Thomas turns the last page in his current book, stares incredulously at the blank endsheet in front of him, turns it back, examines the ending again, flips to the beginning of the text and examines that, checks the last page one last time, and finally closes the book, looking baffled. Then he looks up and, spotting Piddles, turns his attention to the ahroun with palpable relief. "Pid."
Piddles grins, swaggering in the door. "Heya, Mista Thomas! Howz da day f'yu? Iz *great* day fer Pid!" He pauses to pick up Emrys, swing him around in a full circle hard enough to get some centrifugal force going, and sets him down. "An' yu, Mista Emmy? Howzit f'you?"
Emrys gurgles and nearly falls over, saving himself by clutching at Pid's pant's leg, while Thomas watches, amused. "Great day? I take it that means no more hangover?"
Piddles shakes his head vigorously, then grins. "See? Pid's not mooonin' an' groooonin' no more! AND," he sidles up next to Thomas, carefully not dislodging Emrys, "Pid's gotta sweeeetie." He hikes up his baggy jeans with as much masculine satisfaction as Thomas has ever seen from Pid.
Thomas blinks. "Indeed. Congratulations. No doubt this leaves you very busy. Could I, however, corner a few moments of your time?"
Piddles examines his grimy fingernails, a grin still plastered on his face. "Awwww, Pid not dat busy. She outta heat now ennyhoo. Wassup?"
Thomas's expression grows a little fixed. Then he shakes his head sharply, dismissing that thought until some later date. "Ah. Er. Yes." He turns and gestures toward Buick's empty office. "Shall we?" he asks, leaning over to detach Emrys from Pid's leg, prior to movement.
Piddles starts walking that way, holding Emrys to his leg for a stride until Thomas detaches him. "Shoooooooor."
You push open the door.
Buick's Office
This is a small room with a window onto Regan Street. In the middle of the room is a beaten desk, drawers lolling open, top scratched. The scratched top is hidden by the papers strewn across it. Spider-esque cracks run along the wall behind the desk. In the corner, away from the window, is a futon. A man's clothing is strewn across the futon in disarray. Several astrological symbols appear to be charted across the wall to the left of the desk. They are written in red ink, which seems to have smeared a little. This is probably because the concrete wall has been sweating. The city creeps in through the unfettered window.
A nondescript door sits in the wall in front of the desk.
Obvious exits:
Back Door Main Room
Thomas comes in from the main room.
Piddles sits on the desk. "Wuzzup?"
Thomas makes it halfway through the door, then pauses and says, "--Actually--" and steps back out again to ask Xandra to watch Emrys for him. He returns a moment later without the child and closes the door behind him. He gives Pid a thoughtful, speculative look, then leans back against the door frame and asks casually, "Do you know anything about mages, Pid?"
Piddles looks like he's thinking hard, as he often does while wading through a dictionary in search of one of the many Shakespearian terms scrawled on his jeans. He screws up his eyes and peers ceilingward, as if hoping to find the answer written there. Unable to locate such a divine response in the waterstains there, he looks back at Thomas. "Like dat guy in Tempest?" he asks, as if hoping he got something near the right answer.
Thomas's eyes crinkle up with private amusement. He scratches the back of his head. "Not so much Shakespeare," he says. "I meant in real life. Know anything about folks who are normal humans, except that they can do magick? Garou sometimes call them world-warpers, when they're feeling irritable about them, if that rings a bell."
Piddles looks like a lightbulb just went off in his head. "Ooooooh, like de gal Candeeed at Alamo usedta call 'goddamfewkinwarperwhorelezziecaernsuckinbitch'??"
Thomas's mouth opens and closes a few times. He gazes mildly at Piddles. "Well," he says after a moment. "Ah." He laughs quietly. "Might be, I suppose. There are little personal antagonisms, everywhere. You don't, I take it, have much of an invested position on the subject, yourself?"
Piddles shakes his head vigorously again, obviously enjoying the sensation of being able to do so without pain. "Nevermet'er," he replies, accelerating his words to ramming speed.
Thomas's lips twitch. "Ah. Well. I--that is--it seemed--" He sighs. "Pid, I'm a mage. /Not/, I may say, a world-warper, let alone a--" he clears his throat delicately, "'Caern-sucking bitch.' But I am mage. It seemed like I should probably let you know, since we both live here, and may, on occasion, be working together. It means, for instance, that if you get hurt, I may be able to heal you. Things like that." He waits, a little less relaxed about this revelation than his tone would imply.
Piddles cocks his head to the side and narrows one eye at Thomas. Then he raises both hands to chest height, points his spread fingers at Thomas, and wiggles them madly. Then raises one eyebrow questioningly, with one side of his mouth quirked in a sort of embarrassed inquiry of "Am I hearing you right?"
Buick comes in from the main room.
look buick
Buick Makane Williams. He looks at you with intense violet eyes. He wears torn jeans and a dirty Tshirt with a battered leather jacket, and wears a pair of black fingerless gloves. On his ring finger is what appears to be an Elvis Puzzle Ring. (The young Elvis) Reminds you of Marlon Brando, but his hair's not as cool. Long, black, greasy, partly obscuring the legend on the back of his jacket. A composite bow is slung over his shoulder.
Thomas blinks. "Well, yes. Magi--" He breaks off abrubtly as the door opens and dislodges him. He flushes very faintly as he sees who the new arrival is.
Buick pushes the door open, arms full of paperwork. He glances at the two, and gestures to Thomas with his chin. "Need a drawer."
Piddles turns from his inquiring expression and peers at Buick with interest. He vacates his position atop the desk.
Thomas finds a drawer to hold open - one which, miraculously, is not already crammed.
Buick stuffs papers into it vigorously. "Looks serious." he proclaims blandly. "Not planning on takin' all the toys again, are ya?"
Piddles looks back and forth between the pair with some confusion.
Thomas's flush becomes slightly more pronounced. "Ah, no. But, ah..." He glances at Pid, then back at Buick. "Hm. Buick, you know...a little more about wolves, and related subjects, than is entirely usual, don't you?" His tone is equally bland.
Buick drops his remaining stack of papers and looks intently at Thomas. "You might say I have... intimate knowledge on the subject, yeah." He slowly turns his head to look at Piddles.
Thomas runs a hand through his hair. "Related subjects included?"
Buick runs his tongue over his teeth. "You're a related subject, ain'tcha, kid?" he says quietly, every word distinct.
Piddles grins at Buick winningly. "Arf?" he says, a hopeful look in his eye.
Thomas blinks mildly at Buick, perhaps startled at the word 'kid.' "I," he says quickly, drawing Buick's attention to himslef, "Am about as distantly related to the wolves as you are. But I have a few other sources of information."
Buick's expression notably falls. He turns back to Thomas. "Thank God." he mutters, relaxing slightly.
Thomas considers Buick, puzzled, but ready to take any apparent good reaction he can get. "The toys were tainted," he says simply. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you that at the time, but I've had a lot invested in staying low profile." He looks wry. "Which I seem to be blowing in one big show, this week. So be it. The reason I mention it is that whatever Katya and Nico are sick with, it isn't the flu, and it isn't natural. I wanted both of you to know." He hesitates, then adds, "I'm doing everything I can."
Buick dips his head and tosses a set of keys onto the desk. "Suppose I don't have to take 'em to the clinic now. One less errand. So." He takes a breath. "Is it contageous? Where /do/ you getcher information from? How serious is it?"
Piddles peers back and forth. "Kiddies sick?" he exclaims. "Wuddabout Emmy?"
Thomas says "/Don't/ take them to the hospital. It's not contagious by normal meands, but they must have picked it up somehow - I don't know what's causing it, so I don't know more. Emrys is /not/ sick yet, thank God. I'm trying to keep it that way. As for the rest of it, I--" He stops, looking around, having heard someone calling his name. The call comes again, followed by the word, "Telephone," and Thomas curses quitely, heading for the door. "I'm sorry. Look, I'll tell you more as I learn it. Don't--please don't say anything about me to anyone else. If I end up with my throat ripped out, it will be very distressing to the children." And with that, he bustles away to get the phone.
Thomas goes out the door.
Buick blinks once, and shakes his head. "Sometimes I hate this job." he mutters.
Piddles gapes after Thomas, then closes his mouth and looks thoughtful.
Xandra comes in from the main room.
Buick sighs and crouches to start gathering paperwork from the floor.
Xandra goes out the door.
Piddles looks down at Buick. "Izza worrywart, yah?" he asks, as if hoping for encouragement.
Buick glances up. "Beats me. There are forces here astir, Leander. But noobdy tells me shit about 'em."
Piddles nods sympathetically. "Not Pid needder."
Buick studies Pid for a moment. "You're one of 'em though. Sure they tell ya somethin'."
Piddles shrugs. "I heerda woofin' onna Chain, but dat's it. Chain buzzin' t'day, shooor nuff. Big tings happ'nin' t'night, Pid tinks. But dat's alla whut Pid heerz."
Buick snorts. "Then you're already a buzz ahead a me." he says, turning his attention back to the spilled papers.
Piddles starts to turn to go, then hesitates, turns back, and says, "Izza Pid. Piddles-Inta-the-Wind." He extends a dirty, calloused, plate-sized hand, a little hesitantly.
Buick takes the hand gravely. "Buick. Convenient kinfolk."
Piddles gives Buick a firm shake. "Izza Gnawer anna," he drops his voice, "full mooon. But izza okie, don't trash up da place, izza promisin'."
Buick smirks. "I had ya pretty well pegged for wolf when ya showed up. You haven't been any trouble yet, I'm not worried."
Piddles grins knowingly. "Iz kinnfok gotta speshul waya tellin'?" He grins. "Pid's good at bein' human, aft'r all. Pid'sa Master o' Dizguys." He grins wider and more pointily.
Buick grins now as well. "No, kinfolk just gets ta know what ya look for. If ya weren't good at bein' human, they'da prolly dragged yer ass off t'the woods by now."
Piddles shudders dramatically. "Ew, woods," he pronounces. "Izza nassty place wit alla ticks ever'where. Pid hates dem ticks," he adds confidentially.
Buick says "Neh, I don't suppose they make a collar in your size, do they?"
Piddles grins again. "Nup, annit smell bad ennyhoo. Give Pid a rash de wun time de master make 'im wear wun."
There is a sharp knock on the door. "Mista Buick! Mista Buick! We gonna go the doctah?"
Buick sighs and snatches up the keys. "Shit. How'm I gonna pull this off?"
Piddles bites his lip a second. "'ey, no matter wut de do, don't go t'the hospital tonight, 'k?"
Buick blinks. "Uh. Huh?" He purses his lips and nods. "Okay."
Piddles grins. "An' Pid didn't tell yu." As he heads out the door, Buick hears him mutter, "Pid's gonna get his ass kicked sumday..."
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