08-17-2013, 06:49 PM
Sam's condo is relatively small, but still fairly spacious, particularly the kitchen, which is situated in such a way that it can't be seen from the entrance. To the left as Reese enters is a door to the second bedroom, once studio and now Jake's room, to the right is the laundry room. A little further and the place opens up considerably. There's the kitchen with its sleek new appliances, divided from the dining area by a counter, the sink, and a bar. That's when he'll see them, and they'll see him.
The years have changed them as much as they've changed Reese. Life for an Ahroun and his mate is a stressful, strained one. Shelly doesn't let herself think about the day Marshall will go out into the world and not come back, but it still shows. Sam hovers at the edge of the kitchen, leaned up against the support pillar that connects the counter and bar to the ceiling. She's dressed in t-shirt and shorts, sandals on her feet, her hair down and sort of almost kind of hiding the piercings that line her ears. When she sees Reese she turns and smiles at him with a look that's also measuring, gauging his reaction to being in the same physical proximity of his parents for the first time in ten years. It was a deliberate thing on her part, inviting him here, letting them into her space which is more or less neutral territory. She leans a little into his side when he hugs her.
Over by the oven is Shelly, Mom, shorter than she was when Reese less or maybe it just seems that way. Parents always seem like giants in their children's eyes until they become adults themselves and see that those that raised them are just people, too. Her long dark hair is streaked with grey and there are lines around her dark eyes and her thin-lipped mouth that weren't there when Reese was eighteen. She sees Reese and her brows lift a little, that look hopeful.
"Of course," she says, and it's strained. Shelly Evans was never uncertain, at least not within sight of her children. She was always so strong and so sure. But now, with her long lost son before her, she doesn't know what to do. Hug him? Reach up and catch him by the ears and drag him down to her height to give him what for? She crosses the distance between them, but she doesn't reach for him, only the salad, only the wine.
And on the other side of the counter, looming a little over it, is Marshall Evans, Athro Ahroun of the Glass Walkers, City Farmer of Montpelier. He stands a little over average height, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, the rest of him hidden behind half-wall and sink. His hair, once a pale vibrant red (a trait none of his children showed, but it's still there, lurking in their DNA) is more silver these days. There are deep lines etched into his face, spidering out from his eyes, sharply defining his nasolabial folds. There are scars on him, as well. One crawls up the side of his neck, another pokes out from his hairline. His nose is crooked, but it's been that way since long, long before any of his children were born. He looks at his son for the first time in years, lifts his chin in quiet greeting. It's a tense moment for all of them, but fortunately it's not compounded by Marshall's Rage, which is once again diminished for this brief visit with his family, his small daughter, his tinier grandson.
They have all changed. Time does that. Ten years and then some will do that. It's worse for a family like theirs, for any family born into the war against the corruption of the Wrym. Even Sam some day will have a face lined with worry if it's not already getting there already.
Speaking of that baby...
He's in Marshall's arms, the tiniest of tiny creatures held in a pair of beefy arms. Jake's dark brown eyes are wide and full of wonder as he stares up at the ceiling, one little hand waving aimlessly.
"He is," agrees Shelly, smiling as she straightens and turns.
"And light as a feather," says Marshall, smiling down at the baby.
The years have changed them as much as they've changed Reese. Life for an Ahroun and his mate is a stressful, strained one. Shelly doesn't let herself think about the day Marshall will go out into the world and not come back, but it still shows. Sam hovers at the edge of the kitchen, leaned up against the support pillar that connects the counter and bar to the ceiling. She's dressed in t-shirt and shorts, sandals on her feet, her hair down and sort of almost kind of hiding the piercings that line her ears. When she sees Reese she turns and smiles at him with a look that's also measuring, gauging his reaction to being in the same physical proximity of his parents for the first time in ten years. It was a deliberate thing on her part, inviting him here, letting them into her space which is more or less neutral territory. She leans a little into his side when he hugs her.
Over by the oven is Shelly, Mom, shorter than she was when Reese less or maybe it just seems that way. Parents always seem like giants in their children's eyes until they become adults themselves and see that those that raised them are just people, too. Her long dark hair is streaked with grey and there are lines around her dark eyes and her thin-lipped mouth that weren't there when Reese was eighteen. She sees Reese and her brows lift a little, that look hopeful.
"Of course," she says, and it's strained. Shelly Evans was never uncertain, at least not within sight of her children. She was always so strong and so sure. But now, with her long lost son before her, she doesn't know what to do. Hug him? Reach up and catch him by the ears and drag him down to her height to give him what for? She crosses the distance between them, but she doesn't reach for him, only the salad, only the wine.
And on the other side of the counter, looming a little over it, is Marshall Evans, Athro Ahroun of the Glass Walkers, City Farmer of Montpelier. He stands a little over average height, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, the rest of him hidden behind half-wall and sink. His hair, once a pale vibrant red (a trait none of his children showed, but it's still there, lurking in their DNA) is more silver these days. There are deep lines etched into his face, spidering out from his eyes, sharply defining his nasolabial folds. There are scars on him, as well. One crawls up the side of his neck, another pokes out from his hairline. His nose is crooked, but it's been that way since long, long before any of his children were born. He looks at his son for the first time in years, lifts his chin in quiet greeting. It's a tense moment for all of them, but fortunately it's not compounded by Marshall's Rage, which is once again diminished for this brief visit with his family, his small daughter, his tinier grandson.
They have all changed. Time does that. Ten years and then some will do that. It's worse for a family like theirs, for any family born into the war against the corruption of the Wrym. Even Sam some day will have a face lined with worry if it's not already getting there already.
Speaking of that baby...
He's in Marshall's arms, the tiniest of tiny creatures held in a pair of beefy arms. Jake's dark brown eyes are wide and full of wonder as he stares up at the ceiling, one little hand waving aimlessly.
"He is," agrees Shelly, smiling as she straightens and turns.
"And light as a feather," says Marshall, smiling down at the baby.