Time: Oct. 25, Friday, later in the evening after "Interrogations", after Frank is off work, after "In the Study of the Prince"
Cash is pleasantly surprised that Frank even owns a bike, let alone that it is a classic like the Sturgis he is riding. The detective handles it well, too, the Gangrel notices as they pull into the parking area in front of the Haven. There are a dozen other bikes parked there already, -- most he recognizes as belonging to clan sibs -- a good crowd for a Friday night. Cash looks automatically for Sasha's Sportster, but it is nowhere to be found. The two men carefully park their rides at the end of the line of bikes and dismount.
"Get me through this, Cash," Frank murmurs to the Gangrel chief, a smile on his lips, though the quick hand through the hair and the automatic check for his piece tells a lot about his state of mind.
Cash grins at that. "Frank, don't telegraph where your backup is... Anyway, the Haven is neutral territory."
Frank's service revolver is tucked into the back of his belt under his black leather jacket. "Ah, yeah, you're right. Neutral, eh? Whatever." He grins back, feeling a bit wild though cautious.
The roar of another Harley parking cuts off Cash's reply. "Stone!!! C'mere! Want you to meet somebody....." Cash yells to his second as the tall blond Gangrel dismounts.
Stone ambles over, the prowling quality of the clan looks natural on the lanky man. He grins at his sibling. "Heya, Cash! Thought you were on duty tonight!" The Gangrels clasp forearms, then hug briefly. Frank notices though that Stone rubs his face into Cash's hair and neck, breathing in deeply, a satisfied smile on his face.
"This *is* my duty tonight, man. Meet Frank Kouhanek. Frank, my second in command, John Stone."
[Huh,] Frank thinks, immediately recognizing the intimacies as something akin to a tribal handshake or some shit like that. He grins, liking it. "Hey, John Stone, how are ya, man," Frank replies with a grin, holding out his hand.
The tall blond shakes, no test of strength, the Kindred knows he could crush the bones in the mortal's hand, but firm and cool. "Not too bad. You're the detective Cash told us about, right?"
A glance to Cash, and Frank realizes he's probably been a favorite topic and wonders for how long. Rolling his eyes, he nods, shrugging. "Yeah, that would probably be me."
"Catch you inside, bro. Snag us a couple of chairs," Cash says.
Stone nods and makes a 'later' gesture to the two of them as he heads for the door.
Frank gives a bit of a whole-body shake, edging closer to Cash. "So... what was that rubbing thing, huh? It was... kinda cool." He realizes he likes it just as he says that, and smiles at his own reaction.
"Frank, remember what I said earlier about the Gangrel being kinda feral - the 'wildest' of the Kindred. I mean that in an animal way, not a party way. Scent is important to us, very important."
"Scent." The mortal nods, thinking about that. "Huh, amazing."
"When Stone rubbed his face in my hair, it was to get 'reconnected' like wolves do after a hunt." Cash looks over, trying to judge the mortal's reaction. "And you should have *my* scent on you if you're going to spend the night among the clan. Not that they don't *know* you are under Julian's hand, but this will reinforce it."
Frank rubs at his chin, glances over. "Um, right..." He gestures with an open hand. "You're right. So...?"
Cash grins to see the mortal, usually so brash and self confident, now rather abashed. "I won't bite, Frank. Not yet," he grins. Cash closes the three or four steps between them and puts his arms around the detective. "You're gonna have to come down here, buddy. I ain't standing on tiptoe," he mock growls.
Frank gives the Gangrel a genuine grin, and drapes his arms around the shorter man, too, letting his head drop down to his shoulder. "Like this, Cash?"
"Yeah," Cash whispers, drawing in a deep breath, imprinting this fledgling-to-be's mortal essence on his senses. "Yeah, you smell like one of us already, gun oil and leather."
A curious sense of homeyness settles through the detective, like he's found something he had once, then lost. Yeah... a connection. He takes a deep breath, too, but of course his mortal senses aren't as acute. Still, he at least can smell leather and the other man's subtle scent somewhat. "Cool," Frank sighs.
"Very." Cash's rough voice is almost a purr. Reluctantly, he pulls away, aware even if Frank has forgotten that they are standing at the curb in front of a busy club. "Let's go get that beer, eh?"
"Sounds good," Frank murmurs, and a hand touching the Gangrel's back lightly, follows him into the club. The hand drops inside, but he remains close... looking around, scoping. Wondering.. who is... who isn't.
Catching sight of his clan sibs, Cash steers Frank toward the tables that the Gangrels have claimed. The Brujah are carefully sitting across the room, both camps watching out of the corner of eyes.
"You're a marked man, Frank," Cash mutters, slanting a hard glance at the Brujah.
"Shit," Frank murmurs, realizing what Cash is talking about. The icy glance toward another table tells him enough. Brujah. "Terrific." He does not want to think that Cash brought him here so the Brujah will see him. Nope, couldn't be. [Fuck.] Carefully, Frank avoids making eye contact with anyone in that direction.
"Can't avoid them, Frank. They have the right to be here, too. Neutral territory."
"Yeah." Frank feels hairs on the back of his neck creep up. "Neutral. Just get me through this."
"Frank, relax, they won't start anything here. I brought you to meet more of the Gangrel, not show you off to the Brujah."
"You know," Frank adds in a low voice, "I blew one of them out of my window with one of your phosphorous guns when he tried to Embrace me. Damn, just remembered that..."
"THAT was you, gods," Cash all but laughs out loud. "They were blaming the Gangrel, the Nosferatu, the Ventrue, hell, somebody mentioned the Sabbatt!!!" Cash chuckles low, "Gangrel before you even knew we existed, Frank."
"Yeah?" The detective grins, then smiles, nodding, as they reach the table of Gangrel.
The two men come on up to the table. Stone is sitting, back to the wall, in the center seat, an empty on each side of him. As Cash comes around the table, he rises and moves to the right hand chair. Cash sits down in the center chair and motions Frank to the last empty.
Frank turns the chair around and plops down, leaning forward on the back of it. [This ought to be interesting...] He feels excited, though his natural wariness is still operating.
As one of the Gangrel women hand him a beer, Cash starts in on the introductions. "Thanks, Frank, this is Smokey." Cash indicates the girl. "Stone you met outside, Mic the Irishman (not to be confused with Mic the Ventrue), Lise, Bobby...." Cash goes around the two tables that have been shoved together. "I know you won't remember all the names, but then, you'll have a long time to get everybody sorted out." He gestures toward his companion. "Gang this is Frank. He's cool."
Frank nods, shakes hands, goes around the table. "Hey, Smokey... Mic... how's it going... Lise... Bobby..." He continues, and fails at the last couple names. Frank smirks at Cash. "Yeah, tell me about that long time!" Somewhere in all the introductions, a beer has appeared in front of Frank, he is grateful to see. He takes a long sip. [Need this BAD!]
The conversation flows around the mortal, people and places he doesn't know and jokes where the punchline seems slightly skewed. Frank knows that it will take time to be accepted and even just sitting here drinking with them is an important first step.
He also notes that each and everyone of those Cash identified as Gangrel at some point come up to Cash and touch him, a handshake, a touch on the shoulder, a quick kiss on the cheek from the women. [More of that clan stuff,] Frank thinks to himself.
And it's the "clan stuff" that tugs at him the most, he realizes, what he's been missing so much, that connectedness that he's never found even at the PD. Of course there, except now for Sonny, everyone thinks he's crazy. [Always alone, always a maverick,] Frank thinks, sipping on his beer as he listens intently. [Now... maybe not so alone.]
The End
