalgic and somewhat distant.

"I think I'd like to see the ocean again."

[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales and she leans back in her chair, crossing her legs at the knee.

"Twelve hours east," she says. "Gets yeh to Philadelphia and the Atlantic."

[Moira] "Twelve hours east..." She ponders, rubbing her fingers across her chin. "I'd have to kidnap a driver and a car..." She chuckles. "Tristan is out east to."

[Imogen] Imogen nods - and even after all these years, her chin dips down, first, not up. "New Jersey," she says. "Back where th'Eagles started, more or less."

[Moira] "I miss him." Moira's head casts down, thick lashes lowering over her eyes, "I know he's away for the better, but I still miss that maternal support he had. He was always the better kinswoman than you."

[Imogen] Imogen scoffs softly. "That's hardly difficult to achieve."

A pause.

"Ha' his number, do you?"

[Moira] "This is so true. You always did seem like you wore the pants in the family."

She laughs softly, nodding slowly. "I do have his number."

[Imogen] "Good."

Imogen does as well - though one imagines she would not use it for the same purpose she is indirectly suggesting that Moira does. No - Imogen has used the phone number precisely once. To call the other Kinfolk and inform him of the death of a Fenrir Rotagar.

Her cigarette case rests on the table, and she picks it up, absently thumbing it open. Her fingers touch the edge of a Dunhill's filter before lifting again, the cigarette case clicking softly as she shuts it.

"Might as well gi' him a shout. I imagine he misses you as well."

[Moira] "Are you suggesting I go to him for advice and not you?"

Her chest rises and falls with the even patterns of her breathing. She can smell the acrid scent of the Dunhill brand cling to the air. Moira tilts her head, her eyes falling down to the pack of cigarettes.

"The smoking. Do you do it as a way to relieve stress? Or was it something you picked up as a teenager in an act of rebellion and just never quit?"

[Imogen] "I am saying if you want a kinswoman, or maternal guidance," she says evenly, "then you will ha' better luck wi' him, and not me."

The cigarette case is bronze plated, faintly worn with years of use, the edges smooth, the engraved design on its lid faded. Beside it is a zippo of similar style, and colour.

A pause.

"If by next week, you still need advice on wha' happened last night, and yeh ha' no where else t'go, I'll help you." She exhales a breath the way a smoker, her gaze lifting skyward. The ambient lights of the city surrounding them illuminates the bottoms of the clouds, creating a dim haze. "But not tonight," she adds.

The question provokes a glance, an arched eyebrow. She considers her answer - not the content of reality, but the content she'll reveal to the younger girl.

"I started smokin' because I was a teenager in boardin' school and we all did it. I've quit maybe fifty times, some times more successfully than others."

Her shrug is a narrow, restrained thing. "I always find a reason t'start again."

[Moira] The smile that Moira offers Imogen is appreciative and genuine. She turns in her chair, twisting to face the smaller redhead more. Her legs pulling up, crossing one leg over the other knee. Her hands still resting in her lap, become still. The tension seems to bleed out of her now.

"In this matter... I think you are the only one I can think of to speak to for advice." She does not dare bring up Decker, not now, not after Imogen's offered to help. Moira nods her head quickly, "I can wait."

"Old habits can be hard to get rid of, it's easy to fall back into them, especially for comfort's sake." Moira breathes more easily, she quietly studies the woman across from her. "I'm sorry about earlier. It's just an old habit, wanting to come to you to talk I guess. I always did look up to you, Imogen. Still do."

[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales - something like a laugh, like a scoff.

"You'd do well to choose a better role model, Moira."

She does not wait for a response, pushing back the chair to get to her feet instead. "I should head in," she says. "There are folks inside wonderin' where I've gotten to." The longest cigarette ever.

She picks up the accouterments of her addiction, palming them and straightening her jacket about her slender, lithe body. "Ha' a good night."

[Moira] "Nah..." She calls after the older kin. "I think I picked my role models just fine."

She offers Imogen a cheeky grin, watching her stand up and pick up her cigarettes. A hand lifts up to wave at her, Moira doesn't so much as move, her hand dropping back into her lap only after the redhead as left.

She settles back in the chair, stretching her legs and content to sit for a while outside on the patio, watching life in the city crawl by.