A Cruel Woman

[Nash] It started out innocuously enough.

Like all contact Imogen has had with the investigator from Alabama in the last month or so, it occurred at the end of the week, as though individuals in their respective professions adhere to notions of the forty-hour workweek or understand the concept of "a weekend."

In theory, the weekend exists. It's there, a gap that the majority of Western workers get to enjoy between bursts of applied energy wherein they pretend to give a fuck or five about what it is that pays their bills.

This is the longest gap in employment Nash has ever experienced, and one could only term it a 'vacation' if one is willing to overlook the fact that he was here searching for his daughter, who he found, who is a werewolf, and the fact that he spent the better part of a month attempting to recover from what he referred to as 'a bite.'

Anyway. He called her. His pitch went something like this:

"Yo, Doc, it's Nash." As though the accent didn't give him away. "Now don't be alarmed, I know it's Friday, but I ain't injured and I don't want nothin' from you. It's beer o'clock. I'm buyin'. Get your coat."

The line between 'disarmingly charming' and 'oafish asshole' is precariously thin.

[Imogen] There had been something resembling a pause after his pitch. The audible moment where the chances of her saying no are equal to if not more likely than the chances of her saying yes. One doubts that he spends that moment on a pincushion, heart in his throat waiting for her to say yes or in the most devastating scenario, no.

As she speaks, he can almost hear the absent shrug. "Where?" She is not one to waste words. When he tells her, she says she will be about thirty minutes. In reality, she is almost forty-five.

The bar - wherever it is, whatever style it is, is beginning to pick up, a few of the tables occupied by businessmen who have been there since three, one table occupied by a family with children, looking rather out of place as they eat their meals as if it were a family restaurant.

She has not bothered to change. Cream slacks and a pale blouse beneath a brown leather coat, the tails of which reach the backs of her knees. Her gaze flicks, briefly over the dining room until she finds him, stepping around tables and patrons to close the gap.

"Beer o'clock, is it?" she enquires mildly. "'S quite classy, that."

[Nash] This place would love to be able to claim that it caters to all walks of life: it's a pub, and it's a very nice pub, which means that urban natives who have never left the Midwest who want to give their children a sense of being cultured and worldly take them places like this. Some nights they go for Thai food. Those are the sorts of people one imagines takes their families to pubs.

If they would take their children anyplace where a guy like Nash could be found sitting by himself, either intent upon staying that way or waiting for someone, it must mean they aren't very good parents, but that's beside the point.

He's sitting at the bar rather than at a table, which almost precludes the idea that they're going to be discussing anything remotely resembling the Nation. The threat of a Veil breach is too great, and traffic is picking up.

He's not drinking beer. He's drinking a glass of lemon-lime soda without a straw.

When she appears, Nash turns toward her, smiling quietly, teeth contained. He's dressed as he typically is, in cowboy boots and dark jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair has been combed, and he's shaved his face... three or four days ago. It would appear as though his right arm has been completely healed. He isn't holding it against his midsection anymore.

"You know me, Doc," he says. "I'm a classy guy."

[Imogen] She lifts an eyebrow at that statement denoting her skepticism, drawing a stool back just enough so she can slide in the gap between it and the bar, before stepping up on its bottom rung to take a seat. Her foot do not touch the floor, even if she were to stretch; she hooks the heels of her pumps on the rung, rather than letting her feet hang.

She glances, briefly toward the family in the corner, before turning back as the bartender approaches. What she orders is a draught and a local microbrewery. He has at least chosen a decent pub and perhaps even one with which she is familiar.

"See yer hand?" she enquires with a British sort of truncation, holding out her own hand, the palm facing upward.

[Nash] The Fenrir kinsman has one of his feet firmly planted on the floor, the distance such that his knee is slightly bent as he sits. The other, his right, is hooked over the rung of the stool; the heels of his boots are unremarkable, yet they clearly delineate his footwear as being Western. There is a foot or so of difference between their heights.

It does not matter one iota.

That raised eyebrow just has his smile becoming a smirk, taking up more space on his face as he withholds comment or further quips and takes a hefty swallow of his soda. From a distance, one could imagine that it has some sort of alcohol in it, that he's drinking a vodka tonic or something, yet there is no garnish.

He's mid-sip when Imogen asks to see his hand. Nash wipes his lower lip with the pad of his left thumb, a "Sure" leaving his mouth a moment later, and then he's unbuttoning the cuff on his sleeve, rolling it up his forearm so she can see the entire thing rather than just his hand.

[Imogen] Her beer is set down as her hand closes on his wrist, turning it briefly so she can see her healed handiwork. The scar is an angry red of fresh, raised tissue, but given their mutual healing capabilities it will soon fade to pink, then silver and possibly away entirely.

She does not touch it, but she can imagine how the skin feels - both in contact, the flesh smoother than the surrounding, spongy almost and a little over-warm, and if she were the owner of the scar - the skin sensitive and tender still to a rough touch.

She releases him and reaches for her pint without comment.

"Do you not drink?" asked while she lifts the glass. It is a rich, dark brew, the head a sharp contrast to the drink below.

[Nash] Nash's flesh does not hum with Rage when she touches him, and with the sun being somewhat scarce lately, the tan of his skin does not emit much warmth. He hands over his arm, letting her examine the scar where he'd been bitten, the wrist where the bones had been broken.

Comparatively, though he isn't an inferno of heat, the kinswoman's fingertips are cool.

Once he has his arm back, Nash starts unrolling his sleeve, easing the cuffs back together.

Does he not drink.

"Whaddaya call this?" he asks, lifting the glass before taking a swallow. He has to realize he's being a smart-ass.

[Imogen] The smart ass remark earns him a dry look, her amusement like the ripples of a mirage on a desert.

"Alcohol," she specifies precisely, every consonant enunciated, every vowel paid tribute to.

[Nash] The look on his face conveys an air of enlightenment, an Ah that's shown in a lift of his chin and eyebrows, but he doesn't answer immediately. It sits there a moment, longer than it likely ought to. Moments like this are when he's accused of being difficult, or shady, or avoidant.

"Yeah," he says, finally, but it sounds more like a confession than a clarification. "I drink."

[Imogen] Her eyebrow arches, her dark eyes flicking toward the glass of lemon soda, and back again. "But not tonight."

[Nash] "Maybe I just wasn't sure if you were gonna show," he says, slyly, as though it has more to do with her than it had to do with him. "Wouldn't wanna be sittin' here drinkin' by myself, now, would I?"

[Imogen] Wouldn't wanna be sittin' here drinkin' by myself, now, would I?

"Oh? And why is that?" it's a challenge of sorts, as if she did not think any answer he could give would be satisfactory.

[Nash] Last two!

[Nash]

"Maybe I just wasn't sure if you were gonna show," he says, slyly, as though it has more to do with her than it had to do with him. "Wouldn't wanna be sittin' here drinkin' by myself, now, would I?"

[Imogen]

Wouldn't wanna be sittin' here drinkin' by myself, now, would I?

"Oh? And why is that?" it's a challenge of sorts, as if she did not think any answer he could give would be satisfactory.

[Nash] "I know of few things sadder'n a good-lookin' young man such as myself sittin' by himself drinking," he tells her.

When the bartender makes his loop back around, Nash waves him over and orders a bottle of lager. No, he don't need no glass. It goes on his tab along with the soda and Imogen's microbrew.

"Except maybe a good-lookin' young woman sittin' by herself drinking. That's a whole other story."

[Imogen] "And what, precisely," she does not quite let him escape her original intent, "is so sad about it?"

[Nash] The Fenrir takes a quick belt off of his beer, either to stall for time or to get the taste of soda out of his mouth before he answers. His eyes return to her a moment later, his elbow resting on the top of the bar, fingers remaining on the bottle.

"You ever meet anybody drinks by himself who's happy?" he counters.

[Imogen] "Yes," she returns flatly, an eyebrow answering. "You aren't answerin' the question."

[Nash] "Nope," he concurs, without apology. "And now it's been built up too much, anything I say's gonna be a letdown."

[Imogen] Her mouth twists faintly, and she merely turns back to her drink. "I imagine it would have been, in either case."

[Nash] "Hey now," he says, feigning hurt. It might be more convincing if his eyes weren't amused. "Why ask in the first place with that attitude?"

[Imogen] Her smirk lingers. "Curiosity."

[Nash] He somehow manages to keep a straight face. His gaze lingers on her profile a moment, silence staining the space between them, before he, too, turns back to his drink.

"You are a cruel woman, Doc."

[Imogen] "Hm." The sound hummed between her lips is something like agreement. "So I'm told."

There, a brief lapse in the conversation here - perhaps. Not much to say after that. She drinks her beer as if she enjoys the taste, and around them, the sound of the bar begins to pick up as the tables and stools around them fill.