birthright_rpg | Gypsy Girl

Rhiannon wiped both shoes on the door mat and dropped her hood. Everything in the restaurant had a yellowish tinge, as if a cloud of vaporized grease hung in the air, and it well might. The pungent scent of bacon overwhelmed her senses. She searched the long row of booths for a particular man’s face and crossed the room on briskly moving legs.

“Hey.”

The brunette dropped onto the vinyl cushion, the stuffing of which exploded from one corner. “Got a minute?”

Whistler dropped his menu like so many flapjacks had hit the kitchen floor since the restaurant's inception. (And, apparently, the stuffing from the cushion.)

He was surprised to see the brunette and yet...he wasn't. He hated the feeling of déja vu, especially when it was his gift to do the déja viewing.

"I've got more than a minute." The Agent turned over a second cup from it's saucer. "I've got bottomless coffee."

“Great.” Rhiannon hijacked the carafe and sloshed hot coffee into her cup. She added two sugars. The sooner she explained herself, the better, because the man looked like he was on the verge of wetting his pants. “I had a dream. Well, two dreams, but the latest one involved me coming here,” she gestured around the room. “Not just any Denny’s, but this Denny’s. I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure who I’d meet until I saw your face just now, and it now it’s kind of crashing back and I need to borrow your spoon.”

She held out her hand.

“Please.”

Whistler handed over his spoon with intent.

'I am *not* on the verge of wetting my pants.'

He looked down at the gypsy girl on the menu, then back to Rhiannon. Maybe if he gave her the head scarf...

"I had an inexplicable craving for pancakes. Had to be here."

Exasperation reigned supreme as Rhiannon snatched the spoon and cracked his knuckles. "You don't have the right, so get out of there. Is that what happened the other night? Did you... plant fairy tales in my head?" The brunette stirred her coffee and set the dripping spoon on an empty sugar packet.

"I did no such thing!" He was definitely speaking that time. A little louder perhaps, but she did just smash his knuckles with the spoon. Which would've been fine if it hadn't included a little bit of Slayer strength.

Whistler lowered his voice to a more conversational tone. "I wasn't listening. Or I wasn't trying to, so either way I apologize. But you also heard me, and I sure didn't mean for that to be broadcast."

He took a sip of his own coffee, cooled more so for sitting in his cup longer. "And what do you mean about 'fairy tales'? Because seriously, I've had my own fucked up dreams to figure out. I mean, dancing on a chess board in winter?"

"It wasn't a--"

Rhiannon's voice caught. She picked up her coffee and drank it too fast. The liquid scalded her tongue, but she was committed to it, so she swallowed and burnt her throat, too.

"Look, the whole thing is fuzzy, like... Like it's on the edge of my consciousness and when I look at it straight-on, it disappears. I just know what I know, what I was supposed to know, which is that I've known you before. Befores."

He took in every word she said. The shape of each syllable, the color of each consonant. They all had weight. It pricked at the back of his brain, tickled his soul.

It was all true, he knew it just as she did.

"That explains... well that explains a fuck ton." Whistler poured himself another coffee. He preferred it black. Somehow, he suspected she knew that.

"Those things I saw, what I showed you. What if they weren't possible futures, but other lifetimes?"

His head felt like it would explode. His heart too. The Agent tried to remember his dream, but it was out of reach. Intentionally so.

"I think I tried to kill you, more than once. And I don't mean with the car. That was still. Yeah, sorry about that. Again. Shit."

Rhiannon gave a terse shake of her head, fingers waggling in the air. "Don't. I'm over that. At least until I need to use it as leverage in an argument."

She breathed.

"In a way, this makes it easier," she said, taking out a cigarette and lighting up. Her fingers snagged and pulled an ash tray closer. "We don't know what's coming, only that we're apparently... I don't know, signposts for each other. We just need to recognize it and pursue it to its end."

Her thumb flicked against the cigarette filter in a nervous habit. "I think it also explains why we reacted so strongly to each other. So my idea is, we start from scratch. Are you interested?"

The mixture of smoke and bacon grease made him feel at home. Whistler leaned back in his seat, fished out his soft pack of Lucky Sevens and joined the Slayer in a cigarette.

"Yeah. I like the sound of that." With the cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth, the Agent grabbed a napkin and wiped his hands, then held one out. "If we're starting at square one, I guess that means you don't owe me a hat?" He smirked at the brunette.

She dipped her head. “You are correct.”

Rhiannon made eye contact with the waitress, who came to jot down her order of waffles. As the employee passed the paper slip to the kitchen, the brunette settled more comfortably into her seat.

“Alright. So. The basics. I’m Rhiannon and I’m a slayer. I was called seven years ago. For the past two years, I’ve been on the outs with London, but it’s not so bad that they’ve called in a team. We’re more like estranged relatives than anything. Uh, let’s see…” She used her thumb to stroke her eyebrow. “Before here, I was in Pittsburgh, New York, and Detroit… I won’t lie and say my record’s blemish-free, but it’s pretty good. I’m seeing a man who happens to be a Were and I don’t plan on giving him up because he’s an incredibly decent human being. I like to draw. There you have it. Oh, and I’m an Aquarius.”

She ashed her cigarette.

A swirl of smoke encircled his face as he exhaled. It was like getting to know an old friend after suffering amnesia. Everything felt familiar and yet completely new.

"I'm a mutt," he offered. "Mother was a demon, father had a healthy glow. Both sides wanted to kill me right oughta the womb, until someone got the bright idea I could be used to keep the sides balanced. I'm old as fuck, like I saw Nero fiddle while Rome burned old. I used to freelance with London until I realized just how fucking ass-backwards a lot of them were. Had a really good friend who got killed by a schizophrenic Slayer. No I don't hold it against Slayers in principal, just the idiots who thought she didn't need help."

Another puff of smoke, followed by the rest of the coffee in his cup. "Here's a fun bit of news. This isn't my first trip to Nevada. I got stuck in Searchlight fifty years ago. Got drawn in by something, and it wouldn't let me go. Until one day, it went..." The Agent clenched his fist and then spread his fingers. "Poof. And the original reason I came back was after I got a phone call from Greg's daughter -- he was the Watcher who got offed by said Slayer -- from Searchlight."

He refilled his cup, and swished the carafe. There was enough for another coffee. He held it out to Rhiannon. "Oh, I'm also a pretty good bowler."

“So now what are you doing?” Rhiannon accepted the refill on her coffee, though she hadn’t made much of a dent in her first cup. It didn’t escape her that he might have answers to questions that had lingered since she arrived in Nevada, if he was a keeper of the balance, but those could wait until a better moment. The primary purpose in sitting here with him was to learn about Whistler and establish some kind of non-violent dynamic.

"If I'm being honest?" 'Honesty was good.' "I'm spinning my wheels."

Whistler swirled the coffee, enjoying the sploosh, careful enough not to spill. He took one final drag on his cigarette before butting it in the ashtray. "I was in Tokyo before this; kind of a semi-retirement. Keeping the balance isn't as easy as it sounds. Sometimes ya gotta do... awful things. My plan was to pop in, convince Holiday -- yes, that's her name -- to get out of town, and make a hasty retreat. But I felt the tug again, and you kept popping up in mirrors, and then for real in Searchlight."

He paused a moment as a young couple and their squabbling two year-old sat down in the next booth. "You're... connected. You feel it? 'Cuz I don't think that's coincidence."

"Of course. You think I stopped there for the scenery?" She smiled a little and looked up as her food arrived. Rather than add butter or syrup, she picked up a waffle and bit it like a piece of toast. "By the way, I know who you're talking about. Holly. I've run into her once or twice. She was curious about slayers."

'Interesting boyfriend she's got', Rhiannon thought, but left it unsaid. No reason to spark a potential intervention if Holly had it under control.

Boyfriend? Wow, he was out of touch.

Shit, he wasn't meant to hear that, was he?

Whistler really needed to work on the psychic blocks. The last thing he needed was getting his ass kicked by Rhiannon. ~~Again.~~

"Now you know why," the Agent offered. "If you didn't know already."

Butter and syrup were slathered over the buttermilk pancakes before he tucked in. "Last time I was here," he continued in a slightly hushed tone, "it started off like a tickle to the base of the neck. Then I noticed a lot of... interesting tourists coming to town, and a fair number of 'unexplained'", Whistler used air quotes, "disappearances. I tried to leave. Holy shit, I tried to leave. But I couldn't get far from the city limits. Something kept pulling me back."

"Next logical question, what changed right before you left?" Rhiannon leaned on her elbow and watched him eat his meal. If he was immortal, he might be the only person around who could attest to Searchlight's illustrious history of magnetism. "It retracted its nails. Why?"

"I like your imagery."

Whistler racked his brain. It took him a few mouthfuls of pancake and the last of his coffee. "Normal stuff for a boom town," he offered. "Lots of trade coming in and out, the silver mine was doing boffo business. And lots of construction."

The Agent nearly choked on his breakfast.

"They built a church. Practically overnight."

"It must've been one hell of a church." She picked up his coffee cup and held it in front of Whistler's face. Better this than trying to execute the Heimlich maneuver with slayer strength.

"Also? I know. That's why I used it."

This smile was a little on the wicked side.

"Now I know why we got along so infamously." It was the Agent's turn to be a bit sly.

He took a sip of the coffee, cleared his throat and continued. "And the church isn't there. It's been torn down."

Another mouthful of pancake. Deductive reasoning made him hungry. "If you think about it... Whoever figured out was going on could've counteracted the effects with spells and magical artifacts, and dropped a gigantic belief system right on top of it."

"And now it's... gone. And we're coming back."

Rhiannon's chin lowered, her brow lifted. She didn't think either of them needed to spell this thought process out, but she'd been wrong before.

"Intriguing."

She finished her first waffle and dusted her fingers.

The Agent said it anyway. He was annoying like that.

"Things are only going to get worse."

He stifled a smirk as he watched the brunette fastidiously eat her breakfast.

"And we're right in the middle of it."

Just like old times that hadn't happened yet.

Edited 2013-12-20 04:51 (UTC)

"I guess they shouldn't have demolished the church." It was the only conclusion one could come to. In the short time she stayed in Searchlight, Rhiannon had seen exactly two churches -- the community church and the bible church. Neither of them dated back to the 30s, so neither was the nexus of the action. There had to have been a third. Plus, there was clear physical evidence of a building that had been recently razed. The slab was still sitting there.

"By the way, I consider myself tangential to it."

"I avoided dealing with it once; don't know if I can ignore it again." Whistler mopped up the last of the syrup on his plate with a piece of toast. "I get the sick feeling that -- whatever this is -- It wants me here."

Rhiannon noticed the cigarette was about to scorch her fingers, so she stubbed it. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing,” she hinted. “Being wanted. Whatever it is, all types respond to it. Maybe you’re the fulcrum.” It seemed to her that fate or the gods tugged on whatever strings they wanted, whenever they wanted. Perhaps Searchlight was just a puppet theatre, or a modern-day coliseum.

“So spin on.” She drained her cup.

"I've been around too long to think it's benign," he responded. "And I witnessed the chaos firsthand the first time."

Something was pricking at the base of the Agent's brain. He had to ask, and hoped she wouldn't take offense.

"You seem content to sit this one out. Strikes me as... wrong, somehow. How come?"

Rhiannon’s teeth worried at her bottom lip. She picked up a jug of pecan-flavored syrup and filled the squares on her second waffle. “I didn’t move from Detroit to New York to Pittsburgh to Las Vegas because I love to travel.” She licked the sticky substance off her thumb and began to cut the waffle with her fork. Crunch… crunch… A bunch of itty-bitty squares in a puddle.

“I’m trying not to draw attention to myself. My ex-Watcher and I seemed to have reached a détente. Either that or he’s lost track of my location. In any case, I like it that way, because if he comes near me again, I’ll have to get rid of him permanently and then the Council will stop turning a blind eye to my absence. Hence the low profile.”

Whistler let that rattle in his brain. He'd made a few people in the Council pissed at him recently, but they knew enough to steer clear. He was older than them, and he had a larger bag of tricks to make their lives uncomfortable.

A Slayer, however, didn't have as many choices. Look at what they did to the poor, unstable girl who killed Gregory...

"Fair enough."

Rhiannon nodded. She speared a piece of food and twirled it, but didn't eat it.

"I can have your back, though." Her eyes flitted to his. "Just because I can't take the lead on this one doesn't mean I'm washing my hands of it. Or you."

She set the fork down and wiped her hands on a paper napkin.

Whistler smiled. "Appreciate that."

He pushed his plate slightly forward, and set his knife and fork down.

"That goes both ways, ya know. You need anything -- anything -- and I'm there."

He paused a moment. "But so's you know, I'm a lousy dancer this time around."

"Yeah, well." Rhiannon's eyebrows arched. "This time around, I didn't go to Catholic school." She avoided looking at him for fear she'd either blush or burst out laughing; she had no idea which way it would go. Instead, she grew her legs up to her torso and draped her arms over them. Who knew what fragments of this life would carry over into the next?

"And I sure as hell wasn't the star quarterback."

He had to say it, if only to make her laugh. Whistler always liked Rhiannon's laugh.

She suppressed a giggle for as long as possible, which was about five seconds. Once the amusement died down, Rhiannon took a wallet from her jeans and shelled out cash to cover her meal and tip. The bills were wrinkled, unevenly folded, so she ironed them out beneath the ketchup bottle.

"Okay. I've gotta go, but I'll see you soon, yeah?"

Her fingers wrapped around the cigarette pack and lighter.

"Yeah." Whistler flagged the waitress, making a motion for more coffee. He had a lot to digest.

"Searchlight's not that big, as ya know. Just look for the double-wide with year-round Christmas lights. I doubt you'll need my number. Just think real loud."

Year round Christmas lights? "Gotcha." She slid across the cushion and stood up. "Later."

It was a short conversation, in the scale of things, but as she left the diner, Rhiannon felt lighter than she had in a long time. Like life had somehow aligned itself, and it was right.

Gypsy Girl

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