Setrakian trails off, fingers tapping against the pages of the journal where he’s keeping his notes. He and Birdie sit across from each other at Fet’s long table at his place, the closest to neutral ground possible. Mostly because of how uneasy she’s been in the basement of the pawn shop.
They’ve been going over similarities and differences, Kindred vs. Strigoi, Birdie feeling the strange pressure of advocating for Kindred from a pretty vulnerable position. Fet left the room for some fresh air while she was explaining a vague theory that maybe the Strigoi made by the Master were like Vozhd, which had probably been the worst track to do down. ‘Oh yeah, they might be like these giant monsters some of us make out of people pieces sometimes for fun with dark magic rituals, they infested sewers in Los Angeles for a while from what I’ve heard. And by the way, we’re totally cool, really different from the Master just give us a chance.’
He hadn’t taken that theory well, given the set of his jaw when he’d stepped out.
Birdie curls in her seat, one foot on the chair and knee pressed to her chest, arms around it, and waits for the professor to finish. When a few more moments pass without him picking that thought back up, she prods, “What were you wondering?”
The look he gives her for that is as piercing as ever, and she can’t tell at first if it’s because she interrupted his thinking or because he’s just always going to look at her like that, like she’s a curiosity.
“From what you have told me, secrecy is paramount. This... Masquerade you all adhere to for survival.” He taps the page again, letting that hang for a second before he continues. “Why would you take the risk of a relationship with Mr. Fet, with any living person? What did you hope to gain?”
It feels, suddenly, like sitting at the kitchen table with her Ma and Joshua after Daddy had died, with him asking her what she expects to get out of running around like she does other than a reputation. A laugh gets out of her without her really having any control over the noise, a sudden bark followed immediately by silence. She puts her chin on her knee, lets herself consider the answer.
“I just wanted something good.” Her voice is quiet at that admission, naked honesty. The silence after it feels heavy while she puts the words together in her head that she wants to say next. “I spent the last ten years somewhere I couldn’t... Exist. Not as myself, not really. Not with people, Kindred or Kine. Everyone turned each other in, I was followed around, I couldn’t even sing what I wanted to. So I came back to New York and got greedy.”
Birdie can’t place the look on Setrakian’s face now, whether that knit in his brows is pained or angry or picking apart her words for further inquiry, so she looks away, focuses instead on some random piece of industrial architecture nearby.
His response is a ragged hum and that ever-present scowl. “No need for belaboring excuses.”
thanksgiving wip - for ~exterminatory
Setrakian trails off, fingers tapping against the pages of the journal where he’s keeping his notes. He and Birdie sit across from each other at Fet’s long table at his place, the closest to neutral ground possible. Mostly because of how uneasy she’s been in the basement of the pawn shop.
They’ve been going over similarities and differences, Kindred vs. Strigoi, Birdie feeling the strange pressure of advocating for Kindred from a pretty vulnerable position. Fet left the room for some fresh air while she was explaining a vague theory that maybe the Strigoi made by the Master were like Vozhd, which had probably been the worst track to do down. ‘Oh yeah, they might be like these giant monsters some of us make out of people pieces sometimes for fun with dark magic rituals, they infested sewers in Los Angeles for a while from what I’ve heard. And by the way, we’re totally cool, really different from the Master just give us a chance.’
He hadn’t taken that theory well, given the set of his jaw when he’d stepped out.
Birdie curls in her seat, one foot on the chair and knee pressed to her chest, arms around it, and waits for the professor to finish. When a few more moments pass without him picking that thought back up, she prods, “What were you wondering?”
The look he gives her for that is as piercing as ever, and she can’t tell at first if it’s because she interrupted his thinking or because he’s just always going to look at her like that, like she’s a curiosity.
“From what you have told me, secrecy is paramount. This... Masquerade you all adhere to for survival.” He taps the page again, letting that hang for a second before he continues. “Why would you take the risk of a relationship with Mr. Fet, with any living person? What did you hope to gain?”
It feels, suddenly, like sitting at the kitchen table with her Ma and Joshua after Daddy had died, with him asking her what she expects to get out of running around like she does other than a reputation. A laugh gets out of her without her really having any control over the noise, a sudden bark followed immediately by silence. She puts her chin on her knee, lets herself consider the answer.
“I just wanted something good.” Her voice is quiet at that admission, naked honesty. The silence after it feels heavy while she puts the words together in her head that she wants to say next. “I spent the last ten years somewhere I couldn’t... Exist. Not as myself, not really. Not with people, Kindred or Kine. Everyone turned each other in, I was followed around, I couldn’t even sing what I wanted to. So I came back to New York and got greedy.”
Birdie can’t place the look on Setrakian’s face now, whether that knit in his brows is pained or angry or picking apart her words for further inquiry, so she looks away, focuses instead on some random piece of industrial architecture nearby.
His response is a ragged hum and that ever-present scowl. “No need for belaboring excuses.”