Better things to do.
Friday, 11 January 2013 18:00![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouSelf-righteous stuck up bastard.
11 January, 2013
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (2% full).
John looses a high, frustrated growl, threatening to splinter his nails on the table. "Who hurt you, Sewall? Who… Burned you so badly you search for the worst in others?"
Ding! goes the elevator. Thanks to Kavi's efforts, there's even far less complaining as it climbs to the fifth floor, pauses, and then starts back down.
Nearly simultaneously, but not quite, is the quiet but nonetheless substantial noise of footsteps in the stairwell. Probably coming down from the roof, and at some great speed by the sound of it, followed by the door to the lobby opening. Flint's hauling a laundry basket full of dirtied rags, and glances about, but starts for the laundry room.
Sewall's lip curls. He's about to respond to this attempt at psychological examination—a response that would have been witheringly disdainful, judging by his expression—when the noise from the elevator, followed by Flint's arrival, distracts him. His mouth thins out, jaw clenching. "We'll discuss this later."
John snatches a donut, lips twisting. "I have no doubt." John briefly wonders why he did that, giving the donut an odd look. "You're… Thick as mud." And instantly, John regrets speaking in anger. The hand not occupied with the donut shoves itself too-deep into his pocket.
Sewall, half-turned from John, stiffens at the remark, hand tightening on the cane, back going ramrod-straight, a sudden spike of rage in every sinew. He says nothing, though, visibly biting back the impulse toward explosive lycanthropic violence.
The elevator doors open, and out rolls—rolls, yes—a thin woman with spidery scars, short hair that's mostly brown, but with a lock of white tucked behind one ear, and sunglasses. Sunglasses inside. She's sitting in a powered wheelchair, which is how she makes her exit, though the tension in the air causes her to stop just outside of the elevator and raise one thin eyebrow. "Sewall," she says quietly. Neither a question nor a warning. Acknowledgment?
Flint glances again towards Sewall and John—but whatever hatred the Fang ragabash receives from the Walker cliath, and there's significant venom in the look—is cut short by the elevator's arrival. "Hi, Mouse-rhya," Flint says. "I. I cleaned the fridge in the breakroom. And… and the freezer." And then Flint returns to variously both glaring at Sewall and taking the laundry to the laundry room.
John snarls quietly, finally taking a bite of the donut. He regrets that, too. "You remind me of my mother. You talk at and hold yourself so high I wonder how you're still breathing." He gestures with the donut, other hand occupied with trying to draw blood through his pocket.
Sewall inhales. Exhales. Recovers a facade—definitely just a facade—of calm. "This is not under discussion any longer. Not right now." He looks over at the woman in the powered chair, inclining his head stiffly. "Mouse-rhya."
"Excuse me," Mouse says. Her voice is quiet, but there's something about it that nevertheless cuts through the air and carries a note of cold authority. "I don't think we've met. I'm Mouse. And if you provoke a frenzy in my lobby, I'm going to call up several very scary looking people to come and repeatedly beat your head against the floor. Flint," her tone doesn't really change, "whatever reason you're giving him the evil eye, put it aside right now."
John gives his donut a brief look of disgust. His head spins as he struggles to come down from his own Rage. Very stiffly, he bows to Mouse as his calm returns. His voice is very quiet. "My apologies."
Flint directs the glare at the laundry room, muttering something under his breath and excusing himself. "Yes Mouse-rhya," the galliard says, audible but barely.
Sewall stiffly hobbles back to 'his' armchair and lowers himself back into it, leaning back with a grimace of pain.
Mouse nods once. "Introductions?" This is clearly aimed at John, once he's regained his own control.
John nods. "Wrong John, ahroun cliath of the Silver Fangs." His breath is still a little quick, though that could be any sort of nerves at this point. He sets the donut on the table, and very quickly darts his hands behind his back.
The sound of the washer starting to life in the laundry room follows, and then Flint reemerges, moving towards some neutral seat to sit in—all the while doing his very best to ignore Sewall. He's not glaring anymore? But the expression on his face still looks like he wants to.
Sewall, his jaw still clenched, takes off his glasses and cleans off the lenses with a cloth from his pocket. Very. Calmly.
Mouse nods again. "Mouse, as I mentioned. First-Strike, Adren Theurge and Elder of the Glass Walkers, packed under Sphinx, and currently in the middle of my Athro challenge." There's a thin smile, mostly humorless. "And metis, by the way. I take it you're new in town, did someone give you the rundown on the rules for this place?"
John gestures with his chin toward the elevator, hands stiffly behind his back. "Sue. I… This won't happen again, Mouse-rhya."
Flint drums his fingers on his knees and eventually snatches a donut from the table.
Sewall finishes polishing his glasses, replaces them, neatly folds the special cloth for such, and pockets it. Inhale. Exhale.
"No, it won't," Mouse replies, but casually, as if she were merely confirming the most obvious of statements. She reaches up and pulls off the sunglasses, which makes the reason for wearing them plain; her eyes are distinctly wolfish, despite her being in homid. "Okay, Flint, why do you look like you just swallowed a live porcupine?"
John considers quietly if he should make a hasty retreat. He thinks he likely wouldn't want to, at this point. He still stares at the door, standing quietly at attention.
Flint chews his lower lip for a moment, and the Walker cliath has clearly eased… he just doesn't seem comfortable. "Sorry, Mouse-rhya. You said to, to. Put it aside. So I am. It's nothing." Nothing clearly being a reason to almost seethe with evident distaste for the Fang ragabash, and then Flint continues. "He," Flint jerks his head to Sewall, "was a. Self-righteous, stuck-up bastard. On Christmas Eve. That's all." Which is immediately followed by Flint glancing at Sewall. "For… what it's… worth. I. Overreacted and I'm sorry f-for. That."
Sewall's mouth gives a sardonic little twist at Flint's apology, genuine or no. "Apology accepted." The word is clipped and curt.
"Well," Mouse says, with her eyebrows lifting again, "since it's so unimportant, and you've just got that off your chest, that should be the end of it. Right?" It's less question and more expectation, and her expression reflects it.
John bites his lip. That door is looking a lot better.
It might in fact be the end of it if not for the expression that Sewall has. Flint doesn't look any less agitated, just nods. "Yes, Mouse-rhya. I should, the. The laundry." Which he gets up, glares death at Sewall again as he's doing so, and stalks off to the laundry room at a trot and a hurry.
"Flint." This time it's a snap from Mouse. "I believe I just said that should be the end of it, and you agreed. If you're going to lie, you could at least wait until my back is turned before you make it obvious."
Sewall's gaze flicks to John. "Go, if you wish," he says, without any warmth. "No one's holding you here."
John quietly decides that he likes Mouse, nodding to himself. He glances to Sewall, expression flattening. "We have another conversation to have. Perhaps later." He takes a few steps closer to Sewall, bowing briefly. "Perhaps we can both leave ourselves at the door next time?"
Flint slumps slightly in place, stopping halfway to the laundry room. "Yes, Mouse-rhya," he acknowledges, but he's still facing the laundry room rather than the Walker elder, or either of the Silver Fangs. "I just need, space, it. It will be the end of it unless he. Insults me, or my pack, or my packmates. Ever again. Including being. Stuck-up, 'I'm right you're wrong', fucking arrogant bastard who can't even keep his stuck up out of simple that really, to say, two words. It is not going to be a thing." At which point Flint resumes for the laundry room, visibly tense and angry.
"No," Mouse says flatly. "You don't dictate terms to him, and especially not to me. You challenge him, right now, or you fucking drop it. And if you're pissed off at him in the future, you challenge him then, or you fucking drop it. You can hate each other all you please, but I'm not putting up with constant petty pseudo-aggressive posturing like we're all stuck in eternal junior high. That has caused all of us a lot of grief in the past already. You're allowed your space, but behave like a Garou, Flint."
"Later," Sewall says to John, nodding. It even sounds polite. Not warm, but polite. He's a trifle distracted by what's passing between Flint and Mouse.
Flint pauses mid-stride again, turning to listen as Mouse speaks, every so often glancing at her, hands shoved in his pockets. Silence passes for a minute, and then the galliard nods. "Yes, Mouse-rhya. May I change the laundry, n-now?"
John tips an invisible hat to all assembled, individually. There is a pause, in case Mouse would like to speak to him further for any reason.
Mouse gives John a silent shake of her head before returning her attention to Flint. "If this business is done and forgotten and you aren't going to be death glaring any time you happen to see him, yes. Otherwise, challenge him now and get it over with for both of you."
Sewall watches Flint keenly, saying nothing, his expression stony.
Flint looks from Mouse, to Sewall, and he's silent. But it's not the same glaring death, nor is there challenge in it, nor does Flint look away. "I've got better things to, to do," he eventually says, speaking carefully, levelly and not very loud. "Like laundry."
Sewall meets Flint's stare and holds it, firmly. "Then do it," says the Silver Fang.
Mouse leans back in her power chair, eyes faintly narrowed. "And stop trying to one-up him. I mean it. No petty pseudo-aggressive bullshit."
Flint gives Mouse a nod, and turns on his heel to go disappear into the laundry room, though tension still echoes through the young Glass Walker's posture for the moment.
Sewall's gaze follows Flint out. Only when the Galliard's gone does he drop the rigid sitting pose and slouch in the armchair, looking more than a little strained.
Mouse shakes her head, and moment over, she reaches up to rub at her face. She looks tired, and somewhat thinner than usual (which is saying something).
After a few moments, Sewall gathers himself and heaves effortfully to his feet. "Thank you, Mouse-rhya," he says. "My patience…" He grimaces and gives a light shrug.
"You're welcome," Mouse replies. "But honestly this had less to do with you and more to do with the constant, ongoing irritation of young Garou not knowing when to stop poking, and not knowing when to stop reacting like humans to people that annoy them. I'd rather do some figurative head chewing than have it lead to the literal kind."
Sewall nods to Mouse. "You have my sympathies," he says, then starts moving slowly, painfully, for the elevator.
Mouse rolls out of his way. "Have a good night, Sewall."
"You as well, Mouse-rhya," Sewall says as he enters the elevator. The doors close shut behind him.
Some bit later, Flint comes out of the laundry room with a cup of tea, and a lit cigarette, and glances at the Walker Elder, then down. "Tea or coffee, Mouse-rhya?" Flint asks.
"Coffee," Mouse replies, right away. "Got some work to finish up before I try sleeping."
Flint nods, moving to set his tea down on a table before going back into the laundry room. Apparently the boy'd made coffee as well to start with, because a large cup of coffee is brought back out to the Walker Elder, almost uncharacteristically quietly.
Mouse takes the cup without remark, and begins slowly sipping from it. She already has her phone in hand, and appears to be tapping through something with her thumb.
"Anything else I can, can get you, or. Or do?" Flint asks, even as he's moving to both reclaim his tea and set up the monitor so it can be easily seen from the couch, and then digging through the pockets of his jeans until he finds a lighter. There's a brief shiver and fidgeting of playing with his wrists where long sleeves would be as he relights the cigarette that's since gone out, and the cliath doesn't sit down, quite yet.
"No," Mouse says without looking up.
"Okay," Flint acknowledges. Which seems to be enough for Flint to fold himself onto the couch and take out his phone, putting in earbuds and settling on the couch to drink tea, watch the monitor, and read something.
11 January, 2013
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (2% full).
John looses a high, frustrated growl, threatening to splinter his nails on the table. "Who hurt you, Sewall? Who… Burned you so badly you search for the worst in others?"
Ding! goes the elevator. Thanks to Kavi's efforts, there's even far less complaining as it climbs to the fifth floor, pauses, and then starts back down.
Nearly simultaneously, but not quite, is the quiet but nonetheless substantial noise of footsteps in the stairwell. Probably coming down from the roof, and at some great speed by the sound of it, followed by the door to the lobby opening. Flint's hauling a laundry basket full of dirtied rags, and glances about, but starts for the laundry room.
Sewall's lip curls. He's about to respond to this attempt at psychological examination—a response that would have been witheringly disdainful, judging by his expression—when the noise from the elevator, followed by Flint's arrival, distracts him. His mouth thins out, jaw clenching. "We'll discuss this later."
John snatches a donut, lips twisting. "I have no doubt." John briefly wonders why he did that, giving the donut an odd look. "You're… Thick as mud." And instantly, John regrets speaking in anger. The hand not occupied with the donut shoves itself too-deep into his pocket.
Sewall, half-turned from John, stiffens at the remark, hand tightening on the cane, back going ramrod-straight, a sudden spike of rage in every sinew. He says nothing, though, visibly biting back the impulse toward explosive lycanthropic violence.
The elevator doors open, and out rolls—rolls, yes—a thin woman with spidery scars, short hair that's mostly brown, but with a lock of white tucked behind one ear, and sunglasses. Sunglasses inside. She's sitting in a powered wheelchair, which is how she makes her exit, though the tension in the air causes her to stop just outside of the elevator and raise one thin eyebrow. "Sewall," she says quietly. Neither a question nor a warning. Acknowledgment?
Flint glances again towards Sewall and John—but whatever hatred the Fang ragabash receives from the Walker cliath, and there's significant venom in the look—is cut short by the elevator's arrival. "Hi, Mouse-rhya," Flint says. "I. I cleaned the fridge in the breakroom. And… and the freezer." And then Flint returns to variously both glaring at Sewall and taking the laundry to the laundry room.
John snarls quietly, finally taking a bite of the donut. He regrets that, too. "You remind me of my mother. You talk at and hold yourself so high I wonder how you're still breathing." He gestures with the donut, other hand occupied with trying to draw blood through his pocket.
Sewall inhales. Exhales. Recovers a facade—definitely just a facade—of calm. "This is not under discussion any longer. Not right now." He looks over at the woman in the powered chair, inclining his head stiffly. "Mouse-rhya."
"Excuse me," Mouse says. Her voice is quiet, but there's something about it that nevertheless cuts through the air and carries a note of cold authority. "I don't think we've met. I'm Mouse. And if you provoke a frenzy in my lobby, I'm going to call up several very scary looking people to come and repeatedly beat your head against the floor. Flint," her tone doesn't really change, "whatever reason you're giving him the evil eye, put it aside right now."
John gives his donut a brief look of disgust. His head spins as he struggles to come down from his own Rage. Very stiffly, he bows to Mouse as his calm returns. His voice is very quiet. "My apologies."
Flint directs the glare at the laundry room, muttering something under his breath and excusing himself. "Yes Mouse-rhya," the galliard says, audible but barely.
Sewall stiffly hobbles back to 'his' armchair and lowers himself back into it, leaning back with a grimace of pain.
Mouse nods once. "Introductions?" This is clearly aimed at John, once he's regained his own control.
John nods. "Wrong John, ahroun cliath of the Silver Fangs." His breath is still a little quick, though that could be any sort of nerves at this point. He sets the donut on the table, and very quickly darts his hands behind his back.
The sound of the washer starting to life in the laundry room follows, and then Flint reemerges, moving towards some neutral seat to sit in—all the while doing his very best to ignore Sewall. He's not glaring anymore? But the expression on his face still looks like he wants to.
Sewall, his jaw still clenched, takes off his glasses and cleans off the lenses with a cloth from his pocket. Very. Calmly.
Mouse nods again. "Mouse, as I mentioned. First-Strike, Adren Theurge and Elder of the Glass Walkers, packed under Sphinx, and currently in the middle of my Athro challenge." There's a thin smile, mostly humorless. "And metis, by the way. I take it you're new in town, did someone give you the rundown on the rules for this place?"
John gestures with his chin toward the elevator, hands stiffly behind his back. "Sue. I… This won't happen again, Mouse-rhya."
Flint drums his fingers on his knees and eventually snatches a donut from the table.
Sewall finishes polishing his glasses, replaces them, neatly folds the special cloth for such, and pockets it. Inhale. Exhale.
"No, it won't," Mouse replies, but casually, as if she were merely confirming the most obvious of statements. She reaches up and pulls off the sunglasses, which makes the reason for wearing them plain; her eyes are distinctly wolfish, despite her being in homid. "Okay, Flint, why do you look like you just swallowed a live porcupine?"
John considers quietly if he should make a hasty retreat. He thinks he likely wouldn't want to, at this point. He still stares at the door, standing quietly at attention.
Flint chews his lower lip for a moment, and the Walker cliath has clearly eased… he just doesn't seem comfortable. "Sorry, Mouse-rhya. You said to, to. Put it aside. So I am. It's nothing." Nothing clearly being a reason to almost seethe with evident distaste for the Fang ragabash, and then Flint continues. "He," Flint jerks his head to Sewall, "was a. Self-righteous, stuck-up bastard. On Christmas Eve. That's all." Which is immediately followed by Flint glancing at Sewall. "For… what it's… worth. I. Overreacted and I'm sorry f-for. That."
Sewall's mouth gives a sardonic little twist at Flint's apology, genuine or no. "Apology accepted." The word is clipped and curt.
"Well," Mouse says, with her eyebrows lifting again, "since it's so unimportant, and you've just got that off your chest, that should be the end of it. Right?" It's less question and more expectation, and her expression reflects it.
John bites his lip. That door is looking a lot better.
It might in fact be the end of it if not for the expression that Sewall has. Flint doesn't look any less agitated, just nods. "Yes, Mouse-rhya. I should, the. The laundry." Which he gets up, glares death at Sewall again as he's doing so, and stalks off to the laundry room at a trot and a hurry.
"Flint." This time it's a snap from Mouse. "I believe I just said that should be the end of it, and you agreed. If you're going to lie, you could at least wait until my back is turned before you make it obvious."
Sewall's gaze flicks to John. "Go, if you wish," he says, without any warmth. "No one's holding you here."
John quietly decides that he likes Mouse, nodding to himself. He glances to Sewall, expression flattening. "We have another conversation to have. Perhaps later." He takes a few steps closer to Sewall, bowing briefly. "Perhaps we can both leave ourselves at the door next time?"
Flint slumps slightly in place, stopping halfway to the laundry room. "Yes, Mouse-rhya," he acknowledges, but he's still facing the laundry room rather than the Walker elder, or either of the Silver Fangs. "I just need, space, it. It will be the end of it unless he. Insults me, or my pack, or my packmates. Ever again. Including being. Stuck-up, 'I'm right you're wrong', fucking arrogant bastard who can't even keep his stuck up out of simple that really, to say, two words. It is not going to be a thing." At which point Flint resumes for the laundry room, visibly tense and angry.
"No," Mouse says flatly. "You don't dictate terms to him, and especially not to me. You challenge him, right now, or you fucking drop it. And if you're pissed off at him in the future, you challenge him then, or you fucking drop it. You can hate each other all you please, but I'm not putting up with constant petty pseudo-aggressive posturing like we're all stuck in eternal junior high. That has caused all of us a lot of grief in the past already. You're allowed your space, but behave like a Garou, Flint."
"Later," Sewall says to John, nodding. It even sounds polite. Not warm, but polite. He's a trifle distracted by what's passing between Flint and Mouse.
Flint pauses mid-stride again, turning to listen as Mouse speaks, every so often glancing at her, hands shoved in his pockets. Silence passes for a minute, and then the galliard nods. "Yes, Mouse-rhya. May I change the laundry, n-now?"
John tips an invisible hat to all assembled, individually. There is a pause, in case Mouse would like to speak to him further for any reason.
Mouse gives John a silent shake of her head before returning her attention to Flint. "If this business is done and forgotten and you aren't going to be death glaring any time you happen to see him, yes. Otherwise, challenge him now and get it over with for both of you."
Sewall watches Flint keenly, saying nothing, his expression stony.
Flint looks from Mouse, to Sewall, and he's silent. But it's not the same glaring death, nor is there challenge in it, nor does Flint look away. "I've got better things to, to do," he eventually says, speaking carefully, levelly and not very loud. "Like laundry."
Sewall meets Flint's stare and holds it, firmly. "Then do it," says the Silver Fang.
Mouse leans back in her power chair, eyes faintly narrowed. "And stop trying to one-up him. I mean it. No petty pseudo-aggressive bullshit."
Flint gives Mouse a nod, and turns on his heel to go disappear into the laundry room, though tension still echoes through the young Glass Walker's posture for the moment.
Sewall's gaze follows Flint out. Only when the Galliard's gone does he drop the rigid sitting pose and slouch in the armchair, looking more than a little strained.
Mouse shakes her head, and moment over, she reaches up to rub at her face. She looks tired, and somewhat thinner than usual (which is saying something).
After a few moments, Sewall gathers himself and heaves effortfully to his feet. "Thank you, Mouse-rhya," he says. "My patience…" He grimaces and gives a light shrug.
"You're welcome," Mouse replies. "But honestly this had less to do with you and more to do with the constant, ongoing irritation of young Garou not knowing when to stop poking, and not knowing when to stop reacting like humans to people that annoy them. I'd rather do some figurative head chewing than have it lead to the literal kind."
Sewall nods to Mouse. "You have my sympathies," he says, then starts moving slowly, painfully, for the elevator.
Mouse rolls out of his way. "Have a good night, Sewall."
"You as well, Mouse-rhya," Sewall says as he enters the elevator. The doors close shut behind him.
Some bit later, Flint comes out of the laundry room with a cup of tea, and a lit cigarette, and glances at the Walker Elder, then down. "Tea or coffee, Mouse-rhya?" Flint asks.
"Coffee," Mouse replies, right away. "Got some work to finish up before I try sleeping."
Flint nods, moving to set his tea down on a table before going back into the laundry room. Apparently the boy'd made coffee as well to start with, because a large cup of coffee is brought back out to the Walker Elder, almost uncharacteristically quietly.
Mouse takes the cup without remark, and begins slowly sipping from it. She already has her phone in hand, and appears to be tapping through something with her thumb.
"Anything else I can, can get you, or. Or do?" Flint asks, even as he's moving to both reclaim his tea and set up the monitor so it can be easily seen from the couch, and then digging through the pockets of his jeans until he finds a lighter. There's a brief shiver and fidgeting of playing with his wrists where long sleeves would be as he relights the cigarette that's since gone out, and the cliath doesn't sit down, quite yet.
"No," Mouse says without looking up.
"Okay," Flint acknowledges. Which seems to be enough for Flint to fold himself onto the couch and take out his phone, putting in earbuds and settling on the couch to drink tea, watch the monitor, and read something.