Ivan Press

[Ivan Press] This is a gym, but quite different from your usual deal with the clanking machines, the loud music, the young toned specimens eyeing each other up from across weight racks and ellipticals.

It's located about a block off the Mile proper, on the top two floors of a warehouse-turned-loft. Vast paned windows let in plenty of light even on this overcast day. Air conditioning keeps the interior cool despite the sweating and exerting of rock climbers, squash players, a pilates class and a fencing ring. It gives the day outside a deceptive wintry look: the coolness; the greyness. Put your hand on the window and you'll feel the lie in it, though. It's well over 80 degrees outside, and humid.

Fabienne is -- well; perhaps she's fencing, or perhaps she's climbing the artificial rock wall. Either way, there's a call behind her: "Fabienne?" and when she turns, "Fabienne! What an unexpected delight."

He's neither rock climbing nor fencing nor squashing. He has a basketball under his arm, and his hair is damp and dark with sweat; his grey gym shirt darkened in a V front and back. He looks flushed and healthy and happy; somehow, he manages to make basketball look preppy.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Deceptively delicate hands grasp blindly for a fingerhold midway up a convex "rock" wall. Curl tight, lean muscles of her arms flexing as she does her best to haul herself further towards the sloping apex of the wall. Eyes shut, pushing herself, as she has been for the better part of three hours now. Sweat - unlady-like perspiration - has dampened blond curls to her scalp and soaked a line from chest to belly button, fabric of her cream colored lycra sports shirt clinging to the small of her back. A call behind her - her name? She isn't certain. Grey eyes flicking open as she tilts her face from the wall, in the direction of the sound. Only to see the unwelcome visage of a reckless Trueblood standing beneath her.*

Pardon Sir. I'm afraid you'll have to speak up.

[Ivan Press] Ivan's eyebrows flick upward. He's hardly screaming, but his tone should be easily audible even at her height. One wonders if Fabienne minds every time she sees it on someone else's face:

Is she hard of hearing?
Is she deaf?

Then Ivan holds up one finger. He bends to clap the basketball to the ground, kicks his sneakers off, and -- quite without rigging into the ropes -- takes a flying leap at the wall. Someone calls, "Hey--!" and is summarily ignored. The Ragabash is agile and deft, his balance and dexterity surreal. He climbs like a monkey. In seconds he's level with Fabienne, smiling at her.

"I said," he says, "what an unexpected delight."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Pale lips purse in disproval as Ivan discards his shoes and scrambles up the wall like some sort of cagey simian. His smiling, nay - beaming face level with hers in no time at all. Reckless. Who was it that had called her the same? Some unpleasant Shadowlord of Katherine's if she recalled correctly. The forward one. Her voice rings crisp in response.*

Of course. To see you also. I trust you are well?

*Chitchat, several stories above the ground.
The polite smile that flits across carefully nuetral classical features is a stark contrast to the sweat soaked reality of the kin it lingers on. Charming, when she is not. Still the potency of royal lineage made up for alot, even a dusty rock wall given a certain granduer by the two blondes now dangling from it's craggy face.*

[Ivan Press] "You are such," Ivan replies in lieu of whatever polite chitchatty response that properly deserves, "a polite little liar."

He doesn't seem insulted by this. Or angered. He points it out, and he smiles, and there's something almost fond in the smile. A pause while he glances up to ascertain that he has a good grip on the faux-rock handhold bolted into the wall, and then lets go one hand to extend it toward Fabienne.

"I wanted to apologize for my comment on the street," he says. "Your mouth is indeed very lovely, as is the rest of you, but it was forward and highly inappropriate of me to say so."

[Erika] The night before was late, taxing, filled with blood, police, and a new patient being hauled off on murder charges. Erika is slow to make friends, calculated, cautious: Dr. Alexander already has this control zone, so she makes fast friends and connections in the field and took it personally when one of "hers" goes off the deep end. The previous night was filled with tedious hours of paperwork and some mild mingling with a very fiery lead detective who screamed in the face of the MPs who tried pulling jurisdiction out from under her. Despite being impressed, the doctor was deeply troubled.

One of her own... no matter how new. It reminded her of her brother, of psychotic control-freak members of the tribe. It doesn't sit well.

Needless to say, this is the sort of thing Erika is trying to force herself to forget at the gym. She was actually angry, pent up, frustrated. She noticed almost no one while on the cycle, and then when utilizing the weights. And honestly, she's almost unrecognizeable in the black sports bra and track shorts. No, she's not as toned as some of the others... she's in her office all day. But she does have decent legs. Not terribly athletic, but by no means does she need to go on a diet. Perhaps almost too thin?

Of course, the previous outdoor excersion left her with a sun dusting of red... a bit of color to the urbanite. Actually, its kind of endearing despite looking slightly painful.

When the attendant at the rock wall shouts at Ivan and he leaps through the air, that catches her eye for a second. She almost blows it off, but notices her "cousins" after all. A smile. She towels herself off and makes her way over. Her breeding is as potent as the other blonde, and the accumulation of the three of them makes for something of a Fang kodak moment?

Maybe not...

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Shock registers clearly for the space of a heartbeat on Fabienne's face. One did not bring up such things afterall. A good 80% of decorum was based not on what you said, but what you didn't say. And here this cad was saying them. It .. well.. it went against the very rules of ettiquette.

He's grinning, entirely pleased with himself, and Fabienne fights the strong urge to roll her eyes, unable to entirely suppress the ghost of a smirk. It fades quickly enough on bow lips. No need to encourage him. Fingers scuff along molded grips, before Ivan's kinswoman is settling her hand in hers with all the casual grace she would on the ground. A firm squeeze of introductionm before she pushes an unruly strand of hair back into place behind her ear, and holds back to the wall.*

Apology accepted. My own comments were hardly appropriate, and for that I am sorry. Has your car been repaired?

*Whether she is, or is not a polite little liar goes unadressed. The Dr. Approaches below the pair, and Fabienne's chin tilts politely to the woman as she nears.*

[Ivan Press] "My -- " Ivan is briefly baffled; then confusion clears. "Oh, no. That wasn't my car. That was a toy. It's in the junkyard." He looks down; sees Erika, waves.

Then, "We should go down. Be polite. But race you to the top first?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] Yes.

*Polite. Concise. And short. Short as the time she allows between agreeing and bolting towards the top of the rock wall, healthy spark of genuine excitement registering in glass grey eyes.*

[up! up the wall! WP because she can't stand to see this one Gloat]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 5, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 7 at target 6) [WP]

[Erika] The doctor isn't stupid. She knows she's interrupting Ivan's attempted tryst, and frankly she doesn't care. His hospitality and ill-focused ambitions were endearing to her, and probably would make him a better friend, in any case. Besides which, the kin is too new to the area, too unrooted, and too unsteady around Garou as of yet.

Yet as unstable as Erika is, she saw something in Fabienne the night before that she recognized... fairly instantly. And also certain that she's also a Fang-kin or a cub at least, Erika noticed the pointed anger. Something she deals with daily. Better make sure to interject or distract if absolutely necessary. She'd only have wanted it for herself after "the accident".

"Fabienne. Ivan." Erika addresses them, then waits, toweling herself off. She also gets a drink of water.

[Ivan Press] [holy shitballs *LOL* dex+ath, perfect balance/double jointed -- one or the other probably applies!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 4)

[Ivan Press] "On thr--"

She's gone. So much for being stuck halfway up the wall, muscles quivering from exertion. Looks like all Fabienne needed was a little healthy competition as impetus. By the time Ivan is halfway to the top, Fabienne is smacking her palm on the empty space above the last handhold.

The Ragabash makes it there a good minute and a half later -- slower still because he's laughing; clinging to the rock with fingers and toes curled, cords standing out in his forearms.

"Okay," he says, "all right. I asked for that. Name your price, miss. What must this vanquished cede?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Quick. Fabienne was a white shot scaling the wall with seemingly gravity defying grace. Except that when she reaches the top, she doesn't linger. Instead she begins her descent towards Erika, passing Ivan as she swings down, eyes bright with silent amusement. He asks the terms of his defeat, and she shakes her head.*

You have nothing I want. Perhaps a favor at a later time?

*And Fabienne is gone, bare feet touching down as she unhooks her carabeener clip and looks to Erika with a polite smile, her pale face flushed from exhertion.*

Ms. Alexander. A pleasure.

[Erika] The woman doesn't loiter. She does laugh at Fabienne showing Ivan up, but soon after she moves off towards an athletic man about her own age. He looks almost the military type. They talk for a few. The mood seems serious for a while, but after a bit, Erika laughs. It looks like he's taking her number. But, as she merely touches his elbow towards the end of the conversation, it probably isn't a hook-up.

Just as quickly, she returns and greets Fabienne. "Yes, great show," she compliments. "I think he might be blushing."

A grin spreads across her slightly sunburned face. The kinswoman tosses off the towel and crosses her arms. They brush against the flat of her abdomen. Even with the air conditioning, it's slightly damp in the gym.

[Ivan Press] So they meet in the middle. And he asks terms of defeat, and she says you have nothing I want and his eyebrow flicks up over a smiling eye the mingled hazel-green of still ponds, deep forests.

"I think that's another lie," he says, low enough that she'll have to read the words off his lips, "and not even a very polite one."

A favor, she suggests. His grin flicks wider; down she goes and up he goes, and it's worth noting that even defeated, he goes all the way to the top, claps his hand carelessly onto the beam, and only then begins to descend.

Gym management is flipping the fuck out. He's a good thirty feet off the ground at the top, not a single rope on him. When he gets down they're all over him, but they're not berating, and they're not scolding. They're clucking. Concerned. That alone should tell everyone how much money he sank into his membership.

He brushes them off, though, and steps back into his ball shoes. And then he kicks the basketball deftly up, catches it, tucks it under his arm.

"Erika," he says cheerfully, and he is flushed; though not, apparently, possessed of enough shame to blush.

[Fabienne Bartelle] Mm.

*Frankness. Not a trait often cherished in Silverfang kin. Least of all in their women. Gym employees descend on the group like wasps, griping and fretting and finally, leaving them all the hell alone. No doubt concerned with the continued patronage of their very wealthy clientelle. Fabienne casts a cursory glance Ivan's direction, before shaking her head. A towel is accepted from a hovering staffer, the woman gestured away with a flick of the kin's fingers. Dusty hands patted clean before the towel is tossed aside, small hands clasped just so in front of her.*

It would appear not. I would go so far as to venture that blushing is something our cousin is woefully unaquainted with. Yes?

*A thin blonde brow arcs up in question.*

[Erika] Erika tilts her head towards her bony shoulder in a direct line his direction and shrugs it once in an upward direction with an equally cheerful smile. Another shrug in Fabienne's direction, and her head turns to face the kinswoman.

"Of course not. One could hope. My mistake." Her voice is light, engaging. There's something there, whether trying to draw Fabienne out of her shell, or merely mingle. Something... perhaps not so socially sub-par as some pass her off?

"Jesus..."

But just then one of the staff bumps into her, making her shuffle towards the cousins. She doesn't get angry or lash out as some would... but there's a definite pause in her mood. The crewmember apologizes and excuses himself from the throng. The movement casts light from a very tasteful piece of jewelry... something antique... almost deco. A silver chain with an orthodox budded cross set with a piece of genuine Alexandrite. Hard to get out of Russia. Erika somehow doesn't seem the religious type.

"Fabienne do you live nearby?" she asks genuinely curious.

[Ivan Press] While the women chat, Ivan plays idly with his basketball, spinning it on the tip of a finger, rolling it down his arm and off the opposite fingertips. Even when the shortsighted staffer bumps Erika, who in turn stumbles toward Ivan and Fabienne, the Ragabash simply flicks the ball into the air and catches it again. Light, easy, so effortless it looks intentionally.

When he dribbles it -- once -- the report of ball off gym-floor cracks like a gunshot, ringing off the high rafters. "I," he announces, "am going to shower the sweat of ignominious defeat off my back and then go for dinner. Ladies, you are welcome to join me at either venue. Or both."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Civil conversation Hob Nobbing as it were. Not an arena in which Fabienne excelled, by any stretch, but one in which she was familiar, at the very least. The devil one knew.... Until suddenly conversation is going in directions she'd prefer it didn't. Inquiries as to her home, a polite reply due to roll off her tongue when the crack of a basketball causes her to flinch and look to Ivan. Only to be propositioned for a cheeky shower tryst. A muted, careful smile as Fabienne considers. Not the tryst of course, but whether she wants to commit to dinner with the pair. Could she refuse twice in a row without seeming unearably impertinant? Likely not. *

Dinner would be lovely. Where shall we meet?

[Erika] She echoes the sentiment of a shower, but at the mention of dinner, Erika frantically moves for her watch. It's not meant to be decorative, but it is meant to be high-precision, some kind of diver's watch. She swears under her breath, then sighs.

"I have an appointment with the warden in an hour. Thanks for the invitation, maybe another time?"

Yes, she is that much of a workaholic. But there is no explanation if no question is posed. Really, she's not finding excuses to avoid Ivan and her "cousins"... it just turns out conveniently that her job does that for her. Finally, she thinks about it.


"Actually, Ivan do you even have my number?"

Kate had it, most of the kinfolk have it, some of the pack alphas even have her contact information, but she hasn't even offered it to Ivan, and it slipped her mind until now.

[Ivan Press] "I have no idea," Ivan says, utterly carelessly, to the question of where. "Let's figure it out in the car."

Erika begs off; Ivan smiles. "That makes twice you've given me rainchecks," he notes. "When do I get to collect?"

She wants to know if he has her number. He shakes his head. "My phone's with my street clothes," he says. "Call me from yours. 212-555-0550."

[Fabienne Bartelle] I see. Very well.

*No plan. No cares. How delightful it must be to have such luxury. Then, she supposed she needn't often worry about returning home with her intestines in her hands. Things balanced afterall. Fabienne lifts her chin imperiously, and strides with long legged grace to the women's showers. She may well make it out of the bathrooms before Ivan. No long hair to attend to, in 10 minutes flat she's standing freshfaced in the lobby, scent faintly vanilla and grapefruit. Clean. Waiting, speaking to an instructor on matters of scheduling. A tasteful grey pencil skirt and pale blue blouse setting her eyes sharp and clear against the wet honey blonde of her hair. Her gymbag is nowhere to be seen - likely she rents a locker, or some other such practicality.*

[Erika] She interjects, her turn to blush. It's hardly noticeable because of her sunburn from Sunday's yacht trip. She laughs and gives a coy smile, scratching the back of her head a bit. Erika reaches for the clip at her side: she had to have her phone on at all times, even if she didn't always answer it. Nothing like being interrupted at dinner for a consult on homicide. Erika has her motives, her ambitions, with her work ethic. It isn't at all selfless, despite her dedication.

She dials the number he gives her, lets it ring twice, then hangs up. Her lifeline returns to its spot at her waist.

"I'll have my phone off all weekend unless you have plans," she says playfully. It's not desperate, a partially-serious bit of banter to match his. And for the first time she makes direct eye contact and holds it for more than a second.

"Fabienne, see you soon?" she smiles at the other kin after a moment.

[Fabienne Bartelle] [slips post in before fabs stalks off to showah]

*A subtle inclination of her head to Erika, Fabienne agreeing wordlessly, before offering goodbyes.*

Good Evening.

[Ivan Press] "I never make plans," he counters. It might be a boast. It might also be true. "But I'm sure I'll catch up to you at some point, Erika."

They part -- Ivan striding straight and tall to the men's showers.

Fabienne does, in fact, make it to the lobby a minute or two before Ivan. But then, when the Ragabash descends the stairs to the first floor at a trot he's not alone. He's laughing, and oh look, it's some random brighteyed girl with perky tits and toned legs and she's flipping her hair off her shoulder and he's saying,

"...next week, then?" as he comes through the stairwell door.

And there's Fabienne, and Ivan's saying his goodbyes to his friend. There's a gym bag over his shoulder -- some sturdy thing in charcoal grey edged in yellow, the telltale round bump of a basketball at one end. Ivan looks fresh and bright and, well, rich in his light slacks, his buttondown shirt in pale grey. His short hair is still wet, dark with it.

"Hey." He flashes a smile at Fabienne. "Ready?"

[Erika] ((K bye guys. Had fun. See you later.))

[Ivan Press] (thanks for the RP!)

[Erika] ((Yep you too.))

[Fabienne Bartelle] ((bye! Thanks!! HIt me up any time!))

[Erika] ((Ditto. Add me on AIM))

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Here comes the garou - and he's wooing a gymbunny. Or has woo'ed a gymbunny. She had expected such would take longer, but perhaps he's faster in some areas than in others. A private quirk of her lips as Fabienne raises a slightly calloused palm in acknowledgement.*

I am.

*Still, grey eyes follow the bouncing girl as she flounces happily towards the exit. When she looks to Ivan her gaze is flat, tone polite. Oh yes, dinner with Fabienne was sure to be a laugh riot.*

Shall we?

[Ivan Press] Bouncing is right. Ivan, head tilted just so, eyes narrowed just an appreciative tad, doesn't even hide the fact that he's watching his gymbunny bounce all the way out the door.

When she's gone, he turns back to Fabienne and her flat grey gaze. "Oh, don't look so disapproving," he laughs, and sweeps the door -- the side door to the parking lot -- open. "Ladies first."

There are about two dozen cars outside. Only one of them is a graphite-grey Lamborghini. Three guesses as to which vehicle responds to Ivan's remote access fob, and the first two don't count.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *It was getting increasingly difficult not to roll her eyes at this man. A dangerous predicament. But if she could survive Mattheiu's long winded ballads to his own importance, she could weather Ivan's playboy self indulgence. Her curly blonde head ducks in subtle deferrence as she glides past him to his loud sports car. Light on her feet and confident in her stride, submission to his higher status in their psychotic little society something that was practiced, not nessecarily her natural inclination.

A thought halts her progress.

Stalls her step.*

You will take greater care in driving this evening - I expect?

[Ivan Press] "I actually like this car," he says, which one supposes is a form of confirmation.

He helps her with the gullwing door. They're flashy, but terribly impractical: rising like a guillotine to be ducked under. When her feet are in, he slides it down. It shuts with a sound more suited to fighter jets than ordinary road vehicles.

When he gets in and slides the key in the ignition, hits the starter button, 'loud' is right. The entire car fills with the basso rumble of its twelve-chamber heart. The seatbelts are racing-style, strapping down over both shoulders and across the waist.

"So, like cedar-planked salmon?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] I do. Thank you.

*Fabienne's half waiting for the cocky trueborn to respond with "yeah -so do I. Too bad we're getting burger king!" or something equally assinine. Strapped in like some bloody ... nascar ...victim.. Fabienne crosses her legs and settles her fingers daintily on the dash. Were Ivan about to peel out of the crowded parking lot like a stunt driver, she would rather not be jerked sideways from the force of the growling motor. Thank christ she was half deaf already, she could only imagine the racket were she not.*

[Ivan Press] Truth be told, burger king crossed his mind. There's something tantalizingly subversive about taking half a million dollars' worth of car through a drive-thru. Ultimately, some natural bent towards hospitality -- and it is genuine hospitality, not merely the desire to garner praise and attention with the flashiness of his toys -- leads Ivan to a different option.

"Good," he says -- and yes, tears out of the parking lot.

It's a weekday, and it's getting near dinnertime, which means there's traffic. Ivan tailgates, swerves, cuts drivers off, revs his engine behind them. So terribly rude and impatient, except there isn't a touch of impatience in the man himself. He's laughing and smiling the entire time, plainly enjoying himself.

It's not Burger King he takes Fabienne to, though, or even some upscale restaurant on the Mile. A handful of minutes later, the Ragabash takes a right into the covered parking of a glass-faced skyscraper on the lake. They pass through two sets of codelocked gates, the second string twice the length of the first. Past those gates, there are only four spaces, and two of them are taken: a Bugatti Veyron, a Ducati motorcycle.

Ivan pulls up beside them and gets out, once again helping Fabienne with the door.

"Evgeny," he says, "makes the best salmon I've ever tasted. And I assure you my liquor cabinet's better stocked than your average bar."

[Fabienne Bartelle] Forgive me if this is forward... but why do you do that?

*The tailgaiting. The honking and creeping and swerving and general asshole behavior has something inside Fabienne flinching. She's ridden along in silence, stepping out of the car and looking down her nose at the grinning ragabash. Quite a feat from someone smaller than him. Its about now she realizes they are not headed to some posh skytop bistro. His liquor cabinet? Every line in her slender body suddenly pulls tense.*

[Ivan Press] "Because," this is midride, flashing her a sidelong grin before his eyes are pulled back to the road, "it's far more enjoyable than creeping along sedately in traffic. And also because when Susie Jo and her soccer kids are heading home on a Wednesday evening and see a Lamborghini pull up beside them, they expect some sort of show. It's just my way of keeping a little magic in this world, you see."

There is no way to tell if he's joking.

Then they're in the underground parking of what turns out not to be some top-floor bistro but, in fact, his private residence. And Ivan's leading her toward the elevators that will whisk them right up to his penthouse suite when Fabienne goes tense. Ivan, who is after a Ragabash, and therefore as part of the job description is expected to have some level of alertness and astuteness, turns to hike an eyebrow her way.

"Something the matter?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Of course something was the matter. She's tense as piano wire, stepping into an elevator as her inner dialogue deteriorates into a sustained yammer of panic. A hard forced edge to the careful smile she offers along with a shake of her head and a crisp reply.*

Not at all. Have you lived in Chicago long then?

*Of course something was the matter. She was accompanying a clearly notorious playboy back to his private home. A bit of nothing is sharply brushed off the sleeve of her silky blue blouse. Flicked to the floor as Fabienne forces her gaze to Ivan's for several moment's, before studying the control panel with idle interest.*

[per emp - do i have to mace you? ]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 7 (Failure at target 6)

[Ivan Press] Ivan is, in fact, a world-class liar. But he doesn't have to be to tell that Fabienne is lying. They enter the elevator -- all warm wood offset by brushed steel -- and a glide of Ivan's keycard sets the doors closing, the metal box ascending almost silently skyward. Floors rush by. Ivan is watching Fabienne.

"You're lying again," he says.

[Fabienne Bartelle] You assume to know my mind sir?

*An eyebrow archs towards her hairline, Fabienne spitting Ivan with a look that would be comical in its haughtiness did her blood, her scent, her posture - not resound with the proof of her heritage, the insistant reminder of the blonde kin's potential. *

It is simply somewhat unusual that I accompany you to your home.

[Ivan Press] "No," Ivan replies mildly, "I just know a lie when I hear one."

Then he smiles again. It's thoughtful; his eyes astute for a second before he turns away. "I don't think that's all of it," he comments, "but you have my word: I'm a gentleman.

"Unless, of course," and the elevator doors slide open on his foyer, "you don't want me to be."

On that remark, Ivan winks and ushers Fabienne into his home. And there are a lot of things to say about such a place, all of them superlative, but let it suffice to say: this is quite possibly the most beautiful penthouse in the entire city. Past the entrance gallery, where frosted glass panes set a foot apart give flashes of glimpses into the dining space, the loft abruptly opens up to a double-height living room literally large enough to fit half a tennis court in.

Everything here is stone, cherrywood, brushed steel, and glass, glass, glass. The furnishings are tastefully sparse. Three entire walls are composed solely of glass, looking over the lake, over the city, over the northern reaches. This is the domain Ivan exists in with such casual, careless comfort that he could only have been born to such wealth.

Silent and hawknosed, a tall, thin man dressed entirely in black nods to Fabienne as she enters, and Ivan goes familiarly to him and claps him on the shoulder. "This is Dmitri, my butler. If you need anything, let him know. Make yourself at home here. We're family."

And then -- Russian, which she would not understand even if she had the use of both ears. Dmitri bows, a shallow, curt affair, and goes off toward what Fabienne can only imagine is the kitchen. Meanwhile, Ivan is kicking off his shoes and dropping his gym bag haphazardly at the mouth of the entrance hall. His housekeeper can and will take care of it. Unburdened of such things, his fingers touch Fabienne's elbow, steering her toward the great sliding doors out to the rooftop terrace.

"It's way too nice to not to eat outside. Can I get you a drink?"