Re: May's Cottage: May & Rory
[Rory didn't think of himself as the sort of guest who couldn't get the clue to leave, but that very much might have been the case. This might have even been why he was so good at dodging May when the woman was home. It was like one of those 'Whoops, look at the time' cartoon-comedy skits. Whenever Rory heard her mucking about in the kitchen, be it late night or early morning, he was pretty good at getting gone, ducking out of the back door to go smoke in the woods or howl at the moon(lunar cycle depending). But that didn't happen on this morning, either because he'd been too out of it or too dredged-up-from-the-floor tired to realize she was sitting at the kitchen table. So still. He didn't think humans could be so still, but he was probably just too tired to notice. It wasn't like he was actually primed with supernatural doggie senses while he was bipedal. At least, not when he was hungover, and not when there wasn't anything particularly evil around him.
The warm kettle still radiating heat from the stovetop was what clued him into her presence. Fuckin sloppy, that was… or it would have been if he hadn't decided to trust May and her plant poultice remedies, her complete lack of intrusive questions. Women(the ones he wasn't paying), in Rory's limited experience, were wordy. Like the one he'd been talking to on the community forum since the last party, they were full of too many questions that he couldn't answer. With Claire, it was too many questions he didn't want to fuckin answer. But May was golden. May was quiet like the spring glen, which made Rory assume that she had her secrets too. The fact that they left one another to their shadows, it made him respect her.
Despite the fading drunk fogginess in his head, when May spoke up from the kitchen table, it wasn't a complete surprise. He'd sensed her in the moment before she said the first syllable. This was hitman craft, not helldog intuition. Her teacup was steaming with aroma, and it made the cross on his forearm flex in that instant before she spoke. His shoulders bunched up, and from beyond the edges of his black beater, tattoo ink could be seen. The tail ends of latin words that spread between his shoulder blades in a fat, Gothic script. Super fucking Catholic and all of that… once upon a time.]
Yeah? A cuppa then? [He turned. The gravedirt-brown of his eyes sat beneath thick eyebrows.] Didn't know you'd be in here… thought maybe out saving trees. [He scratched an unapologetic itch at the crotch of his boxers.]