13560/When it rains, Robbie...

When it rains, Robbie...
Date of Scene:	12 December 2022
Location:	Streets outside Bella's coffee shop
Synopsis:	After Phoebe walks out of a cafe after misreading Robbie's intentions, she takes the wrong kind of bat to the back of the head. Robbie steps in and Eli gets to sate his thirst for violence, prompting attackers to flee. Phoebe heals up over the ride back to the Curio, and the two spark an angry argument over who is a bigger failure. THey both let on more then they mean to, but Robbie gets his hot cocoa at the end.
Cast of Characters:	Phoebe Beacon, Robbie Reyes

---

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The door closes behind Phoebe as she makes an exit, just as a late autumn rain begins to fall, leaving Robbie in the little cafe spot with two hot cocoas with extra marshmallows. Phoebe pulled her hood over her head as she breathed in and out, just this side of hyperventalating. The white noise of the rain filled her ears.

    Stupid girl.

    Idiot Child.

    You pushed too hard and now what to you get?

    You're only good for being a disappointment.

    Her feet was pounding against pavement, her eyes down and focused. She could make it to her bike in two minutes. Hold on for dear life and get as far away as she could. Get somewhere. Get anywhere. Just to breathe.

    She was a half-second too late seeing the figure in the alleyway. Hearing the footfall that broke her motion, and the crack of light as the aluminium bat struck the back of her head, making her legs give out as she slid down to the ground.

    Four more figures stepped out of the alleyway, dragging her into the dark as her vision faded, and she choked out "Rob--"

    The whip of the baseball bat caught the light as he managed to crack a home run on the back of some girl's head. One of his cohorts grabbed her pockets and ripped the back pocket off to get at a wallet.

    "Hoo look at this guys, bitch's loaded!"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie's just sitting there at the little window table, slouched in his chair thinking about how fucking cold it is, and how royally he's fucked this up.

Stupid boy.

When are you going to get through your head that what you want, can't happen? We aren't made for it.

You're only good for killing, better get used to it.

There's a loud CRASH as ceramic hits the floor, its hot contents spattering the wall, the floor, his boots. Bella rushes in to help clean up the mess wordlessly; this clearly is not her first rodeo with his temper.

"Go," she instructs him calmly, ignoring the stares of a few other customers. "Get some air. I'll handle it."

He's too late to spot what's going on just out of sight and down the alleyway, but as he steps out of the cafe, he hears voices. And gets a very familiar *feeling*.

Eyes trained on the mouth of the alleyway, he turns and prowls closer; fluid, intent as the hunter he is.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    It wasn't her wallet. Not the one with mickey mouse that held Chuck Beacon's picture. This was Dior or Coach or something that held an ID and a black credit card with Wayne Enterprises on it. It had a sizeable amount of cash should she have to flaunt it. It was now going into a couple of pockets. Phoebe was stripped of her jacket, coming to slowly, coughing up gunk into a puddle. Her hair was a mess. She felt a lump in her throat, behind the wide black choker collar that hid the scars that muted her. Her head was pounding, and when she was lifted off the ground, jerking, the broken pieces were slammed into the wall again.

    "She should have been out cold! What gives -- did you hit her hard enough?"

    Maybe she's gotta thick skull, I dunno!"

    "Rob-bie..." Phoebe breathes out, and she struggles, trying to force the trauma back. Swallow down bile as the tallest one -- he's over six feet. Probably close to three hundred pounds -- he holds her up and shakes her like a rag doll, and gives a toothy grin. He's got a long scar over his face.

    "Well, she's not *going* anywhere, how about we add some reminders to not walk home alone, little riding hood." he grins, and pulls a switchblade from his pocket.

    Two others are going through her bag. "Got some keys. More cash. Keychain with a dog on it -- is that a fuckin' *tamogatchi*?" one guy asks, picking up an egg-shaped device with a little screen, the one holding the bat taking another look around to make sure no one's gonna be playing hero, and he backs into the darkness of the alley.

    "Whatever you're doing Marky, make it quick. I've got a bad feeling about this."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
A hero? Oh, no. Marky and his buddies have something much, much worse on their trail. Heroes try to save lives. Heroes stand for justice, goodness and righteousness; heroes are the light that wades into the darkness.

But this one.. well, this one *is* the darkness.

The switchblade comes out, and then two things are happening in rapid succession: the goon with the bat is launched very abruptly backward by a vicious kick to the gut with what must be hundreds of pounds of force behind it. Enough to send him crashing into the alley wall, and almost certainly enough to knock him out cold.

Then the bat, which has somehow switched hands during that brief and violent exchange, ignites with a roar of demonflame to match the burning pits for eyes that its new owner is sporting. Embers waft into the dark as the tall, lean figure paces closer to 'Marky', letting the flaming weapon drape loose in one hand.

And the voice, like superheated metal grinding, tearing apart, "Put the girl down. Leave."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Well. He *HAD* a bad feeling. Now that bad feeling is busted ribs and a Hell of a concussion as he hits the wall.

    The bat's changed hands. The two who have opened up Phoebe's wallet look up, one pulling a knife, the other grasping her wallet narrows his eyes and decides that he's not gonna stick around to find out what happens.

    He jumps the fence at the back of the alley and goes 'SEEYA!'

    Marky narrows his eyes, turning to regard the bat on fire now, the embers wafting up into the alley, and he takes a step back. He drops Phoebe, who gasps for breath, her pupils briefly lighting up rose-gold beneath the dark of the braids that are covering her face.

    "Must have somethin' special." he states, and drops his knife, holding his hands up and backing away.

    "All I wanted was ta bash a couple heads in. Didn't wanna mess with a..." he looks up and down at the figure before him, wreathed in flames of hell.

    "... whatever the *fuck* you are. YOu want the girl? All yours, man." he states.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie -- and it's still at least somewhat Robbie -- turns his head slightly to watch one of the goons make a quick and panicked departure. There's a twitch of muscle in his jaw, like he considers following and dragging him back, hurting him, making him *suffer* for a little while before killing him.

But no. Bigger fish to fry. His burning eyes shift briefly to Phoebe-- expression completely unreadable. Then back to Marky, flames hissing and popping as they try to escape through the crevices that have opened up in his face and along the right side of his head, searing away flesh and hair, and exposing what looks like an armoured metal skull underneath.

He steps closer, boots scraping the asphalt, and there's that terrible, utterly inhuman warping to his voice again as he gets right up into Marky's face. "Too late. Now you're mine, too."

If he's quick, he *might* be able to scramble away before he's gripped in unimaginable pain. There are no words, after all, for the torment of one's own mind turned against them.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    If she could talk, Phoebe might try to stop Eli from pushing through Robbie.

    But she'd had a flash of inspiration with what was going to happen to her if he kept bashing her skull in, and she's trying to push all the pieces of her own cranium back into place. She's a little unavailable at the moment.

    There are, in the alley, the Ghost Rider, Markey who has dropped his knife, and the other knife-weilding goon.

     -- wasn't there five to begin with though?

    There's a rattle above them, someone taking aim, and then the rappid tap of gun fire as some goon decides he's going to open fire on the whole alleyway.

    He's yelling a prayer to Saint Michael. It's not going to work.

    When he pulls back to change out clips, Marky decides to get smart -- but he's not quick. He's gripped in pain as the Rider takes his toll on his own mind, all the cruelties he's visited on others -- and there was a long, long list, Marky was a big kid and always loved to shove people around -- and he grasps at Robbie's shoulders, trying to pull away, push him away.

    The trembling kid with the pocket full of cash and a knife does the smarter thing -- he goes for the Rider's side!

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Don't they know they're fucked?

The evidence says no; two of them still think they stand a chance, and a third is actually trying to play hero by blanketing the alleyway in gunfire in some misguided attempt to take down the.. well, whatever the *hell* he is. Clearly, these people have not been keeping up on the Avengers or they might actually have recognised him.

The bat's tossed to one side, and it rolls away, spilling flames in its path before lighting some garbage on fire; its reflection in some dirty, standing water is almost eerily serene. Marky can scrabble all he wants at the leaner, darker figure advancing on him; but the Ghost Rider's hand shoots out to try to grip him by the throat, and force the bigger guy to look him in the eyes. What does he see? His worst nightmare: himself. All of his misdeeds, every mistake, every regret, every cruelty visited upon him. Again and again and again and again.

The bullets riddle them both, *pop pop pop pop pop* and he flings his prey into the same wall his buddy's currently taking a nap against. Maybe Marky's dead? If not, he will be soon. "Get down," the demon snarls at Phoebe, right as he's impaled with the knife. Which, predictably, poses about as much of a threat to him as the gun; those bullets just drop right out of him one after the other.

And the unfortunate kid who tried to stab him is about to have his neck snapped and his lifeless body thrown aside, unless he's got some serious tricks up his sleeve.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe's there. Mostly. She winces at the sound of gunfire, the heat in the alleyway as the garbage catches fire, and she feels bile rise again as she raises her hand, her shield forming over herself with its eight-pointed magic star and surrounding circle glowing, keeping her safe.

    The bullets strike the edges, bouncing off it.

    The kid who tried to stab him had his chance. There's a snap, and his body is thrown to the side alongside the first bat man.

    Marky doesn't look like he's getting up any time soon, his body twitches, his eyes burning as he experiences every cruelty, every negative action in stunning detail.

    The one witht he gun above them? He decides that the rooftop is much safer than being close to whatever Hell spat out down there. He drops his gun, swearing that he was going to leave crime and even go back to his mama, scrambling up the side of the building.

    The garbage fire burns and stinks up the alley with a greasy smell. Phoebe's jacket's been trampled, the hood half ripped off and soaked with blood from the back of her head.

    Phoebe has her head down, and is shaking with the effort to keep herself contained, both to not irritate Eli, and to not heal the present opponents!

Robbie Reyes has posed:
And then, as violently as it began, it's over.

The sound of flames crackling and popping, lighting up one side of the alleyway and the dead and dying bodies lying there; illuminating one side of Robbie's face as he too tries to hold back, stop the demon from completely taking him.

The goon with the gun is ignored after a quick sweep of his burning eyes, and left to do whatever he will. His boot hits dirty water as he steps over Marky's twitching body, and slinks in closer to where Phoebe is huddled. Slowly, he sinks into a crouch in front of her, and the flames surge and fade; surge and fade; then finally extinguish completely with a smothered hiss of pain as his charred flesh starts to heal over rapidly.

"You're hurt," Robbie murmurs raspily, and entirely unnecessarily. "Can you walk?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Just the white noise of the rain, the crackling of the fire. The pounding of her heart. She wasn't a stranger to how demons fight. She'd seen people burn at the hands of Angels.

    She has a lump in her throat. Her dark eyes flit up to the approaching rider, watching as the flame lowers, fights, then extinguishes.

    It takes a moment. Her brain is still rebuilding. She blinks, her eyes coming back into focus as she breathes out in a gasp, as if able to breathe for the first time in a century, and she reaches out. She tries to grasp Robbie's arm, to hold her fingers into the fabric of the hoodie, or what might be left of it as her shield drops entirely.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
In the state he's in, Robbie doesn't even seem to register the needling, almost painful harmonic of Phoebe's magic. It's like taking a mild chemical burn to the skin-- which, with his regenerative ability, is healed again almost as quickly as the damage is done.

"C'mon. I'll take you home." He sounds like he's smoked about eight packs of cigarettes in one sitting, and the remnants of his demonic transformation are still evident in the blackened, scarred flesh along the right side of his face trying to become whole again. The grip on his arm is permitted, but he hasn't yet tried to touch her. "Don't you fuckin' worry about me, heal yourself. I can't, or I would. Can I-- can I pick you up?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe gives a dull nod. Home is good. Which 'home'? There were going to be questions. There were going to be things that needed answers.

    She brings her arm up and over his shoulder, and gives another nod and whispers "Just don't move too fast. I don't wanna make a mess in the car." she states, and she squints her eyes.

    "I didn't thinking healing people was up your alley. Does... does it hurt?" Phoebe asks, "when it burns like that?" she questions.

    She's still decidedly out of it.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Maybe later, he'll beat himself up over letting this happen to her. If he'd walked her back to her bike in the first place--

But this isn't the time for it. "I'll do my best." He tries to smile, to lighten the mood when she leans in against him. But it's faltering, and fades a second later. "You tell me if anything hurts."

Then he's scooping up the smaller girl, heedless of the damp and the blood. He smells like leather and engine grease and brimstone-- and something bitter and metallic that's hard to put a finger on. "Yeah," he confirms. "Hurts like shit. How you doing, chica? Keep talkin' to me." And then he's on the move, taking them out of the alleyway and onto the street.

It might seem odd for a moment that he's not headed in the direction of Canelo's, until it becomes obvious that the Charger's been summoned to meet them here. It's almost as menacing as he is in the dark, flames just fading from the supercharger, LED headlights cutting through the rainy gloom as they approach.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe, meanwhile, smells like roses. Literally, the strong, heady smell of wild nasrin, with the cutting of black pepper and the sharpness of citrus. Olfactory effects for the weird.

    "That sucks. You'd think it'd get easier. I think we just get used to the pain. I used to get shot a lot. Feels like that, but a headache. I think part of my skull broke off and went into my brain. THis is the most headtrauma I've ever had. Dizzy. You're warm." she whispers.

    "Bioscan is probably going nuts. Do I still have my phone? If they took my phone Imma chase them down." she states. and with a quaking hand she pulls her phone -- the screen's pretty hopelessly cracked. She looks at it. She closes her eyes and bows her head forward a moment.

    "I should have seen him. If I wasn't so busy throwing a tantrum I wouldn't have..." she trails off, and then tilts her head up as she looks at Robbie from this angle.

    "Cur bellus es cum sum stultus et dolens?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie, it is neither the time nor the place to be sniffing at the girl who turned you down. In fact, there is *never* a time or place for that.

Ignoring the urge to do so, the young man digs for his keys while trying not to drop Phoebe, and unlocks the passenger side door. "Gabe knows a guy who can probably-- mmf. Fix it for you. We'll worry about it later." He hefts her into the seat, which -- along with the driver's side -- has been modified for racing, and pretty damn comfortable. The car's warm inside as well, and there's a scraggly little tree occupying the back seat that must be the source of the Christmasy scent. Fir, maybe. Needles everywhere. He watches her a few seconds when she looks up at him.

Then the door's slammed, and he's climbing in as well and keying the ignition. "Guess turnabout's fair game. What's that mean?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Why are you so cute when I'm so stupid and sad." Phoebe whispers. And she looks to the back seat, and then slides down in her seat. "I should be fine to drive in five minutes. I can have my friend fix my phone. I just... thank you." she finally settles on not overanalyzing this.

    "IF you wanna forget this all happened, I'm fine with it. I should have probably just tried to keep it professional... but I wanted to see you. Spend tiome. Just something that was normal, because ... I wanted it. But we're not allowed to have it. God I don't even know if we can touch each other without burns but I wanted to try." she pauses, and her nose wrinkles.

T"I'm babbling. I'm sorry. I can switch to Egyptian or Arabic or Latin..."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"Nope. Takin' you home. You can pick the bike up tomorrow, or I can bring it over for you later tonight. Your choice." God, bossy much? "And fuck's sake, Phoebe, you're my friend. Ain't nothing to thank me for."

He sits there a moment with his hand on the steering wheel, before thinking to pull his gloves out of -- aptly enough -- the glovebox with a mumbled 'scuse me'. His leather jacket's dug out of the back seat, needles dusted off, and offered up to the girl beside him hesitantly, like he's uncertain whether she'll accept.

Then he pulls out into the street, and guns the gas with a loud growl of the beast's eight cylinders. "Where'm I taking you?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    She seems to come to a little more. She looks around, taking stock of where she is. She opens her mouth and then goes 'oh hey no problem, I'm in your way' at the glove box reach.

    Phoebe accepts the leather jacket, wearing it over her like a blanket -- and as he guns it, she squeaks and grabs the chicken bar as she gives a sound of alarm.

    "Curio? Easiest to get to, least I have to explain. I can make my way from there." she breathes out in a scared puff.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
It isn't an attempt to make a 'move', that much is clear. He just really needed his gloves; the wheel's cold as ice, and now Phoebe's got his jacket.

"Curio, sure thing." He *almost* argues with her making her way anywhere tonight, in the state she's in.. but bites his tongue. For now, anyway. "You gonna be okay? How the fuck they manage to jump you like that, huh?" Concern and anger tangled up in that low, rough demand.

And if Phoebe's never ridden shotgun in a performance car before, well. This might be an eye opener. Robbie's an excellent driver; the Charger's like an extension of himself. Or he of it, perhaps. But the thing wants to *move*, and handles like a bat out of Hell.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe has ridden in many performance cars. Bugatis. Maseratis. A Mach One Mustang. Unfortunately it's all because she was in no condition to motorcycle her way home, most of the time. She's still hanging onto the chicken bar (if there is one!) with one hand, because fast driving still makes her a bit queasy, and though it's not quite white-knuckle, the strength of the car -- and the ease in which Robbie handles it -- is akin to riding some great beast for the first time. It's scary!

     She gives a slightly peturbed look, more at herself than anything else, and she leans her head forward, bringing her hand to the back of her head. It's still quite tender. She must have taken quite the hit.

    "Give me ten minutes and I'll be right as rain." she replies, looking over to Robbie as her shoulders draw up, and she attempts to hide a little more beneath his jacket. Since hers was gone. Phoebe's quiet a moment, looking over to her rescuer as he drives, feeling the growl of the engine through her legs as she curls them up slightly.

    "... my mind was elsewhere. I was just... angry at myself. I misread something. And it's fine." she replies, and she looks to the oncoming street. "Wouldn't be the first time I misread someone." she states, and she straightens up a little, and checks if she's clipped in. Hey, it's the Law in Jersey.

    "Once I get to the Curio I've got pajamas an' microwave popcorn and can check in with the big bat bossman."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Well, it's no Bugati. But it's about as demon tainted as Robbie himself, which may or may not offend Phoebe's delicate sensibilities. Thankfully, he isn't throwing the beast all over the road; the Charger's used like a scalpel, carving its way smoothly through traffic, maneuvered with that same fluidity and efficiency of movement that the young mechanic himself possesses.

"Fine," he murmurs after a long pause. One gloved hand on the wheel, while the other rides the gearshift. Occasionally a look in askance to his passenger, but his eyes are kept on the road in front of him for the most part.

"You warm enough? I can put the heat on. If you want." Across the bridge they go and into Gotham, where the freezing rain picks up a notch.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    It's no Bugati, but Phoebe has just as much trust in the driver at the moment, even with his Deadly proficiency. Something Phoebe can appreciate, especially as she watches the road quietly, though she tenses a little in traffic as they come to the bridge that leads to Gotham, and of course the weather changes for the worse.

    "Oh, don't worry about me. I've-" she begins, and then she looks down to the leather jacket that's covering her.

    "Aren't *you* cold?" she asks finally, "Don't worry about me, Robbie, you could catch your death of cold! Pneumonia is no joke!" she protests, sitting up a little bit more in protest, even if the best 'little tree' air freshener ever is providing that nice fir scent, she's trying not to get lulled to sleep.

    Because having to be carried into the Curio by Robbie would make her give the wet-cat face upon realization.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Maybe Phoebe spots the moment he rolls his eyes, or maybe she doesn't. Surely she notices the disapproving scowl, though, when she 'don't worry about me's him. "I ain't the one that just got brained by a f-- fuck, what's five'a something? You know what I mean, five punks. With fuckin' guns."

He hangs a smooth left one-handed, and the engine growls eagerly as they come out of the turn onto a darkened side street, as if unhappy with how he's throttling it back. "Anyway, I don't think I *can* get sick. Can't remember the last time I was.." It's clearly something that's just occurred to him.

And hey, between the steady thrum of the road, the wash of rain off the windows and the crisp scent of pine needles, it's pretty cozy in there.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Now they just need a romantic Christmas song.

    Phoebe is *not* going to play with the radio, though, that's probably going to be asking for a bad time. She does notice the disapproving scowl

    "Quintet." she answers, "A quintet of punks with guns, knives, and a baseball bat." she replies, and she raises her eyebrows, then they lower, and knit, and she raises her right hand, letting go of the bar.

    "What does it matter? I threw a hissy fit because obviously you're just politely putting up with me because there's no good way to say 'not interested' and I was just not getting the memo. I don't even know what I was thinking. Hopeful teenage girl /bollocks/." Phoebe hisses, and then crosses her arms under his jacket, that she's still wearing backwards over her for warmth. "I was mad, because I should have known better. Because who would even want to be interested in this mess. And I just show up and mess up your day."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Is he taking a slightly circuitous route to her place? Well. Yes. He could've turned right a block ago, but he's been a little distracted. "Quintet," he concedes quietly, rolling his jaw a little.

Who's to say the radio even works, anyway? Maybe it's tuned to another dimension or something. The trunk, after all, is a portal to Hell.

"I--" He starts and stops, then just decides to let Phoebe keep talking. By the time she's finished, he's pulling up in front of her shop, *whoosh, whoosh* as the wipers struggle to clear the windshield with that steady rhythm. It's *really* coming down out there, now.

"You didn't mess up my day." He switches the ignition off, and turns to watch the girl beside him. "And I--" He blows a breath out his nose, and scrapes gloved fingers through mussed curls. "I am *not* putting up with you. I just don't know how to show I'm interested without hurting you. Like I did tonight."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe's eyes snap wide open, and she feels her stomach tense. Cautious, optimistic, that little bit of hope. There's even a little light in her eyes, which might be the streetlight near the building bearing the words 'THE CURIO' on its carved face.

    The engine stilled, the monster asleep for the moment before she turns to look at Robbie.

    "You realize, we have... what, seven languages between us two and we should be able to communicate, right?" she asks, in frustration at herself mostly, and she gives a small laugh, her lips curling as she brings her palms up to her eyes, and leans her head back.

    "Okay. /I/ am interested. I don't know what it will take to make it so I'm not a shaking bag of anxiety, but pretty sure tonight proved that at least we can... y'know. Touch each other without setting each other on fire. Which is progress?" she asks, squinting upwards like there was going to be some directive on the roof of the car.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"Talking's not my--" He makes a frustrated noise in his throat, and grips a handful of his own hair until his knuckles go white under the leather. Then releases it slowly. "I mean, I'm not real good at it. I'm thinking one thing, but all the wrong fuckin' words come out, you know?" Maybe she does know.

"And what's it gonna take to fuckin' convince you that I don't die easy? That I ain't afraid of what you can do to me?" His profile's all sharp, threatening lines in the dark of the car punctuated by the occasional wash of headlights. There's that familiar aesthetic to him, as the ink he sports on his body: the blood of the aztecs runs in his veins, after all.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... not mine either. You get really good at pushing the hard stuff down when the pills don't work." Phoebe admits quietly. And she breathes out, watching Robbie's profile in the darkness, outlined in the mixed lights of the city.

    She unclips herself a moment, and leans against the door of the car; give him room to breathe. To process.

    He's not the first one with demons she's worked with, after all.

    "I know you don't die easily, Robbie. And you know I don't either."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
He allows another long lapse of silence after Phoebe finishes speaking. This one isn't particularly awkward or uncomfortable; it's just the way he seems to process things. Silently. Or hitting them until they're dead, depending on the thing.

Eventually he turns to watch her again, and there's that brief flicker of something completely inhuman about him; there and gone in the blink of an eye. "Okay." He actually tries to smile, but it vanishes again with his next words.

"So quit fuckin' pussyfooting around me. I like you. I want to spend time with you. Not as friends. I need you to-- to set the pace. You want to try that, or not?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "How am I supposed to set the pace? I can't even figure out a healthy relationship. My relationships have gone-" she holds up her hand and touches her index finger "The guy I had a crush on was gay," touch the middle finger "The guy I thought liked me fucked off to Romania," she touches her ring finger "The girl I dated has no concept of a romantic side and also doesn't talk because of a bunch of shit," she touches her pinky "I abandoned the other guy I liked for three months hiding in fucking *Kansas* after a demon ripped out my larynx because I'm an idiot and my adopted dad said he would kill me to protect me from myself. I'm not exactly the good person to *lead in* to a relationship because I inevitably /fuck it all to Hell/ because fucking God is a despondent father whose kids like to periodically set *fucking fire* to the antfarm and Fate likes to fuck around with me because I suck as a humanfuckingbeing!" she throws her arms up in the air, knocking the jacket down a little bit, and she tilts her head back. Her ears and cheeks are darker. He might be able to see the lighter skin of one of the scars across her neck usually hidden by the wide choker she wears.

    "I specifically want you to touch me. Without it being life-or-death. Just..." she breathes out quietly, "at least to see if I can."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie makes a face while Phoebe starts counting off her failed relationships; his expression is more aggravated than actually angry in turn. Because, "You think I know what I'm doing? You think you're the only one that don't have it all together, Phoebe? I know you've been hurt, but you ain't alone. Every time I try to get close to someone, Eli fucks it all up for me. Like he wants me to be good for nothing but fighting his goddamn battles for as long as he won't let me die. I've dated *one* girl and even she told me I was good for nothing but a good fuck--"

This is where Robbie realises he's run his mouth and said too much. And also that he, now, is angry too. But probably not at the girl huddled under his jacket.

"Oh, and one more thing: you do *not* suck as a humanfuckingbeing." It's practically growled at Phoebe, his eyes sharp points of light in the gloom. Caught watching her scar, he drags them back to her face, and his expression registers brief confusion as some of the fight drains out of him. "What, now?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "No, next Tuesday so I can put it on my calendar -- YES. NOW." Phoebe begins as sarcastic and then gives the affirmative, and then she closes her eyes. She's physically tense, between the adreniline, the cold, the loudness of Robbie's shouting and the anger, the illumination of his eyes, and then the sudden stop. She breathes out, her muscles making her shake. Making herself vulnerable, in just this moment, just this once.

    Sitting in the darkness of the passenger side of the car, backlit by someone's Christmas Lights string coming on in the darkness.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
It's a little absurd, really.

But what about this night so far hasn't been?

Another car washes past them on the rainslick street, and Robbie watches her sitting there, eyes closed, on edge, like a frightened little mouse.

After what must feel like an interminable pause, she can hear the sound of leather against skin-- and then the feel of his fingertips at her cheek, warm and a little bit rough to the touch. Then trailing lazily toward the corner of her mouth, the curve of her lower lip, before pulling away again. Not a word.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Nothing catches on fire. She doesn't burst into flames, she doesn't break down into basic atmospheric parts. She does not turn into a mushroom, or burst into a thousand flowers. For all the absurdity of a night that began as an excuse to see Robbie and stretched into what felt like a short lifetime, and the feeling of calloused fingers to her cheek. A few short inches of him touching her skin, just to prove she could.

    Her body relaxes. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her head tilts forward, her eyes tearing up even as her lips curl into a slight smile. And she reaches up, her fingertips going to ghost against Robbie's arm, trembling, nervous.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Maybe Eli's behaving himself at the moment because he's fresh off sating his murderous urges not half an hour ago. Speaking of which, "How's your head?" It's asked in a low, warm murmur like he's afraid of breaking whatever spell's been cast.

He, meanwhile, doesn't so much as flinch under the touch to his arm. He smiles again, ever so slightly, when Phoebe does though. "Lemme walk you up. So I know you made it home safe."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "If I have to be honest? Skill kinda spinning, but I think it's the sudden drop in panic and not the blunt force trauma?" she offers, and she gives a slight smile, and she gives a nod. "Just so you can know I made it home safe, up three flights of stairs, and she offers him his jacket.

    "I've got dry clothes upstairs. You don't." she gives a bit of a grin at that, her nose wrinkling a moment.

    And that's when her phone, in spite of being silenced and cracked, gives an insistent *DINGDING*.

    "That would be the boss." Phoebe states, and then she motions with her head. "C'mon, I have cocoa I can throw in a travel mug for you."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Is she making fun of him? Robbie blushes a little, though thankfully it's all but impossible to spot in the dark.

"I'll be fine," he grumbles when she chastises him about getting his clothes soggy. "You got hot cocoa? Why didn't you tell me sooner. C'mon."

Then he pops his door open and ducks out into the rain to wait for her.