Playmates

Bree's painted fingernails trailed over the rim of her glass, gliding around the circle continuously. Her green gaze moved placidly around the dark pub, thoroughly disappointed in the lack of entertainment.

She knew this area of Port Durmstrang well- she'd even experienced a fair number of, not dangerous per se, but interesting encounters around Kladbishcha. And yet, the woman sat at the bar, surrounded by a few drunkards scattered around the room, a couple of gambling dice on the floor and a cloaked stranger here and there. It was laughable.

Archer slid a dagger from her dark jacket sleeve, and it slipped easily into her hand. Her green eyes appraised the formidable weapon, silently admiring her own attention to detail. Before, it had been so easy- so natural- just to find danger, to find fun. Now all she was, was a drunk mother who looked as if she had stumbled upon a kitchen knife.

He looked entirely too young, entirely too unscathed for this kind of place. He knew it the second it came into view. He also came to the immediate and correct assumption that this was exactly where she was. The lingering traces of her now-familiar scent were in the doorway, in the street outside. He knew she was here.

Pushing his way into the darkened place, he walked forward, ignoring the way the patrons' eyes all snapped to him. If he had been his proper age, they would have shrank away into their glasses and games, they would have slipped into the shadows under the fear of the ministry's wrath.

But he was not his age.

Instead he was met with greedy eyes that swept his person. Brock had never known how to stand like someone submissive, nor did he ever learn how to keep his eyes cast downward when met with someone potentially stronger.

"Hey there, little one." Called a few guys who were obviously thieves. "Why don't you come over here and let us sell you something, yeah? We could even get you a piece of tail, teach you how to chase it properly..." They gave maniac grins and rose to accomidate him, but he brushed off their hands and stalked past them, continuing in his path straight for Bree.

Until one of them grabbed the back of his shirt.

"Hey now, Hey now. No need to be unfriendly." The leader, a man who stood at least a head taller than Brock grinned down at him, holding out his hand. "Won't you just sit with us a while-"

"Busy." Growled Brock, pushing one of the goons' hands off of him. "Looking for-"

Her scent tickled his nose again, and he was gone, ducking under their arms and moving toward the bar. He stood beside her for a moment, eyes sweeping her face before he groaned. "Are you drunk or something? Suck it up, will you? We've got a job to do."

Bree had heard his voice- it was familiar as the sound of her son's little gurgles, now- and it had almost made her want to turn around and face him. Almost. She was far too preoccupied with her dagger. She'd decided that voices sounded nicer when her ears weren't buzzing so irritatingly loudly.

Blowing out a deliberately melodramatic sigh, the strong scent of whiskey that escaped from her lips almost knocking her out of her own intoxicated haze, the woman turned her head to the boy who stood next to her.

A small drunken laugh bubbled from her mouth, her head rolled backwards as she appraised his height- everything about her movements were too relaxed, too lulled.

"Oh, look." She smiled lazily, and prodded him in the center of his chest. "It's the other junior." Bree laughed- it was almost close to a girly giggle, which was more than enough to indicate she was definitely drunk.

"A job?" Her laughter stopped, expression suddenly grim, green eyes startled. Her mood swings, however, was a trait that she shared with her sober self, too.

"Brock." Bree murmured lowly, frowning and leaned closer towards him, as if revealing a secret. "I haven't killed anyone for a long time. I don't think I'm ready for a job yet." She stage-whispered, her lips pulled into a pout.

He sighed through his nose, closing his eyes briefly before he gazed back up at her. She knew he was a bit... touchy... about his age at the moment, but she was also drunk. He would let it slip this once. Huffing, he snatched the knife from her fingers, holding it away from her and behind him.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste as the scent of alcohol came wafting over his senses, her scent nearly masked beneath all of it. His wolf didn't like that, and neither did he. It annoyed him beyond what it should, but his annoyance soon bloomed into anger.

He refused to think of the source.

"Lucky for you, I'm not talking about killing this time." He near snarled, his eyes flashing red. "I'm talking about Andrei."

"Hey!" Bree squealed as her dagger was snatched away- her senses were far too dulled to respond in enough time to protect her toy. Although, her arms tried to bend around him clumsily, trying to reach her weapon. "Give it back, Cox." She whined, before her dark hair fell into her face, causing a bubble of giggles to escape her lips- dagger forgotten- and she squinted through the brunette locks to see him.

Everything was so much nicer, in Bree's eyes, when she was like this. When she was sober, there was nothing that wasn't categorised- either into black, or into white. Good or bad. Couldn't or could. But when she was like this- there were these beautiful shades of gray. The lines that separated from what she had to do and wanted to do blurred. She was liberated.

"Oh, Andrei." Archer nodded slowly, conjuring a hazy image of her son's round face. "Good looking, isn't he?" Her lips fell into a lop-sided grin. "Gets it from his mother." She laughed. Then stopped abruptly, and dropped her head on the bar suddenly with a loud thunk.

"Andrei." She murmured into the table, her voice completely muffled.