Fuck That Guy [Erich][Cont. from Forums]

Drew Roscoe
As the Forseti left the house, Drew had moved briskly after him and closed the door the instant he was out it.  She didn't slam it into place, her temper wasn't getting the better of her, and she certainly wasn't going to give Hellforged the impression that she was tantruming like a teenager.  There was a moment that Drew stood there, forehead near to the door, mulling over the situation they'd been presented with.

Enjoy the holidays.
I'll be back in the new year.

The Kinfolk brushed long brown hair habitually back behind an ear, then turned to look back to Erich.  Her arms were opened some, palms turned to the Ahroun, shoulders hitched just a little.  It was a still-motion shrug she presented him with, an immediate confession of uncertainty and being at a loss.

When she spoke, all she could think to say was: "Fuck that guy."

Those three words opened the gate, and next thing Drew was shaking her head and managing to pace within the confined space of her entryway, back and forth in front of the door without moving more than two feet from her original standing point.  "He's a brand new leader.  A local leader, no less.  He doesn't have the authority to... to... excommunicate me.  I mean, I know 'kin-poaching', and man do I hate that term, is no light thing and no big deal, but why the fuck does that Sutherland man get to have his Black Fury woman with nothing but griping from his grandmother at his heels, whom he's knocked up no less, when we're being safe, smart, respectful, patient, and honest and because someone's taking a Kinfolk that they couldn't be bother to notice before this upstart gets his panties in a twist and starts laying down ultimatums.

"Seriously, fuck that guy."


Erich ReinhardtErich hasn't moved.  He's where he was when Augmund stood -- he's where he was, standing himself, because he'd stood in the moment the Forseti had.  It was subconscious, a meeting of a perceived physical threat.  A counterthreat.  A protective gesture, perhaps.

No war had erupted, though.  The Forseti left, his decree made.  And Drew saw him out; turned; gave Erich that helpless little shrug.

Erich stares at her.  His brow is furrowed; there's a certain bleakness in his eyes.  After a long moment he sits heavily.  Sets his head back against the couch, exhales.

"Fuck that guy," he agrees; he doesn't sound angry.  Resigned, maybe.  "And fuck the fact that we have to listen to him."


Drew RoscoeErich settled into the couch with an exhale heavy enough that Drew could hear the energy leaving him along with the air that fled his lungs.  The resignation about him was plain to see.  He handled the confrontation, the decision they'd been left to make by sitting back, going still, and letting his limbs be heavy while his mind worked instead.

Drew, however, was nigh-manic energy.  She paused her pacing long enough to look to Erich while he spoke, then she shook her head and swept her way over to the table, snatching up the coffee cup that had been her tribesman's and bustling away to rinse it in the kitchen sink and put it in the dishwasher.  She wasn't quiet or gentle about the task, and the sound of clanging and thumping carried out from behind the half kitchen wall along with her voice.

"Says who?  That asshole's only just found his footing as a tribal leader.  He might be a half-moon, but that doesn't make him right.  He doesn't have the power to kick me out of the tribe.  If anything, ducking my head to being given a fucking ultimatum like that would be the least Fenrir thing I could do."

The coffee cup had since been taken care of, but Drew was finding things to keep her hands busy now.  She took a rag and was now scrubbing angrily at the counter around her sink.

"He made assumptions, he made accusations too.  And he couldn't be bothered to own up to the fact that he was just plain wrong.  I knew there were gonna be problems, I didn't expect anyone to just say 'yeah sure', but I did expect a fuckin' chance, and I don't see why that's asking so god damn much."


Erich ReinhardtAll the ferocity and energy seems to have drained out of Erich the moment Augmund walked out.  He watches Drew scrub at her sink; some part of him tugs with tenderness and humor, but it doesn't quite surface.  If she looks at him, he's shaking his head.

"Maybe he can't kick you out of the tribe, but he's your tribal alpha here and his word is your law.  My law, too, as long as you're in the picture.  Drew -- " some note in his voice is different, calls for her attention.  He waits until she looks at him.  "Drew, we can't disobey him.  Fair or not, his ultimatum stands as it is."


Drew Roscoe
Erich's words are heard without trouble.  The house is quiet, there are no dogs thumping around with claws clacking on hardwood floors.  There are no children giggling and playing in their bedrooms, and there is no television or radio on to pump white noise into the air.  Even from the kitchen, with half a wall in between them (Drew was visible inside the kitchen from the side of the sectional that shared a wall with her bedroom, but only if you leaned back enough to make a point of peering in).

So, when his tone shifted to something that was less of a statement and more of a calling for her attention.  The serious note to his saying her name said for her to stop what she was doing and pay full mind.  So Drew paused, tossed the rag carelessly into one side of the sink and turned to walk back into the dining room space, nearer to the living room, in easy conversational distance to the Ahroun.

She pushed the sleeves of her gray hoodie up from wrists to elbows, then leaned against the back of one of the dining room chairs.  Her arms folded snugly over her chest, and she frowned at the coffee table in front of Erich's knees.

She was quiet for a second, still steaming (this obvious by the tension in her shoulders and the flush to her cheeks), but when she spoke her tone was contained.  Low, but not because she'd calmed, only because she forced it to be.

"....So, what do you think, then?"


Erich ReinhardtThere's an unconscious social mimicry here.  She folds her arms.  So does he.  She stares at the coffee table, and after a moment, so does he.  She speaks - he looks at her.  And a wince flashes over his face; he looks away.

"I'm not renouncing my tribe and turning into the Fenrir my family wants me to be," he replies, and this too is low.  A pause; then, "And I don't think... I can't ask you to renounce your heritage just to try something that might or might not even work out.  Not when everything you've ever shown me says you love who you are and who your tribe is."

Silence for a heartbeat.

"So I think maybe I better pack my shit out of your room, Drew, and tell Augmund he and his stubborn old ways have won the day."


Drew RoscoeThey took turns with silence, each pausing before their words.  Nobody wanted to say what was being said, but they both knew what was coming.  Drew looked up from the coffee table to look back to Erich.  She looked at the way his arms folded over a chest build for strength and war, looked up to his face, watched his eyes drill a hole in the top of her table.

The second beat of silence that he takes has Drew looking back down-- this time at the floor and the toes of her own stocking feet.

He'd better pack his shit and tell the Half-Moon that he wins.

There's a flush of heat across her back and chest and the top of her head.  She felt her throat try to close over the lump that threatened to form, and she swallowed nothing in defense against it.  Her heart felt heavier in its thumping behind her ribcage, and her jaw clenched up.  All this, a way to stop stinging in her eyes and keep herself from yielding to helplessness.

She didn't trust her voice, so instead of answering him verbally Drew just curtly nodded her head twice, tightened her arms over her own chest, and turned her head to look toward a blank spot on the wall.


Erich ReinhardtSo there's just silence for a while.  And it's awkward.  It's not just awkward; it's painful.  All at once it becomes too much for Erich to bear, and he gets up, all but lunges to his feet.  His footsteps are heavy, and for a moment Drew might think he's coming to her, but --

no; he's passing her, the vibrations of his footfalls grow distant.  He's in the guest room that was briefly almost his room, which she could tell because he'd begun to leave some things there.  A phone charger.  A very beat up old laptop.  A couple changes of clothes, and a rumpled paperback book on the dresser.  A backpack.

Those are the things he gathers up now, a pulse pounding behind his eyes.  He wants -- all sorts of impossible things, so he doesn't think about them.  He also wants to dash out of here, through the window if possible; it's hard for him to look at Drew right now because of all the impossible things he wants.  It would be easier to escape, but he's not a coward, and he forces himself to stay, forces himself to look around, make sure he got everything, because it would be unspeakable to come back and ask her to give him what he left behind

when he's left her behind.  And would not be coming back for her.

A few minutes later he comes back out.  Some of the riotous energy has been expended; he's quiet now, uncertain.  He has a backpack slung over one shoulder.

He could tell her that tribal alphas change all the time.  That Augmund wouldn't sit his seat forever, and that the next one might feel differently.  That they could try again.  That they could wait for each other.  He doesn't, though.  He's not an idealist; he's a Shadow Lord, the consummate realists of the Garou Nation.  And it's utterly unfair to give her the sort of hope that might make her want to wait when -- she's said it herself -- neither of them knows if they'll survive the month.  The week.  The night.

So what he says instead:
"I'll settle whatever debt Augmund thinks we owe him.  If he tries to shame you about this, you tell me.  All right?"


Drew RoscoeHe'd walked past.  For a moment Drew thought that he might be approaching her, maybe to grab her and wrap her up in his arms and hold her against his chest before they couldn't even do that anymore.  She'd inhaled and held her breath for a moment, but then he'd gone past.  She didn't turn her head to watch him go past the kitchen to where the guest rooms were.  If he had glanced back (though he didn't, surely) he'd see her chin sink nearer to her collarbone and her arms go loose and drop to her sides.

When he came back out, Drew was scrubbing the heels of her hands against her cheeks, wiping away a few tears that she must've let sneak out in an effort to ease the pressure in her head and the tightness in her throat.  She'd heard him coming and started wiping her face clean before he had a chance to come into view of the dining room.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy and red, face wet where she'd not done a thorough enough job in wiping tears away.  Some part of her still wanted to insist that Hellforged couldn't be right on this, it was entirely too unjust to demand a declaration of claim and love and renouncement of family and heritage in its sake.  They didn't have a chance to let that inferno grow, only enough opportunity to start an ember and hope.

Part of him wanted to explain that they could wait, that Hellforged was bound to be usurped, probably sooner than later, and then they could appeal to the new leader and see if they could see sense or not.
But he didn't, and neither did she.

Instead, Drew just shook her head.  She spoke past a still jaw, a tight throat, and emotion that made her voice husky and wobbly.  "If he tries to shame me, he'll be doing just that-- trying.  He won't get too far, though, I won't have it.  ...Besides, he won't be bothered to come back and check on me.  With you leaving, the blip that I am on his radar's gonna fade and so is his attention."


Erich ReinhardtA frown coasts across his face.  Erich takes a few steps closer, and then a few more.  Hasn't even taken his boots off yet.  Had just come in, and if Augmund hadn't been there maybe they would've had dinner together; maybe they would've cuddled on the sofa, watched a movie.  Made love.
Transgressed.

He does reach out to her after all.  He puts his hand on her cheek, his fingers wrapping behind her head.  "Listen to me," he says, and waits until she's listening, waits until she's looking at him.  "Don't get stuck in the past, and don't get stuck in what anyone else thinks or doesn't think about you.  It doesn't matter whether Augmund cares about you or not, or whether your tribe pays you any attention.  It doesn't matter if you're with me or you aren't.  It doesn't even matter that you were with Joe, and you're not anymore.

"None of that makes you who you are.  None of that can define you unless you let it.  Your life's out there, Drew, and it's yours.  Don't just ... get stuck, okay?  Promise me that."


Drew RoscoeHad Hellforged not been at the door to check in in Drew that night, the evening would certainly have gone much differently.  They'd eat dinner, talk and laugh like they tended to.  Drew would've tried to convince Erich that it was a marvelous idea to pass the time by trying to string lights on the gigantic pine tree at the edge of the treeline in her backyard, he probably would've convinced her that being unable to fly would make that task a hilariously hard one, and they'd end up drinking something warm and watching a movie hip-to-hip on the couch instead.

But he was.  And not only did the Half-Moon rain on their parade, but he halted it completely and put a ban on future parades altogether.

Erich's palm, rough and warm, cupped her cheek and his fingers curled into her hair to the back of her head.  Immediately, not unlike a very thirsty person reaching for an offered water bottle, she turned her face into his hand and closed her eyes for a moment.  The 'listen to me' summoned her eyes back up to his, though.

When she looked back up, they'd gone all glassy again and shimmered in the way eyes do when tears were a blink away from falling.

Don't get stuck in the past.
None of this makes you who you are, can define you.
Don't get stuck, promise me.

She gave up on trying to keep tears from falling now and focused her energy instead on keeping her breathing even and not outright crying there on the spot.  It wasn't stubborn pride that kept her from weeping openly, but rather it was mercy and shame.  Mercy, because she didn't want to place guilt on Erich for standing up and saying outloud what they both knew and hated-- they couldn't have this, have each other, not in any real way... probably not ever.  Shame, because she didn't want him to think that she was trying to guilt him into hanging around.

Again, her voice was foggy and choked (but level, and that's what she was striving for) when she answered:  "Need to find a place to go to keep from getting stuck.  I can't--..."  She'd started to try and explain that she couldn't make guarantees, that she couldn't drag herself up into the unknown without a map, a direction, a guide of some sort.  But she swallowed, took a breath, laid her hand overtop of his to hold, and said:  "I promise."


Erich ReinhardtHer hand to his seems to trigger some sort of chain reaction.  His hand slides behind her head; his arms wrap around her.  The embrace is not a gentle thing, but then wolves rarely are.  Truth rarely is.  He pulls her against him; it's a collision.  He kisses her brow fiercely.

"Good," he murmurs.  "Don't you forget it."

He lets go.  His hand stays on her face a moment longer.  He looks her right in the eye, as though this might help her burn that promise into her mind, her will, until it didn't matter that she had no map, no direction, no path at her feet.  Erich wouldn't think that matters, though.  He's never had a map, or direction, or a clear path at his feet.

"I'll see you around, Drew," he says.  He doesn't let the goodbye linger; he walks to the door, opens it, gives her one meaningful glance over his shoulder as he departs.  The door shuts behind him, and she's left to throw the lock.