one time thing.

[Helen Moore] She doesn't like the Brotherhood but there's reasons to be there. One of them being an encounter with a Fianna that she doesn't know anything about other then he's staying here. While she may not admit to sucking up her fearful memories of the place because she was checking to see if he is who he said he was, that's exactly what she was doing. Some part had nagged at her that it was wise to make sure the man that was Garou wasn't something she should be concerned about. It's a harmless fear, a little too late, but better late then never.

Fears are easier to face in the day, so while the sun is still shining and chasing back the shadows, the Kinfolk had made her way into the restaurant part of the Brotherhood. She didn't linger long, weaving her way towards the entrance for the second floor, passing by those she's seen awhile ago now, and only a few times, with a small smile and nod of greeting, before she's heading up the stairs to the second floor.

It's easy to tell that her heart is in her throat, her breathing is being controlled even though her heart rate has picked up. Her skin is a little more on the paler side and her bright eyes that much larger as she ascends. Having come from work, she's in fashionable peek toed, small heels, a knee length skirt and thin layers of camisole and summer, short sleeve blazer with a small neck scarf tied to the side. Blonde hair is clipped back, creating a bunch of curls at the back, and leaving the fine curve of her ears bared with their distractingly glittered diamond ear lobe piercings.

[Robbie Murdoch] Coming up the stairs, Helen can hear the distinctive crack-clack! of billiard balls colliding. There's music, loud enough to drown out her footsteps, and it comes from the entertainment system though the TV is off. It's something with a good beat, catchy but forgettable -- some internet radio station, maybe.

Robbie is standing with his back to the stairs when she reaches the top. He's surveying the green felt of one of the two pool tables, cue over his shoulders, hands gripping at either end. He's looking for his next shot. He appears to be playing alone. Just practicing, then.

[Helen Moore] It doesn't take her long to know who he is from the back, and with a glance around notices that it's also just him, that the television is off and that it's almost as she remembers it but not quite. Small differences, really. Or maybe she just never took as much notice of little details as she does now, hyper-vigilant that her senses were right now.

There's a bag in her hand, on her arm actually, one of those big handbag sorts that matches the colours she's wearing, all current season and summery. She rarely dresses in black during the day, definitely up with the trends. This bag she fidgets with, tucking it more firmly under her arm, the loop of its handles around her thin shoulders.

"Hello Robbie," she greets him over the music, still quietly, as she moves further away from the stair well but not too far into the room. Her gaze is still doing small darts away now and then, returning to the way he stands; very masculine and comfortable with that.

[Robbie Murdoch] There's a sort of rangy loosejointedness to the way he stands, pool cue over his shoulders, balance cantilevered to one leg. Even from the back he's tall, and limber, graceful.

His name called, the Galliard turns, alert-quick. His eyes flash across the distance. The pool cue swings down from his shoulders, gripped parallel to the floor now like a spear. He looks at her for only a second before his eyes flick past her to the stairs, all around -- then back.

"What's the matter? Are you in trouble?"

[Helen Moore] "What?" Her gaze shifts over her shoulder, neck twisting and her waist going with it. Then she swings it back around and looks directly at him. A little bewildered, she hadn't considered that he might have thought she was in trouble for showing up. He's Garou, she reminds herself.

"No. Nothing like that," she tells him, seeking to soothe. Her bag slides from her shoulder, drops down into her hand and the other comes to meet the first, holding it in front of her, arms straight, trying to look comfortable in a place that she wasn't. "I thought I might pop in and see you is all," this is softer.

[Robbie Murdoch] "Oh."

A beat, somewhat at a loss. Then he hefts the pool cue gently in his hand, turning back to the table. Somehow in that moment he looked away, he seems to have come to a decision. He swings around the side of the table, leans down, and takes a shot.

Ka-PLUNK. Perfect.

Rising up again, he reaches for the cube of chalk on the edge of the table. She's uncomfortable here; it seeps from her very pores, a stark contrast to how she was in her own home. This is his home -- but if he's comfortable here, it doesn't show either.

"How are you?" Small talk seems stiff on him.

[Helen Moore] She watches him, remaining where she is, standing and a little stiff. He asks how she's doing and she answers automatically, "I'm fine, thank you." There's a pause between her answer and question, where she wonders if this really is a good idea, "And yourself?"

Small talk does seem awkward. Where it had come naturally before, it doesn't now.

Her eyes slide to the billiard table, catches the approximation of how many balls are left before her gaze flicks back up to him again.

[Robbie Murdoch] The corner of his mouth flicks up, a quick expression. "I've been all right. Thank ya."

His voice is the same by day as by night, it seems: quiet, reserved. New Englander. He finishes chalking his cue, picks up the remote control laying on the side of the pool table, and turns down the music a little. Now they can talk without shouting.

"You were just in the neighborhood then?" He leans down to line up another shot, smoothly. Musingly, he realizes he has no idea what she does for a living. He supposes she probably works downtown. Lives in Lakeview. That would put the Brotherhood in her commute.

[Helen Moore] Moving into the room she comes to stand nearer by, not in the visual line of his shot or behind him, but closer to the wall. She rests her back gently against it after a moment, really doing her best to look more relaxed, work herself through the irrational (is it irrational?) fear she has of this particular room. "Actually, I don't come by here really. But to tell you the truth?" Her voice hitches the last, makes it a question, which matches the way her brows raise.

She doesn't wait for his answer though. "I thought I might come by, see that you really are who you say you are. And I really don't mean it to sound as bad as that is, it's just... I should have been a little more cautious." Hindsight, or something like it.

"And," breathing in, she plunges head: "I wanted to see you again."

[Robbie Murdoch] Robbie's eyes, which are visibly green in this light -- the pale, transparent green of colored glass, or shallow saltwater -- cast Helen's way as she says she wanted to make sure he was what he said he was. Or well. Insinuated. Perhaps not even that: all he ever said, after all, was

Do you know what I am?

"Caution isn't really in our nature," he says, and his eyes go back to the table, laser-keen, as he takes his shot. And rises, after, "Fianna, I mean."

Which she's probably guessed from his coloring. It's still the first time he's openly stated his tribe, and it turns out to be the same as hers. That makes sense too. Garou are territorial things. A Garou -- even one who dances in human clubs, who lives and hunts in a city -- wouldn't trespass against another wolf's tribe so easily.

What she says next, though, makes his eyes flicker aside. He's not much of a liar. It's hard for him to disguise his raw emotional state, or the flicker of a wince that ghosts over his face, tightens his cheek and twists his mouth. He's quiet for a moment, and then his eyes come back to hers.

"I'm flattered," he says quietly, "but I think I should say this right now and be clear. So I'm gonna just say it: I'm not looking for a mate. Or ... or even a girlfriend. I just ... "

Some Fianna. Some Galliard. He stumbles on his words, color in his cheeks now, his eyes flickering down. He picks up the cube of chalk again, if only for something to hold in his hands. The cue leaning against his shoulder, the passes the chalk idly from hand to hand and back again.

"It was a one time thing, Helen."

[Helen Moore] There's a long pause. Her mouth twists together, purses a little and she also looks away from him, but for a shorter amount of time. When she looks back to him her gaze is steady, not watching his hands or the cue, but takes in the profile of his face and the colour in his cheeks. There's anger there, a quick flare of it that she squashes, but it makes her have to breathe a little more consciously.

"That's quite alright, Robbie," her voice comes out steady, "I'm not looking for that either or expecting anything. Like I said, you don't have to explain yourself to me." Pushing her shoulders off the wall she stands on her own accord, slides the bag up onto her shoulder again. "I'm glad you're clear on your boundaries, but I'm disappointed that you think I'd be only there for that."

She's stepping away from the wall. She needs to go. Her blood is boiling. It chases away that apprehension and fear, so it has its use. She tries not to direct it to him because it's not all about him. "You're the nicest Fianna I've met since arriving here, the other, frankly, is an ass. It would have been nice to have a Tribe, without ... well," her huff is dry, not amused.

"Enjoy your game, yeah?" Head ducking a little, shoulders hunched, the Kinfolk makes a retreat out of there. Kicked in the guts under that clear Fianna temper that she tries desperately to keep under her civilized politeness.

[Robbie Murdoch] Given how he flushed, how he tripped over the explanation she's already said he doesn't need to give, one might expect Robbie to stammer apologies now. Or excuses. Or more explanations. Something, anyway: something disordered and awkward, stumbling, shy.

But there's nothing of that. There's only stillness. He's utterly still, standing with his weight evenly balanced now, the chalk held forgotten in one hand. She tries to hide her anger, but his eyes are keen and sharp, and they see everything. He bears witness to her anger, listens to her explanations; he takes it all in silently, without reaction, accepting it like objects cast into viscous fluid. One gets the sense that even if she were to rail at him he would not roar back, would not strike her, would not throw her down the stairs. He would be just as imperturbable. Just like this -- the stillness at the heart of the storm.

That may not be the case for every offense cast his way.

He watches her go, though. His eyes follow her, and his head turns to keep her in view, and when she wishes him a good game -- not quite genuinely, he suspects -- he simply nods once.

Whether or not he indeed goes back to the game after she's gone is anyone's guess.