Roman's Crush.

[Imogen] It's a cool end to a cool day and much of the park is empty. She sits at a picnic table, one hand resting on the edge of her papers, keeping them in place by the wind. A cigarette is held between her fingers, a coffee cup rests on the table, gently steaming.

Her head is bent to her papers, and the view beyond her is the lake, rippling the reflections of the setting sun.

The slanted light catches in her hair, sparking brightness in the flames.

[Roman Turner] He had been coming through the park, still burping from the Coke he'd just finished. That's when he spotted the fading rays of light glinting off red hair. In the next moment his course was altered and he headed towards the Kinfolk.

"I would of picked a better place to study."

That was his greeting.

[Imogen] She lifts her head to the sound of a young man's voice, finding it to be a monster instead. One hand absently closes the file folder, her gaze flicking toward the water and then back to the Garou.

A copper eyebrow arches. Imogen's expressions are subtle, contained. Her question, still, is obvious.

"What's wrong wi' this one?" she enquires.

[Roman Turner] "Windy, could rain any moment and it's getting dark. One thing I noticed so far is, dealers and hookers seem to come here when the sun goes down."

He nodded towards her cigarette.

"Got another?"

[Imogen] She makes a brief sound of acknowledgement. "I wasn't intendin' on stayin' out much longer."

Roman asks her if she has another cigarette. When her eyebrow arches this time, it is to measure surprise. She fits her own fag between her lips, dragging deep as she turns away, picking up her file folder. There's a brief case at her feet and she leans down, fitting the folder between the sleeves. From an outer pocket, she retrieves her bronze cigarette case, the matching zippo, and brings it up.

She holds both out.

"Bit young t'smoke, aren't yeh?"

[Roman Turner] He accepted both pack and lighter.

"I'm old enough to drive, old enough to die, so I think that makes me old enough to smoke."

One cigarette was shook out, tapped against the pack and flipped between his lips with a wink as he flicked the top open on the lighter and in one smooth, obviously practiced move, flicked the lighter across one jean clad thigh before bringing the flame up to light the smoke. One hand cupped around the end of the cigarette and lighter as he sucked in, getting it started.

"Thank you Miss Doctor Slaughter."

He offered both back before pulling the cigarette from his mouth to hold it pinched between thumb and index finger by the filtered end, the body of the cigarette sheltered in the cup of one hand.

[Imogen] Old enough to drive, old enough to die. Imogen's eyes narrow slightly, as she turns her head away to exhale a breath of smoke. "So you are.

"You can dispense wi' the 'Miss', you know," she observes, taking the cigarette case back, setting it and the zippo aside rather than putting it away.

"Doctor is more than enough."

[Roman Turner] "No Ma'am. My Ma raised me proper. Mind your manners she always says."

The hand was lifted, keeping the cigarette cupped in that palm as he drew from it, exhaling through his nose.

[Imogen] "Your mother raised yeh t'call everyone 'miss' regardless o' their title? she enquires, smirking, tapping cigarette ash toward the ground.

"Far be it for me t'disabuse yeh o' the notion, then."

[Roman Turner] "Yessum, it's polite."

He drew from the cigarette again and with an absent flick of his ring finger, let the ash fall from beneath his cupped hand.

"I ain't seen ya since the night ya gave me a lift home. Good to see ya still among the breathing. This city ain't exactly the nurturing sort of place, ya know?"

[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales sharply, "No," she says, "it must certainly is not.

"There always seems t'be a palaver o' some sort another, isn't there just?"

[Roman Turner] His brows furrowed, chestnut colored hair fell to one side with the tipping of his head as he seemed to mull over what she said. Finally he asked in that slow Kansas accent of his.

"What's palaver?"

[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly. "I just mean there's always somethin' goin' on."

[Roman Turner] He dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath his boot as he exhaled the last of the smoke between his lips with twin streams trailing from his nostrils.

"I been spending most of my time learning the boundaries of the place we came to help protect."

He never said Caern, but was fairly sure she would figure it out quick enough.

"Since it's just me and Sparrow here and we ain't got nothing formal between us other than blood."

[Imogen] Imogen smokes more slowly - or perhaps she smokes the cigarette further to the filter than he would. In either case, she takes another drag, flicking the ash free with one finger as she turns away to exhale from her mouth.

"Like it here, do you?" she asks, crushing the fag out against the picnic table's edge and dropping the butt to the ground.

[Roman Turner] "Truth Ma'am?"

He watched her turn her head to exhale, not giving her time to answer either way.

"Not the same as back home."

[Imogen] Her eyebrow arches upwards at his reply.

"No," she says, simply. "Nothing is."

[Roman Turner] "It's like taking a trip to go work in another's territory for awhile and being a visitor, ya know? You can work all you want, but you really don't feel like you belong there."

He shrugged faintly as he stole looks at her from the corner of her eyes. He could smell her from here and damn she was a looker too. Didn't matter she was a cougar, he could fantasize all he wanted in his little head.

[Imogen] She makes a faint sound of acknowledgement, before reaching over, and picking up her cigarettes again. She plucks one from the case, fitting it between her lips. She lights up like a professional, like she's smoked for years and every motion is as familiar to her as breathing.

She fills her lungs with poison, turning away to exhale.

"Perhaps it will get better with time," she says.

[Roman Turner] Chain smoker, he'd seen his share of folk that smoked one after the other. Likely she required a smoke first thing in the morning and after every meal too. At least she wasn't lighting one off the end of the other or leaving a couple burning in an ashtray, yet, that he knew of.

"What?"

She drew his thoughts back from the southern exposure they had gone to.

"Oh, yeah, maybe so."

[Imogen] There's not much else to say, now. She smokes her cigarette in silence, her attention turning back to the water. It's gotten marginally cooler since he'd come to join her. The sun has set, and the water only glitters where ambient light touches it.

The smell here is heavy with moisture, with wet vegetation, with pollution. The lake is saltless, the water plain, unadorned, taking on the same smell of whatever it touches. It reeks of the city.

It might be a moment of camaraderie, but she is utterly contained. Reserved. He may as well not be here, not looking at the same sights, sharing the same silence.

[Roman Turner] He was looking at a sight she couldn't see without a mirror. Who needed the sun, moon, bright lights of a city when there was this star sitting there shining just for you like a red dwarf about to go super nova? Content to watch her as she smoked and watched the city.

[Imogen] It does not take long for her to become aware of the weight of the Ragabash's eyes. His rage, her perception, the quality of his silence, whatever it is.

She taps ash from her smoke, turning to flick a glance his way. There aren't many humans who will meet a Garou's eye, though Roman has an easier time of it than most. Still, her directness is a rarity.

She gets to her feet then, unfolding herself from the picnic table, and leaning down to pick up her brief case. Another drag of her cigarette before she drops it, crushing it out beneath the toe of her shoe.

"Need a lift?"

[Roman Turner] She loved him. He knew she loved him with the way she met his eyes like that. She offered a ride and he was going to take it because it meant he could be cooped up in a car with her scent surrounding him for that much longer and it would be concentrated.

"Yessum, that would be right nice."

He beamed at her, beamed like a damned moonstruck fool.

[Imogen] She stares at him a moment, the goofy grin, the star-struck eyes.

Then, resigned, she tilts her head toward the parking lot. "Come on, then, this way."

[Roman Turner] The smile just bloomed all the wider with her resigned tone. Yep, she wanted him.

"Yessum!"

With that he was following like a puppy dog going for a ride.