roommate.

[Quinn] Midday. Usually by this time of day, the tall kinswoman of Stag living in room 4 is already out and getting on with her day, getting ready to open her bar or just out exploring the city. Doing whatever.

Today, though, she's decided to take the day off. Sleep in a bit. When she rolled in around dawn, she managed to grab her things and head to the showers, and when she came back to the room she simply collapsed into her bed without a word.

She's a quiet and deep sleeper, who doesn't even stir when her Ragey roommate comes into the room beaten and bloody and looking for talens. She's stirring now, though, stretching her arms up over her head, out from beneath a thick comforter in spring greens and yellows.

[Remy] For two people living in the same room, they've been remarkably good at seeing absolutely nothing of each other beyond a half-buried sleeping head, now and then. Quinn's out at her bar until the wee hours of the night. By then, Remy's fast asleep. In the mornings, he's gone well before she wakes.

Today, though, she's sleeping in. He's staying in. When she starts to stir, she's interrupted by a voice she can honestly say she's never heard before, nevermind that it belongs to her roommate of several weeks now:

"Hold on a second. Changing." There are some muffled rustlings of fabric. Then a whumpf of something landing in a laundry basket. Then the all-clear: "Okay. I'm good."

When Quinn pokes her head out from under her comforter, Remy's sitting on the other bed, hands braced on the edge, hunkered over like some great predatory bird. His eyes are keen and dark and intent. He watches her every move.

"I was starting to think you were a mannequin put there to simulate life," he says after a while.

[Quinn] Quinn stretches her arms up and out, and the first glimpse Remy gets of his roommate awake are a pair of slender forearms, pale skinned, smooth, and tattooed. A trail of small birds winds its way around her right arm, starting at the inside wrist and ending at her elbow, and there's the outline of a star on the inside of her left wrist.

Those arms freeze in place when an unfamiliar, masculine voice tells her that he's changing. Her face is still covered by her comforter, and there's a bump where her knees have lifted mid-curling stretch. When the all-clear comes, she lowers her arms to the comforter and tugs it down.

The face, at last, is pretty, with bleary yet incredibly blue eyes and a mess of dark brown hair fanning out over the pillow. There's a man in her room, has been for several weeks now, and Quinn hasn't spent more than a second being concerned over it. Maybe she should have been, given the way he looks at her, hawk to mouse.

She grins sleepily at him, manages to get, "Ditto," out before a huge yawn overtakes her. At least she covers her mouth with the back of her hand and turns her head away. When it passes, she sits up, gathering her comforter around her and crossing her legs beneath it.

"What time is it?" she asks, looking around the room.

[Remy] Remy casts a flick of a glance toward his bedside clock radio. "Almost 3pm." His hair looks wet, though it's so short and dark that it's hard to tell for certain. His face, his arms look a little damp, too, as though he'd recently showered. That doesn't explain why the clothes in his dirty laundry pile are also wet, though. "Do you always sleep this late?"

[Quinn] "Not always," she responds, smoothing out her comforter like a silver screen lady might smooth out her skirts. She's wearing an old Poison t-shirt, black with white lettering and a huge skull taking up most of her midsection. She tucks her hair behind both ears.

"I was really tired." She doesn't have much of an accent, which makes her state of origin difficult to place. Either she's from the Midwest, or she's purposely lost that horrendous Baltimore mess of a language. "3pm shit," she says, and scrubs at her face.

[Remy] Remy looks at her dubiously for a second. It should be mentioned -- it can't even remotely be ignored -- that Quinn's roommate is really, really, ridiculously goodlooking. As in: traffic stops for him. Girls regularly stammer and blush in his presence. Just this morning, the girl at the corner cafe went out of her way to give him a free scone ... apparently just for existing.

For all that, he doesn't seem to have the sort of self-involved cockiness that so often marks young men who are too handsome for their own good. What he has instead is a sort of quick belligerence, a constant doubt in his eyes that speaks of guardedness, of high walls.

After a moment, he inclines his chin a notch. "All right, I'll bite," he says. "Why were you really tired?"

[Quinn] It hasn't escaped Quinn's notice that her roommate is really really ridiculously good looking. She's no slouch, herself, though her innate beauty is somewhat fuzzy this morning, like a screen that's just out of focus, on account of the bleariness, the somewhat tangled mess of hair, and the pillow crease cut into her cheek.

What may be odd is that she doesn't respond to it. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she gets a good look at her roommate, and she doesn't drag her blue eyes down over his body, doesn't imagine the toned physique that surely exists beneath his clothing. She looks at his face, and her eyes seem quite happy staying there, focused on his brow, or his nose. Never his eyes.

"Uh," she answers, her brow furrowing and her mouth curving into a confused smile. That gaze drops to the floor, his feet. Every so often, Quinn comes in smelling like a bar, or like vice. The clothing in her own basket has a tendency to smell like alcohol, or the smoke of various substances, or like food. Very occasionally, she's been sprawled in her bed in an alcohol-induced slumber. There are two bottles on her desk, two barely consumed bottles of alcohol, Bailey's and Disaronno. There's a pack of Winston Reds, and five shot glasses, each with a different Auspice glyph painted on its surface.

Needless to say, it's a valid question.

Quinn blinks at him, coming more fully awake with each passing second, and she remembers several things at once. The man sitting across the room from her is no man, and the moon is fat in the sky somewhere. Today is not the day for glib responses to random questions.

"I've worked," she bites the corner of her bottom lip and studies the ceiling a moment, "every night since last Thursday, and I was really exhausted. Oh, you're here!" she says, eyes brightening as if she's only just remembered the fact, or that he's here. "What are your feelings on smoking in the room with the window open? Yes? No? Maybe?"

[Remy] "Well that's boring," Remy says, and as though statement has successfully categorized her, kicks off his old, old, old sneakers and slides back barefoot on the bed to put his back to the headboard. He's digging an old iPod out of his nightstand when she asks about smoking, drawing his attention again, quick and narrow-eyed.

"I don't smoke," he says, though this isn't really what she was asking. "Sorta prefer if you went somewhere else to smoke too. Now I know why this room smells like an ashtray all the time."

[Quinn] The statement leaves her positively scandalized.

She stares at him like he's just called her month some incredibly rude name, her head rocking back and her eyes widening in shock.

"I'll have you know that I have almost literally frozen my butt off for a smoke ever since you moved in. I'm not rude," she adds, almost childishly petulant.

[Remy] "Oh." Remy tilts his head to the side, screwing one of the in-ear-headphones into his left ear. Then a quick, smirking grin. "My mistake. Must have been just the leftover smoke from before."

A pause. Then, "I'm Rémy, by the way. And you should probably know: I'm probably not your tribe's favorite person right now."

[Quinn] She shrugs a shoulder, ducking her head. Remy doesn't exactly apologize, but it's good enough for the kinswoman to move on to other things. Pushing aside the comforter reveals a pair of black cotton lounge pants, one leg hitched up to the knee. Dropping her feet to the floor, she pushes herself up. She's tall and slender, with enough curve to draw the eye without making it boggle, though the t-shirt hides most of what's going on upstairs.

She laughs, a low, singular syllable of amusement. Picking up one of a plethora of simple little studs and hoops laid out on a corner of her desk, she slants a glance over to the other side of the room. "Yeah, well, right now my tribe isn't my favorite people right now, so it probably balances out. What'd you do?"

[Remy] Remy actually has to take a moment to answer that -- not because he has no easy reason but because he has too many. Eventually, he decides.

"I failed to be amused by random irresponsible douchebaggery," he says, a derision that borders on defensiveness. "That's where it started, anyway. It also involves telling them to stay off my kin and kicking their asses when they thought they had mine in a bag."

The last is a bit of a boast. Quinn can tell, because that little smirk makes an appearance again -- a flick at the corner of his mouth.

"What about you? What'd you do?"

[Quinn] "Ah," she nods. Sliding an earring into her lobe, she reaches for another, and another. Apparently she plans on putting them all in. "Howard." The tone in which she utters those two syllables tells Remy that not only does she know, she understands. Completely.

"Oh, uh." She pauses before picking up a small bar, and she frowns, mouth quirking to the side. "I accepted a lighter. Apparently this makes me a slutty tease somehow, despite how many times I've turned guys down."

[Remy] That surprises a laugh out of Remy, short, bark-like. "You're going to have to tell me the story behind that one sometime," he says, and on that note -- screws the other earphone into his ear, effectively blocking out the world.

He closes his eyes, cranking up the volume on his iPod. It's loud enough to be heard across the room; then again, one supposes Garou don't have to worry about losing their hearing. Maybe it's a form of meditation. He is a Godi, after all.