Her Standards of Forgiveness

[Imogen] This bar is not at all like the pub he had seen her in last. There are no spacious booths with comfortable benches in sight, no well-dressed business men relaxing after a long week. The patrons here are the jeans and tattoo crowd, the kind with guns, of both the bicep and weaponry kind. The chairs are utilitarian, the booths are small, wooden benched and every single table in the place is covered in carved names, rude words and drawings, some of them scorched into the wood.

She sits alone, at a small table, her back against the wall, a cigarette in hand. They no longer permit smoking, even in Illinois bars, but this isn't particularly a locale frequented by by-law officers. The only concession to the law is that the ashtrays have been taken away - and empty beer cans set out to replace them.

She's dressed in jeans, a cotton t-shirt that reveals little of her cleavage but cannot hide the tautness of her body beneath the fabric. A corduroy jacket, her brilliant hair pulled back, she is dressed far more informally than he has seen in the past - and yet, there is not a chance that anyone would mistake her for belonging here. Her attitude and poise cannot be hidden.

There is not really a stage so much as a raised platform made of delivery pallets, patch cables snaking over the wood. There, a few lanky gentlemen are setting up - electric guitar, bass guitar, a beatbox.

Rather unlike the wine she had been drinking before, she has a bottle of beer in front of her now, though the drink has been abandoned for her nicotine.

[Michael Carroll] "Now this ain't the sort o' place I'd expect to find you, Doc."

He doesn't approach the table so much as materialize before it. One moment two of the larger patrons are crossing paths, and in the next moment Michael is standing in the space they once occupied. As if the collision of the bikers had created a small Irishman. Science would be baffled.

The Ragabash is dressed much in his typical fashion, with faded jeans and rugged boots marked as obvious favorites in his wardrobe. The bar is warm enough for him to remove his coat, and he instantly looks more appropriate for the locale. Both well-muscled arms bear tattoos that crawl upward to disappear beneath the sleeves of his simple black tshirt. "Are y' meetin' anyone t'night, or may I join?"

[Imogen] Her eyebrow lifts at his appearance, glancing briefly toward the departing back of a biker, then back again. Her gaze shifts toward the setting up band, lifting her chin to indicate them - almost an echo of their earlier meeting where she indicated the female songstress and named her.

"S'a band from Detroit," she says. "They're supposed t'be brilliant."

She taps cigarette ash into the can, glancing back toward him as he asks if he may join her. A brief pause, before she gestures with her cigarette, a silent 'Go ahead.'

[Michael Carroll] "Isn't that where they make cars? Hang on, let me grab a pint." His coat is dropped on the offered seat as he takes a quick trip to the bar. Moments later he returns, expertly carrying three bottles in each hand. They are settled in the center of the table as he takes his seat. Two of the bottles are slid towards the red-headed kinwoman.

"There ya go. Thought I'd save the hassle o' gettin' up an' down for a beer. By the way, did y' know this place doesn't have pints? And I saw the glasses they're servin' beer in." Michael shakes his head and grins before lifting the bottle to his lips. "I have no fear o' hepatitis or a thousand other diseases, an' I wouldn't drink outta one o' those petri dishes on a dare."

[Imogen] Isn't that where they make cars?

Imogen nods, adding wryly, "And apparently, they also make music."

He wanders off in search of a pint, and Imogen does not correct him, allowing him to head for the bar under his mistaken impression. He comes back, sliding the two beers toward her, and her eyebrow arches slightly.

Instead of answering, she leans forward, picking up one beer by the neck and replacing it closer to his side of the table, neatly dividing the alcohol rather than protesting the nicety.

"S'only domestics, anyway," she says, dismissively. "American beer. Might as well drink it from a bottle and avoid tetanus."

[Michael Carroll] He doesn't comment on the beer as it returns to his side of the table. No one will ever hear a complaint about having a larger beer portion, not from Michael. Instead he downs his first beer smoothly, then sets the empty bottle down with a grimace. "Ugh. It's like drinkin' bubbly, brown water. No wonder y' gave that one back."

The next beer is imbibed a bit more leisurely. Michael leans back in the umcomfortable wooden chair, his neck craned back towards the stage. "You're a music lover then? I can't imagine a casual listener would come t' a shithole like this on purpose."

[Imogen] She flicks the Irishman a glance as he downs his first beer then gripes about it. "Yeh get used to it," she says, smirking. "That an' the fact they insist on drinkin' it cold."

She taps more cigarette smoke into the beer can, lifting it to her lips, and inhaling deeply. He asks if she's a music lover and she pauses as if the question were somehow too personal. The impression is transient, gone by the time she nods.

"I ha' a few acquaintances who let me know what's up and coming," she says, turning her head as she exhales cigarette smoke away from him. The gesture is largely futile. The smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air.

"S'better than the radio."

[Michael Carroll] "You have to drink it cold, I can't imagine what this shit would taste like at room temperature." After the second beer is drained he ceases his complaints, seeming to come to terms with his lack of drink options for the evening. Still, he won't pretend to be happy about it. Imogens briefest of pauses after his question does not go unnoticed. Though he doesn't speak of it verbally, the quick arch of his brow betrays his curiousity. There aren't many people who would consider musical taste a delicate subject.

"I've been curious about something. At our family meeting there was a lot o' discussion about who protects who, and who speaks for this group or another...it's occured to me that you don't seem t' have any ties like that." Green eyes fix on Imogens face openly. He does not disguise that he is trying to get a feel for the kinwomans reactions now. In fact, he's certain he's not the first No-Moon to fall into this self-imposed challenge; reading the seemingly unreadable. "Do y' have any sort o' familial ties here? Any packs that are callin' you their own?"

[Imogen] He has been curious about something - he says, his eyes fixed on her. Imogen's eyebrow arches. There is something that sharpens in her eyes, though it is impossible to say, is it resignation or simple wariness.

Attempting to reading the unreadable; he is not the first. Her expression is smooth as glass.

"Perhaps you should ask around," she says a moment after he's posed the question. "Take a poll."

[Michael Carroll] His drinking has slowed considerably now that something else can hold his attention. Take a poll. Michael grins and shakes his head, a gesture born of amusement and frustration. The band is nearly set on stage now. Musicians take up instruments, the frontman moves confidently to the microphone stand. The Fianna turns to watch as the first chords are struck. When he speaks this time, he does not look at his drinking companion. "I don't understand the point o' takin' a poll when I can go straight t' the source. Or are y' sayin' you're so in demand that you got 'em fightin' over you?"

[Imogen] The way the frontman sings is low, overlaying precise and complex musical harmony. He sings a little too close to the microphone and the sound is poorly balanced, but this is what one expects when one plays at a venue like this.

Starting out as they are, they are probably pleased to simply have a tour, never mind the quality of where they play.

"The Umpire always had the bad thoughts

never quite fit with modern man

it started out at hopscotch

moved to the mats with the flaming cans

and when it all caught fire

big truck to ship the bear

and string the barbwire

gotta bring the ring somewhere "

"I'm not claimed," she answers, succinctly. "Nor will I be."

[Michael Carroll] Now he does turn to face her, the music ignored for the time being as he regards Imogen thoughtfully. It is bold scrutiny, unmasked and unashamed. There are times, such as this, where he feels as if he can see everywhere except the spot he is looking at. A realization that no matter how clever he is, no matter how deep his eyes can penetrate, there are some things on this Earth he was not made to understand. He just never imagined a kinwoman would be on that short list.

He lets that trail of thoughts carry him along for just an instant, then offers a defeated smile to the doctor. The next beer is lifted, tasted, and replaced while his eyes never leave her. Finally he shrugs and turns back to watch the stage. She will not be claimed. "Good for you then, Doctor."

[Imogen] When he looks at her, the kinswoman looks steadily back, a thread of tension sharpening her mouth, tightening her jaw. It is a challenge in her eyes, a dare. Make it an argument, or attempt to bend her will. Instead, the acquiescence is unexpected and leaves a hole in the conversation which will not be filled. There is after all, precisely nothing to say after that. No reason for Imogen to defend herself, and her personality leaves her with no desire to explain herself.

The music fills the void, and both turn their attention to it. She crushes the cigarette out and pushes the butt into the small open hole of the empty can, turning her attention to her beer. This she drinks of deeply, the kind of beer which is not meant to be tasted or savoured, merely pounded back.

"Has yer wife joined yeh in the States as well, then?" she asks during a break of the music. It is not indeliberate, the fact that she turns the topic so irrevocably away from herself.

[Michael Carroll] The world stops for the Irishman. Imogen has turned the conversation sharply from herself, masterfully so. He sits bolt upright for a moment, as if the back of his chair had suddenly sprouted thorns. His eyes are wide for just the briefest instant. Michael is no stranger to hiding his thoughts or emotions. The break in his expression disappears so quickly that anyone not possessing a keen eye would miss it entirely. After that half-second of agonizing eternity, he simply shakes his head.

"No, she's back in Killarney, lookin' over my little one." Whether the tables were turned intentionally or not, Imogen has certainly bested him in the "show me your insides" game. Even if she's not playing.

[Imogen] His reaction is brief but there. Body language, expression. She is watching him - he has the impression she has a keen eye. However, there is little acknowledgement of his reaction. No look of discomfort, no guilt. Her gaze is impassive, even.

"Tha' must be difficult."

The statement is a space filler. It is the appropriate thing to say.

[Michael Carroll] "Lots o' things in our world are difficult, ain't they?" The response is quiet but sharp, the bitter edge of Michaels voice unmistakable even though it's muttered in a noisy bar. His beer takes the brunt of his wrath. Another bottle is emptied and set aside, only to be replaced by it's fuller, colder brother. His eyes soften after the almost-outburst, and he sighs.

The band has moved on to the next song. He does not seem to notice. When he speaks his voice as lost the edge. It is soft. Distant. "Truth is it's better I'm not with them. My kind doesn't do well with close family. The further I keep him from this life, the happier I'll be."

[Imogen] She drains her beer and sets it down, picking up a cigarette case from the table's edge. She goes through the motions of lighting up without thinking. They are beyond familiar to her.

"Half-blood, then, is he?" she asks, the words wreathed in smoke.

[Michael Carroll] Half-blood

"No."

His eyes flash darkly. Dangerously.

"He's my son. I won't have him labeled, not like that. I told you, I want him as far from this as possible." The response is spit out as the Fianna's murky gaze falls on the kinwoman. There is a heartbeat where he seems inexplicably on the brink of explosion. A single heartbeat. No explosion comes; it is neither the place nor the time for such a ridiculous spectacle. Instead he stands up and retrieves his coat with a quick snatch. "Excuse me, Doctor."

There is nothing else said, no explanation given. He simply dons the heavy garment as he makes his way to the door. There is solid contact between the Irishman and one of the larger patrons. A brief staredown ensues, but of course Michaels Rage is the stronger force in this case. The biker backs down, though he mutters dangerously as the Fianna exits the bar.

[Imogen] She straightens slightly, as his body coils, her centre of balance shifting in her chair. It is not the gesture of a woman unfamiliar with violence.

He gets to his feet, snapping up his jacket from the back of his chair. Imogen lifts an eyebrow, her expression showing something of a hint of exasperation. "Usually, when I infuriate a full-blood," she observes, "it is for much larger transgressions than this. If yeh're a particularly sensitive soul, I'd appreciate some forewarning. I'll cease to speak to you at all."

[Michael Carroll] The door to the bar swings open once again, actually banging into the patron Michael had just exchanged words with. The force of the angry Fiannas entrance is enough to push the larger man into a nearby table. The cacophony resulting from the biker's awkward fall over the bottle-laden table draws the attention of every living being in the place. All except Michael, who makes a beeline back to the table. Back to Imogen.

"I-...!" He stops dead in front of the kinwoman, finger pointed sharply at the object of his irritation. All eyes are on the two of them now, and that reminds Michael to control his voice. And his temper. When he resumes speaking it is in hushed tones. The other patrons mostly lose interest. A dude and his girl arguing in a bar. That's nothing new. "I am not a 'sensitive soul'. I am, however, a man who loves his child more'n life itself and..."

He suddenly loses steam. Maybe its the unwavering manner in which she stares at him. Maybe it's because the moon is still relatively hidden. Whatever the reason, he discontinues his rant and closes his eyes. The Irishmans breath becomes slow and even. His voice is restrained when he speaks again. "...and sometimes I let that cloud my judgement. The outburst was unneccessary, Doctor. I'm sorry. As you said, it has been...difficult. Being seperated from my boy. I understand that does not excuse my behavior, but I hope it will salvage whatever working relationship we may have."

[Imogen] Imogen speaks, Michael leaves, only to return seconds later, bursting through the door and charging toward her. Patrons back out of his way, and she for her part straightens, setting the cigarette down.

The action itself seems the height of underreaction. A Garou comes barreling at one, and one does not merely straighten up. One cowers, one shield's one's face, one at least gets to their feet.

Her weight is on her feet - though she maintains her sitting position. If she is strong enough (and she might be - he has not seen one way or another) and agile enough (and she is - he has seen her move) she would be on her feet in very little time at all. For all the good that that would do.

He gains control of himself, more with every word, and her hand leaves the edge of the seat, which she would have used for leverage. Her weight sinks back again.

"Fortunately," she says, ironically, "we have not got much to salvage to begin with, so there is little effort required."

[Michael Carroll] His palms late flat on the edge of the table; fingers on top, thumbs wrapped under. At her simple, direct statement, his knuckles whiten as he tries to crush the table in his grip. The sound of his teeth grinding behind his clenched jaw is audible even at the relatively safe distance that seperates them. Every moment with this woman was clearly a heroic test of Michaels patience. Still he retains control, his voice remains steady. "You...Doctor...are the most singularly frustratin' woman I have met since my wife...since my wife."

The statement changed in mid-sentence, as if something were supposed to initially follow the word "wife". Instead, he moves on quickly. He leans forward slightly, locking eyes with the kinwoman once more. Reading. Being read. "I don' know if you're doin' it on purpose. I don' know if you're lookin' at this like a game, at me like some sort o' opponent or ally or loyal opposition. I don' know if you're dead inside or just dead to th' world an' all that's in it. Or if this is all some sort o' act to cover somethin' bigger."

The curiousity is noticeable in his voice. He was born under a hole in the sky. She is a mystery. She will forever hold his attention in one way or another. "Maybe you just are what you are. As you are. But I will make you a deal tonight, fair and true. I will not try to unravel you, if you will forgive me the occasional embarassing scene. And continue to build upon that small workin' relationship."

[Imogen] She is a woman of subtle reactions, and as he speaks, as he divines outloud what she might be - playing a game, dead inside, simply what she is, she only watches him. The only time there is a reaction is when he compares her to his wife - stutters on a sentence he refuses to say aloud and amends it. The reaction is this: a line between her copper eyebrows.

He finishes speaking. She glances at her watch, gets to her feet, reaching forward to crush out her cigarette in the beer can.

"By my standards," she says, "there is nothing to forgive." One must wonder what she considers a transgression requiring forgiveness, or worse, an unforgivable one.

"I ha' to go," the music is playing again, and she pitches her voice to be heard over it. "Supposedly their best songs are played in the second set if you're interested," a lift of her chin indicates the band.

[Michael Carroll] His expression is a blend of grin and grimace. Michael shakes his head and steps back from the table, gesturing subtly with a tilt of his head towards the door. More accurately, he gestures at the very large man who is finally dusting himself off after his visually impressive tumble caused by the Fiannas return. The bikers eyes are fixed on Michaels back. The murderous intent displayed in those eyes is unmistakable. "Nah, they're not really t' my tastes. Besides, it looks like I've got to be havin' a barfight here momentarily. Perhaps you should go on ahead and slip on out. Brawls in places like this tend t' get a little hectic. Cops are sure t' show at some point."

With that he turns to face his slowly approaching opponent. And a few of his closest friends. Michaels Rage may have cowed the biker when he was on his own, but numbers can make a man far braver. Michael grins broadly and spreads his arms to the side, palms open. "Alright then fellas, will it be just the one? Or do all o' ya' fancy a beatin'?"

[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow merely arches, and then she turns and walks out the door., leaving him to his fight.