((Closed thread, fyi.
and i'm starting off in 3rd because it seems to fit him, but im used to doing 1st, so if i slip up and put "i", forgive me))

The cool, cloudy liquid seemed to stare back at the blonde from inside the tall, thin glass. Mint leaves and a lime wedge mixed among the ice cubes of the mojito and added a little garnish. Tristan Nixon hardly cared. His thoughts were far elsewhere as he sipped from the glass, filtering out the mint leaves with his lips curled carefully over his teeth. The burn of the alcohol along his tongue and throat was, to him, a familiar sensation, a relaxing one, even.

A gray-shirted bartender glanced curiously towards the stranger with the curly ponytail, though she hesitated to speak to him. From the moment he'd entered and with the exception of his one muttered request for a mojito, the man kept utterly silent and to himself, paying almost no mind to the other two patrons in the nearly-empty bar. This wasn't always an unusual occurrence; plenty of people came in for a drink as they watched whatever was blaring on the little flat-screen TV's mounted to the wall, or scanned over a newspaper on their phones. But this man stared straight ahead or down at the table, made no conversation, didn't once glance at the television and he didn't appear to have a phone on his person. This both confused and intrigued the bartender, so, gathering a little courage, she asked, "You from here, hon?"
Tristan's gray-blue eyes didn't move from the condensation on his smooth glass. "No," was his cryptic answer.
He didn't have to tell her he was't from town for her to guess; his accent said it all. The woman swore it was british--no, south african, maybe? It carried a different sound than a straight british accent. This fact made her curiosity burn even stronger, though she was quick to pick up that the blonde in front of her was in no mood for conversation. Quietly, she tended to the tables on the other side of the bar.

Tristan fished a simple leather wallet from an inside-pocket of his black zip-hoodie, pulled a bill from it and slid it across the smooth and well-cleaned bar before polishing off the last of his mojito. Like an apparition, the young man smoothly and silently left the building and strolled leisurely along the Miami sidewalk. He had nothing to do and nowhere to go, but he had the sun shining down on his neck and back, and that alone was worth the long walk back to his hotel--a walk that passed by several 'gang' territories (Tristan thought they were closer to the Irish mob than gangsters) and many more lone gunslingers. The latter of the two tried to hide their oversized weapons under coats, loose jeans, or in backpacks; Tristan spotted them all. These people had no idea how to conceal a weapon, and their attempts at it made the foreigner chuckle.

Aibhlinn couldn't sit still at any one place. She tried. There was just too much on her mind and too much fire in her feet. She needed to expel some of her energy. It wasn't too long ago that she found out why she suddenly had such a boost in energy. She was pregnant. What a feat that was. She hadn't heard of a single woman who had gotten pregnant an a rather long time. When she had read the positive test, she shouldn't believe her eyes. She had taken the pregnancy test five times and they all came out positive. It was still pretty hard to fathom that she really was pregnant. She should have been happy. She really wasn't.

The young woman had only just twenty. She had a little fling and she thought nothing bad would come from it. Why would there have been a risk of pregnancy if the whole world was crying about the horror of infertility and the high mortality rates versus the zero births? She got to be the 'lucky' one. She wasn't ready for this. She thought about abortion, but she couldn't do that. She'd feel too guilty about it in years to come. She had to have the baby for the 'salvation' of mankind. Didn't chance the fact that she was terrified. She had no one in her family she could go to. Her mom had died in childbirth and every other woman in her family couldn't produce children.

Aibhlinn sighed to herself and muttered against the warm black tea she was drinking as she walked down the streets. She pushed her black hair away from her face and took a moment to tie it up in a messy bun. Her phone rang and she looked down with eyes as blue as the Ulysses butterfly to read the text. Before she had the chance to look up, she unceremoniously ran into someone. Her drink spilled all over herself an the stranger. Oh, this day couldn't get any better.

"I am sorry," she said to him in a mild Irish accent. She grabbed some napkins and handed them to the man before she grabbed a few more and started to wipe at her own clothing. "I should have looked where I was going." She glanced up at the man before she did a double take. He was handsome. Had one of those 'mysterious bad boy' vibes. She briefly wondered what kind of job the man had. "How can I make it up to ya?"

It gave Tristan great satisfaction to have a good excuse to wear his sunglasses. He loved them, almost as much as he loved a good hoodie or a pair of moccasin-slippers. He felt almost cozy in them, in the familiar weight of the plastic around the bridge of his nose and the gentle squeeze of the temples over his ears. More than that, he found solace in the fact that they hid his eyes from the rest of the world. It made him harder to read, made him cold, detached, indifferent. That's what he had to be, wasn't it? To do his job, he had to be calloused or it would destroy him. If it hasn't already... he thought acridly. Tristan also found that this icy demeanor often made him intimidating, unapproachable, and this, he liked. Not that he hated people, or company, for that matter, but he constantly reminded himself he didn't have time to maintain relationships when all he ever did was move around. He couldn't afford for people to get close--what if they found out about his job? About his real name? (He often kept this secret and only gave it out to those he felt deserving of his time and trustworthy) Or worse, what if they found out about--
Tristan had to stop himself right there. He had enough on his mind; now was not the time to go diving down into that rabbit hole and opening old cans of worms.

The twenty-six year old was just nearing the final crosswalk before hitting the street his hotel was located at, when he felt another body collide straight-on with his all of a sudden, hot liquid seeping in through his sweatshirt and some through his leather Diesel shoes. Tristan jumped, maybe a little more than he should have, and had half a mind to reach for the gun he kept tucked in the small of his back. That was merely a reflex, he thought as he noted the wayward cup that once held whatever hot liquid now soaked into his clothes--tea, was it?--and the flustered woman who once held it. His tensed hand relaxed a little and he took the napkins offered to him by the apologetic woman. The girl looked distracted, like she had a world of worry on her mind and this was just icing on the cake.
"It's fine," he told her, not even bothering to try americanizing his accent. In truth, he was a little irked--he just pulled that sweatshirt out of the dryer last night--but he wasn't about to let her know. She had enough on her plate, it seemed.

The girl offered to make it up to him, but he smiled politely and shook his head. "No, no thank you. It's alright," he assured her. "Accidents happen." Tristan was about to hurry home when he caught sight of the woman's blue eyes. Oh, how he knew those eyes. He saw the same expression in his own eyes when he looked in the mirror at some unholy hour, kept up by the demons in his mind. Something troubled her.
Tristan turned around sharply, and mostly for her sake (he'd be lying to himself if he said it wasn't for himself as well--he needed a distraction) he said, "y'know, I could go for a cappuccino right now, actually. You could come with me and I'll buy you another cup of tea or something?" he offered, his accent a dead giveaway to the fact that he wasn't always an American. Tristan was often standoffish and distant, but he was certainly not a jerk (to those deserving of his manners, anyhow) and his parents taught him how to treat a lady. Besides, he figured both of them had issues they'd rather run from than deal with and this would be a good distraction for both sides.

Well, at least there was a plus to all of this. The guy wasn't a jerk and shoved it in her face that she stained his pretty little shirt and got tea on his shiny shoes. She remembered a time when she was a waitress and was first starting out. She was so nervous, she had knocked over a class on the table and splashed one of the people sitting down. Instead of accepting her apology as she cleaned up, he made it a point to be as loud as he could so everyone in the store would look at her and the guy had tried to get her fired. Ever since then, she had earned the name Tipsy. Maybe clutz would have been a better name.

"All right. Thought I'd ask anyway," she answered him with a smile. "Good day."

Aibhlinn walked over to the trash can and dumped her now empty cup of tea and sighed. She'd probably pick up something to drink when she went back to the library. She was a little self conscious about picking out books about pregnancy but she had to do this. Her computer had a pretty nasty little virus so she had to revert to old fashioned books. She didn't really mind. Reading was one of her favorite things to do since she herself was a writer and nothing beat an old fashioned leather bound book in your hands next to a fireplace. She smiled at the thought. Maybe she'd get some other books besides the pregnancy ones; those being the most important ones.

Then the man called her back. She looked over at him and looked him up and down again. Was he trying to hook up with her or something? It wouldn't be the first time she would have been approached. She briefly wondered what had possibly made him change his mind all of a sudden. She shrugged it off and gave him a small smile. Maybe he was a shy thing behind those 'I am cool' sunglasses. She couldn't help but chuckle at her own view of the mysterious man.

"Well, I am not going to turn down and offer I made just a moment before. I'd love to grab a drink with you. May name is Aibhliin Caoimhe. It is nice to meet you, Stranger," she answered him and extended a hand towards him. "I'll probably just grab some water though. I think I need to cut down on some of that caffeine. Lead the way," she smiled.

The girl looked up at him with a polite smile, but she seemed a little confused that he would decline her offer and then suddenly change his mind. Rightfully so, he supposed. Who knew what sorts of possibilities were running through her head as she studied his figure with speculative eyes. "I'm sorry," Tristan told her somewhat quietly as he began walking. "I have a lot on my mind and...I'll be honest, I'm feeling a little reclusive. But really, I could use a good distraction, some conversation. So...why not?" Every part of him yearned for the sanctity of his hotel room, of 'home', to be alone. And alone with your thoughts, he could hear Mick tell him. Tristan was down in Miami visiting his long time friend Mick Locke and he'd only just left the day before. The whole time he was there, it seemed his American friend was adamant about recommending the blonde be more social, more personable. "No wonder you drink so much," he'd say. "You have no friends but me, your family's gone, and your job isn't exactly full-time. You need company, Tristan. Someone to talk to." Tristan could almost imagine Mick grinning victoriously at him if he were there with him.

He took Aibhlinn's hand and shook it firmly. "Aibhlinn? Garrett Ashland," he lied smoothly with a hint of a polite smile on his thin lips. His name, his true name, was something he almost never gave out...for many reasons. Only people well deserving of his time, like Mick, would have such the privilege of calling him Tristan. As of late, he used the name Garrett for everyday encounters, and those who did business with him merely referred to him as Nix. "Do you mind if I stop by my hotel and grab another shirt? It's just around the corner, the Evergreen," he said, already walking towards it and glancing to make sure she followed. Tristan struggled to think of something else to say to her--he was never a man of many words--so he stayed mostly silent as he took the elevator up to his hotel suite--a clean, decently furnished place. He paused at the door, pulling his key from his pocket. Did he dare let her in? Perhaps he ought to do a scan of the suite to make sure nothing....questionable was out where she could see it? He decided on the latter as he said, "give me a moment to...tidy up the place so you have somewhere to sit, mm?" the smile he offered her was halfway embarrassed as he slipped carefully inside the door and shut it behind him.

How un-Reidanian of me not to just let her walk in... he thought. Oh, what his mother would say! Surely she would chastise him for being a bad host, even his brother might shoot him a sharp glare. Things had changed since he came to the states. Despite what his mother might have said, Tristan was glad he took a moment to clear up the room before letting her in. On the table lay his revolver, a .38 special that he carried since he was a teen. He scooped it up and quickly went to stash it in his maroon-canvas duffle bag before hurrying to open the door. "Sorry," he said to Aibhlinn, stepping back to let her inside. "Have a seat, I'll be back in a moment." Tristan disappeared into the small bedroom and shut the door, lest she see him without a shirt. The blonde pulled on a gray t-shirt that well-hid the sig-saur pistol tucked in the small of his back, tossed the soiled clothes in the laundry pile, and re-entered the tiny living room. "I apologize again," he said, his accent thick. "Anyway, shall we.....?"

Aibhlinn's smile widened a little more to show bright white teeth behind her rosy lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Garrett. I like that name. It reminds me of an old story I read once. One of my favorite books really. The author, Katherine Kerr, she's my idol. It was an old Celtic tale of mystery, a twinge of history, and all around heart wrenching. Overall, I would say it is a wonderful read if you ever have time. It is a rather long story. I think it is about twelve books long; the story I mean," she explained. At realizing she was probably babbling about something he didn't want to hear, she blushed a little and pushed her strands of hair away from her eyes in a nervous habit. "Sorry about that. I tend to ramble when it is about books," she laughed.

When the man asked to go to his hotel first, all the warnings her grandmother used to tell her about came to her mind. The man could take her too his room, lock her up. Rape her, sell her, a variety of different tortures. She shuddered at the idea. She did have a pocket knife in her purse. She could fight her way if she had to. The mace she had could be plenty useful to. She had a good pair of lungs on her. Someone would be bound to hear her if something were to go wrong. She didn't want to be rude either. She'd go with him, but she'd have to be on the wary side. She didn't want to be caught off guard. She was alone here. "Okay, " she called after him and walked after him.

Waiting outside his door didn't make her feel any better. What did he have to hide that he had to go inside and 'clean up'? Sure he could be shy and have clothes out everywhere, but what if there was something else there that he wanted to hide from her? Something bad? She looked down the hall and debated if she should leave before he came back. Maybe she shouldn't have given her name; especially her last name. Damn it. She always wanted to be friendly. She was about to turn away when the door opened for her. She bit her lip and stood at the door and waited while he dressed. She kept her hand on the door knob just in case she had to make a run for it. As it was, she was still safe when the man came back out.

"Sure. So where do you want to go? There are so many different cafes around here. There is a bookstore not too far away either. They have a nice little coffee shop in there. So, Mr. Mysterious, where do you come from? Your accent is pretty thick so I don't think you've been here too long. It's a nice accent," she smiled.

Aibhlinn struck me as uncomfortable as she stood warily by the door with one hand still lingering on the handle. A part of me felt bad, like maybe i hadn't been a good enough host, but the other part of me understood. I was hard to approach, after all, and Americans seemed to have an aversion to going into strangers' homes. That sort of social habit was unheard of back home--people would offer he and his brother popsicles when they were boys and the two of them would walk right in their house, sometimes even sit at their table to eat them without any fear. This was not the case in America and Tristan learned this quickly when he tried to ask one of Mick's neighbors for some eggs.

The girl spoke of a book, a long, epic tale that pulled at every desire and emotion anyone could have. His lips twitched in a small smile. Reading...if only he wasn't so awful at it, it'd be a great way to pass the time and get his mind off things when he needed to. "Sounds like a great story," he said. "I would actually like to read it but..." he was about to end it at that and trail off w hen he remembered Mick and his advice to be open with people. "I...well, i'm borderline illiterate. I didn't learn to read until i was thirteen, and even then, i never did it much. I had other things to..." he blinked and quickly changed the subject, leading her back out into the hall again.

"You can pick where we go. I'm not from here...i've spent most of my time up north, so i really don't know any good cafe's or anything. I'm sure you know them better than I do," he admitted, opening up the elevator door. It was then that Aibhlinn commented on his accent and asked about his homage--a subject Tristan rarely delved into with anyone. Generally he never brought it up, and most people just asked him if he was from London--he always lied and answered yes. Not this girl. No, she must have been too familiar with british accents to mistake his for that. Lying would not become him in this situation, but he wasn't ready to open that pandora's box, either.
"I'm not from here--the states, i mean," he admitted. "I...grew up east of here...y'know, the other side of the Atlantic. In a...in a tiny place you've probably never heard of." He had half the mind to tell her, to just unload everything upon the poor stranger and get it all off his chest. Everything from the loss of both parents, to the war-driven culture of home, to the very event that led him to America in the first place and started all the heavy thoughts, all those demons that circled his mind and kept him up at night.
No. He couldn't do that. Ever. Only Mick could know and no one else, lest he be shunned any more than he probably already was back at home. Mick and Captain Matthew, he thought. And not another soul. Those dark secrets would die with him and be buried in his grave.
Quickly he added, "what about you? you sound....what is that, irish? Are you from the states originally or did you move here? How long have you been in Florida?" Even Tristan himself was surprised by how talkative he was. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't slept for one minute the night before, or the fact that it was hardly noon and he'd already downed a Mojito. Maybe it was just his attempt at running from his own thoughts.

Borderline illiterate? That was so sad. Immediately a frown touched her lips. She couldn't imagine a world where she couldn't read or write to pass by the time. Television was great and so was the internet, but it didn't fill the intellectual void she craved in her daily life. Maybe she could help this man enjoy reading. She'd do her best to teach him how to read; if he wanted of course. She wasn't going to force the man to learn if he didn't want to.. That would only deter him from process and make him hate it all together. Now writer wanted that. It was one of the reasons she hated English professors.

"I could help you, you know," she smiled as they walked down the hall again. "I am actually a writer. Well hoping anyway. I am still in the process of finishing the actual writing. I could swear up and down that reading is becoming a lost art on the new generation, what with holographic enactments of the books and orators that read the book for the youth instead. Reading should still be books you actually have to read. Libraries are beginning to thin out and store only computerized books now. Oh sorry, rambling again," she chuckled. "My main point was that if you wanted, I could help you learn how to read better if you wanted."

Aibhlinn glanced at her companion when he tiptoed over his actual origins. Must be a sensitive topic for him. It tickled her curiosity, but she wouldn't ask. Some people were rather tentative of their past. She wondered if something bad happened to him back then that he was trying to avoid something. She shrugged it off. That was something to ponder at a later date. "Yes, my family is Irish. I was born there, but don't really remember anything. My family moved out here when I was two. I just never left here. It is home. It is comfortable. Maybe one day I will go back to Ireland I still have some family there.

"Now let's see... where to go. There is a library cafe right down the street. It is a nice little place. We can talk there," she smiled.

She took the lead and headed for the cafe. It really wasn't a long walk. Once there, she walked into the cafe and greeted the workers. She was here entirely too often. "Well we are here! So what do you want to talk about hun?"

Aibhlinn went on to describe how books were declining as of late, and how holographic re-enactments and orators were beginning to take their place. "This may sadden you," Tristan said as he made his way through the red-carpeted hallways of the clean hotel. "But growing up, we didn't even have those. People told us stories, often true tales of heroes that went above and beyond the call of duty to rescue someone they hardly knew--that sort of thing. You've probably heard stories like those. I imagine they're similar, only...the hero often doesn't ride into the sunset. It usually ends with a memorial service instead. But ah...we didn't spend too much time with books. Most of us kids didn't know how to read anyway." He shrugged it off dismissively. To her offer to teach him, he, again, shrugged. "That's very kind of you, but I imagine I'll be in another town soon anyhow. Work keeps me moving." His answer was polite, but somehow distant, and the twitch of a smile on his lips didn't seem fully real. Even Tristan knew he was being a little standoffish--Mick wouldn't have let him say no, either. "Besides," he said, "I know enough to get me by."

The girl told him that she came from Ireland originally and, shortly after she was born, moved to the states. A very small part of him wished that was the case for him, too. If his family decided to leave, the four of them would be together, still. He wouldn't have taken this job, for sure. Or would he? Sometimes he wondered if maybe he was destined to be in that line of work, that no matter what he did, he'd be stuck in it. Mick said that was a load of crap, but Tristan couldn't help wondering.
"This is home to you, mm? That's interesting, I couldn't ever consider a place like this 'home'--no offense, it's not a bad place, it's just...so very different than what I'm used to....Then again, i doubt anything is close to what i'm used to. I come from a strange place...."

Aibhlinn decided a library cafe would be their best bet and together they made the short walk to the place. That was the nice thing about Miami--anything one could ever want was usually only a few blocks away and well within reach. Upon entering the building, the staff greeted the girl by name--something that struck Tristan as strange. No one here spoke to him that way. Either they didn't know his name or he was gone before anyone could begin to remember it. Partly this is what kept him safe; that and Mick's handiwork in action. Back home though, everyone knew him. People referred to he and his brother as 'the Nixon kids', and as he got older, some people just stuck to calling him Nix.
Tristan ordered a dry cappuccino and sat down at a small table with it as Aibhlinn asked him what he wanted to talk about. The question caught him entirely off guard. Taking off his rather expensive looking sunglasses and tucking one temple into the collar of his shirt, he simply stared at her for a second with his blue-gray eyes. Something about them seemed distant, though far from emotionless; In fact, his light eyes seemed weary and burdened with an unknown trouble. "I'll be perfectly honest with you," he began finally. "I'm not a talkative man. I've said more to you than I have to anyone except my long time friend Mick in the last week combined. I'm not used to conversing so much with strangers outside of work, and even then, there's hardly much communication with what I do. Sorry," he said quietly. "I don't have much to say. I don't mind listening, however. How about you?" He asked, always a skilled master at turning the spotlight away from himself. "What's on your mind?"

Aibhlinn nodded to him. She really did wonder where this man came from. Why was everything so strange for him here? Did he come from Europe? That accent... where was it from? She had never heard the accent before. It was charming, but still hard to pinpoint. She wanted to ask him about it, but the way he had answered her earlier questions about where he came from only provided little clues. He didn't really give straightforward answers to things he didn't want to talk about. At least she had that clue to go on when she asked him questions.

"Not a talkative man?" she grinned. "Well, you had me fooled. You were the one that agreed to this little get together," she teased him and gave him a wink before she sipped the water she had gotten for herself. "As for what is on my mind, all I can really say, is that there is a lot on my mind. I am not going to chew your ear off though. Just a whole... variety of things. This baby plight mostly I guess. It makes me wonder when it will end and what the chances are of it ever getting better, you know? People are going into a panic. They are scared that we are all going to die out because we can't procreate. What do you think... I mean... if a woman somehow got pregnant, what do you think would happen to her thanks to this panic and the media?" she asked him. She knew it was an odd topic to discuss with a stranger, but it was a current event after all.

Tristan's gaze was rarely on the woman across from him. Sometimes he'd spare her a quick glance but mostly he kept his eyes on the environment around him. He paid little attention to the old woman sipping tea and reading in the corner--no, his attention was fixed on a group of rough looking men that just entered the building. They merely ordered drinks and sat down at a round table, but Tristan could see they were all packing heat.
Anarchists. Up to no good.
In his country, such a thing as anarchy couldn't exist. Anarchy suggested 'fending for oneself'--a frowned upon concept back home. Not that people weren't independent, but Reidan emphasized a sense of a community and people looked highly on those who supported their neighbors, their brothers and sisters in arms. They abided by mutually agreed upon rules and laws and did their best to help those in need.
Not here. In america, it was every man for himself. No one cared for the person behind them in line, their neighbor, their coworker. There might have been a time when they did, when people and relationships mattered, but ever since women became infertile, since the decline and extinction of humanity became more an more immanent with every passing day, chivalry died. Entire civilizations collapsed and, with the exception of some of the larger and more established cultures like America and some independent cultures like his own, the world was a dangerous and unruly place.

Tristan turned back to Aibhlinn. "I believe you were the one who extended the invitation in the first place," he half teased. "But...I guess i needed a distraction. It's been....n-nevermind." He shrugged and silenced almost immediately. Probably best not to go down that path. Then she brought up the world's current state of infertility, to which he sighed dismally. "I'm a cynic," he told her outright. "I don't believe it will get better. In fact, it'll get worse. Human nature is a forked-tongued beast with vicious teeth. We'll destroy ourselves before time even has the chance. But...if, fictionally speaking, a woman did conceive....i imagine she'd be in a good deal of trouble. Everyone would want the child, everyone would want her in 'their corner' so to speak so she could repopulate whatever political group they stand for, or whatever. I imagine fanatics and wierdos would come out of the woodworks, trying to literally rub shoulders with that person in the hopes that whatever genetic mutation they have would rub off on them...or something. I don't know. It'd be a mess, though."

Aibhlinn was about to ask him why he cut himself up, but then the man began answering her question. With each word that fell from his mouth, the more Aibhlinn became nervous. None of that sounded good at all. She started to play with her drink and move it around on the table as she listened to him. She swallowed hard. What was she going to do? She was pregnant. She was a month into her pregnancy. Pretty soon, she'd start showing. She couldn't hide it then. She was going to be in danger and alone. She wouldn't know who to trust or anything and so many people would be after her. Her child would be in danger. More and more, she didn't want it.

Yet, at the same time, something inside her said that beneath all her denial, she did want the little baby. She wanted to keep the child safe. She knew she was never going to get rid of the child. It wasn't in her nature to do so. If someone needed help, she was always a phone call away. The child would need her, desperately. She hugged herself and touched her stomach absentmindedly. What was she going to do? She couldn't do this alone.

Aibhlinn sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She glanced up at the man in front of her and bit her lip. She couldn't just trust him either. She just met him. He could be what he just mentioned in his speech. He was a mysterious man. she knew practically nothing about him. She didn't know what he did for a living, where he came from, his view on anything, if he was a psychopath, nothing. Well the only thing she knew was that he wasn't from here and couldn't read and write well.

"What do you work as?" she asked him a little quietly. She knew it seemed like a sensitive topic, but she felt like it was a bit of information she needed at least.

The subject of infertility and chaos made this woman uneasy. Tristan was often in uncomfortable situation and he could spot the signs well. The chewed lip, the tight, closed in body language, the almost curdled look that lay subtly in her features. Tristan wasn't one to involve himself in other people's problems, or even care about them--he had to many of his own to battle. But the more he thought about it, this involved him, too. It involved the whole world, really. So he couldn't help but wonder why Aibhlinn was so uneasy about the topic. He was about to dismiss it, when suddenly she did. He was the king of changing subjects, but she didn't seem like the type. something was up.

"What do i do?" He'd humor the question, at least to an extent. But it took him a moment. Garrett Ashland...what did Garrett do for a living? Mick gave him a suggestion--he always helped him create his other identities. Somehow it eluded him now. Was it construction worker? No...that was Jason. Oh! Of course! "I suppose you could say...i'm something of a freelancer." That much was true. "You know, as a bouncer. Muscle for hire, really. I do a lot of concerts, some jobs with celebrities and politicians, too." He shrugged. "It pays the bills." And then some. Tristan didn't even know how much money he had stuffed away in obscure bank accounts and rolled into neat packs in his duffle bag. He didn't want to.

Again her avoidance of the pregnancy subject arose in his mind. He was silent for a long time, and for the first time, his eyes bored into hers for an extended period of time. Though the color was soft, they were intense, deep, and always alert. Finally he took his hand away from his mug, untangling his smooth fingers from the round handle. "Aibhlinn..." he began, his eyes unwavering. "I know you don't know me. I don't know you. I will be perfectly honest, I do not trust you, and i imagine you feel the same way about me. But I'm a perceptive man, and you're hiding something from me." There, it was out in the open, now. "I don't like to meddle in other people's business, but something....every time i try to forget about it, my mind comes back to it." He leaned forward. "What are you hiding from me? Are you one of Nathan's?" His voice was low, quiet, but no less demanding.

He was taking too long to respond. That meant he was thinking about what to say. That made her a little more uneasy. If someone asked her was she did for a living, she'd easily remark she worked in cafes while she did her writing. There was nothing to thinking about. The man was hiding his real job. That or he was calculating something. Either option didn't sound really reassuring for her. She tensed up a little more and rubbed her arms. She didn't know what she was supposed to do now. Should she tell him that she was late for an appointment and get the hell out of here, or should she just stay and listen?

A bouncer. Aibhlinn looked him up and down. He did have the build of someone who was a 'fighter for hire'. Was he really what he said he was though? She chewed on her lip as she thought about it. When he asked her what she was hiding, her eyes widened. Was she an open book about these type of things? Her mother did say she wore emotions on her sleeve. She swallowed hard and her mouth was instantly dry. She cleared her throat and took another sip of her water. At his second question, she frowned.

"Nathan's?" she asked him. "Who is Nathan? I don't know anyone by that name. Yes I am hiding something, but so are you," she countered. "Why should I tell you my secret when you are keeping one from me?"

This girl was a box of tricks. One minute she was an innocent writer repaying minor misfortune, and now they were two strangers, both telling lies as they sat across the table from each other, like a married couple who lost their spark and had begun to seek it elsewhere. She knew Tristan was lying. How would she know? She had to be one of Nathan's...she had to.
The real question was, if she truly was nathan's....how did he find him? Tristan--Garrett, rather--had been excruciatingly careful to keep his name clean, to stay on the move and to keep under the radar. Nathan couldn't have found him, not unless he knew about Mick, but in the last two and a half years the two had been stateside, Nathan (much to the older man's dismay) never knew about Mick. Nathan simply knew Tristan was getting 'outside help' and this fact maddened him immensely.

"Nate..." Tristan almost breathed a sigh of relief; her question of who he was seemed too honest to be faked. So she didn't know. More importantly, he didn't know. Tristan was safe...for now. And what good fortune that was! He'd only barely arrived in the city and he honestly wanted a chance to explore it a little, particularly before any work came his way. "Ahh, Nate..." he said, as if remembering an awkward moment. "We served together--We're both war vets." His voice dropped low when he said that, like he honestly didn't want to ever admit it or even remember it. "Apparently we both came to the states at similar times and out of spite he's trying to sabotage any good standing or reputation I have, like the d--- National Enquirer. He's a bitter man, Nathan is. Our relationship was never stellar to begin with, but it took a turn for the worse about two years ago. He's been griping about it since."
Worse than griping! He's been hunting me down like a bloodhound for two years! Tristan thought to himself. What a psychopath!
"The guy's a networking genius and i swear, he's got someone in every town who's looking for me, waiting to go to my employers and give me a bad rap..."

The blonde Reidanian relaxed only enough to take a tense sip of his hot cappuccino--all without removing his stare from the woman across from him. "I had you pegged all wrong," he said smoothly. "I never would have expected you to be so observant. You're correct--I haven't been totally honest with you. My name isn't Garrett. It's Daniel." This, he admitted quietly. While it wasn't his real first name, it was his true and legal middle name, and for him to even give that was a stretch. He couldn't afford mistakes now, though. If he had to pull out the big guns to get her off his tail, he'd do it. "I don't tell people because....i dont know." he gave a shy shrug. "Reminds me too much of my grandpa, i guess. Usually i just go by Garrett. And...okay, i'm not a full time bouncer. I cook for some organizations on the weekends, on occasion. Just....don't let that get out. I dont' want people to know. A-anyway, there, i showed you mine, now you show me yours. What are you hiding?"

War vets? Garrett was in the war? That was news. Man, this guy was full of surprises. She would have never guessed. She leaned back in her chair as she listened to him talk. She rubbed her cheek a little and tried to digest all the information he just plopped on her. Daniel. His name was really Daniel. He was a bouncer. He had some crazy vet by the name of Nate chasing him down. Wonderful. simply wonderful. He was getting chased down and soon so would she. She sighed and tapped her lips thinking.

Should she tell him about her pregnancy? Did it really matter? The whole damned world was going to know soon. She just needed a few more months and her baby bump was going to start showing. She'd be a sick mess with cravings and a stomach four times her size. there was no way of hiding it then. Having one person know now wasn't really going to change anything. Maybe the guy was going to help her. If not, she just quickened her eventual fate. She grumbled to herself and rubbed her temples. She hates stress. By the end of this, she was going to have white hair.

Aibhlinn glanced around to make sure no one was watching or listening. Then she grabbed her chair and scooted closer to the man so she could lean in closer. She didn't want to risk others hearing what she was about to share. She cleared her throat once more. "Well... you see... umm... the reason why I asked about.... you know, the child thing? Yeah well... I just... I just found out... I was pregnant a c-couple of days ago," she said in a whisper. "You said you deal with protection? Could you... protect me?" she asked a little hopeful.

Tristan was thankful for the uncertain and unsteady times this world lived in when he mentioned he was a vet. Since the youngest person alive turned five, war and civil unrest spread across the world as crumbling nations desperately tried to cling to power--there was no way she could pinpoint exactly which war he was involved in. Thank goodness. That was one subject he, under any circumstances, did not want to delve into, and if she wanted to try, she'd get stonewalled hard and fast.

And then suddenly she started to speak, started whispering these words to him that fell upon his ears with the impact of an explosion. Pregnant. She was pregnant. The entire world was unable to have children, except for this woman right there. Suddenly all the events he described to her moments ago flashed through his head, and the presence of the gun-carrying men on the other side of the cafe became all the more prominent. Tristan's mouth dropped open in disbelief. His smooth hand reached across the table and firmly but gently grabbed her wrist. It wasn't a violent gesture, rather, it was more a move of urgency. 
"not another word about it," he breathed. "tell no one. Not another soul. I'll do the same, except one person. His name is Mick, I've known him for many years and trust him with my life--I don't say that lightly. He understands confidentiality and we'll need his help. Secondly, I need you to trust me. Fully. I swear to you, I will do all that is in my power to keep you safe. Now, come with me. I don't feel comfortable staying here, my hotel is safer." he finally let go of her wrist and stood and walked very close to her for fear that something or someone might tear her away. 

Tristan's mind reeled as the two walked out of the cafe. Pregnant! How? Why? They had to get to Mick's. It would take an hour by car...but he didn't own one. He'd get one. After all, no one picked a lock like a Reidanian.

Tristan whipped out his iPhone and dialed Mick's number.
"Hey," he answered.
"Mick, it's Garrett. Who are you with?"
"no one...nix, what's the matter? Another rough night?"
"N-well yes, but that's not the point. It's something else."
"shoot, Gar."
"hegayan tal gyiho au danao," tristan said, dropping into what sounded like his native tongue as his accent seemed to fit it perfectly. Mick responded in the same language, and the two carried on a quick conversation before the voice on the other end of the line fell silent.
"you....did I hear you right? She's--" he said after a while.
"Shh!! Yes. I'm thinking of taking her to you...I can't think of a safer place..."
"good call. Come quickly, signal before you knock on the door, would you?"
"of course. Later Mick."

Tristan hung up. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the need, or even the desire for alcohol in any form. No, he had to be sharp, now. He had to be aware. He was on the job now, only this job was to save a life, not take one. What a concept. For the first time he didn't hate himself for his actions, didn't feel the growing creep of guilt in his chest. This was good. He was doing a good thing, and he wouldn't mess this one up. No matter what.

"I may come across as dangerous," he said quietly. "truth is, I am. Just not to you. As far as I'm concerned, your life is worth more than mine, and if it came to it I'd...well, you know. Whatever it takes. Do not fear me. I'm on your side, and so is Mick." 

Aibhlinn tensed up a little when the man reached for her and took her wrist in his. She had the thought to rip her hand away from him and run out of the cafe fearing the man would chase you down. None of that happened. She stayed where she was and listened to his words and swallowed hard. He was going to protect her? She needed to rust him? Mick? She cleared her throat a little and nodded to him. She didn't have much choice really. She either trusted him and listened to him or she had to go out on her own and hope for the best and wait till she couldn't hide anymore. Aibhlinn grabbed her water bottle and drank the rest of it before tossing it. Her throat still felt so dry as she got up from her seat.

The woman followed after her protector and stayed close to him. She glanced around at the people that walked by half expecting someone to jump her and try to take her away. It was truly an unreasonable fear at the moment. Sure she was pregnant, but not noticeable yet. She didn't even have a baby bump yet. It was way to early for anyone to notice her. She bit her lip and extended her hand a little to reach for her new friend and cling to him. She didn't know why, but she felt safer around him already. She wasn't alone in this mess. She pulled her hand away when she noticed the man was on the phone.

Aibhlinn frowned when he started to speak in a language she didn't understand. She didn't know what he was saying. It sounded like she was talking to Mick about her little secret, but really he could be saying anything. She stopped her thoughts from spiraling out of control. Trust. She needed to trust him. She pushed away her fear of the dangerous man in front of her and took his hand and squeezed it a little. She suddenly needed a little comfort.

She offered him a small smile when he hung up his phone. "Thank you. It means a lot to me, to have you and Mick on my side. I thought that I was going to be all alone. I don't know what I am doing or what I should be doing and honestly, I am a bit scared," she chuckled nervously. "What's going to happen now? I... I want to protect... well you know. I don't want to raise... it in hiding. What kind of life will it lead if she or he won't have any companions?" she asked. Then she shook her head. "I am sorry. We can talk about that later. I know there are more pressing matters to deal with."

Out of nowhere, a small hand clasped around Tristan's. The movement was startling, almost jarring and he tried very hard not to jump. Few people touched him, few people wanted to, and with the tension of the last week and, gracious, the last two minutes, he was already on edge. Tristan was swift to bury this reaction as it quickly became a comforting one. He remembered the way his mother used to hold his hand, how Captain Matthew, when Tristan was just a child, used to do the same. Once or twice, when he and his Company had down time, Viktoria would slip her hand into his. He loved those quiet, subtle moments. They were the happiest moments he could possibly remember.

Those days were behind him now.

"I don't know what's gonna happen from here...I...I'll be honest with you, this is uncharted territory for both of us. I don't know how you'll do this. There will come a time when you can't keep this a secret, and then that time comes, the only thing i know how to do is keep both of you safe. But until that day comes, i can think of no better person to help you keep this under wraps than Mick Locke. He....he's a....well, let's just say he knows how to make things disappear or....seem different than they really are...." His vague answer suggested there was much more to that story, but he wasn't going to go into that yet. "He's a pro. And easier to talk to than me." This he said quietly, softly. "Less of a bas----."

He led Aibhlinn to his hotel and went straight up to his suite, unlocking the door before guding her inside. "Take a seat, I have something to give you." Tristan broke off to go briefly into the bedroom; he came back with a large and formidable pocket knife and slipped it into her hand. "Don't be afraid of it. It's for protection, and I sincerely hope you don't ever have to use it. Now...give me a moment, i need to gather my things and..and then we need to get a car. Anything you need from your home, we can get that too; start thinking about what you'll need. I'm taking you to the other side of town and we won't be back for a little while, at least." His gray eyes were serious, grim, but they showed a wealth of experience and knowledge. Perhaps it was more than just chance that she spilled her tea on him that morning. Perhaps it was more than just chance that his night was a haunted one, that his mind was too clouded and burdened by his own demons that he just needed a drink, needed to get out of the hotel, needed to walk on that particular sidewalk.

This was fate. Maybe this was what all these years of anguish was leading up to; a chance to do something right, to do something good for once. Maybe this would make all the sleepless nights worth it, all the countless hours spent running from himself, drowning his thoughts in a bottle.
Tristan came to America for redemption. This was his chance.

(I love that last line by the way. ^.^)

Aibhlinn nodded to him and kept close to the man with her until they finally reached the hotel room. Her mind was spinning with all the 'what iff's of the situation. This whole ordeal was going to be a long and dangerous one. She knew what hiding entailed. She would have to cut connection with her family. If someone found out what was going on, they could track her down with that. She wouldn't be able to complete her job or her school or even send her book in for publication; that wouldn't have happened any time soon anyway. Having babies was expensive. There were so many things she'd need and then things she'd need but could never provide like a child companion and a proper education. Her mind kept jumping to the future. She needed to stop that and just focus on the present situation right now.

Aibhlinn sighed and sat down as instructed and stared at her hands for a moment and tried to quiet her mind. She looked up when presented with the knife. She traced it gently. Anything to protect herself was a blessed gift. She put it in her purse and held it close and watched the man go about collecting things. What did she need from her home? There were any number of things she would want, but what did she really need?

"Oh! Rogue!" she announced. "I need Rogue. She's my dog. I can't just leave her home alone and abandon her! That poor thing. She needs water and food and affection," she said to him. "Other than that, I just need some clothes or I'll just wear whatever you give me. I highly doubt most of the clothes I have will fit me once I... once I grow the baby belly," she said to him. "And a couple of hygiene stuff if you want to take the time to get those or whatever," she said. She blushed a little and rubbed her face. Why was she blurting out these things? She could have made a list like he had just told her to do instead of just yelling the list at him. "Sorry. I am kinda... loopy right now I guess you could say.