shadows

Who: Brett and Eris
Where: the loft above the One More Round
When: around 3am

It was a dark, and stormy night. But then it seemed like it was an endless series of them, the only thing marking the passage of time differently being the songs she sang downstairs. It was late when she started up the narrow, claustrophobic stairwell to the loft. The theme of the evening was she was feeling dead on her feet, tired in a bone-deep-ache sort of way. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she was wondering if this was what her existence was going to be now. Waking up, heading downstairs eventually, singing songs, coming back home. She didn't even speak to anyone, really. Not the band, not anyone in the club. Hell, she had it currently set up that the owner put her cut in the mail slot in an unmarked envelope.

It was possible her existence could become so muted. Not for the first time, not even the first time that night, she thought about him. Trent. Wondering how long it was going to be before he hunted her down. Or if he would. He might not. He might decide that he was happy to be rid of her. It wasn't like she'd done him any favors. Taking her in, not just dropping her into the river to drown, that had been nothing but hell on him since he'd made that less than intelligent decision. It was one thing she very much understood. Something she knew, very very well. It was part of why she'd left, after all. Not all of it, but part of it. The other part she didn't so much like thinking about. The idea that she'd grown attached. That she needed to leave, or she wasn't going to have the proper drive to do it later. That she knew she was clinging to staying with him because the idea of being alone was one that sent her mind spiralling. It was why she hadn't gone up the stairs quickly, to let herself back into the loft. Once that door shut she was in fact, alone again. She wouldn't so much hear the rumble of voices from the bar below, even if it was new years and the party was still in crippled swing. It was starting to die down, people drunkenly clinging to one another for balance as they walked off into the night. Either way, she wasn't going to hear much of them. It'd be too quiet. No screaming kids across the hall like at Brett's. No alternately fighting and fucking couple above that sometimes made the ceiling light sway. It would be quiet, except for the sound of the rain, and her record player.

The lights in the stairwell didn't work. The wiring was faulty, and only flickered and buzzed at the best of times, so Eris had compensated--there were white christmas lights winding along the handrail. They didn't shed a lot of light, though. In fact, they almost made the enclosed, suffocating feeling worse. But, with a space like that, she'd needed something, so that was it. The steep incline didn't do her any favors, and she leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling stuffy and in need of air. But then she often did. She used to, back in Brett's apartment. There were nights when he was out that she'd open up the windows wide, and curl up beneath them, letting the rain in so it fell on her. Even if most of the time it wasn't even enough to get her damp, it was something.

But that was the kind of life you lived when when you were a woman who was meant to be dead. When you were still a missing person, believed to be deceased. When you stuck to the shadows, and didn't stray, because straying was going to get her ticket punched really god damned fast. Making herself move, thinking about a hot bath, and then maybe some time with the windows wide, the skylight open, she pushed open her door, and walked in.

Leaning on the door first to shut it, she started to reach behind herself to start clicking the locks shut. She had a lot of them. One might call it excessive. But really, it was only excessive if you weren't someone who quite a lot of the city might kill on sight, or if one word got out...she reached down and hopped on one foot to tug a heel off, the strap snapping as she pulled too hard, and she swore quietly under her breath, letting it drop to the floor with a light clatter. Then she went to take her other shoe off, when she gasped softly, seeing a figure in the shadows. She didn't have a whole lot of furniture. The loft was a big, wide open space, probably something that at one time would have been considered luxurious. Nowadays, it was in disrepair, and the quiet was punctuated with the steady sound of drips landing in buckets or bowls, the collections of them in various places on the floor. But no, she saw, over by where she had her chair, her loveseat, the record player, a little 'living room' grouping as it were, someone was there. Someone, in the shadows, just sitting there. Her heartbeat kicked up in an instant, and she felt like she couldn't breathe. That was likely because she stopped breathing.

He'd been waiting for a long time, the sound of revelry and drunken partying going on in the street below, vying with the sounds of the storm, though the rain had kept many people off the streets. He'd settled after a while - after he'd looked round, properly familiarised himself with her place, once he knew where everything was. Or most things - he left the girl some privacy. He'd watched her, silently, as the door had opened and she'd finally arrived, let her get in, let her lock the door securely behind her. He waited until she saw him, realised that for all the locks on the door, she wasn't actually alone. And only then did he say anything, from his seat in the shadows. "Happy New Year, Princess," he said, his voice gruff and devoid of any real tone of congratulation or celebration, as it was merely a conversation piece, or an observation.

Hearing his voice at once sent relief flooding through her, as well as hiked up her anxiety. It also, oddly, on a level she couldn't explain, flat out made her feel better. Even if he had scared the living shit out of her. She sagged back against the door, exhaling, and she almost slid down it, but didn't. Brett. Of course. Thank. God. Or maybe just thank her lucky god damn stars, because she didn't really figure any deities were taking calls from her anymore. She gave herself a second, to get her heart to get out of her throat, at the very least. Her eyes were squeezed shut for a long few moments, before she looked back at him. Or the shadows that contained him. She could make out his shape there, familiar to her. In the back of her mind, she wondered if he'd done that on purpose. If he'd seen her tonight, her performance. After all, she did them much like he was there--shrouded in shadows. So was it on purpose? Or was it just him being vaguely disconcerting in the dark? How long had he been there? Had he just found her tonight? Kicking herself out of her own mental spiral, she reached down again to finish taking off her other shoe, dropping it down to the floor with the first, and she finished locking up. "Evening, sweetheart." she said in return to him, after what she knew was too long a silence. She had more she could have said, but didn't even know where to start. So...she went with that instead. Just because he'd used 'Princess', what she'd always thought of as his 'nice' name for her(even if 'nice' was a relative term, and didn't necessarily coincide with the usual definition), that didn't mean she hadn't caught his tone. He was pissed.

He watched her, unmoving, staying exactly where he was, but noting her reactions. He was unsurprised that she clearly hadn't expected him to be there - he'd broken in, after all. She didn't think that he knew where she was. She probably hadn't ever expected him to find her. Especially not just three days after she walked out on him.

No, that wasn't right - to say that she'd walked out on him would have suggested that he'd been there when she'd left, rather than what had actually happened - which was that she'd waited until he'd been out, and then without a word of warning, she'd packed her few things and left. The first he'd known about it had been when he'd read her note. The note that said nothing about where she'd be, or what she'd be doing. For all he knew, she'd left town. For all he knew, she'd stepped outside the door and been disappeared.

It had taken him three days of looking to locate her, Three days of talking to people and piecing things together. It hadn't been easy - he couldn't ask direct questions, after all. Eris Stockard was meant to be dead - and he was meant to be one of the guys who'd had a hand in killing her. Not that the people on the streets knew that latter part, but walls had ears and tongues wagged and Brett didn't want to find himself face down in the river the way he'd been meant to leave her. He wanted to find the dame, but he wasn't willing to die for her. Still, once upon a time he'd been a damn good cop, and he knew what questions to ask and where to ask them. And he knew how to piece a puzzle together. So, here he was, sitting and watching her, enjoying her discomfort right now.

Letting the silence go on for another minute or two, she finally got herself as under control as she was going to get. Things for the past few days had wound up getting fuzzy around the edges at times. The medication she was meant to be taking was on the nightstand...pills sort of haphazardly spilled out over it, mixed together. She'd never been good at remembering it. What to take, when. How often. It got confused. She was clear if tired at the moment, or that was how she felt. Pushing herself off of the door, she crossed into the shadows, near him but not going to him. Passing almost close enough to reach out and touch him, and part of her wanted to, she refrained. Instead, she stopped in front of the record player, and put one on, turning the volume down low enough that they could speak over it comfortably, but if anyone happened to be listening, they might have a little more trouble discerning what was being said. Paranoia had taken hold and gripped her unyeildingly. And really, coming home to someone just being there, waiting didn't help that at all. "I wondered how long it might take you to find me. If you were going to find me." she said. "If you hadn't by Monday, I was going to try and find a way to get word to you." Not that she'd figured out how she'd pull that yet. Which was why she'd given herself a fairly generous allotment of days to puzzle it out in.

"Right, course you were, sweetheart," Brett said, sarcastically, his eyes following her as she crossed the room. He thought she was coming up to him at one point, but then she just kept on walking. "Clearly, you wanted me to know where you were - what with you leaving without a word of intent and your not telling me shit about where you were going." The edge of anger burned through in his tone, clearly stating how unamused he was by her behaviour. She'd just gone. She'd left. He hadn't thrown her out, he hadn't told her to get lost - she'd just left.

She turned back around to face him, thinking maybe it was a good thing she'd opted not to turn lights on, really. Her eyes focused on him anyhow, the outline of his shadow in her chair. "Because that wouldn't have been ill advised for either of us." she said. "I left you a note." she paused. "I left you four notes. I said I'd be around. But I couldn't exactly just leave you something that said exactly where I'd be. What if something happened? What if someone got into your place before you got home? Or I got seen, or...a lot of things could have gone wrong with that." she said, attempting to be reasonable. "It's not my fault if you didn't trust me when I said I'd be around." she added, knowing that was going to go over badly the second it was out of her mouth.

Trust. Trust was the one thing that Brett didn't do - and with good fucking reason. Trusting people had nearly gotten him killed. Not trusting people was keeping him alive. She'd got a hell of a lot farther than anyone else in the last three years towards that whole trust thing, and on some levels he did - and on others, he really, really didn't. On some levels he was just waiting, waiting for the day that she'd finally screw him over. When she'd finally disappoint him and let him down - and that had come three days ago. "You'd 'be around'?" he said, after a moment or two of silence, the scathing sarcasm still there, contempt dropping off every word. "Like that wasn't a blow off, Eris. And sure, you left me four notes - two of them from imaginary fucking people, one explaining the imaginary fucking people and the other one. If you'd really wanted me to know where you were, you didn't have to leave me notes at all. You could have just told me to my fucking face you were leaving."

No, I really, really couldn't have. Because if you'd come home, then I'd just want to put it off. And even if you were pissed, I'd still put it off. I'd even rather fight with you than leave. But I can't just keep staying there, can I. Things are too messed up as they are. Trust me, baby, this was for the best. went through her mind, though she didn't say it. Instead, she was silent for a moment, listening to the light scratches in the music on the record. The only visible reaction she had was a flinch when he used the name 'Eris'. Which she would have liked to have hid, but she didn't pull it off. He'd done it to get the reaction anyways, so maybe that would give him some form of satisfaction. "If it was a blow off, I would have left without a word." she told him flatly. "I didn't. And I didn't tell you to your face, because you were already pissed about things. And I didn't exactly want to compromise your position or safety again, just in case uninvited guests decided to show up again." she added. "And the imaginary people took a lot of thought, thank you." she added on the end, because she had to. "And don't call me that." With that, she started to walk past him, her general plan to find a bottle of whatever she came across first, pour herself a drink, and take a bath. And Brett could do what he wanted. Though she was aware she'd locked them in deliberately.

The uninvited guests - some of the guys who'd appeared on his doorstep, needing him for another job. Always another fucking job, but that was who he was now, wasn't it? Just another bulldog, nothing else. Muscle on a payroll, though he did little to nothing with the money he received for it. The place he lived was nothing more than a shithole, he spent as much on food as he needed to stop himself from starving; he spent whatever was needed on clothes to keep himself dressed to what was considered by his superiors to be an acceptable standard, but even then he stretched that as much as he could. He rarely went out to purchase any of the various forms of entertainment. He could live to a far better standard, but he chose not to. It wasn't that he was penny-pinching, it was just that the source of his income sat badly with him, like an itch under his skin. Most of what he'd had had been stored under his floorboards until recently - and then it had been given to a doctor to take care of a half dead woman. The woman who was now standing before him, having walked out on him.

"I'll call you whatever the fuck I like, darling," Brett growled, choosing another one of his many names for her at random. There were so many, and each said something about his mood and mindset when he was talking to her. Or arguing with her - the boundaries there were blurred, as often as not.

She was walking past when she stopped short a moment, looking down at him. Though not trying to seek out his eyes, she noticed a bandage around his hand. She reached out, almost touched the fabric, but stopped short of it, fingertips never quite getting there. "What did you do to your hand?" she asked. They could argue about her name. And if he kept that shit up, they would, but for the moment, she was distracted. He'd not had that when she'd seen him last, after all, so that meant it happened since then. She was gone for three days and he was turning up injured...not that that was necessarily a huge oddity, but still.

"What do you fucking think happened to my hand? I hit something," he spat, brushing it off. Hitting something wasn't an odd occurrence for him these days, and occasionally his hand didn't take it overly well. Well, she could believe that it had been caused by whatever the hell he'd been dragged off to do that night, rather than the actual truth - which was that he'd come home and read her note. That he'd realised she'd skipped out on him. And that he'd been so fucking angry he'd taken it out on the wall - and for all he lived in a fucking dump of an apartment block, the wall had turned out to have pretty damn good staying power. So now there was cracked plaster, a dent that should have been bigger in his mind and a smear of his blood on his living room wall.

"Would you like to be more specific, sweetheart?" she asked, tone light. She kept her eyes down on it, trying to determine if she saw any dried blood or otherwise. Trying to figure out how fresh an injury it was. "Has it been seen to properly? You didn't break it, did you?" she asked, expecting to be snapped at again. Really, what this meant was she was going to need to go for some lights in a moment, so she could try and tell if it was swollen or not. Or, that was the story she was telling herself, anyhow. It had nothing to do with the fact that she hadn't seen him for three days, and wanted to now, even if he was in the middle of giving her holy royal hell.

"No, sweetheart: I wouldn't like to be more specific. And it's fine, so you can stop pretending to be concerned now," he told her, moving his bandaged hand back a little. He wouldn't admit it, but he was hurt. Not just his hand, but actually hurt by her leaving. And where she went to. Here, this apartment right here so she could work downstairs. In that bar. It had to be that bar didn't it? The only place in the city it was harder to show his face was down in the tunnels. A guy could think that kind of a move was personal - and Brett was that guy.

Eris let out a sigh, and moved to light a few candles as lightning lit up the room brightly for a few seconds. She got a good glimpse of him there, just a moment, lit up, and he looked so angry. Angry was a good look on him. That didn't mean she wanted to spend the rest of her night until dawn finally broke fighting with him. The image was going to stay with her, though. "Who says I'm pretending?" she asked. "I never bothered before, I'm not sure why you'd assume I'd start now." she said, looking away to light the candles she had around. She tended to have a lot of them. Sometimes the electric lights gave her headaches, especially on nights like tonight when they wouldn't be steady in the first place. So, she opted to pre-emptively strike a power outage. "Have you had it looked at or not."

"I'm quite fucking capable at looking after myself," Brett pointed out to her, ignoring her other comment. It was different now because she was clearly able now to look after herself - she'd struck out on her own. She didn't need him any more, so why shouldn't she pretend? Why shouldn't she do whatever the hell she felt like to him. After all, she'd walked out the fucking door. That said enough and said it loud and clear to Brett's hurt-clouded brain. He never saw well through the anger, not when it was personal. For all he could connect the dots in his professional life easily, when it came to his own life, emotion got in the way - and the dominant emotion for Brett over the last three years had been a forceful, ever present anger as he railed against the world and all it had done to him. So, to him, here and now, she could clearly look after herself. Never mind the mess of pills on the nightstand, never mind that he knew that she couldn't remember which ones she needed to take when, never mind he knew full well the difficulties that day to day living gave her. No - to him, she'd rejected him. To him, she didn't need him any more.

Setting the candle she'd lit down, a warm, red one that smelled like cinnamon, she looked at him for a long moment. This time she let herself gaze at his face, at his eyes. While candle light was a nice thing that hid a multitude of sins, they didn't do his eyes justice. And she'd always liked his eyes. They were the first clear thing she remembered after the lights went out. That bright, clear blue. She walked back over, bare feet silent on the floor and she looked at him, keeping her eyes on his. "So that'd be a no." she said. "It looks swollen to me." Nevermind she wasn't actually looking at it now. "Do you want a drink?"

"No - I don't want a drink," he told her, facing for the first time that question of what did he actually want? He hadn't thought that through. He hadn't thought any further than this confrontation. Hadn't thought any further than finding her. Then getting in here. Then waiting for her return. Then showing her that he'd found her. And he'd done all of that. So: now what? He should leave, that was what. He'd done what he wanted to do, and he should leave her to it - to get on with her life.

Then what do you want, Brett? went through her mind. She sat on it for a moment, just looking at him, watching him. There were a few things that went through her mind that she could say, but she didn't. Instead, she reached out, to take his hand, so she could look at it--basically expecting him to wrench it away, but she wasn't going to let a little thing like logic stop her. Logic and she weren't the best of friends these days. Hadn't been since the brain damage had kicked in.

He didn't stop her as she took his hand, feeling the brush of her skin against his. It wasn't until the thought went through his mind that her skin was so soft that the baseline anger kicked back up again and he pulled his hand away, standing up. "I told you - I can look after myself," he said, stepping around her and away from her. He focused his inner anger towards her, blaming her for anything rather than admitting that he was really angry at himself, for letting himself get in this position in the first place.

There was a moment of surprise...and then reality kicked right back in again and there was the pulling away thing. "I'm aware of that, Trent, but it appears to me that you've neglected to do that, regardless of your ability to." she said. Which could be total bullshit, for all she knew. He could have taken good care of whatever happened underneath the bandage. Swelling wasn't anything unusual, if you hit something that didn't have enough give. She imagined anything he hit wasn't going to have much of that. "Let me take a look at it." she said. Then, after a pause, she added something else. "Please."

Brett turned back to her, staring down at her, his face set save for a slight twitch of his jaw, just once, when she said please. "Why? Why do you even..." He broke off, unable to bring himself to say that 'C' word. 'Care' was off limits, to both of them - that was just the way it was.

She was glad he didn't finish that thought. Because it was someplace the both of them refused to go. The man had saved her life, and afterwards ensured she was taken care of one way or another. She was attached. But they still had twitches. Thoughts and ideas that just did not fly, regardless of any reality of the situation. She didn't answer him right away, keeping her eyes up on his. He was an imposing figure, when he wanted to be, even if that wasn't what she was getting off of him at the moment. He was a lot bigger than she was, and she was well aware of the fact that as easily as he'd made sure her life hadn't been extinguished? He'd be able to end it. Just the stray thought made her want to reach up, touch the scar that ringed her neck. But she resisted. Instead, she reached out lightly for his injured hand again. "If anyone showed up, and they caught me there, we'd both be dead." she said, instead of answering his question. Or, maybe it did answer him, just in a very indirect way. It was her way of trying to tell him that she hadn't left because she up and decided one morning that she really wanted to try out life on the seedy side again. Get back to her roots as it were.

"That never seemed to have bothered you before," Brett pointed out. She'd been living with him for several weeks, after all - ever since the doctor had disappeared. He knew, he could recognise that what had happened the other night could have happened sooner. That, really, they'd been lucky. But he didn't want it to be like that - he wanted it to be evidence that she'd just left. That she'd screwed him over, like everyone else had. Because he knew, deep inside, that it was bound to happen sooner or later. And if this was it, then at least it would be done with and he could just crawl back into his shell and be miserable again. Because he knew that, until that day - until she finally disappointed - he would continue to cling to her, to hold on in the hope of he didn't even know what. In the hope of something. Maybe just clinging to the hope of hope. As fucking pathetic as that was, but, after what he'd been reduced to, what else did he have?

"Well, I wasn't faced with anyone showing up and barging in. I didn't really enjoy hiding, wondering if they were going to find me, and shoot us both in the back of the head." she said, maintaining the eye contact. "Up until then I was willing to let myself believe that it would be alright. I was proved wrong. You were left with questions you needed to answer, and you need to not be answering any questions, love. You need to not draw attention, and the attention you did draw you need to explain. So they can sweep it back under the rug and forget all about it again." There was a reason she'd written him the notes from imaginary girlfriends. It hadn't been to be cute. There was method. Since he hadn't stopped her, she took his hand again, and finally broke the eye contact to gently tug the bandage aside, so she could get a look at what he'd done to himself. And whether or not he'd done a proper job patching himself up. Or if she could find anything to possibly pick at that would mean she had something she could actively fix with it.

His knuckles were bruised and broken, though they'd started to scab, if badly. The scabs tended to crack every time he flexed his hand, or clenched his fist, and there was still the remains of swelling there. He didn't think it was broken, but he hadn't actually had it checked out. He didn't think it hurt enough to be broken. "Don't worry about my ability to deflect questions, Princess. I can handle that," he told her. He'd been doing it for years, after all. Deflecting questions about what he did with his money, for starters. And then there were the women - that game he'd been playing for longer. He'd learned years ago that men didn't like it when there wasn't a girl round on occasion. They got twitchy. But Brett knew that someone like him would never be able to hold a woman's attention, didn't even try to, he was so rock solid sure of that. So, he'd been inventing passing girlfriends for years, or, in the last few years, gone with a more simple path. She'd just put more effort into it than he ever did. She'd given them personalities. If he hadn't been so blindingly angry at her leaving, he might even have been impressed.

It was back to princess, she noticed. It made a smile very lightly touch her lips, even if she didn't look back up from where she was studying his knuckles, his hand held in both of hers. She turned it this way and that, trying to get a proper view in the candle light, not that that actually helped matters. It was candle light. It didn't suddenly cooperate just because. So, she glanced towards the bathroom, then back up to his eyes. "Come with me." she said. She gave his wrist the slightest of tugs, and took a step in that direction, basically intending to fuss over his hand for a moment or two. As long as he was willing to humor her for. "I have faith in your ability to deflect. I just wanted to give you something solid to go with the solid evidence of a female presence at your apartment. And while I'm sure you're very good at misdirection...you can't actually make me disappear. So...I did. Wouldn't do, would it? You deciding not to kill me, and both of us winding up in the river anyhow?" She viewed it differently than she stated it. Wording it in the light she did see it--that he'd saved her life--was a little bit much to say aloud. Even if she contemplated that a lot in her long hours alone.

I'm not a murderer, Brett thought to himself as she led him to the bathroom, but he didn't say it out loud. She'd probably just give him a look at that anyhow. She wouldn't understand - because he'd killed before. He'd had to. It was expected of him, and if he didn't, then he'd be dead himself. But he'd killed in his line of work and, for Brett, there was a difference. An incredibly fine difference, but one he clung onto. He needed to hold onto that. He wouldn't be a murderer. His job that night hadn't been to kill her. His job had been to dispose of the body. Well, he did that - after a fashion. She wasn't where they'd left her. And he knew that was bullshit, but he hadn't been able to kill her.

Flicking on the bathroom light, she hesitated in the doorway until the flickering bulb decided it wanted to stay lit, then she entered. She walked in, the space actually being fairly large for a loft as bad off as it was, but again, it looked like at one point? It had been beautiful. The tub was a huge, black claw foot and while the tile on the floor wasn't quite the sharp black and white checkered it was before, one could still see it. The mirror had warped some, stains leeching in from the edges. Opening up the medicine chest beneath the sink, she started to get out her own first aid supplies. She set them on the aged marble countertop. "Sit." she said. She might have continued the conversation, but he hadn't, so she was leaving things as they were for the moment.

A stubborn part of Brett almost kept standing, just to be contrary, but he sat after a pause, watching her lay everything out. He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve, revealing the twisting and turning dragon tattoo that spiraled up his lower right arm as he rested it on the counter, palm down. He didn't say anything else. He'd said his piece - he'd let her know how much he hadn't appreciated her behaviour, to go on about it now would just take away from that. Would just make it seem like it meant things to him. Which it did, but she didn't need to know the extent of that, how deep things ran. So, he sat in silence, his blue eyes on her. "You look tired," he said, unplanned. So much for silence.

She smiled lightly at that, gaze ticking to his for a moment, before she went back to lining things up on the counter. She started with some disinfectant that she dabbed onto a cotton wad. "Just what a girl wants to hear." she told him, light edge of humor to her tone. It didn't last, though, as she concentrated on what she was doing. "I am tired." she told him, after a few moments of silence. "Performing is exhausting, and tonight the set was a lot longer because of the holiday." she explained, not liking it, but he'd asked. Plus, he'd noticed, so it wasn't like she could hide it well. "I'm not really used to this much exertion on a constant basis anymore." Which she wasn't. She'd spent a long time recovering from the nearly killed thing, and oh right, there was the brain damage. One didn't recover from that, and she knew she hadn't been taking her medication properly. She'd tried, she just knew she hadn't succeeded. Brett had taken care of that for her before. She wasn't so good at it. That didn't help.

Brett grunted a reply to that, biting back a comment about him not being here to flatter her - which would only lead back to the subject of why he was here. And he didn't have an answer to that, not one for himself and definitely not one for her. That he'd wanted to find her and let her know he'd found her was the starting point, but it didn't address why he was still here. And as for her comments on her working, he definitely had nothing to say to that either - not to more evidence that she didn't need him anymore.
She ticked her gaze up to his for a moment at the grunt. Just a moment, a heartbeat, a second or two before she was looking back down at his hand. At another time, she might have said 'Slow down, Brett, don't seem so interested, I might start thinking you care', but not tonight. "How long have you been here?" she asked instead, tone quiet. Light. Like it didn't matter. But it did. She wanted to know how long he'd been in her space, looking around. Because she was sure he'd looked around. Not that she especially minded...she didn't. Everything here was just...stuff. Things. And not terribly nice things, either. Filler. But then, that was kind of what she saw her whole existence as at the moment. But she wanted to know. She wanted to know if he'd been down in the bar. She wanted to know if he'd stuck to the shadows, because she hadn't seen him. And she wouldn't admit it, but she'd been looking for him. Each night she sang, when the lights were only falling across part of her form, always keeping her face in shadow, she looked for him. Watched, to see if she caught sight of the familiar frame, the way he had of holding himself. She wanted to know if he'd heard her. And if he had, what he thought. But none of those questions were getting asked.

"A while," he told her, not specifying it any more than that. Since before midnight, was the real answer. He'd seen in the new year up here, alone, in the darkness. It seemed oddly appropriate for him. At a time when everyone else was celebrating, he was sitting in a run down apartment which he'd broken into waiting for a woman who had left him and tried to disappear from his life. A woman who was meant to be dead.

She leaned over his hand for a moment, getting a close look, to make sure she got all of the plaster out of it. Which really, she hadn't had to do a hell of a lot. Mostly, it was just a badly placed wound, which meant it was going to be a bitch healing, because it was going to re-open a lot. At least, it was because Brett was Brett. And Brett was nothing if not a stubborn son of a bitch. A while. Terribly non-specific of him. And she didn't imagine she was going to get anything better than that. Standing straight again, she started to carefully bandage his hand up, kind of aware in that moment of how close he was. It might have had something to do with the fact that he rather towered over her, but occasionally, when they stood near, there was a presence he had that she found unignoreable. Now was one of those times. "What do you think?" she asked, knowing she probably wasn't going to like the answer. And as if on cue, the bulb in the bathroom flickered again, went out for a heartbeat or two, then weakly came back on, that as thunder rolled heavy overhead.

"I don't, if I can help it," Brett told her, taking his hand back and testing the bandage. She'd done a fair job on it, but he was still stubbornly holding onto the assertion that it hadn't needed her damn interference in the first place. He stood, just as the light flickered out, going from sitting to standing in the momentary darkness - which had been by coincidence rather than design, yet the fact remained that when the light flickered back into life again, he was standing over her.

"Bullshit, Trent." Eris murmured under her breath, before the light flickered, and then when it came on again, he was right there. Which kicked up a whole host of conflicting sorts of emotions in her. She didn't jump at the sort of abrupt-seeming change. More she looked up at him, and watched his eyes. Usually she had a lot of options for things to say to him, and she had to choose carefully what she let through. What she was and was not allowed to express. At that moment, however, she didn't really have anything, she just waited, having the light little urge to reach out and trace a nail along the curl of the dragon on his arm.

Brett heard the murmur, caught the dismissal. It didn't surprise him - she'd ever been able to see right through him, or so it felt at times. She could read him far too well for his liking. Could see what everyone else ignored, or was blind to. It made him uncomfortable, because at times it made him want to open up to her. Hell, at times he had opened up to her, in his own way - which was to say he gave her very little, but that was more than he gave anyone else. Normally he gave nothing at all. "Whatever you say, Princess. I should leave you to get some sleep - since you've had such a long night," he told her, aware of how close she was right now and, as always, feeling that need for distance.

"But you've only been here a while." she said. Using his phrasing there, and quite clearly deciding to take it as 'not long enough'. For all she knew, he'd been there for hours, but either way...he hadn't said so she was labeling it. "Got a pressing engagement?" she asked. If he'd had anything to do, he wouldn't be here. She was tired, she wanted her bath, but that didn't mean she wanted him to leave. She didn't. Quite the opposite in fact. She wanted him to stick around. And she could feel it there, that clingy kind of needyness that rose up when he was there. And she hated it, and half hoped he'd dismiss her and fuck off, and half hoped he'd stay.

Brett looked at her, his face serious as he said, "Amber would be disappointed if I didn't at least drop in to see her on the way home." Amber: one of the two imaginary girls she'd created for him. The naughty Amber and the nice Shelley, leaving him the choice of either one. And when he'd said that to her, he'd picked Amber for one specific reason: because she'd said Shelley was more his 'speed'. So screw her, she thought she could read him so well - he was going with the other girl.

She caught it, of course, the deliberate use of the girl she'd told him would impress the guys more. But she'd done it on purpose. She'd honestly thought it all out, thought out angles, and how each fictitious girl could be played for him. How they would work, within the structure of his 'work' environment. How they would benefit him. But then again, she knew something else about him, that she'd never quite told him. "If she complains, you can always tell her to come see me." she said, eyes staying locked to his, though a little smirk lit her lips. "I may be damaged goods, but I'm pretty sure I could still take her." If he wanted to play that game she could play right along as well.

"Everyone's damaged goods around here, Princess," Brett told her, before turning and walking out of the bathroom, leaving her behind to follow if she chose to - which he figured she would. "You know - all those locks on the door do shit for you if you don't sort out the fact that the catch on your window by the fire escape's fucking useless," he told her. Well, it was now. It had just been dodgy before. Now, it was broken - but that could have been worse, he could have taken the glass out. At least this way you'd have to be up close and personal with the window to tell. And that fucking fire escape was a death trap in itself.

She watched him go, then paused to start drawing a bath for herself, though it took forever for the water to warm up anyhow, so she just started running the tap for the moment. Then she followed him out into the main loft, thinking yes, everyone was damaged but not like her. But then that had been her fault. She should have used the word 'broken'. When he started going on about the locks, she quirked a half smile that died nearly immediately. "I needed another way out. Faster. ...just in case." she explained, which was her reasoning for not having done much to the window that dropped onto the fire escape that she was fairly sure might drop off of the building and kill anyone who tried to use it in a panic during a fire. But then it might drop off and kill people who were trying to hurt her sometime too, so she was alright with the fifty fifty chance. "I don't want to be trapped up here." and she was aware she was, in so many ways. It was a cage. Just...a slightly bigger, emptier cage than Brett's apartment had been.

"Which you will be if anyone comes up that fire escape - amount of locks you have on your door, you're not gonna be able to get out that way easily," Brett pointed out. As it was, if it was him who was organising coming after her - which it never was, people didn't credit him with enough to get him to organise shit, and he was just fine with that - he'd send two guys, one going up each way. Cut off both possible exits. "You want, I can replace the catch on the window - something secure, but that you can open easily from the inside. Won't stop someone from breaking the thing, but at least you'd hear that," he offered, wondering about the fact that he'd been leaving - and now he was giving himself an excuse to come back.

Eris walked over to the cabinet where she kept the bottles she'd taken from downstairs, and poured herself a drink. She poured him one too, not that she expected him to drink it. But if he didn't, she would. She brought his over to him, though, and held it out to him. "I know it's a death trap." she said. Because she did. She was aware. Even discounting the little to no escape route thing, it was a fucking loft. Precious little in the way of places to hide in wide, open spaces. "But I'd appreciate it if you replaced the catch on the window." If he did that he'd have to return. He wasn't going to wander off and she'd not see him, now that he'd come to tell her he was pissed that she'd left.

Brett took the drink and held her eyes as he took a sip, swilling the liquid around his mouth thoroughly. He kept looking at her as he dipped his fingers into the remains of the liquid in the glass, wetting his hand before dragging it through his hair. Then he came back for more, anointing himself on pulse points and around his neck, as if putting on perfume, before he started in on his shirt. He made it clear, obvious what he was doing. It was new year - and, as she'd said, he shouldn't attract attention to himself. Wandering home at approaching dawn stone cold sober would definitely attract attention. This at least would allow him to reek of whiskey for an hour or so. "I'll replace the catch - no appreciation needed," he told her, handing back the empty glass and putting his jacket back on again.

She felt it. That horrible little pull in the bottom of her stomach. Because he was leaving, and she didn't want him to. He hadn't even been there long, and she'd gone three days without seeing him, and it had taken it's toll. She almost asked. It was on the tip of her tongue. Have I taken my medication today? But he wouldn't know...would he? Did he wonder how piss poor a job she'd done with it? "The party downstairs...it's not over yet." she told him. And she recognized that for exactly what the fuck it was. It was a ploy to get him to stick around longer. "Not in full swing anymore, the crowd's moved on, but the party's still going. Easier to spot you." Thunder rolled again, after a few flashes that lit up the loft bright as day for a few heartbeats before plunging them back into candle light, with one streak across the floor from the bathroom light.

"Not as easy as it'll be to spot me come dawn," Brett pointed out. "Or are you telling me that I shouldn't come here again? If it's that easy to spot me coming and going?" He had to say that - still with that niggling feeling that she'd left to get rid of him. Even though they'd already arranged his return. It was always easier to go with the fact that he wasn't wanted.

She looked at him for a long moment before speaking. She killed the rest of her drink, knocking it back and she set both glasses down onto the nearest flat surface before turning her eyes back on his. "If I was telling you that, you'd know. I'd be very fucking clear." she said. "I just want you to be careful. The last thing I'd want is for something to happen to you." She could say that, right? It didn't necessarily involve the c word. It was a sentiment that she could share without fearing the consequences... And yet there she was, just a little internally panicked about how he might choose to take that. Since if anyone could invent a way to take it badly, it was Brett.

"I'm always fucking careful, sweetheart, don't you worry about that." He always had to be, though she didn't know the reason why. He doubted she knew shit about his background, for all she was good at reading him. The most anyone ever remembered about him was that he was a cop gone as bad as they could be. He doubted she even knew that much. He knew he'd never told her anything about his past, so she would have had to have known Brett Trent before three years ago, and he knew they'd never met in his past life. He didn't have much to do with vice in those days. It was possible, therefore, she didn't even know he'd once been a cop. but even if she happened to know that, she wouldn't have known he'd been set up. She wouldn't know that his going over to the Syndicate wasn't real, that it hadn't meant to be this way. That if that file of papers ever resurfaced he'd be just as dead as if he ever decided to walk back into the station and tried to get his old life back. He risked his life every day, just by being in the position he was. There was no way out of that. So what was this, other than just another risk? Except this one was a good risk - this wasn't a part of his life that led to destruction. Rescuing her had given him something of himself back. And then she'd walked out on him. And that - that was why he was here. Because he didn't want to lose what she'd tried to take away through doing that.

"So, be careful, and give it a half hour, an hour." Eris said, realizing she was probably just one step up from asking him flat out not to leave. Which she couldn't do, but she could come damn close. And she decided to turn things back around on him, since he'd hit her up with the 'are you trying to get rid of me' type nonsense. "Unless you really can't handle being here another few minutes." And sure, that was longer than most people would constitute as 'a few minutes', but Eris' sense of time was shot to hell anyways. It wasn't like she knew. She almost made the point that it was storming anyhow, but that actually worked against her. Him being wet wasn't a problem. People generally weren't out in the wet to see people skulking away from places they weren't meant to be.

His face hardened at that suggestion. "An hour's a lot longer than a few minutes," he pointed out, bluntly, annoyed at the suggestion he couldn't bear to stick around. Fuck her - fuck her and her running off, then making him come and fucking find her and then taunting him about fucking being here in the first place. He looked over her shoulder, back toward the bathroom door. "Anyhow, darling - your bath water'll get cold," he pointed out, given that the water was still running in there.

She knew it was. "It can wait." she said. But she saw the switch there. That set to his jaw. She looked away, and that was when she noticed that the pills that had been a big mess on her nightstand weren't anymore. She knew they'd been a mess, she'd gotten frustrated, trying to remember what she needed to take and when, and it just wasn't coming to her, so in a little childish fit, she'd knocked them over and hadn't picked them back up. Silence descended for a few moments, mentally calculating how long that could have taken him. "...did you count them, or just put them away?" she asked, tone a little uncertain, though she hated hearing that in her own voice.

"What good would counting them do me?" he asked her. After all, she'd been gone three whole days - if there were too many, or too few, he wouldn't know when she'd taken them, or not - or even if they'd been taken at all, or had just, say, fallen on the floor and rolled under the bed. Though he doubted that - he'd checked there as well. Just in case.

She shrugged one shoulder, still looking over at the neatly lined pill bottles. "Just wondered if you knew how far off I was." she said, voice oddly toned. Quiet, if unreadable. Thunder was rolling again, a long grumble overhead that seemed to rattle some of the windows. Or maybe that was the wind and rain. It was a toss up. She didn't say she wondered if she was off. Just how far, because she was well aware of the fact that she was off. Probably far off. She'd considered the consequences of stopping taking her meds altogether.

"It's been three days," he pointed out, but didn't add anything more. For the last few weeks, he'd managed her medication for her - once it became clear that she couldn't manage it herself. Or hadn't been able to. Then she'd left, but, apparently, leaving hadn't helped her manage in any more of a way. It only reinforced his feeling that she shouldn't have fucking gone anywhere, but it was her choice, wasn't it? And she'd chose to leave - she clearly didn't think she needed him anymore.

She still didn't look over at him and it was because she was feeling vulnerable. Like she'd forgotten that she needed to dump some of the bowls catching raindrips from the roof, and they were starting to overflow. Like she'd forgotten she had the tub running, it had become white noise in the background, her focus elsewhere. Distant, even if it was centered in the room. It was there, in her mind, the question, the plea for help, but she didn't know if she could do that. Part of the reason she'd left was she wasn't his fucking responsibility. She was a liability to him. A massive, sucking chest wound of a liability. She could get him killed, and fast. People wouldn't even stop to ask questions, or probably not. So, was asking for help selfish? Did it make it different, if he came to the conclusion on his own? If she looked for the right strings to pull...but that was manipulation, and she'd started out her relationship with Brett not doing that, and didn't want to start now. In fact, just the consideration for a moment made her stomach twist unpleasantly. "Do you know what would happen if I stopped taking them?" she asked him eventually, tone still that strange, slightly off, distant cadence.

"No," Brett admitted. He'd talked to the doc a few times, found out what they all were, what she had to take and when. In those early days, when she was being difficult, when things weren't turning out the way he'd planned. The plan had been simple, originally - drop her off, pay the doc off and disappear. She hadn't even been meant to know who'd saved her. The damn doc had been meant to say that she'd been found by the river, if she asked. That way, Brett would be covered. Only it hadn't worked like that, she'd been more than the guy could handle, weak little fucker with the personality of a rat that he was in Brett's opinion, and Brett had found himself back at the guy's place, helping out. Calming her the fuck down, trying to convince her she didn't need to sleep in the fucking bathtub, and a million and one things he didn't want to be doing. And the real thing about it was that he could do it, as much as he put up his usual front, he could work with people. And somewhere along the line, she'd gotten under his skin. But, for all that, he was no medic and his understanding of her pills was limited to when she should take them and how much was too much. "No, I don't know. Probably bad though, I'd think."

She gave a weak little half smile then finally tore her gaze from the pills, though it was more because lightning flashed again, and that distracted her attention for a moment. It took her a second to get back on track, and she looked back over at Brett, the expression on her face lost for just a heartbeat, but it was there, before she latched back on. "Probably." she agreed. "I just have to weigh which is worse. Probably having bad consequences if I don't take my meds, or probably having bad consequences for mis-taking them."

"You need to work out a system," Brett suggested to her, not looking her in the eyes. She'd had a system. Him. But she'd left, hadn't she? "To help you remember whether you've taken a dose or not. You need a system."

"I do." Eris said. "And then I'll forget the system. And I'll forget how it worked. Or if I've already done it for the day, or if I have to start over. And I'll look, and I won't know, and--" and she was shutting up now, because she was getting herself a little upset, and that wasn't flying right now. "Nevermind. Thanks for picking them up." she said instead, then jolted, hopping back as she felt something cold at her feet--which turned out to be water making it's way across the floor from one of the overflowing bowls. But it had scared the shit out of her for a second.

Brett frowned as she shifted, and then he looked down, seeing the water. "Ahh, fucking hell," he breathed. Turning, he strode to the kitchen area, grabbing whatever water holding devices he could find quickly and replacing the filled containers one at a time, pouring the water down the sink in turn. It took him several trips to complete, then he snagged some towels and started to clean up the water for her. "Practice," he told her, looking up from the floor, not happy about being on his hands and knees - though it didn't actually occur to him to leave her to do it and he mentally added fixing the hole in her ceiling to the jobs he was going to do when he came to fix the window catch he'd broken. "With your system. Practice. Until it becomes habit and you don't so much have to think about it anymore. Even if you get it wrong at first, practice and maybe it'll get you there."

She watched him as he automatically went to fix things for her. He even got all the buckets, which she knew she tended to only remember when she was walking through a puddle. But she was surprised to see him just...doing that. Not even asking her to help. And maybe I won't. And maybe I don't know how to come up with a system. Maybe my brilliance comes in the magical ability to know how to get people to want to give me what I want out of them, but doesn't actually extend to practical little things like 'hey let's not kill ourselves with our own medication'. she thought. "You don't have to do that." she said. "But thank you." She poured herself another drink, and filled Brett's glass, though really figured she was just pouring herself two drinks. He didn't do the drinking thing much. Probably because of his intense need to always be on guard. "...practice with a system." she repeated instead, not sounding like she had a great lot of faith in her own abilities there.

"You don't have to thank me," Brett said, balling the towels into a heap on the floor and standing up. He turned to her once again. "You know that you'd be fucked if that water got through to the bar downstairs. I'm not the only one who shouldn't go attracting attention. And yeah - practice with a system," he added, wiping his wet hands on his suit trousers.

She actually hadn't thought about that. The leak dripping down to the bar downstairs. That was going to have to be something she watched. Great, something else to try and remember, and likely not doing so til it was too late. This entire plan about being self sufficient and all was going to be more difficult than she had originally thought--and she'd known it was going to be a bitch. And possibly fatal. She also vaguely took note that he'd had towels, but used his pants to dry his hands. The man didn't exactly take much stock in his appearance or clothing. Though she often thought he would shine up quite nicely. Not that he would bother. She walked over closer, and eyed his hand, to be sure he hadn't messed up the bandage she'd put on it, or hadn't cracked the scabs open by mopping up her mess. She sipped at the drink she'd poured herself, then looked back up at him again. "I know I can't attract attention. That's why I'm here. Most of the people who would be looking for me don't exactly frequent." And she kept herself hidden, but that was hardly foolproof.

He eyed the glass she was holding, her second drink since he'd gotten here. She shouldn't drink so much, but then she'd heard that from him before and he wasn't up for the lecture again tonight. Fuck all use it did anyhow, given she always ignored him. He caught her eyeing his hand and gave her a glare. "It's fine. Leave it," he warned.

"I didn't say anything." she said. Which she hadn't. Which didn't mean he wasn't right that it crossed her mind, but she was behaving. Of a sort. She caught him eyeing her glass, and countered. "It's fine." she said. He did tend to get on her about drinking. It didn't mix well with her medication, but sometimes it fuzzed her out enough that she slept slightly better. Or at least if she had nightmares she remembered them less. And she did have nightmares. They were more frequent now, since her untimely 'death'. More frequent and more bizarre. Something rose to the back of her mind, but she left it for the moment, just keeping herself where she was, finishing off the drink, eyes not leaving his.

"I didn't say anything," he said, echoing back to her the way she had to him. He walked to the window and looked out at the darkened sky, the night outside almost pitch black, lit only by a few hazy streetlights and the occasional flash of lightning. "Doesn't look like it's going to stop any time soon - you'll need to empty those buckets again come morning," he advised her, not looking back.

She set the empty glass down with a click, eyes on his back. The way his shadow was just a little different than the rest of them, his outline framed in the little bursts of light outside. "I'll try to keep it in mind." she told him. That was about as good as she could do sometimes. One thing she understood fairly well was her limitations. Like she knew she couldn't keep up with her singing indefinitely. She could only sing songs she already knew the words to, before the damage had been done to her. Learning new ones would probably prove impossible, and she didn't want to humiliate herself like that. Right now, it had charm, because she was singing songs people remembered from a while back, so it was a hook. But people's attention wavered fairly easily. A hook was only a hook for so long. She walked quietly up behind him, though she was aware he probably would be aware of where she was. He was like that. Aware. He could be as observant as she could, even if they tended to pay attention to different sorts of things. She stood behind him, to his left, eyes on the wavery reflection in the glass. It was dark enough out that even the lower light of the candles picked up more than anything outside, giving them a better view of themselves than what lay in the darkness beyond the window. Eris didn't like windows like that. It always made her feel exposed. So she reached out around him to open it. The slide of it was jerky and it squeaked like someone might be killing a rodent. But it opened, and then there wasn't any more shadow-reflections. Nothing that might mask what was out there. Even if it was just night and thunder. The last calls of party goers, who just weren't ready to call it a night.

The wind blew the raindrops away from them as they stood before the open window, though every so often a gust would swirl round and Brett would feel water on his face, a reminder of the storm outside, as if the sounds, the sights, the smells weren't enough and it was going for all the senses. He watched as a couple stopped drunkenly beneath the glow of the streetlight below, their concentration solely for each other, but still, it was enough for Brett to draw back from the window, taking Eris' arm to pull her with him, out of sight once more.

She resisted for just a second, before she let him pull her back. She knew it was what needed to happen, she knew she had to take care not to really be properly seen. Not that she thought the two down there would for a moment be concerned with anything but passion. They wouldn't really have time or inclination to look up and see poorly lit figures in a window, but...one never knew. And all the other dark windows could hide god knew who. She looked up at him, after keeping her eyes on the window for a few long moments, and she didn't say anything for a heartbeat. Then she spoke. "I need a gun." What better time to bring that up than after he displayed paranoid protective sorts of behavior? Or, less protective, and more likely self preservation. Or so Eris told herself.

He left the window open, crossing to the door to check the locks there without answering her. It hadn't been a question and he wasn't going to make it into one. He already knew his reaction to her comment, but he wasn't going to jump just because she told him to. Things didn't work like that and they weren't going to start to.

She watched him checking the locks, and went to sit on the arm of the love seat, wondering lightly just what it was he thought he was doing. If he was going to find fault with them too, and while she'd put some of them on herself, some of them were pretty weak, really. But it wasn't as if she'd had a lot of time. "I know where I would get one if I could walk out onto the street and get it myself, but I can't." she said. Which he knew. "You'd be paid for your services." she added, since she didn't exactly expect it to be a favor. She wanted to ask if he'd help her. Wanted to put it like that, but that was getting right back into personal business, and she knew where she went on that. Right back where she'd started from, with getting attached. So, while beneath the surface, she would want him to do it because she asked...she couldn't work it like that. Not really.

"You don't have any money," Brett pointed out, gruffly. He didn't want to be hired by her. Didn't want a cold business transaction between them. "How many of these can you lock from the outside when you leave? Just the one? Wanna be able to get back in easily enough?" he asked, judging how easily someone would be able to break in in her absence.

"Just the one." she confirmed. She didn't let her gaze waver, not for a second, watching him keep on with her door. Distracting himself, possibly. But he wasn't leaving, and that was the part she was happy with. He could spend all night going through her loft picking out every flaw in the place if he really wanted to, she wouldn't complain. Or...not really. She might occasionally protest, just to do so. "And yes I do." Actually, she had other money she wanted to tap into, but that was a more heavy job, and she wanted to think about it before she even went there. If she asked him to do it, it was going to be asking for something that was going to take a little more flaire than just getting her a firearm. As it was, she didn't have a lot of money. But she'd also worked out with the owner that she got her cut at the end of the night, in cash. Wouldn't do to have to split at a moment's notice, and be waiting on some paycheck that wasn't going to arrive.

Brett started unlocking the door, one catch at a time, working from the top down, slowly. Click, click, click. One after another until they were all open, and then he opened the door. He reached inside his jacket pocket as he half turned his head back toward her. "I'll come back to fix the window," he promised as he set his gun down on the table by the door. And then he walked out, leaving her to close the door behind him, lock up again.

She felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach when he walked out. A chill down her spine, anxiety in the back of her mind that rose up in the wake of his absence. She hated being alone. And what was more, she wanted to be not alone via his presence. She crossed the room, looking down the stairwell after him. Rationally, she knew he'd be fine. It wasn't going to take him that long to get back home, and he was a man who could more than handle himself. Still, that didn't make her any less concerned. She could just barely see him, the faint little glow of the christmas lights not really up to lighting such an imposing sort of figure properly. She almost called him back. There was a dark little urge in the back of her mind, but she knew it would throw him off of his game, and he needed it for the journey home. If that was where he was even heading. "Goodnignt, Trent." she called to him instead, voice not carrying that terribly far, but probably far enough for him to catch it.

He did, just as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He didn't answer her, though he paused for a moment before he continued on, checking the street and turning up his collar against the rain before he stepped out into the storm.