Something In Between

[Imogen] Meet me outside my office, it had been a minor part of a short conversation - her voice distinct over the wireless waves, the low tones of it, the concise accent. I work fer the county now, again, Know where it is?

If he does, the conversation ends.
If he doesn't, she gives him brief directions and the conversation ends.

She has been working; it doesn't matter that it's Saturday or that it's nearly ten o'clock. Had he not called her, she would be working still.

Instead, she stands outside the glass edifice of her the Cook County Medical Examiner's office, a cigarette in hand. As it is a Saturday, she is dressed in jeans, a camisole beneath a smartly tailored leather blazer. Gold glitters by way of a chain at her throat - no other adornment. She has a cigarette in one hand, an umbrella in the other, her purse over her shoulder. It is raining and she stands beneath the overhang, watching it fall.

She fills her lungs with smoke, then exhales it into the wet cool air.

[Martin] The beauty in their particular situation is that Ilari Martin, who one wouldn't exactly expect to understand the first thing about long or unconventional work hours, can fully appreciate what it is to put in more than a full day's work on a Saturday while the rest of the world is off enjoying themselves, running errands or catching shows or spending time with their loved ones. That isn't to say that their work precisely translates; performing an autopsy on a three-hour piece of cinema that a team of poor schmucks spent months, even years, is trying to make a living putting together isn't the same thing as performing a three-hour autopsy on a poor schmuck who is no longer among the living. He doesn't spent hours standing followed by hours filling out paperwork. One would think that he fulfilled some role within the medical community given his gallows humor, but he never has and he sure as hell isn't about to start now.

Anyway. The call had come just about out of nowhere, but Imogen hadn't let it go to voicemail or conjured up some excuse why she had to stay at work. She gave him directions, which he followed, and at nearly ten o'clock, a relatively modest rental car with Illinois plates pulls up to the curb, the driver very careful not to sail through the water congregating in the gutter. It's chilly, rain falling relentless from the pink sky overhead, and the exhaust pipe coughs a gray cloud out behind it. The wipers flick back and forth, back and forth, and after a moment the engine idles; the passenger window rolls down; a man with tan skin and graying brown hair and a rakish smile leans into view. He's wearing most of a charcoal-gray suit, having lost the jacket at some point and rolled the sleeves of the dress shirt up around his elbows. When last they met, he was painfully underweight. He's healthy now, even if he does have a lit cigarette scissored between the fingers of his left hand.

"Need a lift?" he calls. His voice isn't hoarse anymore.

[Imogen] She had not been looking at him when he had stopped his car, when he had rolled down the window, but when he speaks, her attention jerks from whatever non-committal she'd chosen to touch on Martin, looking far healthier than he once had.

She doesn't answer aloud - allows her actions to speak for her, as she casually flicks the cigarette - an ember spiralling end over end and then shattering as it hits the ground, then opens her umbrella as she steps out from beneath the overhang, descending the steps with a quiet click of high heels. The rain patters down on the artificial water repellent fabric and she avoids a puddle pooling in a dip in the sidewalk as she steps to the car, opening the door and closing her umbrella before getting in.

"Martin," she greets him without a smile - but without a chill, her eyes flicking over him briefly. "Been a bit, hasn't it just?"

She places her umbrella at her feet and shuts the door.

[Jacqui Witnessin'] [I totally just logged in with the wrong spy tag. Oh well. *lets everyone think ya'll are brawling in here*]
to .fly., Imogen, Martin

[Martin] There's some clause in the contract about not smoking in the vehicle. Then again, there have been clauses throughout his adulthood threatening dire consequences if he was found to do such and such a task under the influence of such and such a substance and somehow he's managed to avoid being expelled, fired or arrested even if he hasn't managed to avoid a rash of hospitalizations. The worst they're going to do is charge him a fee for replacing the new-car smell with the clinging reek of burnt tobacco, yet when Imogen flicks away her filter he leans upright again, takes one last drag off the cigarette, and tosses it out the window. The sizzle of a dying ember is lost under the patter of falling water and the rushing of tires against the inundated asphalt.

It takes effort not to watch her as she steps into the vehicle. It's an effort he does make, though, in that he glances away from her as she secures her umbrella as though the button controlling the power windows has moved in the last thirty seconds. There's a mechanical whisper as the Plexiglas in both windows roll themselves closed, and the kinsman claps down the armrest once she's got herself settled.

There's no smile... but Imogen doesn't shoot daggers at him, either. That's more than enough to make him smile, again, something he's always managed to do even when he's been hungover or bleeding or otherwise out of sorts. To say that Martin looks his age is an understatement. When he left he was nearing forty and he looked as though he was there already. Now that he's past it, he still does look it. But he wears it better than he did a year and change ago. He doesn't look as though he's one line or one bottle away from an early grave.

"Eighteen months now," he says, cheerful; though perhaps it's more because his absence from Chicago shares an anniversary with the date he made his most recent stab at sobriety than because he's actually glad to be gone. It's his eyes' turn to flick. "I'd ask what's new--" He pauses to slap the turn indicator and pull back out into traffic. "--but I've got a funny feeling the answer would just further contribute to our individual collections of wrinkles and gray hairs, so I'm going to go with 'How are you' instead." A beat. Seems he still hasn't managed the fine art of succinct communication. He turns to her at a red light and asks, his tone shifting slightly, "How are you, Imogen?"

[Martin] [Give it a few rounds, Martin's bound to say something worth getting shot for eventually...]
to .fly., Imogen, Jacqui Witnessin'

[Imogen] She is momentarily quiet - a pause, before she exhales a breath, reaching for her seatbelt and drawing it over her body. "Well enough," she replies, which is no answer at all.

"And you?"

Her hair is back, swept up from her face and neck and twisted at the nape in a loose coil, held in place strategically by a clip. Strands have come undone and several fall from the temple into her eyes. She pushes them back with a pale hand, before turning her head to cap her question off with an arched-brow comment.

"Lookin' well, at least."

[Imogen] Where Martin has gained weight, Imogen, for her part, has lost it, though it is hardly significant. A woman slight and slender as she is can lose a pound with an obvious impact. Her edges are harder than they were; never much of one for softness, the kinwoman appears to have lost even the faintest impressions of it.

[Martin] Well enough isn't exactly an answer. Coupled with that pause, that exhale, with the drag of the seatbelt across her body several seconds after the car pulls away from the curb, it turns into more of an answer. These two were never particularly close. They've known each other since they were both still in school, but that was lifetimes ago, and very few people remain the same from one year to the next, let alone across decades: not physically, not developmentally, not mentally. Anyone looking in at them would see two successful, attractive adults without rings on their fingers and surmise that he is doing better than she is based on physical appearance and societal expectations alone.

He looks at her for several seconds after that noncommittal answer, brown eyes warm rather than blown-out like she might remember them. The light splashes green across the hood of the damp car, and he looks back to pilot the vehicle through the intersection, guide it through a left-hand turn.

"Miz Slaughter," he crows, quiet, his voice not having to compete with instruments or vocals coming from the stereo; the radio is off. There's nothing to drown out what little conversation they manage to put together. "Was that a compliment?"

[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow arches as he crows, her silence a sharp counterpoint to his cheerful crowing. She waits, patiently, for him to finish, for a few seconds of pointed silence to pass.

"Gi'en the previous appearances I have for which t'make a comparison," she says archly, "No, I should say that it is not."

A flicker of a smirk suggests itself across her mouth.

[Martin] It takes either a profound lack of self-awareness or an inflated degree of confidence and self-esteem to not only not wither under Imogen Slaughter's caustic silences and piercing stares, but to keep doing whatever it is one was doing before she lapsed into quiet, the only indication she was paying attention being a twitch of a muscle in her brow or her jaw. Martin isn't worried about her opinion of him, if she even has one any more. If she does, by this point it has to be so damaged that there is very little he could do that would lower her opinion of him.

It takes a good amount of pressure off.

She takes a low blow, follows it up with a smirk... and the Silver Fang just grins, as though he's won. The more he talks the more obvious it's become that he's picked up a drawl from living in the southern part of the United States.

"You tell yourself whatever you need to," he says. "But somewhere deep down inside I know you're thinking 'My god, for a forty-year-old guy with two kids and a heart attack under his belt, he looks pretty damn good!'" At least he doesn't mock her accent or raise his voice several octaves like he used to.

[Imogen] She offers him merely another, sceptically arched brow in reply.

Several seconds later, a change in subject. "Yeh ha' a place in mind?"

[Martin] "You would be surprised--" Turn signal. Right-hand turn. "Actually... no, your life doesn't appear to revolve around alcohol. Revise statement: turns out there are very few establishments--even in major metropolitan areas--that are open past nine o'clock at night and don't hold liquor licenses, so tonight's exercise involves this Italian place my food critic associate would not shut up about once he found out my travels were taking me back to Chicago. Their espresso, I've been told, will if not cure all of your woes at least cause temporary amnesia, but if you're so inclined they also have a full bar and a wine list that's about this--" He takes his right hand off the steering wheel and holds the pads of his thumb and middle finger about an inch apart. "--this." Back to the steering wheel. "May or may not be an exaggeration. I've never been."

[Imogen] A moment's pause, before Imogen's breath exhales. Someone else might mistake it for a scoff - he has heard it often enough to recognize it for a laugh, though it is completely crushed of sound.

"I'd forgotten how much you talk," she observes.

"Alright, where is this mythical restaurant o' carbohydrates 'nd caffeine?"

[Martin] She'd forgotten how much he talks. Her laugh is barely worth mentioning in terms of how normal people express amusement; for Martin, though, that's the closest he's going to get, and it makes him chuckle, a sound which in and of itself suggests an attempt to be quieter than normal. That's all the response she receives, though, as though to answer her with words would only further hammer home the notion that yes, he does talk an awful goddamn lot.

"My sources tell me it's on North Clark," he says. "I'll be damned if I can remember how far down though, help me keep an eye out for Mia Francesca or else I'm going to be testing the integrity of the Hyundai Elantra's brakes the old-fashioned way."

[Imogen] Imogen casts Martin a dry glance, leaning forward to retrieve her purse and flicking open the clasp. She retrieves her mobile phone. "North Clark is a long bloody street," she observes mildly, as she taps something out on the phone - moments later, it's clear that it's a text message as a chime indicates a reply - whoever it is, quick on the draw. "And I don't much trust South Korean cars."

Another block has passed before she says, "S'between West School Street and Buckingham. Remember where those are, do you?"

There is something wry and mocking in her tone, the insinuation that his memory might not be up to snuff.

[Martin] "What did South Korean cars ever do to you?" he asks, affecting weariness, as though his defense of the subject has been a long drawn-out battle with no end in sight.

A rapid-fire exchange of information occurs regardless of the fact that there is a GPS system loaded into the matrix of this particular vehicle. For whatever reason he's decided not to rely on the technology provided to him, believing his addled brain is somehow going to retain the information that some distant coworker provided him God knows how many days ago.

Speaking of his addled brain...

"As a matter of fact, I do... not."

[Imogen] "They're not European," she retorts with affected snobbery.

He says he does not know, and Imogen's gaze turns away, out the passenger's side window, catching sight of a street sign.

"I think we ha' about another six blocks t'go."

She lifts the phone in indication, waving it vaguely in Martin's direction. "He recommends the gnocchi," she adds, absently, not bothering to clarify who precisely 'he' is, before putting the phone away, her purse back on the floor.

[Martin] They're not European. If anyone, a Silver Fang could appreciate that sort of logic, and he certainly appears to even if it's only with a smirk barely visible through the darkness, the only real illumination coming from the street lamps and the neon signs they pass in the night. It deepens the lines on his face, doesn't penetrate the darkness of his irises. His breeding is not strong compared to that of his Garou cousins's, compared to that of his children, even, but it is still the blood of royalty.

Supposedly.

'He' recommends the gnocchi. There are quite a few 'he's that could be. None of them spring into his recollection as being any particular 'he,' nor do they bring names along with them.

"I refuse to eat anything I can't pronounce without sounding as though I have a sinus infection," he says. Waits a beat. "Oh, what the hell. The little balls of flour and water it is."

[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists slightly, visible at the edge as she turns her head to look out the passenger's side window once again.

"If you'd prefer," she says, "I'll order for you."

A little later, apropos of nothing, because truly, there is only so long one can focus on the pronunciation foibles of gnocchi, she asks, "How's yer heart?"

[Martin] In theory there is only so long one can focus on the pronunciation foibles of gnocchi. The man currently piloting the rental car has a propensity to talk about the most mundane subjects at length. Eighteen months had obliterated Imogen's knowledge of this particular skill of his. Time hasn't made it any more endearing than it was the first two occasions their paths crossed.

He must be making some sort of attempt to be more socially correct, or to not drive his dinner companion insane, because when she nearly smiles and offers to order for him, Martin just cracks a beamingly grateful grin and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, settling in for the six-block haul as if in preparation for silence the entire way. Without the radio on, without a cigarette in hand, there is nothing else for him to focus on but the road.

Until she speaks, that is, asking a question that has a brow quirking as Martin turns his head to glance at her, quickly, attempting to gauge her facial expression, come up with some sort of rationale or motivation for asking the question. It's a strange thing to ask if one is simply attempting to make conversation; and Imogen Slaughter doesn't make conversation. That glance, and Martin clears his throat, thinking about what he's going to say for a change.

"Doc says if I stay on the wagon and keep my weight down," a lofty goal, clearly, considering he doesn't even have a spare tire around his midsection, "I might just live to see Joe graduate high school."

[Imogen] There is not much to be gleaned from Imogen's expression. She is a woman capable of keeping her emotions hidden entirely away. She is skilled in the art of a facial mask. And anyway, her eyes are still on the passing buildings.

The question had been a strange one for small talk, but then again, she does not make small talk. She asks questions for a reason, whether or not one knows them. After the answer, she is quiet - for seconds, for nearly a minute.

Things dim as time becomes weeks, becomes months, becomes a year, becomes more. What they know of each other, the details, that they know in theory - he talks a lot, she is so slight - are somehow sharper when seen again in practice. She is small in the seat beside him, her legs crossed at the knee, her body reigned in by a seatbelt. Her hair is a riot barely contained by a clasp that is simply not up to the job. Tendrils have fallen free, he can see a few on the curve of her neck.

"I imagine that's at least some incentive," she says, eventually.

[Martin] The near-minute of silence is broken up by stops at glowing red lights, undercut by the growl of the engine every time it has to be taken back up to its cruising speed only to be slowed again at the next block. A younger man, a less controlled man, a man lacking perspective, might have grown irritated at having to constantly start and stop trying to get the vehicle down the road in a timely fashion, particularly with a silent passenger next to him. This man doesn't do so much as sigh. He just drives.

For having first met each other a lifetime ago, more seems to have changed since March of last year than the summer of their nigh unto spent adolescence. Ilari Martin was not so different in 2009 than he was in 1995: he still had children, he was still skinny and sardonic, he was still drinking too much and snorting cocaine and somehow managing to fulfill his myriad responsibilities without seeming to put forth too much effort. He still wasn't entirely whole. His cracks not only showed more but they tripped up and even swallowed some of the people who got too close. The man arm's length away from Imogen tonight is healthy, and visibly so. He doesn't reek of liquor, isn't constantly sniffing and rubbing his nose, doesn't look as though a stiff breeze will knock him over.

A year and a half ago he would have scoffed and made some sort of nihilistic remark about whether that was actually an incentive. More than a few times Martin insinuated if he didn't outright announce that his children would be better off with both parents dead than having him as a father. That's not what he does right now.

"If I said my kids were the reason I get up in the morning it would be a complete and utter exaggeration," he says. "Not entirely untrue, mind… between the two of them I have been threatened with so many ass beatings should I be hospitalized again I've lost count, so one could argue that my incentive is to avoid great bodily harm and subsequent--hey, there it is!"

The restaurant's red-white-and-green color scheme and its glowing lights are what grab his attention. The brakes are not slammed on, nor does he lurch across three lanes of traffic to get there. He slows, and flicks on the turn indicator, and waits his turn to pull into the parking lot.

"--subsequent embarrassment at having to admit defeat to a thirteen-year-old boy, but Imogen, that thirteen-year-old boy is currently bigger than you are. If I can hold out until after he graduates to have another heart attack at least when he beats my ass I'll have had my ass beaten by an eighteen-year-old boy."

The engine is put to sleep, the lights on the console dying out only to be replaced by the dome lights when Martin pulls the key out of the ignition. He looks over at her, flicks his eyebrows, and gets out of the car. It isn't until they're reunited outside in the cold, damp October air, walking towards the entrance, that he speaks again.

"So how's…? It starts with a D. Not Devon, that's Irish…"

[Imogen] Imogen exhales a sharp breath and interjects only once - "Most thirteen year old boys are taller than I am," she observes.

She undoes her seatbelt and guides it back before reaching over to open the door, stepping out into the cool air. The rain has stopped, at least. She brings her umbrella with her, more so as to not leave anything in his car than anything else. It is looped absently around one wrist, her purse pulled up over one shoulder.

She glances at him sharply at his question - a tightening along the edges of her mouth, in her jaw. When she answers, it is not to give him the name of her erstwhile - whatever he was, but simply to answer, "Not here anymore."

[Martin] Among the many problems with being mated to the Garou is the one that no one ever seems to feel the need to point out to the young: they will die first. It isn't written in stone; plenty of Kinfolk meet untimely ends. Yet the Garou are the ones with less concrete responsibilities, who do not have things like jobs and car payments and mortgages keeping them rooted in one place. If they have children, it doesn't matter because they aren't the ones raising them.

The Kinfolk of Chicago are not close-knit, do not consider each other a second family. This is not how it has always been, nor how it likely always will be, but there is a reason for it. Urban Septs can go either way; it is the rural Septs that see Kinfolk tending to band together versus fending for themselves. Martin is no longer one of Chicago's Kinfolk, regardless of what he managed to accomplish when he lived here last year. Sometimes he receives updates on what is going on in the city from Danicka. It's enough to stay abreast of who's died, but not of who's here, who's gone, who's hiding.

Within their society it isn't considered rude to ask whether not here anymore is a euphemism, yet one would have to be insane to do such a thing in the wake of Imogen looking over so sharply. Martin watches her, the pause to open the door for her affording him the opportunity, and he's silent as--if--she passes ahead of him. That silence doesn't last. It never does.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, and he sounds sincere.

[Imogen] She passes him through the open door in silence, no offer of gratitude, her spine straight and tight as a just plucked string.

If he is aware of who has died, he may also be aware that the entire Eagle pack had been decimated, all in the space of months. Dead to the last one and then the last one - apparently 'not here anymore'.

He says he's sorry as they come to stop, waiting for the hostess, and is cast another look. Imogen is - as was said just moments before - a woman in control of her emotions. Or at least, a woman in control of what others see of her emotions.

Still, the anger that flares, that is actually visible, might be best described as naked, under the circumstances. She is hardly foaming at the mouth but for her - it is clear enough.

Then it is gone, leaving behind a compressed mouth, a tight jaw.

"Save it for someone else," she says, low, before turning to offer politeness to the hostess. Table for two, please.

[Martin] It's worth mentioning that Martin's method of coping with becoming a father at the age of eighteen was to start abusing substances. He does not remember whether Katie or Joe was more demanding growing up; they would not crawl into bed with him when Marya was around because they were terrified of her, and if they crawled into bed with him when the Philodox was gone, he was too pickled to remember it clearly. Any shouting matches that occurred were lost to the haze of alcohol. All he has to go on is what has happened since March of 2009.

Which means: he is a single father raising a thirteen-year-old Trueborn boy whose mother died when he was young. Living elsewhere but still in his life is a 21-year-old kinswoman who has her mother's temperament. The aforementioned mother was an Adren Philodox with the Rage of a Fenrir Modi and a bipolar mood. He has overheard and participated in more arguments in the last eighteen months than he can remember in the previous eighteen years. The words "I hate you" don't even register in his brain anymore.

So when Imogen's anger flares up, when she dismisses his concern and his commiseration with five words, Martin doesn't become upset, or offended, or withdrawn. He raises his eyebrows and rocks back a bit as if to say Excuuuse me? but he doesn't argue with her. Not in front of the hostess. They're led to a far-flung table, every flat surface in the place graced by a tea light, and left with menus and the promise that their server will be right with them.

He doesn't pull out her chair for her. When he seats himself he's controlled. Once they're parked, Martin squints at her, his expression dramatically pensive… but he doesn't say anything.

[Imogen] By the time they've reached the table, Imogen's mood is, if not dissipated, then under control. The tension lingers in her joints, as it were a beast with its claws latched in. Her expression, however, is controlled. The line of her mouth has eased.

Martin is looking at her, dramatically pensive as she picks up the menu the hostess has provided and opens it, taking a scan of its contents - as deliberate in ignoring his gaze as he is in looking at her.

"Will it bother you if I ha' a glass of wine?" she asks, mildly.

[Martin] He hasn't even picked up his menu. Its presence has done nothing to dissuade him from staring at her, essentially making faces at her while she isn't looking; it remains folded up and dormant on his side of the table. Her question doesn't quite do the job, either.

"Not at all," he says, lugubrious, as though he's so distracted trying to slog his way through some puzzle that he barely has the energy left over for a response.

[Imogen] So here it is - Imogen looking at her menu, and Martin looking at her. A stand-off of sorts. Either one will look away or the other will look up, and at what point will it occur?

"Though Kris did recommend the gnocchi," ah, the mysterious 'he', "might I suggest taking a look at the menu anyway?" she enquires, raising her gaze to arch an eyebrow.

[Martin] Were she looking up to do more than let him see the lift of her brow, Imogen would note that Martin is sitting back in his chair, arms in his lap, looking relatively relaxed, at ease even, despite the brief flareup that took place when they walked into the restaurant. By some force of will he's keeping himself quiet. That never lasts long.

"You might," he says, brightly, as though she's just come up with an absolutely fabulous idea. A beat, and he slides the menu closer, flips it open. When he speaks again his tone levels out somewhat. "Might I inquire as to why you agreed to this?"

[Imogen] A pause. "I didn't ha' a good reason to say no."

[Martin] The self-amusing staring stops. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. Maybe he was expecting something more pessimistic. Martin hasn't looked down at his menu yet, and his already flimsy attention span has been once again knocked off course by something infinitely more interesting than what this particular restaurant offers.

"I refuse to believe," he says, "that you had nothing better to do on a Friday night than willingly spend time with a man you can't stand."

[Imogen] "What," she says closing her menu, and glancing at the waitress who approaches. "You think everything since we got out o' the car is merely a sign I can't stand you, is that it?"

A moment or two later, the waitress arrives, interrupting their conversation. Imogen orders a glass of red wine, but does not order food, unless Martin indicates he is ready.

[Martin] The question isn't answered prior to the waitress's arrival. He doesn't look as though he's won some sort of personal victory by getting her to indirectly admit that she doesn't exactly not stand him. For once, Martin's expression is muted rather than exaggerating an emotion he may or may not be feeling. He ceases his nonverbal terrorism to address the waitress like a human being: actually answering her when she asks how they are, bantering a bit, exhibiting a capacity to be utterly charming that is far more effective on girls the waitress's age than on women like Imogen.

He orders a decaf cappuccino. Small mercies… he won't be any more hyper at the end of the evening than he is right now.

Once they're left to their own devices, Martin reaches out to adjust the way their shaker of pepper sits on the table and says, "Now, don't put words in my mouth. I asked you a question that struck a nerve and I followed it up with a statement that you felt the need to rebuke me for. To me, that says 'I have no desire to discuss the topic you brought up' rather than 'My god Martin I loathe you.'"

[Imogen] Imogen is more or less silent as Martin banters with the waitress. She is polite, but not charming. Pleasant, but not friendly. Her lines are held closer to the chest than his.

When she leaves, she turns her attention back, an eyebrow lifting.

"So when, exactly, did I say 'My god, Martin, I loathe you,' either euphemistically or otherwise?" A beat and then she raises a hand, making a slight, but eloquent gesture of dismissal. "Never mind," perhaps she realizes she is merely picking a fight. "I don't loathe you. If I did, I wouldn't be 'ere at all."

[Martin] He's got to know that anything he says beyond that initial accusation of her holding an unfavorable opinion of him is going to result in an argument. It isn't as though Imogen has no opinion of him at all. Their history together was somewhat rife with turmoil, he being the sort of addict who needed to hit the rockiest, nastiest of bottoms before he would make an earnest effort to recover. Nearly every one of their past interactions has occurred while he was under the influence of one substance or another.

That's neither here nor there. Martin, as she knew him a year and a half ago, was a mess. He was emotional and needed but did not want to ask for help, would push away anyone who made the attempt. This creature in front of her right now doesn't need anything. Most if not all of his needs are taken care of. It leaves more room for the attempt at normal social interaction, even if neither one of the conversation's participants can claim to be normal.

Before this gets too out of hand, Imogen waves away her own question and tries something else.

He stops adjusting the place settings. When their waitress comes back, unloading a glass of wine and a saucer of espresso drowned in steamed milk, Martin waits for Imogen to order her food before he asks for the gnocchi. Only he refers to it as the "little balls of flour and water"; he snaps his fingers and exclaims "That's it!" when the waitress provides the correct term.

Once she's gone again, he scratches at his hairline and says, "Well, that's good to know."

[Imogen] A year and a half ago, Martin had been a shell, half the time high, half the time spazzing, his pupils dilated, his frequent trips to the bathroom, his absurd acts of acrobatics. He had needed help, and desperately so, and had been unable to ask for it. Imogen, for her part, had never even offered a hand. Even the one time he had called her, barely able to remember his name, let alone her number, her assistance had been bare-bones. A place to stay, a removal of his drugs. A drive home, the next morning.

It is perhaps the only reason why anything resembling - well, anything - between them survived.

Her mouth twists - more like a smirk than a smile, though even that does not reach her eyes. "Glad to put yer mind at ease." She picks up her wine glass, swirling it gently within its bowl before lifting it to her lips for a swallow.

"So tell me, then," she says, setting the glass down, "why call me at all, if you thought I had such a low opinion?"

[Martin] His beverage takes longer to receive any sort of attention than hers does. Steam rises from the frothy surface as a visible warning of the potential to scald; Imogen's wine is room temperature, its warmth coming from alcohol and epithelial tissue not agreeing with each other. The latter can't stand the former, you see. Alcohol is a diuretic, sucks moisture from whatever it comes into contact with, kills germs at higher concentrations. In less hardy folk, alcohol eats away at the lining of the esophagus and stomach, leaves ulcerations where healthy skin used to be, yet people drink it because of the effects it has on the central nervous system.

"Ah, but I never accused you of having a low opinion of me. I accused you of strongly disliking me. It's entirely possible to strongly dislike something without believing it to lack merit or worth, and if you do not, in fact, strongly dislike me then I take it back and apologize."

[Imogen] "Splitting hairs," she observes, leaning back, her smirk resurfacing. "And if you're going to split hairs, actually, you accused me o' being 'unable to stand you'," her hand picks up the wine again, though does not yet lift it to drink.

"And I believe you'd be hard pressed to find someone who loathes, strongly dislikes or is unable to stand and yet still has a positive opinion of the object of their ire."

A beat. Her smirk twists further. It still does not quite reach her eyes. "If you'd prefer not to answer, you can tell me about the weather where you live."

[Martin] "My dear," he asks, "when have you ever known me to prefer not to answer?"

[Imogen] "There's a first time fer everything, isn't there just?"

[Martin] "That's what I've always heard."

His cappuccino continues to be ignored. It's still steaming.

"As much as it pains me to be the bearer of bad news, I'm going to have to go ahead and inform you that now is not going to be that time. What is it that you think I'd prefer not to answer? I'm afraid we've drifted so far from the original topic of conversation that I can't even… oh, right! Why I called you!" He clears his throat, sits up straight, and says, "I wanted to see you and felt fairly confident that if the feeling wasn't mutual you would have no qualms with telling me that."

[Imogen] Her eyebrow arches slightly as he says they've drifted, intimating with a glance the comment: well, whose fault is that? She does not bother to verbalize it, and instead listens as he answers - it is not a very fulfilling answer; an answer that might, perhaps lead to the question, 'Alright, and why did you want to see me?'

Chasing this conversation has lost her interest, however. She is not one in need of reassurance, and now that the moment has passed - the idea that he thought she might have loathed him, and yet called her anyway, any curiosity has faded.

"Alright, then," she says, lifting her wine glass to her lips, sipping.

Silence, then, at least for a little bit.

[Martin] Impossible as it seems, there's more Martin isn't saying than is actually coming out of his mouth. There's awareness that the man he was last year was aggravating, exhausting, embarrassing… the man he was last year wasn't really a man at all but a bag of bones padded with alcohol and cocaine. It was a husk. Imogen doesn't know the man she's with right now. One could argue that his personality has remained the same, that people never really change, they just get better at hiding themselves. He looks healthy, and he's in good spirits rather than clearly suffering.

This current thread of conversation served absolutely no purpose, and now that it's come to its conclusion they both know it. They are both well-educated and well-spoken; Martin is paid, and quite handsomely, to give the world his opinion on hundreds of movies that are released every year. If he says something, it isn't without thought. Either he genuinely believed that she couldn't stand him and was just dancing around the subject until he could come up with a suitable lie, or he had said it just to hear her say the opposite.

Whichever it is, she accepts his explanation, and takes a swallow of wine. He finally pays attention to his drink, blowing on it before taking a sip. For a moment it seems as though he's going to break the silence with another inane comment. It doesn't happen, though.

[Imogen] So silence, now. She is - well, perhaps comfortable is not quite the right phrase, not the right fit but close enough, so - comfortable in it. Martin was always a talker, though he appears to be a little less of one, now and Imogen has always been a sharp contrast to it. She speaks when necessary, and if she thinks a gesture or her silence will do the job as well or better -well, that may be all you get.

So, for a time, there is a quiet. She sips her wine, he drinks his coffee. Her brow contracts at one point, then smooths away. Beyond that, there is no symptom of emotions, merely the impression of thoughtfulness.

Finally, she draws herself back to their table, setting down her wine glass. "What brought yeh to Chicago?" she asks, with very little warning.

[Martin] Never in his life has he known a woman less inclined to talk about her feelings or what's going on in her life than Imogen. It may just be that she doesn't want to discuss them with him, but that is a distinction he's not inclined to dig for. He sees the stitch in her brow because he's looking at her, even if only out of the periphery of his vision, and his own expression softens… but he doesn't comment on it.

What brought him Chicago.

"A Boeing seven-twenty-seven," he says without missing a beat.

[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, her breath exhaling, sharply. "Alright," she says, fixing her gaze on him. "I'm goin' t'just sit 'ere and drink my drink, wait fer my food. If yeh'd like t'ha' a conversation - one that goes in a straight line, mind, let me know."

[Martin] "Imogen," he says, setting down his cup, mirthless laughter staining her name, "as far as I can tell the only conversation you're interested in having is one that doesn't somehow result in you needing to answer questions or tolerate me sympathizing with you. Now, if you want to have a conversation… great! Fantastic! Let's have a conversation! But if all you want me to do is talk for the next hour without showing an interest in your life, give me a topic besides the condition of my cardiac muscle or what it is I'm doing back in Chicago and I'll just talk."

[Imogen] She is quiet for a moment, her face devoid of expression, every inch of it controlled.

Then, she says, "I've rejoined the Cook County Medical Examiner Office," she says, "As yeh might ha' guessed from where yeh picked me up. I teach medical students and residents, now, if yeh can believe it." Her mouth twists slightly. "Gives me an air o' respectability. Which o' course works in my favour to help protect me while I try and protect the veil."

It is something like a peace offering, regardless of how stiffly it's offered.

[Martin] That she doesn't just set down her glass, pick up her things, and leave is a good sign. Imogen doesn't tolerate a great deal of bullshit. So long as he's known her, she never has. If he'd had any lingering doubts about her desire to be in his presence at all, let alone for any length of time, it dissipates when instead of arguing or leaving, Imogen steels herself and volunteers information.

The Silver Fang smiles. It isn't condescending or smarmy like the majority of his smiles, isn't a self-congratulatory grin. It's relieved, or reassuring, or just fucking happy that she's decided to stay at the table with him. Martin picks up his cappuccino and takes a swallow as she speaks, laughing quietly when her mouth twists. If there is any stronger counter to the idea that Imogen can't stand him it's the number of times she's almost smiled since she got in the car. Or made the motions of smiling. It's as though she's so thoroughly conditioned herself not to show emotion that just twitching her lips slightly is now a perfectly acceptable alternative to actually letting them flourish.

He'll take what he can get.

"Ahh, the Veil," he says, his fingers practically waggling to illustrate his disdain, or sarcasm, or whatever that is. "Wrecking hard-working relatives' professional reputations since the Middle Ages…"

[Imogen] She exhales a breath, sharply - this is amusement, though buried in air. "I'd ha' thought to blame the humans," she says. "Or the Full-Bloods."

[Martin] "I'm perfectly happy blaming either of them," he says. "The Veil isn't for our benefit, is it?"

That's about the time their food shows up. There's another brief interlude, a conversational dance with the waitress that is much less tense compared to last time, and eating introduces itself as an obstacle to a conversation that has already had a bitch of a time finding its legs.

"You're still bothering with it, though. It seems to me the general consensus is that they can just fight their own war. How long have the spirit-talkers been raving about the End Times, now? Since the turn of the century?"

[Imogen] Imogen thanks the waitress absently as she puts down her plate - spinach and cheese ricotta and waits while the banter finishes, patient.

She eats slowly - always has. She eats little - this is much the same. By the time they leave tonight, she will be taking home at least half her meal. She does, however, order another glass of wine, and this she will finish with considerable ease.

"I am not particularly sure what the Spirit-talkers say," she says, "as they rarely speak t'me. But I don't do it fer Them," she says. "Not any o' it. I never did."

[Martin] "Well," he says, "the ones who did are the ones giving up. There's no point doing it for Them."

If he absolutely had to spell it out, it would do nothing but bury itself in her flesh, make her fight not to wince. He doesn't have to spell it out. The Garou are not the ones living to be thirty, forty, fifty. They aren't the ones who have to deal with the fallout of poor decisions or messy battles. They die, or they leave, or they're captured, or they dance the Spiral.

Out of nowhere, he asks, "Are you happy?"

[Imogen] He does not make her wince, but he makes her tighten - just a moment's reaction, but little more than that. She does not bother to dignify what he's said with a response. There is no point in doing it for Them.

He asks her if she's happy, and she stills, completely. No expression, no movement of her body, her hands on her utensils, her knife slicing through a cannelloni tube. It lasts barely a breath, and then her hands move again, finishing what she's doing.

"What difference would it make?" she says, spearing a piece of cannelloni with her fork. "If I said yes or no? Aside from assuaging your curiosity."

[Martin] This isn't an easy conversation to have while eating. It isn't as though one of them is speaking at length about the topic they've chosen, affording the other the opportunity to get a head start before returning fire. They're only uttering a few sentences at a time, one of them injecting occasional silences before responding. Martin, though, eats faster and with less finesse than Imogen does. His tribe prides itself on its members' impeccable manners and impressive breeding.

Anyone who was in Chicago around the time the current president took office can attest to how much of a shit Ilari Martin gives about upholding his tribe's reputation.

"Why did you ask how my heart is?" he counters, though not with any bitterness.

[Imogen] There are multiple answers to that question. Her motives are rarely easy.

"Call it professional interest," she says. "I wanted to gauge the likelihood tha' I might ha' to perform CPR tonight." Her mouth twists caustically, "It's much more awkward when performing it on someone yeh know."

[Martin] "I can't imagine why that would be."

Which, of course, is a lie. There's a beat, and then he thinks of something. What he says next seems wholly organic, and isn't accompanied by a rakish grin or waggling eyebrows or anything other than matter-of-fact deadpan as he readies another forkful of gnocchi.

"Doctor Slaughter, what did you think we were going to be doing tonight that would be physically taxing enough that another myocardial infarction would be a legitimate concern?"

[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twitches. She is either unaware or completely ignoring the implication. "I hear I am a very frustrating person with whom to converse. There's medical studies that suggest tha' stress might be bad fer the heart."

[Martin] Normally he would make a joke somehow applying that bit of medical information to his job, use it as an opportunity to take a stab at some filmmaker or another who Imogen has likely never heard of. As much as he appears to enjoy the sound of his own voice, that isn't the bit of speech that grabs his attention or makes him think he ought to respond to it. After swallowing, he says, amusement etched into his features, "You're a frustrating person with whom to converse?" He purposefully wipes clean his facial expression, sets down his fork, and extends his hand across the table. "Hi, I don't think we've met yet. My name's Ilari Martin…"

[Imogen] She scoffs slightly - eschewing his offered hand in favour of taking another bit of cannelloni. "Fortunately for you," she says, "I haven't got any heart troubles."

[Martin] The forensic pathologist doesn't take his hand, and the film critic isn't surprised. He does smirk, though, as though he's amused enough for the both of them, then sits himself back down and takes another bite of gnocchi. The contents of his plate are disappearing at a pretty good clip.

"Once again," he says, "we have strayed so far from the original topic that I'm grateful to still boast as much cognitive functioning as I can: what difference does it make. What difference does it make… alright, so I'm not a therapist, I haven't got any professional interest, but I did ask because I give a shit and, depending on what answer you gave me, would either share in your happiness or attempt to offer… guidance, or advice, or whatever it is that normal people do when they hear that a, ah… acquaintance is having difficulty. If you are having difficulty. I'm not saying you are. I don't know, you never actually answered the question."

[Imogen] She sets down her utensils and reaches for her wine glass, her expression carefully maintained. She considers what he's said - genuinely, considers it, her reaction. There are several possibilities. That she might tell him the truth. That she might lie, or deflect or ...

Something in between.

"Look," she says quietly, "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'd rather not." A swallow of wine before she sets it down. "I'm committed t'where I am, and what I am doin' and the choices I ha' made, but it's a fair sight easier when I don't spend too much time thinking about it, if you don't mind."

[Martin] It's at least a few steps up from her telling him to save his concern, or his empathy, or whatever it is that we're calling this. Imogen doesn't insult him or outright lie. It's not a true answer to Martin's question… but she's telling him something that sounds enough like truth that he isn't compelled to try and berate reality out of her. It's not begging, but she makes it abundantly clear that she doesn't want to talk about it, and Martin, for as flippant and outright obnoxious as he tends to be, doesn't need to hear the words more than the two times she offers them up on her own.

So he nods, and drags back the rest of his drink.

"Alright," he says, taking the time to swallow properly so there isn't a plosive quality to his speech. I can respect that, his tone supplies. A beat, and then, "Shall we go back to talking about you wanting to perform CPR on me, then? That was a hell of a distraction."

[Imogen] Imogen smirks a little - irony, perhaps as she repeats an earlier question, only rephrased, "Why don't yeh tell me why you're in Chicago."

The conversation continues - broken perhaps by banter, or hair-splitting or moments of silence. They finish dinner - Imogen does not want dessert, though if Martin does, she indulges in an Italian coffee. Carbohydrates and caffeine, he'd promised, and she takes him up on both.

As distance between his harder questions and the present broadens, the tension seems to ease; perhaps she was right, it is easier when she's not thinking about it. A therapist would likely have considerable feedback to this fact. Then again, a therapist might have their hands full with a kinfolk, never mind one with as many armours as Imogen.

He drives her home - apparently she had walked to work, parking in front of the same building she had lived in eighteen months ago. Imogen slides the seatbelt back into place.

"Ha' a good night," she says, simply before adding: "Ring me up next time you're in town, will yeh?" Were there any lingering doubts about whether or not Imogen could stand him: they should be thoroughly banished with that single request. Everything else might be pity - might be good acting, and we all know Imogen is a consummate actress - but that. Unasked for, unneeded.

She exits the car, closing the door and walks up to her building without a glance back.