Chivalry Unwished.

[Slaughter] It is cold, damp and raining. A day for everyone to stay indoors, to wrap themselves in warm blankets with a good book and appreciate their family life, if they have it. It is a day for reminiscence. For the quiet things.

Her shoes pound the pavement as she runs - her hair soaked with rain mixed with sweat, her opaque work out clothing - form fitting to begin with slicked to the skin. Perhaps she is impervious to the cold, or perhaps, she simply takes it as merely another challenge to overcome.

Like the rain, like physical exhaustion, like muscle aches and pain.

She wears no earphones - her phone is in her hip pouch which is designed to strap unobtrusively against her body. In it she carries the necessities. Identification, some cash, a credit card her flat keys and the aforementioned phone. She is not unarmed, either, though companies do go to great lengths to provide various members of the gun-loving community with concealment regardless of their situation.

Her breath scorches her lungs. There is a point in physical exertion where everything fades away except for the visceral. There is no place for thoughts, or wondering, no place for calculation. It all comes down to the power of the body, and the effort of the next breath.

[Nash] There was a time when Nash used to adhere to a strident physical regimen.

He tends to refer to that time as "fifteen years in the Navy."

Were he in better shape, if he even owned a pair of running shoes or took the time to lift a set of weights occasionally, he might have lasted longer against the Bone Gnawer Ahroun last night. It's highly unlikely, almost laughable to even think about it for too long, yet it was something of a religious experience, having the ever-loving shit beaten out of him by someone over a decade younger than him, someone three inches shorter.

Age and size have fuck-all to do with it when one of the combatants is a monster and the other one a human rapidly approaching forty, but that's beside the point.

Imogen is out here in this inclement weather today because she, currently, adheres to a vigorous exercise plan. Perhaps she's out here trying to blow off steam or refocus herself after a frustrating-as-hell meeting. It's a few degrees shy of freezing, and it's raining besides, but Nash isn't carrying an umbrella. He's standing outside one of the last remaining public telephones in the city, ducked inside of it to make a phone call. Whatever call he's making doesn't last very long, or else he truncates it when he sees a familiar blaze of red hair out of his periphery.

He looks fine, isn't favoring anything or limping. When last they saw each other, they were taking their vehicles, separate, to Hill House to discuss what to do about this corporation's attack on Sept land. The Fenrir, despite having only had one beer and following Imogen nearly the entire way, never made it inside.

Upon closer inspection, he doesn't appear to have slept last night, or this morning, or at all; the last lingering traces of a bruise clings to his jaw, sickly green-and-yellow underneath the darkness of his stubble.

[Slaughter] At first, she dismisses the profile of someone stepping out of a phone booth as inconsequential. The likelihood of it being him, or really, anyone else whom she knows is so low (or perhaps she wills it to be so, in this moment) that she does not even bother trying to match his silhouette to her memory.

As such, her realization comes late - at least by her standards. It results in a quicker than usual deceleration - instead of coming to a stop from a walk she does so from a jog - the shift is startling - she nearly stops on a dime her eyes on him, then up and down him.

"You look like hell," she observes, her hair soaked, pulled back into a rather haphazard bun, half uncoiled through her efforts. A hank of hair has fallen free at her temple, sticking to her cheek, the colour of rusted iron. Rain drips down her face, and her breath comes short, causing her rib cage to rise and fall more dramatically than it would at rest.

There is a longer than standard pause here, as she pulls a waterbottle from its pouch, tipping it back to take a deep drink. When she looks at him again, her heart rate has slowed by inches. A damp, copper eyebrow arches, "What happened last night, did yeh get lost?"

The question is sardonic, rather than compassionate; she does not truly believe he got lost. The simple sentence is still punctuated by her need for oxygen, but even its frequent breaks are an improvement from the sentence before it.

[Nash] You look like hell.

"Aw, hell, Doc," he says, cutting her a sarcastic grin that does not appear forced or false. If anything, he's amused, as though the forensic psychologist's candidness is appreciated even if it isn't exactly complimentary.

Stepping out into the rain, Nash glances skyward, heaving a sigh when he realizes he's going to get drenched. It doesn't matter, really. Compared to what the two of them have been through in their lives, one has to imagine that a little rain isn't going to hurt or kill them. They certainly aren't in danger of catching cold, even if Imogen is hemorrhaging body heat, steam leaving her nose and mouth, even if Nash doesn't appear to have the world's hardiest constitution, either.

Imogen cocks a brow at him, asks what happened, and he flicks his head to coerce the hair out of his face, reaches up with both hands to push strands back behind his ears when that proves ineffective.

"Hit a bit of a road bump," he says. A beat, and he clarifies, "A five-foot-eleven, angry-'cause-I-screwed-his-babymama Bone Gnawer road bump." Another beat. "And actually, he hit me." Another beat. "I'mma stop tryin'a be clever: I got my ass beat."

Leave it to a Fenrir to state those last five words without sounding remotely ashamed of himself.

[Slaughter] He flicks his head to move his hair, then uses his hands when the action fails. Imogen, reminded then of the hair which presses against her face, cold and damp, lifts a cold damp hand to wipe it back, tucking it behind an ear.

As he explains, both eyebrows arch, eloquent commentary which she does not bother to put to words except to say, "That sounds - dramatic."

A pause. "Come on," she says, "if we're both goin' t'get wet, we may as well walk." Her muscle are still hot, but beginning to twitch with warning that a sudden cool down is not what is needed.

[Nash] "This is why you get paid the big bucks," he says, to her suggestion that they start walking.

That's all it takes: he falls into step beside her, taking mind not to take his usual Olympian strides with a woman who is a foot shorter than he is, though he hardly strolls, either. He has to imagine that if she's out here running so hard that her body is dumping heat into the frigid atmosphere that her muscles are going to lock up if she suddenly stops.

"And 'dramatic's' kinda puttin' it lightly."

He says no more about this matter than he had about why it is that a man drinking by himself is sadder than just about anything else he can think of.

"Do I wanna ask how that meeting went?"

[Slaughter] She matches her pace to his easily, her breath still steaming in the air, the rain running in frigid rivulets down the spaces of her body.

"I don't imagine there's a word for it, that's not an understatement," is the only other thing she has to say about it. It would appear she's not particularly interested in the details nor to judge him on his proclivities.

She rubs a hand absently against her chilled forearm before letting it drop, her breath exhaling sharply as he asks how the meeting went. "Not bad, all told. Minimum bickering, at least 'till the end. Yeh want t'help yeh can get wi' Detective Montoya, I think. She and a few others are tasked wi' tryin' to make it legally difficult fer the goings on t'continue."

[Nash] "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting Detective Montoya," he says. The thumping of his boots' heels is muted by the whispering of rain falling around them. His hands are kept in the pockets of his jacket. "You got a number I can reach her at?"

[Slaughter] The changes technology hath wrought. Were this ten years ago, or perhaps even five, Imogen might have looked at him somewhat dryly then down at her running gear before commenting no, not on her.

As it is, she only says, "I ha'," as she down to a small zippered pocket half concealed in the seam of her shirt. "Got somethin' to take it down on?"

[Nash] "Yep," he concurs.

Nash reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a cell phone that one might not expect him to be in possession of: it isn't a big-name smart phone, but the thing has a touch screen and just barely fits in his palm. It's relatively new.

"Hit me," he says.

For a tall, grizzled man, he has thin fingers. They aren't bricklayer's hands, couldn't be mistaken for mitts or paws though they're calloused from performing difficult tasks with them, yet he doesn't possess the brains necessary to do something more proficient with them, to play an instrument or perform surgery. He taps in the name and number of the detective accurately, but he seems as though he isn't entirely sure what the hell he's doing, either.

The rain-speckled screen is shown to Imogen for confirmation before he saves it.

"Alright," he says. "I'll give her a ring."

[Slaughter] "Ta," she answers, putting her own phone away. Her hands are delicate, like much of her, small knuckled, long fingered, a certain grace born of strength.

But then again, she plays music. And though she may not be a surgeon, she cuts human flesh, and spreads it beneath her gloved hands, opening rib cages and feeling the weight of organs in her palm.

The rain still falls, but it has begun to taper off. She wipes a hand over her slick hair, dropping it to flick water drops toward the pavement.

"Don't suppose yeh've a cigarette, do you?"

[Nash] A slower-witted creature would believe this to be the opportune time to crack a joke about smoking after exercising, especially if she's a doctor. He's been there before, though, believes that the best time to have a cigarette is after vigorous cardiovascular activity, and this is probably why he's going to be dead before he hits seventy.

Nash doesn't go for the easy joke. Once he pockets his phone, he goes for an exterior pocket, prefacing the acquisition of goods with a "They're Marlboros. Hundreds. Think you can handle it?"

[Slaughter] A twitch of her upper lip indicates her response. "On second thought," she says. "I think I'll pass."

[Nash] "Hah!"

A show of solidarity, perhaps, or else he just doesn't want to smoke his dirty cigarettes in front of her: Nash pockets the pack once she decides she's going to pass, and reaches out to push the button that will have the pedestrian light registering that they'd like to make it across without being hit.

"Can't say as I blame ya, Dunhill."

[Slaughter] She stops as he does, a little more at ease now, her muscles fatigued, but no longer stressed, her breath and heart rate back to their baselines.

Her mouth twists slightly. "The problem wi' gettin' used t'the finer things in life," she does not particularly apologetic or abashed.

The sleeves of the shirt she wears are short - as if she had chosen completely to defy the cold, or simply deny it. Gooseflesh ripples over her exposed skin now, fine hairs standing up on end. The shirt itself is soaked, and shortsleeved. It does not quite cover her tattoo, the bottom curves of which peek out from one cuff.

The rain has stopped. Imogen firms her shoulders and spine against the urge to shiver.

[Nash] Now that they're standing still, he looks over at her, sees the way her skin puckers, the way she steels her resolve and makes a conscious decision not to shiver. Nash is silent, neither making a joke nor voicing any concern, but for a sigh he looses as he starts to shrug out of his jacket.

That sigh is difficult to interpret. He doesn't offer up any speech to attempt to assist in the process, and if Imogen protests his draping the jacket--ridiculously large for her slight frame--all he has for her is an "Oh, hush, you're gonna get hypothermia."

[Slaughter] His jacket swallows her frame. The shoulders are by far too wide for her, and the sleeves hang loosely as she'd made no move to assist the process.

She is slight, and diminutive is not a word used for many, but it can be for her. There are some particularly tall children in elementary school who can look her in the eye.

Though she did not protest aloud, the look she gives him is likely enough to spark a response. Her eyebrow arches slightly.

"And why is my comfort worth more than yours?"

The light changes - she starts to cross the street, the arms flapping with the breeze and her movements.

[Nash] In contrast, Nash has the physique that seems to suggest that he was a sports star in high school, that any sort of ball could have been handed to him and he would have excelled. He has a basketball player's height and potential for musculature, the sort of good looks that likely compounded the difficulties he experienced in life if only because he's never exactly hurt for female companionship. What happened last night did not faze or upset him; it's highly unlikely that was the first time Carroll James Nash has had his ass beaten for sleeping with another man's woman.

That jacket looks as though it weighs half as much as she does, and feels heavy as a yoke on her shoulders. She asks him why her comfort is worth more than his, and Nash snorts, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"I ain't uncomfortable," he says, as though it's the simplest answer in the world, and goes with her.

[Slaughter] Her reaction is a faint, mild smirk, followed by slipping the jacket off her shoulders. She does not attempt to hand it back, however, merely folding it over her arm as they walk, reaching down to catch a trailing sleeve and sliding it back into the crook of her elbow.

If he does nothing, that, then, is the end of that.