On Trust, Distrust, Respect and Points of View

[Imogen] The gym is nearly empty except for a somewhat beefy but short trainer, sitting behind the counter with a magazine and a jumbo (or it referred to as a 'vente'?) coffee sitting on the desk. He will look up at any who enter, looking vaguely surprised, and though rage will make him uncomfortable, he tolerates it better than most.

Either the rigours of training have toughened him or the need to save face is strong in one who cultivates his physique as much as this one does.

The gym is not particularly large, but it is exclusive. The equipment is high-end, the machines varied. There are televisions in the cardio equipment, but, perhaps surprisingly, no fancy 'extras'. They offer personal training, but not nutrition, not massage therapy. There is no sauna, no whirlpool, no pool at all. Just weights, equipment, entertainment if you need it. Mirrors for your form.

She is on her back on a bench in the weight room, her skin damp, her hair pulled back in a coiled bun half coming undone. Her breath draws in evenly, controlled as she lowers the barbell toward her chest, then out, just as slowly as she presses it upward.

A tattoo winds around her bicep, black ink against pale white skin. This is unexpected, perhaps, but even more so is the clarity of meaning behind it: the Fianna glyph branded into the woman's flesh. She has no other markings, though perhaps in the right light he might catch the sliver of a scar along the hard plane of muscle between hip and ribcage, a silvery patch of near perfectly healed skin on one shoulder.

Her shoulder blades draw back, in, as she pulls down the barbell again, her hips locked, her feet on the ground. Biceps, triceps, shoulders and pectorals engage - she has drawn her breath in, then a push upward, an exhale, and she presses it up again, the bar steady, unwavering.

[Hunter] Exercise in one form, benefits all forms.

So it makes sense that Hunter Matthews would stick to his breed form to build strength in his body as the logistics for strength training in crinos are almost not worth the hassle. Why lift cars when regular human training will do the job? It is odd that he would choose this particular place to do his work out though. For one it is what looks like a completely human outfit, which means Hunter will automatically have difficulty fitting in, secondly it is in a rather posh area of town and by-proxy it probably costs more than most gyms in Chicago.

But he's here, stepping through the front doors and heading towards the counter. He wears a grey zipup hoodie and matching sweat pants, the hood is up though the zip is only partially so. Beneath it can be seen a plain white wife-beater. He carries a duffel bag.

Strangely the man behind the counter seems to tolerate his Rage, doesn't pale or start to blabber when Hunter approaches. Most unusual considering the response some kinfolk (that will remain unnamed) have to Hunter Matthews. Hunter eyes him sceptically, like this isn't how things are supposed to go. But it doesn't seem to phase the Ahroun too much because he doesn't walk on out of here or snarl in the face of the man.

He drops his duffel bag on the floor by the counter.

"Sup dude," Hunter says with a smile. "Called in earlier bout--" He pauses, frowns, turns on the spot once and hesitates before actually looking. Imogen.

Or is it Imogen? She's working out, she isn't wearing a suit, she has skin showing. He has seen her jog before but weights? He can see her on the bench past the rows of cardio machines through a wide door-less portal into the main weight room. His nostrils flare. It is most definitely Imogen, not that he can smell her. He just knows.

"Excuse me," he says to the man and just picks up his bag and walks on through.

She will feel his Rage before she sees him, might have already, might have even heard him. Regardless, he drops his bag beside the bench and stands looking over her in the spotters position grinning down.

"Well fancy that."

[Imogen] There are earphones in her ears, but they are expensive enough that he cannot hear even the barest thrum of music from them - they all pass through the speakers into her ears. She does not hear him approach, and her attention is on the ceiling - it is only as he comes into the spotters position, and perhaps leans a little farther into her view that she sees him. He can see the shift of her gaze as he comes into her peripheral vision. The lock of her eyes. Nothing else moves, but her eyelashes in a brief, restrained reaction; he startles her.

His lips move and after a moment, Imogen lifts the bar an inch higher and pulls it back, racking it. She lowers her arms, and for a moment, remains perfectly still. After this bare moment she allows herself for rest, she sits up, moving at the hips. The line of her spine curves in briefly, her shoulders rounding, her neck bowing in a contained stretch, then she straightens, reaching up to remove the ear phone from one ear, and turning to look at him over one shoulder.

She does not speak, instead arching an eyebrow in question - inviting him to repeat himself, perhaps, or merely explain himself.

[Hunter] He's grinning like a simpleton, and hasn't even realised that she can't hear him. His hands are on the bar when she begins to shift it back though by the weight of it and the ease of her movements he can tell she doesn't need his help. Then she removes the ear-bud.

He blinks, comes to a realisation and begins to repeat himself.

"I said well fancy--" He shakes his head, "-- never mind. Didn't expect ta' see you here." He states the obvious while he's stepping back from her, pulling down his hood with both hands before unzipping the garment. His eyes scan the room and the machines within it.

"Didn't take ya' for the liftin' type."

[Imogen] Imogen tips her head, a shoulderless shrug as she lifts her hands to her hair, undoing the elastic band that keeps it tied. She does not allow her hair to fall, one hand occupied with the band, the other grasping the heavy weight of violently rouge strands.

"I wouldn't imagine you as someone who frequents a gym at all," she observes, scraping back the errant escaped hair from her face and gathering it at the nape of her neck. "Never mind this one."

[Hunter] His eyes rake over her neck briefly, following the movements of her hands to their destination before being distracted by the curve of an ear and the line of her neck. They finally settle on her tattoo and for a moment he holds that stare, ponderous, before shifting back to her eyes.

"I don't." He confesses after the long pause. "Fitness ain't really an issue, still, fightin'll make ya' quicker, stronger to a point, and sure beats the shit outta' runnin' on one'a them treadmill things. I ain't luggin' nothin' round though, don't do that sorta' fightin'. Only way ta' build on what I got is ta' do more'n normal."

A beat.

"Weights at home ain't big enough and Joey'd have a fit if I startin' pickin up Cassius." He says it like she would have any idea what he is talking about.

[Imogen] His eyes take her in, pausing here and there - at her heartbeat thrumming in her neck beneath her jawline, at the cusp of her ear. And she - she finishes twisting up her hair, and snaps the covered band back into place, the hair newly secured.

It is only when his gaze lingers on the curve of her bicep that she glances down at the direction of his gaze, then up at him. The fingers of her opposite hand, now resting on the bench, stir briefly, then still.

A moment's pause. She has no idea what he means by Cassius, but she doubts it matters.

"There was a fullbood once who took a palette and filled it wi' cinderblocks. Dragged it about." Her gaze flicks back toward the reception. The small trainer had watched the two for several seconds, several minutes ago, then returned to his magazine and his ridiculously sized coffee.

"S'cheaper than a gym membership."

[Hunter] He frowns. "Oh yeah, who was that?"

[Imogen] A beat. "The Nation called him Silence."

[Hunter] "Silence.." His frown deepens, his gaze wanders off her as his attention focuses inwards rather than outwards. "Oooh.. I think I knows the name.. Joeys mentioned him once or twice I think, ain't he some hotshot fuckin' elder or somethin'?"

[Imogen] Her mouth twists a little sharply, and she half turns away, one hand lifting to her other ear, removing the bud, then lowering to her sports

"I'm not familiar wi' yer politics."

[Imogen] (DLP!)

[Imogen] Her mouth twists a little sharply, and she half turns away, one hand lifting to her other ear, removing the bud, then lowering to her sports bra and the small media player clipped there. A button touch silences the music. The line of her throat and jaw are clear at this angle. Her skin is so pale one can almost see the blood flow beneath it.

"I'm not familiar wi' yer politics," she answers, turning back.

[Hunter] Eyes narrow on her throat, follow it down to the media player and the practical attire it is attached to. He lets out a hmm from between his lips after she speaks of being unfamiliar with his politics.

"Who is really?" He says, breathing in sharply and shrugging back the jersey from his shoulders. He doesn't place it anywhere, just lets it drop on the floor while he finds the machine he's looking for.

Which is apparently a lat pull down.

"Familiar with em' I mean," he continues without turning and starts to fiddle with the pin on the weights, finding a suitable one. "I got somethin' like that concrete thingy though, call it the prowler. Seen some other dudes do it, basically just a fuckin' platform you chuck whatever in weights on it, it's god skids and then some handels and ya gotta push it runnin' fast as ya can up'n down the street or whatever."

By now he's sitting down, raising his arms to grip the bar. His shoulders and the tops of his Biceps show the white marks of straight lined scars and when he flexes on that first pull it seems hard to believe that Hunter Matthews is in need of any strength training at all. Nothing is going to fall apart on him any time soon.

[Imogen] Imogen smirks, tightly. "Joey, it would appear." She is grateful when the subject changes, this only suggested by a deeper inhale than her previous ones had been.

She watches him as takes a seat at the machine, sitting still, at his back. Her purebreeding infuses the room, much as his rage does, though the former is much more pleasant than the latter.

Still, she is at his back, and he a predator. No longer can he see her, and she cants her head to the side, pushing her shoulder down to extend the stretch, one hand sliding behind her body.

"I imagine yeh could find yerself clear space 'round the docks," she says, eventually. "And enough fer you to use fer weights."

[Hunter] He laughs, but it doesn't disrupt the current pull down, though he finishes it before he speaks.

"If I didn't know any better I'd think ya'd be tryna' get rid'a me Imogen." He turns over his shoulder to peer back at her, a grin in his lips.

"N'Joey don't know much bout no politics neither, just said he was on'a her peeps' fenrir'n'all, not one like her neither, one'a them fuckin' viking types."

[Imogen] There is no answering smile, merely a mild regard. "Yer kind do not often do well," she says, "mixing with humans."

He turns back, perhaps or maybe he continues to look at her. It matters very little - she is still, beyond a tendon moving in her jaw, and from this distance, even looking at her, it might not be seen.

For a moment, she is silent. Then, finally. "Yeh'd better lean back more. You're going to catch yer chin if you aren't careful." It doesn't matter if he is, or not. His form could be almost perfect.

[Hunter] His kind doesn't do well mixing with humans. She doesn't need to say it, and the fact that he knows this is shown in the way his eyes narrow. I know, those emeralds say, and it's cold--menacing for anyone else--but Imogen has proven she can weather the storms of the Ahroun better than most in Chicago.

It takes him a second of simply staring at her, at that complete and utter refusal to show any emotion to the Garou in front of her, and then he shrugs. Smiles even. It's toothy, white canines peeking out from pink lips.

"Oh yeah?" He asks, "Why don'tcha come show me how it's done?"

[Imogen] His eyes narrow, her eyebrow arches. It's a pointed look. His expression suggests he knows that they do not, that he does not. Her own asks the question of why he might be here.

Then, she changes the subject. The stare suggests he's aware of something but - not of what, nor of how much.

He smiles, and shows his teeth. Among wolves, this is a challenge. A moment, then her brow lifts again. A small measure of emotion seeps through, even if it is merely affected. "You need someone to show you how to lean back?" her voice suggests skepticism.

[Hunter] His back is turned by the time she asks him that question and he's about to pull down again, heedless of her advice. Her words halt him, have him looking again over his right shoulder with his large hands still gripping the bar.

"Who said anythin' bout need? Maybe I just wanted ya' to?"

An eyebrow raised in question. His tone is short, but it lacks that impatience she is most likely used to whenever she disagrees with the Ahroun, or fails to do exactly as he wishes.

[Imogen] "I think you can handle it."

[Imogen] (MANAGE! I think you can MANAGE it)

[Hunter] He snorts, chuffs in homid. Dry amusement. He pulls down on the bar, he does not hit his chin. He doesn't speak again until his short set is complete, high weight small reps.

It's then that he turns, and the movement is swift and precise, his right leg raises as he rotates to his left and he ends up straddling the seat in reverse to what he previous had been.

There is a slightly pinkish flush to his cheeks.

"Tell me somethin' Imogen," he begins, "This Silence fella, when he was fuckin' draggin' his concrete round or whatever', did you fuckin' tell him how'ta do it?"

[Imogen] Imogen does not sit and watch, even for that short set. By the time he's finished, she's retrieved a free weight, and returned to the bench. The slight woman sits on the corner of it, her knees apart, one elbow against one knee, completing bicep curls. The clank of the weights returning home briefly grabs her attention, before she returns her gaze to the moving weight.

"I'm fairly sure there isn't a proper technique fer draggin' a concrete block around," she observes. "It must be murder on one's back."

[Hunter] He watches the curl of her bicep, watches the way she lets that single location of muscle fibres do all the work, it's very precise. He rubs a palm up over his cheek and then joins both his hands behind his head. It's a stretch and his chest sticks out emitting an audible cracking of joints. She makes him snicker, makes him grin and his eyes close within the humour he finds there.

"You're probs right," he comments with his eyes still closed. A second later they open and he pushes himself up off the bench. "Sounds fuckin' boring too. Draggin' concrete around. Least with the prowler it's kinda fun in a way," the words come out easy though distracted as he makes his way towards the squat cage.

"Hows shit been goin' anyway? Everythin' alright?"

[Imogen] Her gaze remains on the steadily moving weight. There is effort - as the repetitions go up, each contraction of the muscle seems more difficult, and every release, a little slower. The repetition before she finally stops, is likely the last one she could have possibly done.

She switches hands.

"Well," a smirk flickers across her mouth, and she casts him a glance, sidelong, "with a name like the prowler, how could yeh go wrong?"

[Hunter] The bar at the squat cage is Olympic in size, the standard twenty KG's and he begins fitting discs to the ends of it while Imogen deflects with random comments about the name for his exercise machine.

"You gonna answer the question or what? How's shit been? Have you been doin' aight?" He repeats himself.

[Imogen] Her gaze remains on the steadily moving weight. There is effort - as the repetitions go up, each contraction of the muscle seems more difficult, and every release, a little slower. The repetition before she finally stops, is likely the last one she could have possibly done.

She switches hands.

"Well," a smirk flickers across her mouth, and she casts him a glance, sidelong, "with a name like the prowler, how could yeh go wrong?"

He asks the question, and there's a pause. Her repetitions continue, unabated. "I've not found anything in yer territory, if that's what yeh mean."

[Hunter] The bar at the squat cage is Olympic in size, the standard twenty KG's and he begins fitting discs to the ends of it while Imogen deflects with random comments about the name for his exercise machine and comments about the happenings in his territory.

"I know." He says, and this time it's verbal, not just with his eyes. "You said you'd fuckin' call, I get that, I'm askin' bout you, how have you been, are you doin' aight?"

[Imogen] Her gaze remains on the steadily moving weight. There is effort - as the repetitions go up, each contraction of the muscle seems more difficult, and every release, a little slower. The repetition before she finally stops, is likely the last one she could have possibly done.

She switches hands.

"Well," a smirk flickers across her mouth, and she casts him a glance, sidelong, "with a name like the prowler, how could yeh go wrong?"

He asks the question, and there's a pause. Her repetitions continue, unabated. "I've not found anything more since last night, if that's what yeh mean."

[Hunter] The bar at the squat cage is Olympic in size, the standard twenty KG's and he begins fitting discs to the ends of it while Imogen deflects with random comments about the name for his exercise machine and comments about the happenings in his territory.

"I know." He says, and this time it's verbal, not just with his eyes. "You said you'd fuckin' call, I get that, I'm askin' bout you, how have you been, are you doin' aight?"

[Imogen] The moon is thinning. Soon it will be invisible, for precious days, before the cycle will begin all again. He is on the denouement of his Rage. Still, the way she meets his gaze is surprising. There is no fear, no deference.

But no defiance, either. Not like he would expect from a kinfolk with something to prove, who meets his eyes merely to prove that she can.

It is so easy for her that she no longer feels the need to prove it.

"Well," she answers, a single, flat word which offers little. "And you?" She turns the answer into a parry, the question into a thrust. The social niceties turned to blades.

[Hunter] "Fuckin' brilliant." He says and it sounds like anything but the truth.

By now he has positioned himself within the cage, beneath the bar and he lines it up along muscles of his upper back. His chin is up, chest out and he slowly lowers down into the bottom of the exercise before pushing back up. His entire body is tensed, almost every part of him being worked to lift the insanely heavy weight and it's no surprise that he doesn't continue to talk to Imogen until after his set is completed. The last one comes out shakily, his face turning slightly red but after the bar has been clinked into place and he's taken a good few breaths - the colour begins to fade.

"You know you guys dropped a fuckin' shit bomb on me the other night. How long ya' been sittin' on that fuckin' WMD saddam?"

[Imogen] He returns to his weights. Imogen begins another repetition, her bicep contracting beneath the thin layer of her skin, the tattoo shifting as the muscles do. She does not stop her movements when he speaks, though as he finishes, she turns her head, arching an eyebrow.

"I've known for a few days," she says, leaving her words unadorned by apology or excuse. "I told Kora, first."

[Hunter] He moves to the ends of the bar again, dropping a disc onto the floor from each side. They crash angrily against the floor but they don't wobble or roll or slide, they just fall and sit still. Back beneath the bar, back in position he repeats his set at the slightly lesser weight. He does this one quicker, rushing through it but without cutting corners.

Clink.

Slam.

More weights fall.

"Figured as much." He grunts, breathing slightly heavier. "Better late'n never though. Look I didn't mean ta' snap at ya' back at my place. Sounded like you was fuckin' telling me I was just satisfyin' some stupid urge. I wanna help, I'm going to help."

[Imogen] She stops, though he has no way of being sure if her set is finished, leaning the weight against her knee at an angle, her fingers around the bar, keeping it balanced.

"You seem to think we were deliberately keeping you out of it." She turns her head to look at him. A few strands of hair have fallen free again, and they swing gently with the motion. The bun is slowly coming uncoiled.

"That's not the case."

[Hunter] "I didn't say that." He grunts, positions himself under the bar for his last set. This one goes even quicker than the previous one and when he's done he rolls both his shoulders releasing crackling sounds.

Out of the cage he steps and heads towards the bench where Imogen sits. He drops himself down next to her and reaches for the duffel bag that he had left there. A bottle of water is removed and he squirts some into his mouth, then swallows.

His cheeks are flushed, and his muscles have swelled up under the strain of the weights but he doesn't sit there panting like a dog in summer.

"I don't think that, I mean, what good would it do ya' to hold out on me? You need my help as much as I need your info." He leans a palm down into his knee. "Them Fenrir's, Kora'n that, they's a strong pack and they got numbers, got that Godi with his fuckin' spear. But they ain't the Vanguard. Can't do what we can do." He isn't boasting, it's just the truth in his eyes. "I just hope if Kora's gonna be callin' the shots from her fuckin' church she puts us to good use because if there's one thing I can't stand it's talent gone to waste."

[Imogen] I didn't say that.

"Didn't you?" A certain edge to her voice, which disappears as she quotes him. She masters none of his accent, but somehow, manages to capture the cadence of his voice. "'How long have you been sittin' on that. Better late than never.'"

Her eyebrow arches slightly.

He speaks again. Several beats of silence. "Teamwork's not a concept yer much familiar with, is it?"

[Hunter] "Teamworks a concept I'm fuckin' fine with thanks." He growls at her. "And it was a fuckin' question, how long have you been sittin' on that, checkin' that you weren't holding out on me, not assuming that you were. There's a fuckin' difference."

[Imogen] "Not much," her teeth flicker behind her lips. "We came t'you because it's yer territory. It was a respect we showed you. S'not deserving of distrust. Of being checked up on."

She got to her feet, picking up the weight. "I'd appreciate if yeh minded yer tongue," she says, walking toward the weight rack. "I can barely hear yer point between all the cursing."

[Hunter] "Mind my tongue?" He snaps, pushing to his feet. "Mind my fuckin' tongue? Who you think you're talkin' to? I ain't no fuckin' pup Imogen." He a rubs a shaking palm over his cheek and dumps the water bottle back in his bag.

"But fine, no fuckin' cursin'."

He pauses.

"No cursin'. I got enough respect for a lady for that. And ya' ain't deserving of distrust but there's a long field'a hurdles between distrust'n'trust. Just coz I ain't at the finishin' line don't mean the gun ain't gone off yet."

[Imogen] He pushes to his feet, snapping, and Imogen half turns back, her gaze fixing on him. There is little in her eyes as she watches him. Resignation, perhaps. A sense of inevitability. He regains his control, and even now, she has the sense of irony to arch as he curses while telling her no cursing.

"Yours," the kinswoman says evenly, "is not the only point of view."

[Hunter] His eyes go wide, his mouth hangs open and he blinks a few times.

"What does that even mean? Course it ain't, how does that relate?"

[Imogen] "You weren't saying that we were deliberately keeping you out of it. You were checking. You aren't showing distrust, you just aren't showing trust."

She pauses. "Think about it," she says, suddenly, abruptly, dismissive, "Or don't. I'm goin' to shower." She drops the weight on the rack, and starts back toward the rooms.

[Hunter] "Do you trust me Imogen?" He calls out to her back as she's wandering away.

[Imogen] She goes several strides, even after he's called after her, before stopping, abruptly, and turning.

"Do I trust that if you come to me to tell me something, after you've told me you would, that you have not deliberately kept it from me for several days and deliberately dumped it all on my lap? I rather think so."

[Hunter] He blinks, that seems to surprise him. He frowns, rubs a hand over his jaw and then scratches at the back of his head.

"Well.." There's a curse in there that he leaves out, obvious by the awkward silence and the twitch of his lips. "Well I didn't.. I mean.."

He blinks again.

"Really?? I'm sorry for doubtin' ya then. Won't happen again." He stands straight, feet together, he looks almost like a soldier at attention.

[Imogen] Her eyes narrow. There is a grace to her stillness, the arch of her spine, the loose way her hands rest at her sides. It's in the way she holds her head, the way she is perfectly balanced from shoulders to hips to feet.

Her eyes narrow, copper lashes shading dark blue eyes, and without another word, she turns and walks into the change room. The two way door swings gently in her wake, a soft thump every time the edge brushes the jamb.

[Hunter] She doesn't say anything, but her eyes narrow. Maybe he could take offence at the fact that she leaves his words hanging in the air like that. He admits a wrong and she just walks away, heads off to have her shower.

But he doesn't call out or tell her to turn around and god damn accept his apology, he just shrugs and maybe grunts before turning away himself.

He has some bench pressing to do.