New Kid in Town [Prp Logan]

[Sabra]

If there was one thing Sabra missed about living in her own damn house it was not having to haul her clothes down a staircase and pace about in a moldy smelling laundry room. The apartment complex was nice enough, nicer than most and probably more than she should have been spending her money on, but Sabra figured if she was going to live in the city then she might as well live somewhere half decent. Still, that didn't mean she trusted her clothes not be stolen.

"Don'tcha stall on me ya piece of crap."

The dryer was on the fritz again, but with a well aimed kick Sabra got it going. She hauled herself on top, crossing her legs Indian style as the thing hummed and bounced along. "Plenty of other things I could be doin' right now." Namely working on a way to make shine in her apartment without it stinking up the whole damn place. Scholarships only did so much and her part time job wasn't exactly bringing in the big bucks either.

It figured no matter how far she went from Kentucky she wouldn't be able to escape that integral part of her background. Sabra was still tinkering with the old still design she had copied off her father. Still, she was hesitant to embark on anything real adventurous, the complex's landlady was something else. Someone, namely, she didn't want to tangle with over such fares.

Maybe it would just be easier to get another job.

She flicked out her pocket knife with a sigh, blunting the edges of her finger nails. The city was no where near as interesting as she had been lead to believe.

(WOOP WOOP MY STARTERS BE LAME and also incredibly late)

[Logan]

There has never been a time in his life where Logan was not self-sufficient. Childhood was about staying out of trouble and learning, from an early age, that sometimes the things in storybooks were not always make-believe. It was easy, then, to know right from wrong. Then Ben came tumbling into existence as this screaming, pink-flushed thing, and suddenly Logan had a brother. After that, things weren’t so black and white. Fighting is wrong. Lying is wrong. But Logan fought and he lied, and it was justified because it was for his little brother.

Ben is dead. Logan has to remind himself of this on occasion, when the city grows quiet and the florescent numbers of the kitchen clock shift towards the dark morning hours. Logan still fights and he still lies, and it’s still justified because Ben might be gone, but Logan’s responsibility has grown tenfold. Aaden is sharp as a whip but for all the talking he does, he never says what he feels. Logan can’t get much more out of the kid but evasive answers and rushed sentences about school or something new he learned. They don’t talk about his parents and maybe it makes him a coward, but Logan is fine with that.

He worries, though, that he might not be doing right by Aaden.

An ingrained part of his brain that harkens back to family dinners and the warm comfort of a lived-in home, thinks that maybe he should find a girl and settle down. Boston, the pack, and the nature of his work sees Logan cutting off that idea before it can mature into a plan. He feels guilty when he thinks about subjecting someone to his lifestyle – his odd hours, his secretive occupation. There are plenty of lady wolves out there but Logan wants to keep the beast to human ratio in his apartment balanced – or, ideally, in favor of the human side. For now, he and Aaden do alright, just the two of them.

The kid is conked out on the sofa after a rousing game of checkers. Logan isn’t much for board games but Aaden is ridiculously intense about them. Logan doesn’t even have to pretend to give up ground; Aaden soundly beats him in growing frequency. He uses the down time to see to some chores and the pile of laundry sitting in the bathroom hamper is calling his name or, rather, it’s calling his nose. There are downsides to the whole werewolf thing.

Logan pushes inside the communal laundry room and sets the full hamper on the counter. He is wearing a grey wife-beater and a pair of age-washed jeans. There are a few tatters and tears here and there, and his tattooed arm is fully in view. His scarred face and inset, natural scowl, paint a certain picture attributed to late-night crime dramas but the image is ruined when he pulls a pair of batman-themed children’s briefs from the pile. He tosses the garment inside the washing machine and follows through with the rest.

”I hope you aren’t planning on mugging me,” he says in jest. Logan flashes the pocket-knife wielding woman a lopsided smile. He doesn’t know her, he has maybe seen her in passing but Logan is often too lost in his day’s affairs to pay his surroundings much heed. He adds the recommended amount of detergent into the wash and sends the machine rumbling to life. ”You moved in here recently, right?” His curiosity is honest but not prying. Logan thinks he should probably have a more vested interest in who shares the building with him and, more importantly, with Aaden – especially when they smell of wolf.

”I’m Logan.” He offers his hand and his best smile.

[Sabra]

It's peaceful, the rumble of the dryer, the slow scrape of her knife, relieving a week's of dirt from beneath her fingernails. It gives her time to think beyond obligations and bills. Sabra doesn't bother to look up at the sound of footsteps, not until the bottom of the hamper scrapes against the cement floor and a man fills the door way. She closes the sharp blade with a click, returns it to it's place on her belt. So far she hasn't done much in the way of making her presence known to her neighbors, and so far, neither have they.

For a moment she watches him, her gaze neither here nor there. "Not unless ya try to mug me first." He's a big man and he has that look about him, the 'I've been there and see that' one. His scars say so, as do the lines on his face. Maybe, a few month ago when Sabra was still in wonder of the sky scrapers she would have allowed herself to entertain the thought of this man being a gangster, some hired muscle, but then he pulls out a pair of Batman briefs and she breaks a crooked smile, one to match his own.

Now she's beginning to put face to memory, the thud of boots down the hall, a pair of lighter feet trailing behind him and the high voice of a young boy. It was all too easy to eavesdrop on the going ons of the apartment complex with her wolf sharpened ears and while Sabra thinks she could have gone without knowing about the night time activities of the couple who lived above her (perhaps more aptly their affinity for role playing) she had to admit it was nice in a way.

To stand in the elevator, watching a mother and son bicker and know exactly what the fight had been about. It was a small measure of comfort in a world she still felt very out of place in.

The dark haired woman nods in answer to his question and leans forward from her seat to give him a hearty shake, firm and confident, calloused hands on calloused hands. "I'm Sabra, it's nice to meet you." She slips her hand from his, sliding down from the churning dryer to stand, trying to ignore the way her beast twitches under her skin. It's rare that Sabra lets her out for any reason excluding those forced occasions of the full moon, but here she can feel her stretch and blink with recognition of her own kind.

Sabra tilts her head to the head, peering out from her bangs at the tattooed man. "Have you been in the city long?" She asks in the way of both self interest, any knowledge she could draw from him and the want to converse, cover up the itch between her shoulder blades.