amen.

[Sofie Janssen] The young woman hasn't made all that many friends amongst those that call this place their home. Staff, on the other hand, find her courteous enough. She's opinionated, sure, but only when it's asked of her. For awhile now she's kept her head down. She's one of few that keeps regular hours, here when it's night fall, gone when it's daylight.

The last two days she hasn't been down to eat at the tables at the restaurant, nor has she taken food up to the common room, and had to excuse herself from helping out with any dish-washing, floor mopping and otherwise. The girl was sick and had only crawled out at random intervals to watch some television when there's nobody around, taken herself up to the roof for fresh air, and, more frequently, her trips to the bathroom.

She's in the bathroom now, standing in a pair of loose shorts and a tank, rinsing out a wash in the cold water, having wiping it over her face. In the mirror she inspects her face, her milky complexion paler overall. The dark shadows under her eyes are made deeper by the paleness of her iris. "Ugh," she tells herself, "you look like shit, girl."

[Remy] It's always awesome when you're talking to yourself -- especially while sick, especially if there's a chance you just threw up miserably a minute ago -- and you think you're alone and unobserved and no one's around to hear how sick, whimpery and dying-animal you sound... and then there's a FLUSH from one of the stalls in the back.

Remy comes out. They've shared the same living quarters for weeks, if not months, but this might literally be the first time they've seen each other here. "Yep," he agrees matter of factly. "You do indeed." And he punches one of the auto-shut taps on, washing his hands.

It doesn't help that Remy does not, in fact, look like shit; may well be physically incapable of looking like shit. He's wearing shorts and flipflops, no shirt -- possibly because it's so cold outside it's nice to be warm inside; probably because it's the middle of the night and he's going to bed soon and/or is getting up mid-sleep; also very possibly because of what they say about having it and flaunting it. Mirrored, it's almost overwhelming: two images of underwear-model physical perfection, all sharp-edged jawlines and thick shoulders, v-shaped torso. A few months in Chicago, a few crushing victories in combat and god knows how many random one night stands with smitten girls, and he seems to have lost whatever insecurity that pretty mug of his gave him. He splashes water on his face, scrubs, then he straightens to shake water off his hands and get a paper towel.

"Not because you tried to bite my fomor-gunky hand, is it? Because if it is," he pauses to wipe his face on the paper towel before bunching it up and tossing it, "you totally deserve it."

[Sofie Janssen] That is not the sound she wants to hear. A flushing toilet tells her someone else has been in here all this time and she's been too wrapped up in her own damn misery that her sense of ... well, anything has been shot to shit. She's looking in the direction of the stall when Remy walks out. Her stomach sinks through the floor, does a flop that threatens more bile, and surges up her throat. Swallowing the acid down, she leans her hands on the basin and looks down the drain.

It's a good chance she's going to hurl, and a better chance that the flush splotching its way up her neck has everything to do with being embarrassed. And embarrassment? That doesn't sit very well with this Kinfolk. Any Get of Fenris, really. So it's to do with anger too.

But fuck that, she's not feeling up to ranting. Good thing, too, that he's mentioning that bite she gave him. "Ugh," is about the only sound she manages.

Earlier, while bringing up nothing from her cramping stomach, he'd heard that she swears quite proficiently. Apparently she doesn't like fucking city food and has a habit of swearing at her body, thinking it's a [i]useless piece of shit[i]. This was between spouts of uncontrolled, choking, gags - the sort where there's just nothing to bring up anymore, but the guts decides it needs to expel whatever it can. It's that painful sort - for humans.

"It's not." Blowing out a steadying breath, she catches a look at him in the mirror while he's tossing paper towards the bin. "And you deserved it. What were you thinkin', putting that filthy hand on me anyway?" So, sick also means snappy.

[Remy] "Oh, I don't know," Remy says, smirking, "maybe I was thinking if I didn't keep you quiet you'd yell bloody murder, cuss me out, and alert every fomor in a ten-mile radius that we were there. And don't tell me you wouldn't have."

Someone left a tumbler on the row of sinks marching down the middle of BroHo's bathroom. Remy picks it up, fills it with cold water, and hands it to Sofie to rinse her mouth with.

"What'd you eat, anyway?"

[Sofie Janssen] On a better day, she'd argue. She can't say that she wouldn't have either. He's pegged her right in that, so instead of disagreeing, she takes the water from him with a little graciousness conveyed more in the way she looks at him then in her silence.

Two gulps later, both swished in her mouth and spat back into the sink, and she's rinsing out the sink before refilling her glass and answering his question. "I dunno." Leaving the water to shut off itself, she takes the cloth in one hand and the glass in the other, stepping back from the basin.

"I went out with some friends, some buffet, followed by a movie, followed by a thing at someone's house," she tells him, vague on the details, only because she can't figure out what it was she ate that made her body reject it so badly. Her fair brows are drawn into this constant frown, something she's been wearing on and off for as long as she's been sick. Sofie doesn't get sick often. By the look of her height, and the way that her long limbs are filled with lean straps of muscles, she's an active lifestyle. She's always so cautious about what she eats - he remembers her asking him to smell the fish, lecturing about mega food corporations, and how the city lacked absolutely anything organic and fitting to put in anyone's mouth. Those sorts of rants are her absolute favourites.

"Say," she begins, shifting her weight onto a back foot, seemingly oblivious to the fact he's half naked, and she's in the least clothes he's seen her in, "you could tell me if I'm Wyrm tainted, right?" Sofie tries not to sound as stress as she looks. But she's one of the most honest people that there is, incapable of disguising must of anything from the surface.

[Sofie Janssen] [wow, serious typos. please ignore.]

[Remy] Remy scoffs a little at that. When she finishes rinsing her mouth, he takes the glass back, rinses it, and then puts it back where it was. Let's hope whatever Sofie has isn't contagious, or whoever owned that cup is going to have a grand old ball in about 48 hours.

He folds his arms then, turning to leaning against the sinks. "Just because I'm a Godi, that means I must have Wyrm-radar, is that it? Sorry to disappoint, but I don't. I could summon a spirit and ask it to check, but frankly, that's a lot of trouble for a little paranoia. I'd rather just douse you with a Cleansing and call it a night.

"Why?" Only now does he get around to asking that all-important question. "Did something happen, or do you feel ... 'off'?"

[Sofie Janssen] Disappointed, because she did think that Godi made him God, she sighed and shrugged, looking over to where he planted the glass he took from her, then back again. "Hello, I've been puking my guts out for the last day and a half," she tells him, irritable.

A hand rubs across her stomach, the other holding the wet cloth loosely in her grip. "I've never had food poisoning before. That's what everyone thinks it is. I aint never been Wyrm tainted either."

Her eyes focus back on him again. There's that frown. It never really went away. "How other than 'off' am I meant to feel?" When that doesn't sound quite right to her own ears, she tries to clarify: "I mean, what symptoms am I looking for?"

[Remy] "You familiar with the Seven Deadly Sins?" Remy's leaning back against the edge of the sink, his feet shoulder-width, weight distributed. He unfolds his arms now, reaching to the side to pick up that glass again. Nudging the tap on with the heel of his hand, he refills it, sets it on the edge of the sink, and dips his fingers in. Flicks a few times. Dips again.

"If you feel an overwhelming urge to indulge in one or more of them, or if you generally feel destructive or just hollowed out, you might want to take a good long look at your recent actions and direction. Maybe let Kora know. But I wouldn't worry about it too much. If you were so deeply tainted a Cleansing wouldn't wash it off, you'd already be spouting a third arm out of your head.

"And speaking of Cleansing -- "

Remy picks up the glass and dashes its contents right in Sofie's face.

[Sofie Janssen] "Well, I have been wanting to push a Kinfolk out of a window now that you men--" Splash!

Jolting at the cold water splashing across her face and dripping right through her top, Sofie drops the cloth on the ground. She holds her arms out as if that will somehow prevent the contamination of water anywhere else on her, and hangs her head forward. It's a priceless, opened mouth moment, before:

"What. The. Fuck!!"

Both hands fly to her face, wiping water from her eyes and leaving them to blink open, glaring in his immediate direction. This time, that redness creeping across her skin, is all to do with a rising tide of fury. "Why the fuck did you do that for!" she shrieked, finding her voice loud and clear.

[Remy] Remy ignores her protests. See, he's not one of those Crescent-Moons who float through life in a haze, who seem to live with one foot in the spirit world at all times, and who seem to consider the spirit world nothing but indistinctness and abstraction. No, he's nothing like that. He's fierce, raw, vital, present. The spirits he draws to him are spirits of raw, visceral things. War. Blood. Wolverines and violence and glory and hawks.

But that doesn't mean he's not a Theurge. It doesn't mean he isn't, in his own way, do his job. Just. He has his own style.

And this is apparently his: dousing a sick kinswoman in freezing water mid-sentence, ignoring her protests, clapping his big hand over her forehead and closing his eyes -- a crude approximation of benediction. It's tongue-in-cheek. One hopes.

"Notre Mère, qui es aux la terre,
Que ton nom soit sanctifié. Amen.

"Nous vous conduisez à partir de nous,
qui que vous soyez,
esprits impurs,
tous les pouvoirs Wyrmiques,
tous les envahisseurs infernale,
tous les légions méchants,
assemblées et les sectes. Amen."

Then he takes his hand off her head, pats her cheek, and gives her a crooked grin. "Did I tell you I went to Catholic school for a few years? True story. Anyway, I just Cleansed you. You can thank me later."

[Remy] -- and on that note, he starts out of the bathroom.

[Sofie Janssen] It's good he's closed his eyes, because Sofie is looking at him like he really is one of those Theurge's that live their lives in a haze, detached from the world and more than slightly insane. Her skin is warm under his touch, damp from the water, but apparently she thinks he must know his (crazy) shit because she stands there, trying to figure out what devil-tongue he's speaking.

Amen?

Once he's done, he pats her cheek and she jerks her face back, swiping a hand at his turning shoulder. "Quit it." Perplexed and wondering what the hell, she watches him walk from the bathroom, feeling no better than when she first came in.

"Thanks Remy!" she hollers after him, and does, despite her previous lack of interest, steal a glance at the v-shape of his torso and the round of his rump before he's gone through the door.

Not long after, the Kinfolk has her wet cloth in hand, and shuts herself in her room.