Summary:Betty offers a recovering Steve asylum even in his state of being a werewolf. It seems safe, especially after food and a few hours rest, but there is truly no rest for the good — or wicked. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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A day has gone by since Steve rapidly evacuated the weaponry testing room of the Triskelion's R&D sector — as a fully-shifted werewolf. With evening having fallen and a sweep of the river Hudson failing to turn up hide or hair of the erstwhile Captain, it appears he's managed to disappear into the city.
A chilling thing when one considers the long-lived, hard-earned tactical wisdom of his human form in combination with the far more feral form he currently occupies. However, sucking river-water is difficult for any living being to handle. It has left the blond werewolf currently hidden away in a shed on the edge of the Red Hook playing fields not too far into Brooklyn. The baseball game has ended for the night and thank god no one went to check the locks on the industrial shed itself.
With the door cracked, it's perhaps worth investigating to anyone having lingered after the game was done. After all, the minor league teams hosting it were no small showing. Agents were around to suss out potential players!
It was also a still somewhat nice section of the borough that one could walk around in. When things were on her mind, Brant would often just go walking. She'd wander, fearless of the city, and keeping to herself. Her attire was fitting, perhaps in ways that shouldn't matter, but she was getting comfortable with herself again. Denim shorts, a flowing, sleeveless blouse, her messeger bag resting on her hip and her favored, red-pumps on her feet. She strides, heels clicking, as her hands work up and into her dirty-blonde hair to pull it back and away into a tail. The night was muggy, after all.
It was the sound that got her attention. It causes the woman to pause and turn, looking around to see where said noise could have come from. Her head cants and she stares, listening a moment longer and slipping down the trail toward the sheds. Her fingers slip into her side bag, palming something before she sighs and pulls her hand away. Whatever she wanted to check was there, was there, but not in her grip for the time being. Each door is as it should be - except for that one. Swallowing, she steps closer, her strides smooth. "H-hello?"
Her toe gently hit something, causing her to see it roll before she looks down and kneels. A dig into her bag, she pulls out a cotton cloth, one that so happens to have writing stitched into it 'HPM'. Picking up the object, she watches as the inner liquid shifts, and the crimson on its tip still roll. Eyes wide, she wraps up the object and slips it away into her bag. "Hey, are you alright?" She asks whatever was in the shed. "It's ok…Ok? I'm going to help you if you're hurt." A hand on the door, she opens it.
Whatever was making sound immediately stops upon Betty speaking. When she slides the shed door open wider, a slanted length of golden light reaches into the shed itself. It holds a collection of machines necessary for field upkeep.
Some of these have been shoved onto their sides. The scent of spilt oil is immediate and sharp in the nose, shining like ink where the light touches it. There's also a small spattering of red where something within apparently shed another one of the darts found outside and now wrapped in cotton cloth.
A low rolling growl starts up from the farthest corner before falling to silence again. Then comes the hard sniffing, audible in the metal shed. Then comes the blacker-than-interior silhouette of a large head rising up.
It's a big…dog? Big dog. Very big dog. Half a ton of dog. Sharp pointed ears stand up high on its skull and its eyes gleam golden in reflected nightshine. Funny thing is…
Dogs don't crouch on two hind feet like that. Or wear a mostly-shredded pair of jeans.
Betty Brant keeps pulling, allowing that light to bleed in. The smells roll up and into her nostrils, causing her to face to wrinkle and brows to knit together. "It's ok. I promise, we'll get you some help. Are you alright?" She asks once more, noticing that speckles of red. Then, her eyes follow the shadows, trying to find whatever was in here. The growl gives her pause. Frozen in place, she looks into the dark, taking another breath before slipping in but allowing some distance. The shape forms, the eyes pierce and her own warm gaze skips across the vision before her.
"A-are you a child of Fenris?" Her voice asks gently, almost sweetly. "A-a mutant, maybe? Did someone hurt you?"
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d10 for: 3
The silhouette of the head can be seen to shift to one side as if to better eye Betty. More sniffing sounds wet and then comes a long dragging inhale followed by a combination of a cough and a sneeze. Someone did take in more river-water than expected.
No words leave him. Instead, the werewolf begins to slink out form behind the upturned mower on all fours. At least four feet at the shoulders which roll like blades beneath the wet blond pelt, the creature comes into the light wedge-nose first. Canines hang from its lips and these remain risen as a continuous low growl leaves him. Along its neck and back are faded wet splotches of red, proof of being shot by multiple projectiles; not bullets, however. Hands and feet remain long of digit, with thumbs available for use. The talons are long and peachy-hued.
The eyes to continue staring dead at Betty are as blue as the summer sky in July. Fortunately for her, there's an inkling of humanity in them. When fully in the light, the creature crouches yet again. It lifts its hands and signs in ASL:
«You smell like I know you.»
Betty Brant stalls at the sight once more. She swallows, hard, her eyes going from head to toe and back again. The coat, the form, the splotches of red - it causes the woman to frown gently. Hands out, she inches closer, but that rumble in his throat is enough to make her stop. She attempts to smile, offering her hand out and her smell to inch closer - like one would a scared and fearful pup.
She watches the signing and nods. Her own hands and arms working fluidly, matching her voice. "Maybe? I'm Betty. Do you have a name?" A look over once more, she speaks again. "Are you ok? Are you hurt?"
Blue eyes still so very human within the lupine face fall to the fingers outstretched towards him. Limber hands heavily clawed fall to the shed's floor for balance even as the pointed ears flick back. Dipping his chin briefly, the werewolf then stretches out his neck, leading with the twitching dark nose.
The Captain gets close enough to huff hot air on her knuckles before he suddenly pulls his head back. The massive skull tips to one side, shifting the nearly-leonine ruff of fur about his neck.
«Betty. You are a reporter. I talked to you before.» The signing fingers with their talons slow and the next sentence never comes to fruition. Those pointed ears fall to the sides. A grimace on that face looks far more horrifying than chagrined when skin wrinkles to display the ivory teeth.
«I am not hurt now. I was before,» he continues as he meets Betty's eyes again. «I mend quickly when I am like this. Are you alone?»
"You talked to me before?" She asks gently, her head canting to the side. The passage of breath isn't alarming to her. In some way, it's comforting. When he ripples back, however, she swallows and watches attentively. As he looks her way, she doesn't break visual contact.
"Well, if you need anything, I have first aid stuff in my ba. Nothing much, but…" She she smiles once more, slipping closer to the massive bundle of beautiful flaxen fur. "Yes, I'm alone. Do you need somewhere to go?"
As Betty steps closer yet, the werewolf draws on himself. It brings him taller in his crouch and easily at eye level with her — and another two feet easily to add when fully on his hind legs. It's clear whomever is human beneath the shift worked out regularly. She continues to get a chary look.
«The blood is just blood. There is no broken skin.» As if to ascertain this is true, the Captain turns his nose to sniff at one shoulder. «Yes. No skin is broken.» The pause to follow is again nearly overtly guilty. Ears yet again fall to the sides of his head.
«I do need to go somewhere, but not right now. The alarm need to calm first. They think I am — » There is a struggle for the right word. It leaves him crinkling his whiskers yet again. «They think I am dangerous. That I have gone AWOL. I need to wait until I am myself again.»
"Let me see?" She asks with concern, another step forward. Seeing his ears go down, that visual guilt, she reaches up and out, cupping at his jaw and giving it a tender dig. "Hey, it's ok." She promises, starting to walk around to study those patches of red.
"Well if you need somewhere to go, you can stay at my home. I mean, it's in Hell's Kitchen, but…" Her fingers press at his skin, only now leaning closer to one of the wounds, or where a wound would be. Her lips part, then close, and part once more. "Who is they?" Beat. "AWOL? You're…in the military?"
Upon feeling the touch at the flat of his jaw, the werewolf pulls his head away from it with a snort. It's sensitive, being in this particular form, and the palm feels to touch too many hairs at once. However, the more delicate checking at the blood-stained sections of light fur has him holding still — confirmation in her lack of reaction to an apparent wound makes him let out a sigh obvious enough to deflate his ribcage.
Muscles move fluidly beneath his pelt as Steve takes a few padding steps off to one side and out of the immediate fall of light into the shed. He becomes a dark shadow with gleaming golden eyes yet again. Out come his hands into the light as for Betty to see: «'They' are part of the government. I am military, yes. It is not safe for you to offer your help, but thank you.» Again, a pause, but he signs on. «I am afraid that I would hurt you. I do not remember why I changed this time. The feeling of the virus is getting stronger.»
"I'm sorry, did I pet too hard? Usually Fenris finds this comforting." Apologetic in the action, she's quick to pull her hand away in turn. After checking the wounds, it at least clears him of any hidden harm. When he pulls away, she doesn't follow. There she stands, watching over him, a hand up and brushing back through her hair, some of the strands braided and beaded with Norse runes.
She scoffs and shakes her head, her teeth nibble at her lower lip in silent consideration. "Y'know, I keep getting that. Someone not allowing me to help them because I'll get hurt, or they're dangerous. That's selfish." She nods his way, her head resting to the side. "You need help, and I'm offering it. I'm not afraid and I can take care of myself." She promises, even giving a Scout's salute. Her smile fades after a moment. "I found a dart outside. Was it in you?" Digging into her bag, she pulls out the handkerchief and shows him the small vessel of odd liquid. "Virus? So…you're not a godling or a mutant?"
By the soft 'urf', Steve doesn't know of any Fenris — at least, not in terms of the godling himself. He crouches there yet, pointed ears lifted forwards, and doesn't make any further movement until she reaches into the bag. There's a slight retreat and consequential shift of weight on all fours. However, he does recognize the dart.
It brings up a brief swell of a snarl that recedes like an ocean wave when human logic struggles to assert itself.
Out come the hands into the light again. «I am not a godling or a mutant. Once I was a laboratory gerbil, but that was long ago. That was intended for me, yes. It contains a mixture that used to make me change back. Now it does not. The virus has become worse. It fights the mixture. I was hit by five of them, but I am not sure.» He has to pause again to snarl; saliva gleams on his teeth before they hide away but for the canines.
«I would owe you much favor if you would shelter me until I become human again, but it may get you into trouble. I do not want that. Also, how would travel work? I am not small.» As if to accent his point, Steve-wolf rises fully onto his hind legs. His ears barely tip the shed's roof at over seven feet tall. Betty seems so small now.
At his reaction, Brant slips the dart away, wrapping it up for safe keeping. "I have a friend who could look at this. Maybe even with the blood, use it as a sample and make something to help you." She offers without hesitation. There's a knowing that said friend would be willing to help, too.
As he stands to his full height, Betty can only smile up in his direction. Her expression is kind, warm, and soft upon her ruby lips. "No, you're not, but you're forgetting something." She explains, reaching out and tenderly taking his wrist with both of her hands. "It's night. It's New York, and it's October. You'll have the most bitchin' outfit out there." A pause, she looks around, finding some red satchel that probably held som type of tools. Shaking it free, she ties the horrid excuse for a cape around her shoulders, it's hue matching her lips.
"Com'on, Bigby. Walk a girl home after a wild party."
At first, it seems as if the blond werewolf might accept the invitation. It is logical, in its way, to use the near-future holiday as an excuse for his current situation. The creature can even be seen to look down at himself and then at his palms, sectioned as they are in some weird amalgamation of pawpads and human physiology. He closes them and grimaces again, showcasing the front third of his teeth from behind black lips. Taking his wrist from her grip, Steve gets to signing.
«It is a good idea, but first, tell me who would help with my blood. I do not like the idea. This has never happened before in the history of my life. No one should have access to my blood except for those in SHIELD.» Spelling out the acronym for the government agency is followed by a flick back of the ears and soft snarl — at himself.
Oops.
Betty Brant thins her lips and allows him to pull away, her hands left hovering before she lowers her limbs and steps back. Blinking, she follows along, her eyes growing briefly at the mention of SHIELD. Thankfully for him, she knew very few that were even associated with them. Back to his question, she signs and speaks - perhaps she honestly thought he was deaf, but it was habit to talk and use her hands at the same time. Lip-reading was a thing.
"Doctor Henry McCoy. He's very good in his field, and since this is biological, he can aid you. I know it." She smiles once more, showing great respect and trust in Hank.
The werewolf tilts his head. «Henry McCoy. I know of him too. He is blue.» There's too much pride in Captain Rogers to sign out 'blue fur', apparently, given his current state — a subtle way of sticking his tongue out at the whole affair.
A clever mind might, at this point, remember how Steve knew of Betty by her scent and to also include Dr. McCoy in his realm of knowledge? The field of personages possible behind the feral state standing before Betty might suddenly decrease dramatically.
«To hear that he is capable of working on my blood is a relief. Still, I would like the dart, please.» A taloned hand is held out towards the young woman. Those eyes winking golden in nightshine eye her with a hawk-like intensity now.
Betty Brant smiles and shakes her head. "Not anymore." She signs in regards to Hank's features. "For the time being, he's cured himself." A smirk, she shakes her head. "Truth be told, I miss the fur, but what can you do?" Giggling, she listens and shifts back. There's reluctance in her eyes, her fingers not moving toward the dart in question.
"How can he help you without a sample?" Question set there for him, she reaches into the side bag and offers him the wrapping of cotton fabric. Perhaps now the stitching of HPM makes sense.
Mulishness: manifold in the man before her, shifted as he is. With delicate strength, the dart within its wrapping is plucked from her palm. Talons then lift away the fabric to reveal the dart. With little aplomb, he then dips the end of the dart into the nearest puddle of machinery oil upon the shed flooring. Any blood is ruined. He then crushes it before kicking it away to the side of the shed itself like a disdainful cat.
The cloth is offered back to Betty and once taken, Steve signs, «To hear he has cured himself makes me hopeful, but until I speak to him myself, I do not like the risk of my blood being away from me. I thank you for understanding.» Still, that's a long and tired sigh from the werewolf now.
«You offered a place to stay. You say you trust me. It is only fair that I trust you to understand what you risk. Do you have a lot of food? I have learned that I need to eat around 5,000 calories a day.» There's a small wince because that's no small amount. «I am hungry,» comes the admission with a ho-hum chagrined shoulder shrug to follow.
Betty Brant cants her head and continues to be attentive of him. He speaks, she nods, her eyes never leaving his face. Accepting the handerchief, she folds it carefully and slips it away into her messenger bag.
Smiling, she steps forward, her hands moving once more. "That's not bad. I'll have you know I'm Priestess to Fenris. Who better to take care of a wolf than me?" Timidly, she reaches out once more and softly places her hand on his forearm. "I'll get you whatever you need."
Betty's hand likely shifts in rises and falls as he signs back, «Thank you. I will need a lot of food. I do not know when I will return to my usual state.» Falling to all fours, the werewolf steps out into the angled fall of sodium-orange light. It tips his fur in ruddy hues even as he travels out of the shed with a wary, low-slunk demeanor. For all his shoulders reach the height of Betty's elbow in this stance, he's still very much the predator able to disappear into foliage without a whisper.
Pausing outside of the shed, he waits for her to appear before signing, «Where do you live? Who is Fenris? I do not know the name well. I heard it one time very long ago.» In the war, actually, when dealing with the Nazi's secret meta-magical science division, and in the Red Skull's deep fascination with Teutonic legends. It appears he's going to follow along beside Betty, like as not on two feet, and pray to god no one sees them for anything more than party deserters.
Betty Brant follows along, only taking time to close the shed and leave it somewhat like it was before "Hell's Kitchen." She answers smoothly. "It's a bit of a walk, but we'll be alright. I know some short-cuts." A wink, she starts walking, pointedly keeping away from the main drag. Who was going to mess with her now? Honestly?
"Fenris?" She asks, her brows lifting to the question. Usually people knew the name, even if they were light in their reading of myths and legends. "Fenris is the Norse Wolf God. He's suppose to swallow the sun and bring about the Apocalypse." Chuckling, she shakes her head, keeping a steady pace beside the beast at her side. "But he's not all bad. I'm learning, quickly, that figures from legend aren't always like the stories said they were." Her brows knit before she makes a slightly annoyed expression, "Except Loki. He's still an ass it seems."
With Betty in her bright-red accoutrement and Steve looking very much the part of the wolf, they travel. Walking on two legs seems relatively easy for the werewolf even if the feral inclination is to travel on all fours. This would, unfortunately, make it impossible to sign at the young woman.
«Yes, Loki. He is trouble. He has been quiet lately, but I do not know how long it will last.» This seems a very familiar way of speaking of the Trickster God. «I know a few of the Norse gods.» Not 'of them', the Captain is claiming to know them.
He resists the urge to step into the heavy shadow of an alleyway as a car drives past, but only barely. Ears remain flicked back in overt nervousness. «Many people are not what they appear to be.» A coughing scoff follows. Irony abounds in the signed statement and he knows it. «How much farther to your house?»
"I only know a few." She frowns, somewhat saddened by that fact. "I've met other Gods, though. So, that's good?" Reaching back, she gently rubs at the nape of her neck. Something about that seems to make the woman nervous about it all. Bashful, perhaps? In passing, there's a brush at a thin scar across the front of her throat.
When the car passes, she's quick to reach over and settle her hand on the beast's arm. She hopes it calms him, supports him, keeps him moving. "Not long," she promises, their trek eventually passing them into Clinton. A few more blocks and she moves up the side of an old mom and pops store. On the second story is a door, one she unlocks - five different locks. Passing through, she waits for him to join her before closing the door and relatching each and every barrier.
The studio is simple - expansive and open with 'two' rooms that have doors (a bedroom and bathroom respectively.) It's clean, some files are left on the coffee table and the only thing out of place is a slab of cardboard blocking a window. "Get comfortable. I'll see what's in the fridge and go grab you some food. What would you like?"
Steve very pointedly ignores what his feral brain tells him about that stress sweat. It only briefly makes his nose crinkle; tonight, he seems to have a good hold of the reins. He is very grateful for arriving at the building and even more so to ascend the metal ladder to the second floor door. It means he can fall to all fours with a surprising ease.
Slipping past her and into the place, he immediately moves off to one side. With his back nearly touching the nearest wall, he lets his senses tell him more about the place than what eyes can see alone.
The air flow is good, heavier of the city — ah, the window, where it slips past the cardboard. That's good. He could scent mechanical oil and exhaust if SHIELD sent drones to check — on the other hand, that is a critical point of weakness. Electricity hums in the kitchen. He can smell cleaner in there along with Betty's own perfume; she seems less stressed now. Moving centrally into the studio, he takes in a big and deep breath before looking to her again.
«Laugh if you want, but meat. Calories. Rich meat. I did not hesitate to eat a five pound batch of bacon raw once. I am not picky.»
"Why laugh? You're a predator." Stepping out of her pumps, she pulls at the tie around her neck and allows that tool-sack to fall from her shoulders. That rope was starting to get annoying. Folding up the red plastic, she tossing it aside and then pads into the kitchen. Opening the fridge just as she said she would, she searching inside the icebox. Giving a small count, she takes out some slabs of meat still covered in plastic. "I have this for now. Give me a few minutes and I'll be back with more." Ripping the wrap off, she looks toward the wolf with kindness and care. "Would you like it on a plate or in a bowl? I feel…horrible that I'm even asking that, but I want you to feel comfortable."
The inhale gains Steve a plethora of scents: flower — spices — skin — coffee — pastries — he gives the bedroom a narrow look, but can't hear any heartbeats present, so they are alone even with the stale masculine scent of sweat ghosting about; there is something faintly and viscerally metallic. When Betty rattles the freezer, the werewolf yanks his nose up from snuffling silently at the floor almost guiltily. Ears perk forwards and his attention rapidly arrows in on the meat still beneath its clear wrapping.
His true-blue eyes land on the young woman again. «I am not offended. A plate would be best, please, and you can put it on the floor. It is easier for me to eat,» he signs.
Putting the meat she has on a serving dish (luckily for WereRogers, there was a good few pounds here), she sets it down on the floor and reaches out to the space behind his ear. "Hey," she begins, pulling her touch away and signing once more. "I know you said this is a virus, and we'll get you help, but never be ashamed of what's happening to you. I'm not judging you and there's little point in judging yourself. Especially if this wasn't something done on purpose." A wink, she moves to stand and then returns to her messenger bag. Digging in, she sets aside her hand canon of a gun, safety on, and pulls away her wallet. With card in hand, she moves back toward her pumps and slips them back on. "I'll be back shortly, ok? Just going to grab you more food."
Pausing by the door, she smiles his way, "Anything else you want?"
Again, the werewolf pulls away from the touch to his ear, but doesn't seem offended by it. He's aleady attempting not to salivate profusely at the sight of the multiple slabs of meat laid out for his consumption. His stomach growls even as Betty is sliding on her pumps. Crouched by the plating, he seems to be patiently waiting for her to leave before indulging himself in the raw meat.
Steve is still able to gather up the self-control to sign back, «A men's large shirt and a belt. Socks. For if I change back.» Can werewolves blush? This one can, very faintly, just beneath his eyes. The fur hides most of it. «Thank you again,» he's sure to add. The slip of a tongue up to tip his nose seems automatic and without consideration. The meat smells heavenly.
Taking note of his request, she nods without a sliver of judgement. It was true, however, that the pull away from her touch had caused the woman to frown apologetically. So, she leaves, closing the door behind herself. True to her word, she leaves the beast along for some time, but no more than fifteen minutes - tops. He can hear her coming, perhaps even smell her coming - that mixture of clean sweat, lilac, vanilla. There's something else, too - meat. Bundles of meat wrapped in paper and twine. Where in hell was a butcher open at this hour? Having contacts was a good thing.
Entering the home, she shuffles toward the island and allows the massve collection of produce to slump upon the counter top. "Phew!" She exclaims, smiling all the while and closing the door behind herself. As before, the shoes leave her feet and the locks are set. She didn't have clothing, though.
The platter is in the sink by the time Betty returns. The werewolf himself, clean of blood, has also made a point of cleaning the floor where he last ate. To his nose, the cleaner found beneath the kitchen sink is astringent and strong, but he stopped sneezing about five minutes ago. He'll be found rising from what appears to have been a semi-curled state, something akin to fetal on his side; a bid for a canid manner of rest sans tail.
Those harshly pointed ears perk even as the dark nose gets to sniffing after the locks on the door are engaged. Padding over on all fours, he unerringly locates the packaged meat. It does appear to be a goodly amount. He licks his lips again before looking at Betty.
«I realized that there would not be many stores open tonight, so I will borrow a blanket if I change back while in your home,» signs the Captain, ever pragmatic.
"You need to stop worrying so much. I invited you here - I'll take care of you." Explains the Priestess. This time, however, she doesn't try to touch or offer him a comforting pet. "Eat." She offers before walking into the space that was her bedroom. Opening a closet she kneels down and pulls out what looks to be an old duffle back marked USMC. "I'm sure you can have some of Frank's clothes. I'll just replace them should he need the stash." A black shirt is pulled out, along with black jeans and socks. Underwear is even provided and a pair of boots. "Not sure if the footwear will work, but…" She shrugs, setting the items out and easily within reach of the wolf. The clothing had a smell all their own, belonging pointedly to someone else - this Frank.
Returning to the bedroom, she pulls out a couple of blankets and pillows alike. "I assume you want the living room? You can have the bed, if you want. I've slept out here lots of times, laptop running." She smirks.
Betty doesn't need to tell the blond werewolf twice to appreciate the collection of meat now hoarded on her kitchen countertop. While she rifles through her closet, paper wrapping crackles in the kitchen. Only three parcel's worth of the freshly-cut meat is gone by the time she returns.
Steve also jerks back from drinking from the kitchen sink's faucet. Most of the blood has been washed from his face in the process, but he still looks vaguely guilty. Eyeing the clothing, he then eyes the woman in turn.
«The living room would be good, yes. I do not want to wear Frank's clothes if he is someone important to you. It seems rude,» he signs at her, heedless of water hanging on the fur of his chin.
Betty Brant just shakes her head. "I can get you a glass or a bowl. No disrespect or anything." Setting down blankets and clothing alike, she rests her hands against her hips and tsks. Her hands then flow back into motion. "Are you kidding me? You asked for clothing, you have them. That's what they're there for. Sure, he's important to me, but this is for emergencies, too. I'd think a virus-wolfman is an emergency."
A step closer, she lingers, hesitates. "You have water on you…I'd clean it off, but you don't seem to like being touched."
Steve blinks and then runs his forearm beneath his chin. Pink-tinged water disappears into the fur with the gesture.
«Thank you,» he signs as to Betty's observation. His ears go back and to the sides now. «This state is sensitive. Everything is sensitive. It is also for your safety. It is better not to touch me.» As if hearing something beyond the walls, the werewolf suddenly looks off towards one of the windows.
«There is…» His attention seems to pull between his unspoken thought and communication for all his fingers fall still. A sharp snort clears his nose. «I need to rest. Thank you. I will sleep in the living room. The clothing is good, thank you,» the Captain is sure to add with exaggerated emphasis.
"I figured. But that's why I try a soft touch." After he perks, she moves her eyes in the direction of his seeking muzzle. When he moves to speak, she returns her gaze his way. "Sure." She offers out, moving into the living room to recollect her gun and some snacks from the fridge. "I'll leave you to it. Come get me if you need or want anything. If it's in the fridge or kitchen, take whatever you need. I don't mind." Smiling, she nods his way and turns, padding off toward her bedroom. She pauses, claiming her laptop, and keeps walking.
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 8
«Thank you again.» The half-ton of werewolf remains crouched in her kitchen and watches Betty depart to collect her laptop. His ears remain lifted until she entirely vanishes. Then, like wet paper, they collapse back and to the sides. He lets out a very, very soft and uncertain soft on a full breath before side-eyeing the butcher's meats again.
Later, he concludes, after he rests. A full stomach is telling him to relax. Right now, the moon…it… He can ignore it. He will ignore it, the Captain decides. Adroitly, he flicks off the lights of the kitchen and living room.
Carefully, keeping his talons in mind, he arranges the blanket and pillows into a rough bed. It's not the darkened enclosure like a closet or bathroom, but it will do. Three spins atop it and then Steve lies down on it. He falls almost immediately asleep despite his surroundings. Dissolving the toxin in his system has taken a toll on his energy levels.
About four hours pass in silence. The night goes by in Hell's Kitchen with little fanfare.
Then, around 3am, something awakens Steve. He lifts his head sharply from the bedding, curled on his side as he is. What awoke him?
The scent. A stranger. Slowly, he rises to four feet and begins to prowl over to the cardboard-blocked window, nose twitching.
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 2
What is it at the window? The cold air of night leaks in past the cardboard. Steve inserts his nose right beneath the fall of it brushing down and into the apartment. He's one long, lethal, muscled extension of low-crouched creature. His eyes gleam in the low light in gold, counter to their usual blue state.
It is…self — no, not self, he's human — musk and fur and pack — no, NO, not pack, he doesn't have…pack?
The brick outside scrapes as the stranger werewolf just beyond the open window shifts. It must be clinging like a spider to the outer wall. It makes Steve drop lower and pull back his lips in a soft growl.
A crush, a claw, the sound of a growl in the night. Awoken, calm, the woman slips upon her bare feet and starts to move toward the sliding door that creates the barrier of her bedroom. Taking time to put something on - she had a guest in the house after all, the woman silently allows herself in the living room, tanktop and pantied for armor.
She looks to the Werecap, giving him the slow sign of 'shh' with one hand. And in the other? That handcanon from earlier. Poised, she notes the window, and in a bracing stance, she levels the gun up and toward the boarded off window.
Steve's ear flicks back. He doesn't break his attention on the window, but acknowledges her presence in this. Pale moonlight falls through a slit to the apartment floor.
Beyond the cardboard separating them from the potential threat comes the sound of harder sniffing — and then a soft crooning growl with an upwards lilting note. Like calls to like…?
The Captain continues his low, rolling snarl of warning: begone, it seems to imply.
Again comes the softer sound followed by more crawling along the outer brick wall. It appears to travel around to the other side of the window, from left to right, curling around above and then down.
This was her home, but it was his arena - the howl alone was enough to suggest this. Or…perhaps it was a Godling? A child or grandchild of her God? Nibbling her lower lip, she gives the wolf in her home a questioning look. Silent sill, weapon at the ready, she takes a side step and then another, circling around to eventually reach the covered window. Her hand shifts out, open, waiting. Still, she asks the wolf with a gaze - do I open it?
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 11
Abruptly, without him losing any iota of sleek balance, the blond werewolf sticks out an arm. It's a barring gesture between Betty and the window. His gaze still doesn't shift from its intense stare at the narrow slit letting in the line of moonlight on the floor. His ribs barely rise and fall in breathing but for the slow sniffing which continues to attempt to suss out just who is on the other side.
More shifting about. Brick crackles. There are going to be some major dents in it seen by morning light.
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 9
Shadow breaks the silvery line of light shed on the living room floor. Now, Steve's hackles are beginning to rise in inevitable speed, from skull to spine, in an impressive volume; after all, his neck showcases an amount of fur almost leonine. It appears narrow, the shadow, maybe the nose? — yes, the nose: more sniffing is heard. Again comes the crooning growl from the stranger.
Come, it says. Come along now, brother — come.
Quick as a flash, he cuffs out at the cardboard. As if it withstands a hint of his force. It explodes outwards into a flurry of brown shards; the interior wall alongside the window now sports three deep gouges where Steve over-reached.
Whatever's on the other side isn't immediately visible now…
…but even Betty can hear it breathing.
Yet another reason the woman will never get her security deposit back. It was also some hint, perhaps, that it was time to move again. With the barrier broken, the window rolls in, muggy with a hint of chill as fall is still trying to creep its way into the city. Her grip settles against her pistol, leveling up once more toward the dark shape sniffing about.
Finally, she has to speak. There was no silent stealth at this point. Besides, with scent the shadow probably knew she was here, too.
"If you can understand me, don't hide. If you're a friend, you're allowed inside. If you're not, I suggest you leave - now."
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 9
The woman speaks and the stranger werewolf appears to react not violently to it, but in surprise. It sounds to climb backwards and away from the window's exterior framing, as if it were boggled to hear a perfectly normal and human voice in such close company with another of its kind.
Steve's growl falls out into silence. He risks eeling up to the window and then angling his line of vision to see if he can spot the interloper. In his line of sight, two pale ear-tips can be seen. These slowly lift up to reveal the far smaller face of a near-white werewolf with pale grey eyes. Its black nose wiggles. They hold eyes. Then, even Betty can see it when it angles its head out farther to look now at her.
Padding closer to the window, Betty lowers her gun. She looks at the sleek beast and remains silent. She offers the animal a soft smile and a nod of her head. The offer was there. A look to Stevepup, she steps back and leaves the pair to speak without words. She asks, softly, "Are you in danger?"
The smaller werewolf's nose wiggles more. Steve appears to have gone completely still as if he were attempting to calculate potential responses — or parse out what his brain is attempting to tell him in his shifted state.
Betty is suddenly yowled at by the smaller werewolf in challenge; all of its fur on its body rises and all of its myriad teeth are on display.
The Captain reacts in a blur of motion. It takes him far longer to shoulder out of the window than it does for the paler werewolf to leap away to the next building's rooftop, but he's through it in a cranking wriggle of shed fur. Wisps of it float down even as his thunderous growl begins to rapidly disappear in his pursuit.
