Post by Emily on Dec 9, 2015 4:05:36 GMT -8
i. THE GRABER CHILD.
CAST: Saint Jones (shotgunpoiitics@aol.com), Rose Sterling (myoncepromise@aol.com)
SUMMARY: The Council has received numerous complaints about a strong sulfur odor and missing goats from farms just outside the city that are under its protection. One of those complaints included a third red flag that demonkind have been afoot en masse with no good will -- the attempted abduction of an infant. Elder Lyons asks that Sterling Group lead Investigator, Saint and lead Agent, Rose to look into it.
TW: Saint thinking he's slick, Rose being a workaholic bitch, language
[Rose] A heavy sigh accompanied the roll of Rose's dark eyes, sending raven tresses fly-away in any direction that wasn't in her line of sight. It didn't matter which, so long as she could see to read. She was clearly not reading for pleasure, as evidenced by the impatient purse of brick red lips. "The Hell has any of this got to do with us, Jones? Since when are we public relations?" The electronic dossier on her tablet got shoved across the table at him. "Pissy farmers, something or other about sulfur and missing livestock... there was an attempted kidnapping in the area a few nights ago." She leaned back into the loveseat, then crossed booted ankles atop the coffee table between them to match the sweatered arms folding themselves just under ample breasts. "You'd think Elder Lyons would have let this one fall to one of the rookie teams. North and Kerrs, perhaps. Something to cut their big boy teeth on." Surely there were more important things that they could be doing... but they'd been asked for by name.
[Saint] "I wouldn't presume to know what he's thinking, honestly. The man's almost as maddeningly cryptic as my old man." Naturally he replied to her remark. Obviously she wasn't all that thrilled about their assignment—neither was he, if the truth were known. But he was too busy slurping his peppermint mocha latte—a seasonal favorite—to really give much of a fuck either way. Saint was all sprawled out across from her, his impressive wingspan nearly reached from one end of the backrest to the other. "Think of it this way. We're both students on the Magic School Bus, taking a field trip to the local farm just so some of farmhand with no teeth can stare creepily at us." Trailing off a moment, he thought over what had just come out of his mouth. "Come to think of it. I don't recall ever readin' that copy as a kid. It didn't get published for good reason." A firm nod of his head, then he was leaning back. Perhaps his beanie was on just a tad too tight this evening. "On the off chance we do get sent out to a farm. Might I suggest you mind where you step. I don't wanna have to be the one to tell you that's not mud." Tonight, Saint was dressed for comfort rather than action. A black, longsleeved thermal top and a pair of camouflage joggers. With a pair of black Adidas hightops strapped to his feet, complete with the classic set of three stripes of contrasting white.
[Rose] "Magic School Bus?" She lifted an eyebrow. Whether it was a skeptical one or just the usual helping of 'what the ever-loving fuck are you even talking about' that Saint got when he opened his mouth around Rose was anyone's guess. Skepticism and annoyance often looked the same on her smarmy little face. "That one of your little American... things?" Things. It was dismissively offered, like italics out loud, complete with the lift and rotation of one of her wrists to wave off its significance. Her nose wrinkled dramatically. "My hazard pay doesn't cover mucking through horse shit. Loss of limb, catastrophic injury, death; fine. What ever. All in a day's work. But if we end up on a farm, someone is carrying me." She only paused her diatribe to sip at a cup that was probably older than she was, painted with English lavender and scratched through places in its gold lip. A paper tag hung from it on white string. Her diatribe was horse shit, itself, by the way. Rose was very fond of the equine, having inherited many of the gifts bestowed on the Sterlings by Rhiannon. She had exactly two friends in the entire universe. One was her cousin, Violet. The other lived on hallowed, hay-scattered ground that required regular mucking to keep suitable for him. "What do you make of the assignment? Ever heard of a thing like it, before? Sulfur; that seems like it ought to be right up your alley."
[Saint] "Hm. You really were sheltered, huh? Then again, you Brits seem to have this seriously unhealthy obsession with JK Rowling. You silly muggles." Saint said, affording her that smug expression he knew she just adored—or hated. Probably hated. A slight tilt of his head to the right suggested he was listening, but the soft yawn he aimed to conceal spoke otherwise. Seriously though, he acknowledged her and that she was asking for his input. Suddenly he shifted to the edge of his seat, gesturing her closer as if he had a key detail regarding their investigation. ".. What I do know is. If you keep wrinklin' your nose like that, despite how fuckin' adorable it is, you're gonna develop wrinkles before the age of thirty-five." Annnd, he immediately sat back in his seat after delivering a word of advice. But he felt that maybe he should take this subject more seriously than he was. "Sulfur; that's easy. It is to demons as halitosis is to humans. Vampires typically carry the foul odor of death and decay. Demons, too, carry a distinct scent that allows for easy detection. Locating the son of a bitch won't be a challenge, however, determinin' just what kind of demon it is might. Much like angels, they have a hierarchy. It could be anything from a mischievous imp, to an ill-tempered leviathan. Those you will want to stay far away from. Imagine Moby Dick on a much grander scale. In fact, they make the Great White Whale seem more like a minnow. Also, I'm not carryin' you unless I get somethin' in return. You can buy me dinner. How's that sound?"
[Rose] "If only," Rose muttered into her tea cup. Sheltered. Something bitter furrowed her forehead, and it wasn't her tea, before her shadowed eyes widened. "I am hardly a muggle," she gasped and then exhaled with great offense, pulling her boots off of the coffee table so that she could pull her right knee back into her chest and let it spring forward again. The sole of her boot jarred the table's edge and sent it sliding on a course that hoped for collision with Saint's kneecaps. It didn't look like she had any intention of apologizing if it hit home. She just kept the return fire right on coming. "The joke is on you; I'm ninety-three." No, she wasn't. Not even close. She wasn't as young as she looked, all sweet apple of cheek and slight, girlish build, but she wasn't ninety-three. There probably wasn't a joke to be had, there, either. A certain 'Jones, S.' had recently accessed her redaction-peppered personnel file at the Sterling Group, according to her email inbox. He'd probably noted the date of birth that put her somewhere closer to twenty-four. Her nose wrinkled some more as Saint turned into some sort of tattooed monster Wiki. "I know what vampires smell like, thank you." Please, don't remind her. And don't call her adorable, either, you cheeky fuck. "Anything demonic you can think of that might take a liking to whole goat off the top of your head? An acquaintance? A friend or family member? Your crazy uncle Verne with the Coke bottle glasses and the creeper giggle on your father's side?" She knew he didn't have a crazy uncle Verne with Coke bottle glasses and a creeper giggle on his father's side like he knew she wasn't a senior citizen. Glaaare. "I'll muck. Buy your own dinner. Sooner rather than later; you're looking a little peckish, lately."
[Saint] Oh, he suspected she might retaliate in some form or another. So when she took steps to enact her retaliation, he was prepared for it. Saint raised his right knee, and subsequently lifted his foot off the floor, using his foot to brace against the edge of the table. He managed to thwart her efforts and spare his knees in the process. But in doing so, the kinetic energy created by the table transferred to him and saw him go ass-over-teakettle. That loveseat he sat on adjacent to her flipped backwards from the force generated, sending him crashing to the floor. He laid stunned for the longest time, frantically panning the inside of Joe's in hopes that there were no other witnesses. Probably due to the fact that he had every intention of handing Sabrina the Teenage Witch a throttling to shame all other throttlings before it. One of his tattooed hands came to rest against the cushion for leverage in pulling himself to his feet. Saint then managed to lift the overturned loveseat into its original, upright position. There came a long, drawn out groan before narrowing his eyes onto her. "Fine then. Consider my offer revoked, you can walk your catty ass through the collective muck of livestock shit. Maybe bring a raincoat and galoshes, maybe bring a pair of boots, but plan on throwin' them away." Oh, but then he noticed her scheme for revenge had resulted in spilled coffee all over the table she kicked—more specifically his coffee. "Well, if they aren't stealin' the livestock to sacrifice in your honor, then it must be another fuckin' spawn of Satan we're lookin' for." Glaaare. Yeah, he could do that too. "But seriously though. You are cute when you're angry." He promptly flipped her the bird, before he climbed over the back of the loveseat. Those long legs of his made the feat that much easier. "By the way, you owe me another peppermint mocha latte."
[Rose] Oh; oh dear. She'd done it again. Rose winced and made herself as small as possible, pulling both knees up into her chest and bracing her heels on the edge of the cushion that played host to her. The ruckus brought Andy over to furrow his eyebrows at the up-ended loveseat and cambion, then at the ball of witch opposite them. When she shrugged, he seemed to know exactly what transpired. It brought a low, quiet chuckle up out of his chest, and the palm of his hand curved around the back of his neck while his head shook once, twice, two and a half times. Apparently he knew her. Apparently it wasn't the first time she'd forgotten that tables slide a lot further when she kicks them than when other girls do, in Joe's, while Andy was on duty. He just pulled a rag out of his back pocket and cleaned up, much to her red-faced embarrassment, then muttered a few words about bringing Saint another latte in so hushed a tone that it wouldn't have likely traveled much further than the six ears the three of them split. Her glare at Saint narrowed, despite the color of her face, which only further soured her voice. "Spawn of Satan is closer to the truth than muggle," she spat from behind her knees. Well, it was. Just catch yourself a big whiff of all that familiar, Saint. Carrington; at least half of her. On second thought, don't; getting close to an already irate Rose is bound to get you shredded by thorns. "I didn't ask you what you thought of my face, I asked you what you thought of our case. Won't you kindly stuff all the rest and focus? We've got work to do."
[Saint] He took a moment to stretch his arms high above his head in response to her. Reminiscent of a catlike nonchalance in regards to the case, and more specifically her concerns. "Yeah well, everyone should be given a compliment. It offers incentive." Saint just stared as Andy cleaned up what had moments ago been his coffee. Sliding his tongue over his bottom lip in response to the offer of a fresh cuppa. Then without warning, he plopped down beside her; all six foot seven inches of him. "Frankly, it's all speculation at this point. If we're to get a feel for what we're up against, we need to perform an on-site investigation. Otherwise speculation is all it'll ever be." He further explained, and as he did so, his arm closest to her sought to gradually snake around her shoulders. Like she wouldn't notice his meager attempts, but wasn't that just part of it all? After all, he did find a certain satisfaction in being that proverbial thorn in her side. "I mean, it's honestly hard to say just when we're up against without proof. 'Cause there's a whole fuckin' encyclopedia of these things out there. So, how's about it? Let's take a ride through the country and have ourselves a good ol' fashioned picnic? Followed by some good ol' fashioned violence, of course. But that goes without sayin'." Then, if she hadn't physically removed his arms from around her shoulders by now, he would do so himself. Sliding both hands behind his head now, his digits interlocked with their counterparts from his other hand. Just so he could shift back in that spot beside her and just relax.
[Rose] Incentive for what? She looked at him like he was an alien life form, again, but she didn't ask. Something told her that she didn't want to know. "Educated speculation is how we prepare for on-site investigation," Rose reminded her partner, offering him a professional courtesy in not calling him a lazy moron at the end of her reminder. "You don't just show up all exes and ohs. Good way to get yourself killed, tha --..." She trailed off with eyes wide anew as her loveseat for one became a hateseat for two, and you'd better believe that if she weren't already as small as she could be and practically hiding against its arm and backrest, she would have assumed that position. Her upper lip, over which sparkled a simple silver stud, curled with revulsion as he took the liberty of getting cozy. What the fuck is this, date night on the clock? Every goosebump that could rise along the back of her neck did. With a tight jaw, she continued, clearly uncomfortable. "Hang the picnic. But I suppose we should have a visit with the Grabers; an infant's not a goat."
[Saint] "No, I can't imagine an infant is a goat. I mean, unless mommy went slumming one Christmas with Krampus." Oh, he tried to make a funny. "If that were the case, at least someone had a Merry Christmas." And again, Saint was the thorn that burrowed deeper in her side the more he spoke. But hey, he had at the very least removed his arm from her shoulders. His actions had garnered just the kind of reaction he was looking for from her. But decided against returning to the loveseat sitting adjacent from him now. No, it had flipped him ass-over-teakettle and he wasn't in any hurry for a repeat experience. "You really need to trust me more, short round. My old man has been in the business of deportin' these fuck stains back to hell for longer than all the generation of Sterling that has come before you. I like to think I'm my fathers son. In saying that, I can honestly say it's not a good sign when demons begin targeting livestock and, or children. It immediately makes me think sacrifice, and sacrifice is just a not-so-nice way of feeding. If it becomes strong enough, well, I'm sure you can imagine the kind of supernatural pain in the ass we'll be dealing with then. And, I can almost assure you that Old Man Lyons will assign us to that just as punishment for fuckin' up the first time. So yeah, to the Gerber's, or however the hell you pronounce it, house we go."
[Rose] The curl of her lip became a mocking sneer at his attempt to be humorous. It wasn't that what came out of his mouth wasn't funny -- it was. It was just that it had come out of his mouth. That nullified whatever amusing value it held for her. "Try not to suggest that Mrs. Graber runs around fucking winter goat-demons while we're there," she muttered into her tea cup after having lifted it to her lips for another sip that by some cosmetic magic did not leave its rim red with her kiss. "In fact," -- since you can't even remember their surname -- "... just... stand there and look big and strong, hm? Make them feel safe. I'll do the talking." It's a very scary world, out there, when Rose decides that she's the most appropriate person to interact with a grieving family. If Saint hadn't removed his arm from around her shoulders when he had, she'd probably have swapped him for the ass-over-teakettle loveseat or abandoned shop entirely. She tolerated his nearness for the moment. He wasn't all that near, anyway. There were still a good three plus respectable feet between his hip and hers. Don't think that she wasn't monitoring that carefully, though. "Trust you?" she burst into brief, but genuinely surprised laughter. Sure, Rose; don't laugh at his Krampus joke, but laugh at the idea of trusting him. Your sense of humor is a little off, there. You've spent to much time in the briar patch. "To what? Call me ridiculous names like 'short round?' Show up late for work? Chase after easy women?" Her tone of voice indicated that she trusted him to do all of the aforementioned very much! She did not, however, trust him to do much in the way of following in his rather well-known father's footsteps except talk about them. There were exactly two reasons why she hadn't loudly protested his assignment to her. The first was that she had no expectation that he or anyone else would ever watch her back. It didn't matter whether or not she trusted him. The second was that she knew how to follow orders. "We'll go tonight then, just before dark. I want to see what changes after the sun goes down."
[Saint] "It's obvious you have no knowledge of pop culture. Short round was the nickname given to the beloved sidekick of another famous Jones; Indiana Jones to be exact. I can't believe you don't see the irony in it." He replied, turning to stare straight ahead. "Huh." Saint's bewilderment seemingly authentic enough, that is until his lips curled into the most snide of smirks. Sucking the back of his teeth in a rather improper fashion. "And, I'm gonna be absolutely honest with you here. There's no such thing as a private investigator who shows up on time. If they did, it means their social life must fuckin' suck." Of course, he nearly doubled over when she said that she would handle the couple. But he almost immediately corrected his posture by abruptly sitting upright, as if he had feigned his amusement the entire time. "Yeah, no. I don't think so. All we need is for little miss doom an' gloom to spill the beans and say there's a demon after their kid. You remember Joan of Arc, don't you? And to think she was on the good side." Habitually raking his fingers through the wavy undercut of his, leaving a curlicue to spiral down his forehead and over the right side of his face in the process. "So, I will talk to Misses Goatfucker," he coughed, before continuing. "I, uh, I mean Graber, and her husband. You make sure the kid is where he needs to be, and not levitating over his crib. I just watched the first Ghostbusters last night, so a levitating baby might be a little too much to take. But just the same, he doesn't deserve to be another hors d'oeuvre for a demon."
[Rose] Pop culture. She'd stopped giving a shit about it nigh on eight or nine years ago, now, and before that... well, let's just say that she's got a pretty face and she's good with pleated skirts and pom poms. Indiana Jones and his adventures weren't exactly one of her girlhood priorities. It was probably one of those idiot things that Jimmy used to boot her chatty ass out of the room so that he could watch in peace, once upon a time. Rose lifted her free hand to wave off that little piece of what ever, then lifted a dark eyebrow at his absolute honesty. "So, by 'private investigator,' then, you mean... what? Because even North manages to show up when he's supposed to, and you know what he is. If anyone on the team ought to be dragging in late for reasons social-life oriented..." But what did she know? Her social life fuckin' sucked. Trailing off gave her time to consider his rebuttal to her suggestion as to which of their mouths would be in charge at the Graber farm later that evening. "Fine. But I don't do whiners. If it cries, you'd better come running, because I'll let the little glow-worm float right out the damn window and not give a single." Fuck, she meant. Not-a-one.
CAST: Saint Jones (shotgunpoiitics@aol.com), Rose Sterling (myoncepromise@aol.com)
SUMMARY: The Council has received numerous complaints about a strong sulfur odor and missing goats from farms just outside the city that are under its protection. One of those complaints included a third red flag that demonkind have been afoot en masse with no good will -- the attempted abduction of an infant. Elder Lyons asks that Sterling Group lead Investigator, Saint and lead Agent, Rose to look into it.
TW: Saint thinking he's slick, Rose being a workaholic bitch, language
[Rose] A heavy sigh accompanied the roll of Rose's dark eyes, sending raven tresses fly-away in any direction that wasn't in her line of sight. It didn't matter which, so long as she could see to read. She was clearly not reading for pleasure, as evidenced by the impatient purse of brick red lips. "The Hell has any of this got to do with us, Jones? Since when are we public relations?" The electronic dossier on her tablet got shoved across the table at him. "Pissy farmers, something or other about sulfur and missing livestock... there was an attempted kidnapping in the area a few nights ago." She leaned back into the loveseat, then crossed booted ankles atop the coffee table between them to match the sweatered arms folding themselves just under ample breasts. "You'd think Elder Lyons would have let this one fall to one of the rookie teams. North and Kerrs, perhaps. Something to cut their big boy teeth on." Surely there were more important things that they could be doing... but they'd been asked for by name.
[Saint] "I wouldn't presume to know what he's thinking, honestly. The man's almost as maddeningly cryptic as my old man." Naturally he replied to her remark. Obviously she wasn't all that thrilled about their assignment—neither was he, if the truth were known. But he was too busy slurping his peppermint mocha latte—a seasonal favorite—to really give much of a fuck either way. Saint was all sprawled out across from her, his impressive wingspan nearly reached from one end of the backrest to the other. "Think of it this way. We're both students on the Magic School Bus, taking a field trip to the local farm just so some of farmhand with no teeth can stare creepily at us." Trailing off a moment, he thought over what had just come out of his mouth. "Come to think of it. I don't recall ever readin' that copy as a kid. It didn't get published for good reason." A firm nod of his head, then he was leaning back. Perhaps his beanie was on just a tad too tight this evening. "On the off chance we do get sent out to a farm. Might I suggest you mind where you step. I don't wanna have to be the one to tell you that's not mud." Tonight, Saint was dressed for comfort rather than action. A black, longsleeved thermal top and a pair of camouflage joggers. With a pair of black Adidas hightops strapped to his feet, complete with the classic set of three stripes of contrasting white.
[Rose] "Magic School Bus?" She lifted an eyebrow. Whether it was a skeptical one or just the usual helping of 'what the ever-loving fuck are you even talking about' that Saint got when he opened his mouth around Rose was anyone's guess. Skepticism and annoyance often looked the same on her smarmy little face. "That one of your little American... things?" Things. It was dismissively offered, like italics out loud, complete with the lift and rotation of one of her wrists to wave off its significance. Her nose wrinkled dramatically. "My hazard pay doesn't cover mucking through horse shit. Loss of limb, catastrophic injury, death; fine. What ever. All in a day's work. But if we end up on a farm, someone is carrying me." She only paused her diatribe to sip at a cup that was probably older than she was, painted with English lavender and scratched through places in its gold lip. A paper tag hung from it on white string. Her diatribe was horse shit, itself, by the way. Rose was very fond of the equine, having inherited many of the gifts bestowed on the Sterlings by Rhiannon. She had exactly two friends in the entire universe. One was her cousin, Violet. The other lived on hallowed, hay-scattered ground that required regular mucking to keep suitable for him. "What do you make of the assignment? Ever heard of a thing like it, before? Sulfur; that seems like it ought to be right up your alley."
[Saint] "Hm. You really were sheltered, huh? Then again, you Brits seem to have this seriously unhealthy obsession with JK Rowling. You silly muggles." Saint said, affording her that smug expression he knew she just adored—or hated. Probably hated. A slight tilt of his head to the right suggested he was listening, but the soft yawn he aimed to conceal spoke otherwise. Seriously though, he acknowledged her and that she was asking for his input. Suddenly he shifted to the edge of his seat, gesturing her closer as if he had a key detail regarding their investigation. ".. What I do know is. If you keep wrinklin' your nose like that, despite how fuckin' adorable it is, you're gonna develop wrinkles before the age of thirty-five." Annnd, he immediately sat back in his seat after delivering a word of advice. But he felt that maybe he should take this subject more seriously than he was. "Sulfur; that's easy. It is to demons as halitosis is to humans. Vampires typically carry the foul odor of death and decay. Demons, too, carry a distinct scent that allows for easy detection. Locating the son of a bitch won't be a challenge, however, determinin' just what kind of demon it is might. Much like angels, they have a hierarchy. It could be anything from a mischievous imp, to an ill-tempered leviathan. Those you will want to stay far away from. Imagine Moby Dick on a much grander scale. In fact, they make the Great White Whale seem more like a minnow. Also, I'm not carryin' you unless I get somethin' in return. You can buy me dinner. How's that sound?"
[Rose] "If only," Rose muttered into her tea cup. Sheltered. Something bitter furrowed her forehead, and it wasn't her tea, before her shadowed eyes widened. "I am hardly a muggle," she gasped and then exhaled with great offense, pulling her boots off of the coffee table so that she could pull her right knee back into her chest and let it spring forward again. The sole of her boot jarred the table's edge and sent it sliding on a course that hoped for collision with Saint's kneecaps. It didn't look like she had any intention of apologizing if it hit home. She just kept the return fire right on coming. "The joke is on you; I'm ninety-three." No, she wasn't. Not even close. She wasn't as young as she looked, all sweet apple of cheek and slight, girlish build, but she wasn't ninety-three. There probably wasn't a joke to be had, there, either. A certain 'Jones, S.' had recently accessed her redaction-peppered personnel file at the Sterling Group, according to her email inbox. He'd probably noted the date of birth that put her somewhere closer to twenty-four. Her nose wrinkled some more as Saint turned into some sort of tattooed monster Wiki. "I know what vampires smell like, thank you." Please, don't remind her. And don't call her adorable, either, you cheeky fuck. "Anything demonic you can think of that might take a liking to whole goat off the top of your head? An acquaintance? A friend or family member? Your crazy uncle Verne with the Coke bottle glasses and the creeper giggle on your father's side?" She knew he didn't have a crazy uncle Verne with Coke bottle glasses and a creeper giggle on his father's side like he knew she wasn't a senior citizen. Glaaare. "I'll muck. Buy your own dinner. Sooner rather than later; you're looking a little peckish, lately."
[Saint] Oh, he suspected she might retaliate in some form or another. So when she took steps to enact her retaliation, he was prepared for it. Saint raised his right knee, and subsequently lifted his foot off the floor, using his foot to brace against the edge of the table. He managed to thwart her efforts and spare his knees in the process. But in doing so, the kinetic energy created by the table transferred to him and saw him go ass-over-teakettle. That loveseat he sat on adjacent to her flipped backwards from the force generated, sending him crashing to the floor. He laid stunned for the longest time, frantically panning the inside of Joe's in hopes that there were no other witnesses. Probably due to the fact that he had every intention of handing Sabrina the Teenage Witch a throttling to shame all other throttlings before it. One of his tattooed hands came to rest against the cushion for leverage in pulling himself to his feet. Saint then managed to lift the overturned loveseat into its original, upright position. There came a long, drawn out groan before narrowing his eyes onto her. "Fine then. Consider my offer revoked, you can walk your catty ass through the collective muck of livestock shit. Maybe bring a raincoat and galoshes, maybe bring a pair of boots, but plan on throwin' them away." Oh, but then he noticed her scheme for revenge had resulted in spilled coffee all over the table she kicked—more specifically his coffee. "Well, if they aren't stealin' the livestock to sacrifice in your honor, then it must be another fuckin' spawn of Satan we're lookin' for." Glaaare. Yeah, he could do that too. "But seriously though. You are cute when you're angry." He promptly flipped her the bird, before he climbed over the back of the loveseat. Those long legs of his made the feat that much easier. "By the way, you owe me another peppermint mocha latte."
[Rose] Oh; oh dear. She'd done it again. Rose winced and made herself as small as possible, pulling both knees up into her chest and bracing her heels on the edge of the cushion that played host to her. The ruckus brought Andy over to furrow his eyebrows at the up-ended loveseat and cambion, then at the ball of witch opposite them. When she shrugged, he seemed to know exactly what transpired. It brought a low, quiet chuckle up out of his chest, and the palm of his hand curved around the back of his neck while his head shook once, twice, two and a half times. Apparently he knew her. Apparently it wasn't the first time she'd forgotten that tables slide a lot further when she kicks them than when other girls do, in Joe's, while Andy was on duty. He just pulled a rag out of his back pocket and cleaned up, much to her red-faced embarrassment, then muttered a few words about bringing Saint another latte in so hushed a tone that it wouldn't have likely traveled much further than the six ears the three of them split. Her glare at Saint narrowed, despite the color of her face, which only further soured her voice. "Spawn of Satan is closer to the truth than muggle," she spat from behind her knees. Well, it was. Just catch yourself a big whiff of all that familiar, Saint. Carrington; at least half of her. On second thought, don't; getting close to an already irate Rose is bound to get you shredded by thorns. "I didn't ask you what you thought of my face, I asked you what you thought of our case. Won't you kindly stuff all the rest and focus? We've got work to do."
[Saint] He took a moment to stretch his arms high above his head in response to her. Reminiscent of a catlike nonchalance in regards to the case, and more specifically her concerns. "Yeah well, everyone should be given a compliment. It offers incentive." Saint just stared as Andy cleaned up what had moments ago been his coffee. Sliding his tongue over his bottom lip in response to the offer of a fresh cuppa. Then without warning, he plopped down beside her; all six foot seven inches of him. "Frankly, it's all speculation at this point. If we're to get a feel for what we're up against, we need to perform an on-site investigation. Otherwise speculation is all it'll ever be." He further explained, and as he did so, his arm closest to her sought to gradually snake around her shoulders. Like she wouldn't notice his meager attempts, but wasn't that just part of it all? After all, he did find a certain satisfaction in being that proverbial thorn in her side. "I mean, it's honestly hard to say just when we're up against without proof. 'Cause there's a whole fuckin' encyclopedia of these things out there. So, how's about it? Let's take a ride through the country and have ourselves a good ol' fashioned picnic? Followed by some good ol' fashioned violence, of course. But that goes without sayin'." Then, if she hadn't physically removed his arms from around her shoulders by now, he would do so himself. Sliding both hands behind his head now, his digits interlocked with their counterparts from his other hand. Just so he could shift back in that spot beside her and just relax.
[Rose] Incentive for what? She looked at him like he was an alien life form, again, but she didn't ask. Something told her that she didn't want to know. "Educated speculation is how we prepare for on-site investigation," Rose reminded her partner, offering him a professional courtesy in not calling him a lazy moron at the end of her reminder. "You don't just show up all exes and ohs. Good way to get yourself killed, tha --..." She trailed off with eyes wide anew as her loveseat for one became a hateseat for two, and you'd better believe that if she weren't already as small as she could be and practically hiding against its arm and backrest, she would have assumed that position. Her upper lip, over which sparkled a simple silver stud, curled with revulsion as he took the liberty of getting cozy. What the fuck is this, date night on the clock? Every goosebump that could rise along the back of her neck did. With a tight jaw, she continued, clearly uncomfortable. "Hang the picnic. But I suppose we should have a visit with the Grabers; an infant's not a goat."
[Saint] "No, I can't imagine an infant is a goat. I mean, unless mommy went slumming one Christmas with Krampus." Oh, he tried to make a funny. "If that were the case, at least someone had a Merry Christmas." And again, Saint was the thorn that burrowed deeper in her side the more he spoke. But hey, he had at the very least removed his arm from her shoulders. His actions had garnered just the kind of reaction he was looking for from her. But decided against returning to the loveseat sitting adjacent from him now. No, it had flipped him ass-over-teakettle and he wasn't in any hurry for a repeat experience. "You really need to trust me more, short round. My old man has been in the business of deportin' these fuck stains back to hell for longer than all the generation of Sterling that has come before you. I like to think I'm my fathers son. In saying that, I can honestly say it's not a good sign when demons begin targeting livestock and, or children. It immediately makes me think sacrifice, and sacrifice is just a not-so-nice way of feeding. If it becomes strong enough, well, I'm sure you can imagine the kind of supernatural pain in the ass we'll be dealing with then. And, I can almost assure you that Old Man Lyons will assign us to that just as punishment for fuckin' up the first time. So yeah, to the Gerber's, or however the hell you pronounce it, house we go."
[Rose] The curl of her lip became a mocking sneer at his attempt to be humorous. It wasn't that what came out of his mouth wasn't funny -- it was. It was just that it had come out of his mouth. That nullified whatever amusing value it held for her. "Try not to suggest that Mrs. Graber runs around fucking winter goat-demons while we're there," she muttered into her tea cup after having lifted it to her lips for another sip that by some cosmetic magic did not leave its rim red with her kiss. "In fact," -- since you can't even remember their surname -- "... just... stand there and look big and strong, hm? Make them feel safe. I'll do the talking." It's a very scary world, out there, when Rose decides that she's the most appropriate person to interact with a grieving family. If Saint hadn't removed his arm from around her shoulders when he had, she'd probably have swapped him for the ass-over-teakettle loveseat or abandoned shop entirely. She tolerated his nearness for the moment. He wasn't all that near, anyway. There were still a good three plus respectable feet between his hip and hers. Don't think that she wasn't monitoring that carefully, though. "Trust you?" she burst into brief, but genuinely surprised laughter. Sure, Rose; don't laugh at his Krampus joke, but laugh at the idea of trusting him. Your sense of humor is a little off, there. You've spent to much time in the briar patch. "To what? Call me ridiculous names like 'short round?' Show up late for work? Chase after easy women?" Her tone of voice indicated that she trusted him to do all of the aforementioned very much! She did not, however, trust him to do much in the way of following in his rather well-known father's footsteps except talk about them. There were exactly two reasons why she hadn't loudly protested his assignment to her. The first was that she had no expectation that he or anyone else would ever watch her back. It didn't matter whether or not she trusted him. The second was that she knew how to follow orders. "We'll go tonight then, just before dark. I want to see what changes after the sun goes down."
[Saint] "It's obvious you have no knowledge of pop culture. Short round was the nickname given to the beloved sidekick of another famous Jones; Indiana Jones to be exact. I can't believe you don't see the irony in it." He replied, turning to stare straight ahead. "Huh." Saint's bewilderment seemingly authentic enough, that is until his lips curled into the most snide of smirks. Sucking the back of his teeth in a rather improper fashion. "And, I'm gonna be absolutely honest with you here. There's no such thing as a private investigator who shows up on time. If they did, it means their social life must fuckin' suck." Of course, he nearly doubled over when she said that she would handle the couple. But he almost immediately corrected his posture by abruptly sitting upright, as if he had feigned his amusement the entire time. "Yeah, no. I don't think so. All we need is for little miss doom an' gloom to spill the beans and say there's a demon after their kid. You remember Joan of Arc, don't you? And to think she was on the good side." Habitually raking his fingers through the wavy undercut of his, leaving a curlicue to spiral down his forehead and over the right side of his face in the process. "So, I will talk to Misses Goatfucker," he coughed, before continuing. "I, uh, I mean Graber, and her husband. You make sure the kid is where he needs to be, and not levitating over his crib. I just watched the first Ghostbusters last night, so a levitating baby might be a little too much to take. But just the same, he doesn't deserve to be another hors d'oeuvre for a demon."
[Rose] Pop culture. She'd stopped giving a shit about it nigh on eight or nine years ago, now, and before that... well, let's just say that she's got a pretty face and she's good with pleated skirts and pom poms. Indiana Jones and his adventures weren't exactly one of her girlhood priorities. It was probably one of those idiot things that Jimmy used to boot her chatty ass out of the room so that he could watch in peace, once upon a time. Rose lifted her free hand to wave off that little piece of what ever, then lifted a dark eyebrow at his absolute honesty. "So, by 'private investigator,' then, you mean... what? Because even North manages to show up when he's supposed to, and you know what he is. If anyone on the team ought to be dragging in late for reasons social-life oriented..." But what did she know? Her social life fuckin' sucked. Trailing off gave her time to consider his rebuttal to her suggestion as to which of their mouths would be in charge at the Graber farm later that evening. "Fine. But I don't do whiners. If it cries, you'd better come running, because I'll let the little glow-worm float right out the damn window and not give a single." Fuck, she meant. Not-a-one.