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Fade in…
It is far too late in the night to call it 'late night' now; it's much, much closer to 'early morning' — that 'ungodly hour' in which no one likes to be up and about… or woken. It is at this time that Terry "Silencer" Walker returns to the Brotherhood tenement in Hell's Kitchen, as soundlessly as ever.
Sporting a bloodied jacket — especially over his right shoulder — the seasoned mercenary makes his way into the kitchen, casually eyeing the bullet-holes he (and Domino, too) left in the walls from their little… reunion.
"Goddamnit…" he murmurs to himself. The words are spoken aloud, just without noise. He'd been meaning to get the rest of those bullet-holes fixed… and got himself sidetracked.
Walker stops at the fridge, opens it, and reaches inside for a cold beer. That's what he really needs — not medical attention for his shoulder, not conversation or company, just… a beer. Thank God for beer, he mouths to himself, using telekinesis to open the bottle.
Soundlessly doesn’t get very far when it comes to Raven. She had her own demons and issues to deal with; sleep comes far and in-between from her time in the Hellmouth. It always starts as a scream. A flicker flash of light. Hordes of haunted, red, blue, black masses of things that scream in the dark, their feet pounding upon the sulfur filled ground..
It has her awakening with a start.
Thank god she tells the other members to find their own places to slumber. This one? While shared, is truly hers.
So it’s no wonder, that in the darkness, Raven was awake. The silent entry draws her body up rather quickly, scaling the walls and keeping herself pressed against the ceiling, both arms and legs extended to their farthest reach to keep her lingering. Too bad there were no rafters within these four walls. For the uncurling of her body would have been a smooth transition from up to down.
“So many moons away I am, and this is how you’ve come to greet an old friend? Leave bullet holes. Trash furniture. Steal her liquor.” The tsks lowly.
“I expected better.”
—-
Terry grimaces.
He had known this conversation was coming… that didn't spare him from the cold knot in his gut that so few people manage to put there when facing them. Raven is one of those few. Poised with the beer bottle centimeters from his lips, Walker turns around and takes a breath.
"In my defense," he starts to say, taking a swig of the beer and addressing the 'damages'. "It wasn't intentional. That… albino sheila with the fair-dinkum eyepatch…" Terry points out into the hall to demonstrate. "We met years ago an' she tried to bump me off." He boggles next, a hand going to his head in consternation. "Now… she doesn't even remember it, or me, which is… bloody annoying."
He goes quiet for a moment.
"It was an accident, awroight? What would you do if an assassin just appeared behind ya? Last time she nearly killed me." Silence. "I'll get ya money fer the damage… and the beer — least I can do."
It was a light land upon her feet that she had taken, the blue skin a near glitter in the dark light that penetrates the room. This was her domain; and she treads the floors in whatever skin she was in, whether it blue, brown, caramel, pink.. Though there were thoughts of red. Whatever visage she cooked up could be used to terrify the mutant in front of her.
But one thing remained, the stoic look in which she always gives him. An unreadable expression, yellow eyes unmoving as she watches the way that he struggles to explain.
“You know what I would do.” She murmurs in regards to an assassin. So that leaves the question answered and unanswered all at once.
“Now see to it that it never happens again.” She strolls close towards him, veering off towards the side to reach for the handle of the fridge door, pulling it open so that she could get the pitcher of water that resides within, not bothering for a glass. It looks like an almost childish gesture, her pulling the top away to take a sip. No, not a sip, a few healthy gulps that was quietly heard, then draws it down to wipe away at her mouth.
“I don’t need the money. I need it fixed. And you’re going to fix it. With that said, you’re not indoctrinated with the rest of the crew. Which I’m going to use to my advantage.”
There was a quiet moment of consideration, her hand soon lifting out to gesture towards the chair. “Sit down, take your shirt off. Let me look at that shoulder.”
Raven wasn’t a great mom, she was a horrible one. A revolving door type of person that deep down? She knows she’s better off alone. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t -try- to take care of her own.
Yes, Mother.
No, he'd never say it — but it doesn't stop him from thinking it. Just a bit. He has enough respect for Raven not to push his luck too far… or so he hopes. Taking another swig of the beer, he sets the bottle down and slides off his jacket with a faint wince.
There's another wince as he pulls his bloodied shirt off, revealing a laceration in his right shoulder joint — deep enough to have bled all over his clothes and cause him some grief, but not enough to sever any ligaments…
But the cut is perfectly placed for that to have been the intention. Whomever had caused it, had known what he was doing — a fact of which Terry is well aware. "Bloody throwing blade," he says once he is all bare-chested. "Crescent, like the moon — some nutcase all in white. Liked to talk funny… until I throttled him with his voice."
He hmphs wryly at that, happy with himself.
While Terry got undressed, the tub of water was taken to the table next to him. The drawers soon rifled through as she quietly listens to the brief story at which he told. The man in white, it sounded familiar, but there were many men who came in droves of colors. So it could have been anyone.
“I could have sworn I taught you to duck.” She finally says, a little bit of amusement littering her features; though, her expression changes, her skin rippling until she looked akin to something more human. Something more familiar. And this time clothed!
Simple shirt. Simple jeans.
“Unless you want the nurse look.” Raven comments, gathering the first aid kit. She sets it quietly down next to him, creating a slight lean upon the chair that he was on. She examines his wound properly, her blue eyes shifting to his arm, then towards his eyes.
“What have you done with yourself?”
"Bit of everythin'," Walker replies — he'd shrug, but that'd require moving his shoulder, which he'd rather not do just now. Arching an eyebrow at Raven as her form changes, he lets out a short chuckle.
"Luv ya in any skin," he remarks with a bright, roguish smirk that shows teeth. "But no nurse outfit — you know what that does to me." With his free hand he reaches over for the beer to down another mouthful of it, then his expression grows more sombre.
"Got myself caught — bloody feds, Australian ones, tried to recruit me again… I politely told 'em to go fuck 'emselves, so they drugged me up and tossed me in the clink." A slow grin spreads over his face after that. "Took a while to break out, but here I am." Slight pause.
"How about you? Who've you got runnin' with you these days — besides the sheila that tried to kill me before?"
Raven pauses, a little tiny grin of mischief cloaking her features as she shifts. That shifting brings out an all white, terror of a garb. Short skirt, high white stockings, all too tight nurses uniform with a hat.
Thankfully it matches the current job description.
“They’re a nasty piece of work.” Raven admits, finally taking up a washcloth to dip into the water that she had drank out of, carefully scrubbing the wound clean. “I cannot compare the third reich to them, but they come a close second.”
With that said, she tilts her head towards the dossier upon the table. She didn’t know that he was coming, but it was good that he did. That dossier was a package that was specifically -for- him.
“That sheila is named Domino. And yes, she’s an integral part of the crew. Though you know me, people come and go and get tossed by the wayside when I’m done with them. It’s a miracle you’re still here after that shit I pulled.” She gives his wounded arm a thump, which may or may not freshly begin to bleed again. And as crude as she could be, she shows just how far she’s willing to go to lean down to sniff at his arm.
“No infection.”
“There’s my brother, Cain Marko. No blood relation but I ‘grew up’ with him and our other brother. There’s Fred. Nothing to shake a stick at, his size aside, he’s a glorious bastard. And then there’s Gambit. The wildcard. Thief extraordinaire. Free bird like yourself. He was with me from the beginning here in New York, though now I question his allegiances.”
And here is where Terry comes in. He just may like what she’s about to ask him.
"So, we got the muscle — ," that'd be Cain and Fred, from the sounds of it. " — the assassin — ," of course he's referring to Domino. "I'm diggin' the name… Domino. So much better 'n what I've been callin' her last few years…"
Terry smirks at Raven.
"Yeah, the 'wildcard'…" he goes on to say, referring to Gambit. All the while Terry doesn't appear to be reacting overmuch to the pain of getting his wound treated. Of course, that's what the outfit's for — Raven's outfit. If there's one thing that could distract Terry from an injury…
Then she had to thump him.
Wincing, Terry involuntarily absorbs the sound in the room, then lets it 'bleed back' so he can continue with the conversation.
"'Course there's you — brains, sass, 'n style all in one. And now you got a specialist… Okay, what're ya hedgin' at? You sound like a cat that wants a hand chasin' down some mice." Oh yes, he's very intrigued.
After the thump, the dossier was soon laid upon his lap as she begins to assemble the items within the first aid kit.
She could feel it, the sensation of the sound being drowned out of the room, a little hum given with no reprieve just to test to see if her senses were still there. It was horrifying. He knew that. Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, not being able to use one of your most treasured senses..
Terry scared her as much as she scared him.
Enthralling!
Once she feels the sound return by way of a slight popping of the inner eardrum, her eyes squeezing shut as she gives a slight shake of her head, the needle in hand as she pinches the skin to begin her suturing.
Then there was a lean, a press of her body against his in order to distract him further as she shoves the needle through and through the flesh.
“I want tabs.” She says plainly, her eyes narrowing, then a squint as she begins to slowly stitch his wound together with expert care. “They all need watching. For there was a time that I asked the same of someone else for you, and now it’s your turn. You know what I need.”
It was a deliberate shift, a leg lifted to plant knee upon his thigh, one that tests the strain of the fabric against her own. She grunts a little, dipping her head even closer to watch her finest work come into fruition.
“Domino especially. She came into contact with Logan Howlett. The Wolverine. I want to know the nature of that relationship. She and Gambit are top priority. For I do not know what they do. You’ll be my eyes and ears.” She grins then.
“Sort of like a trusted pet, eager for a prize.”
"Yeah, you 'n me b — hey!"
It's not merely the needle in his skin the elicits the mild outcry from Terry, but the fact that Raven chose to — rather cleverly — combine pain with… sexual tension. He is a man, like any other man, and cannot quite seem to help but… enjoy the attention.
And all the while he knows what she's doing; he knows the game and how it's played — they've played it before, years ago. He just… doesn't care. Much. He ignores the pet reference at least. While that needle sews him up, he shifts his attention back toward more important things — like the dossiers.
The fact that he has a wonderful view of Raven's cleavage while trying to see the dossiers is merely a welcome bonus — he's not complaining.
"Alroight. Tabs. Domino's easy — I get the feelin' she's seriously…" and he makes a swirling motion with the beer-bottle at his temple. "Someone fucked with her mind — like those bastards did to me. From the way she acts… about the only thing I know fer sure, roight now, is that she wants answers too. I can use that. Well, that's not the only thing I know — shoot 'er at point-blank and yer gun explodes. I know that too."
He pauses for more beer.
"Gambit… We'll see. I'll probably jus' piss 'im off and see what happens after. Leave it with me. You about done there?" He almost sounds disappointed — no more 'nurse Raven'.
Bugger.
“You and me, what?” Raven asks, as innocent as she could. But her focus was divided, queen multitasker she was, and yet, she didn’t want to mess up the way that she stitches his skin. Close. Tight. No room for errors. Even though there was now a little blood that coats her white, decorative gloves.
“We all have mental issues, Terry. Little bunny.” She coos slightly, drawing that knee away from his thigh to trounce across the room, her hips swaying with a little sashay as she bends ever so slightly and with exaggeration to fuss and ramble through the drawers there. “Have you seen my sciss—… oh.” The snippers were pulled from their depths, and with that same sultry roll, the side to side movement that seems too impossible to create..
..the string is gripped..
..tugged hard as it were..
And lingered for a moment until she -snips- it clean. Giving him the relief that he so deserves.
“Cain and Fred fly hard, fast and loose. Your main targets are Gambit and Domino. There are others there.. That I may require assistance on. Aside.. We’ve word from the woman who’s causing havoc across the city. I may want you with Domino to see her and to speak in my stead. I’ve yet decided. There are a few things that need doing first.”
"Yeah, yeah," Terry replies now that he has his body back to himself — more or less. He could choose to put his shirt back on… but he doesn't. Instead, he goes to the fridge to take another of the beers out of it, as if it — the fridge or the beer — were his.
And the corner of his lip turns up, in a hint of a smirk… while he watches Raven sashay across the room. "I'll… get it done. I'll catch Domino first chance, 'n take it from there. Just — don't go callin' me 'little bunny', or 'little… anything' around the others. Knowin' my luck it'd probably catch on."
He downs some beer, smacks his lips and frowns a bit. "Oh. Santonio Petrelli's back in New York, by the way." Petrelli, Italian mob-boss with too much ego and just enough intelligence — and funds — to be a nuisance, has tangled with these mutants before… back in the day.
"He hasn't changed," Terry adds. No, Petrelli's as much a 'closeted mutant-hater' now as he has ever been: a mere human 'in the know' when it comes to the presence of mutants in the world, who abuses what he knows by abusing mutants themselves.
"I was a breath away from punching him with his own noise when that white-cloaked nutjob… interfered." And he gestures to the newly-sewn-up injury in his shoulder. "Thought you'd wanna know."
“Well..” Raven says, turning towards the table to begin the process of gathering gauze and other things to keep his wound clean. “..I could call you a few other names that you’ve appreciated during our time in the row..”
..Snuggle-butt
..Cuddle-muffin..
..Snickerdoodle..
..Big ca-.. Wait!
Though the mention of Santino Petrelli has Raven’s blood run cold. The last run in, those years ago, that they had with him was nothing something that she was inclined to repeating. But she put herself through that, why? Possibly because of her own self loathing, something she’d never admit to Terry, no matter how well he knows ‘of’ Raven Darkholme.
“That mutherfucker.” The gauze was dropped as she gestures towards the chair again. “Sit.”
Now she was quiet. There were no jokes. Only the sullen look of avoidance that hung within her features. What was she thinking? How was she doing? What did -she- remember?
Nothing was said, however, as she waits for his return.
"Yeah," says Terry in a low voice as he goes to sit down again — new beer in hand. "Didn't wanna ruin yer mood, luv — but he's really back." The former soldier leans back in the chair, still not wearing a shirt, and lets his head fall back a bit too — stretching his neck.
At the same time, his eyes track the movement of his 'comrade', Raven, as one might watch a beloved 'family tigress, or lioness'. The magnificent beast might be on wonderful terms with 'her humans', but at the end of the day… she's still a wild animal.
Never to be taken for granted.
"I know that look…" he ventures to say after a while. "I know you never said what that piece o' 'shit too bad to wipe with a fly-struck sheep's arse' did to ya… But since I didn't get ta kill 'im last night, he'll be on guard now. Feel like sharin'?"
“I know that was not your intention.”
But even still, there was a cold front that went through the room. The gauze was unraveled and tucked underneath his arm, and yet.. His lengthy insult was the only thing that brings a little smile to her eyes, and eyes alone.
Which soon flutter as she rights herself, her fingers tugging and tossing her blonde hair behind her shoulders, tying off the bandages and tucking the ends where appropriate.
“It shouldn’t bother me.” She murmurs quietly, fingers reaching for the bottle of beer that was soon snagged from his grasp without another word, the shifting of her clothing like a chameleon puts her into something a little bit more.. Comfortable.
T shirt. Pair of jeans. Feet bare.
She settles down upon the new cough, read.. NEW COUCH, that she had delivered, her body at a slight crook as she takes a long and deep swig.
“I’ve spent what seemed to be close to two years in the Hellmouth. Two. Two weeks your time but two years for me. And everything about that man existing, breathing, still pisses me off.”
And unnerves her. She was -scared- to even relive those memories.
Terry waits until his shoulder is properly bandaged before speaking, and at first he only says one word: "Christ." Shaking his head, he lifts the beer-bottle to his lips and has another swig of it. "I'm not gonna pretend I know anythin' about that… Hellmouth thing. Sounds… shitty. Okay, so Petrelli did worse — I get it."
He pauses for more beer, and idly picks lint out of his belly-button. "Thanks fer the bandage 'n… stuff," the man remarks quietly; his mind is not on the injury, or the lint. It's on the Hellmouth and Petrelli.
"I'll… grab Domino an' see what we can get on Petrelli. It's another excuse to get on 'er good side. If we do get a chance… do you want him alive? Or dead?"
Christ was right. Raven has been through the thick of it, and even some parts of her didn’t measure up to her previous self. Not before Cain. Not even before Charles. Certainly not before Terry.
Her gaze lingers upon the beer bottle, twisting it back and forth, her focus narrowing upon the swishing of the liquid as she gives a slow nod towards Terry.
Even still, she held that silence, her lips tightening as her brows arch downward. Her natural, pretty features take on a harsh tone as she draws in a breath, blowing it out briefly.
“I want him alive. And I want him brought to me when you get him.”
"Suits me."
Terry drains the rest of his beer, and puts the bottle down on the table, letting out a modest belch at the same time. A soundless belch — he uses the energy from it to float the bottle over to the bin and drop it inside. The man gives his injured shoulder an experimental roll, winces a bit, then rolls it again. "'Swell' work, luv. You 'aven't lost yer touch. Reckon a teke-field around should keep me from pullin' me stitches. Again. Alroight. So that leaves just one last question…"
And he looks back at Raven.
"Do you want the others to know about Petrelli?" It's a given she'd want the 'nitty-gritty' reasons kept to herself, but Terry is referring to the other stuff: Petrelli's being a mutant-hater, the underground fights etc. What would Cain and Fred — or any of them — do if they knew the truth?
Could they be controlled?
Terry arches an eyebrow.
“I haven’t lost a lot of things.” Raven’s words carry a little bit of light, even though there was no smile that draws upon her face.
“I don’t care if they know about him one way or another. But you leave my involvement in the entire matter out of it.” She wasn’t sure if she would go so far as to say what had happened to her to the others, Cain maybe, but the rest? Possibly not.
There was also the possibility that they would go off the rails and kill him before she’s had the chance, she considers this, then leans forward to place her beer upon the table. With a fluid stand, she gives a long stretch, twisting herself from side to side as she lets out a little grunt.
“The night is long, little rabbit. There really isn’t any need to rush off into the fray just yet.” Her words were cool, casual, which could only mean one thing.
She was stalling, changing the subject, offering up something else that would change the mind and take it away from Petrelli for now. “You’re going to help me get to sleep.” And with those fateful words, she marks the path that she would take in hopes that he would follow.