nibbles&&bites -- Holden

[HANNAH VULPINI]

Outfit:: yo!

There was no moon in New York tonight, which meant the Vulpini's were off doing their own thing. True to the solitary nature of the fox, they didn't do the 'pack' thing. They would go their separate ways. Frankie would spend his evening roaming the Bronx, knocking over trash cans, pissing on cars, irritating and injuring squirrel families. Joel would take his temporary confidence and run around Central Park, hunting only to let his prey go. Gracious in all forms. And then there would be Hannah, who- like Frankie- would roam residential areas. More like Joel though, she had no interest in pissing off- or on- anything- or anyone. She wanted food, and even after doing this for six years, she wasn't going to go around trying to hunt rodents. Who knows what those things could be carrying.

It was nearly midnight, as her red furred body slinked lightly across the side walk, her dark feet padding along. Hannah wouldn't eat in the trash, of course. And, sadly, this wasn't the time of year for barbeques. Not even the time of day, really. But her stomachs grumble told her she needed to think quickly. A cracked window, in an unsuspecting home that left there dinner out would be ideal. Still, house after house, and there was no relenting.

Nothing.

No one.

Dammit people. When did they stop being lazy?

And then the smell hit her. Steak! Steak and... oooh, those fries were a bit over cooked. Oh, and well, she could smell the residual stink of... spaghetti? No, ravioli. Oh, who was heating a steak in a microwave? Why.... had she not been so hungry- Joel might have a point about eating before a shift, she regretted being so stubborn in hindsight- she might bite this person on the leg. But, well, she was so hungry. And beggers can't be choosers.

Trotting up to a two story brownstone, she slipped through the tiny space between the buildings to the kitchen. Hopping up to the window ledge, she settled comfortably. It was a benefit she had over her wolf counterparts. Being a medium sized critter, she was more adept in the city. She was just confined to Central Park. Peering through the window with queerly intelligent eyes, she watched as a young fellow- about her age, give or take- sat in a wheel chair, waiting for his food to finish warming up. Sniffing at the glass, Hannah could feel the chips overcooking in her nostrils. Some were going to be hard, and the rest were going to be soggy.

Beggers. Choosers. All of that.

With a little yip, Hannah scratched lightly at the window. She was quite effective at the adorable thing. Her fur looked soft and lovely, her eyes batted, and she did know how to work her plushy tail. Cute as a button, she gave a regrettable lick to the window. Ugh, completely disgusting.

[HOLDEN DONNELLY]

outfit

Mrs. Brent was out for the evening, and that meant that he would have to prepare himself dinner.

Not that that was a problem. Holden was a capable cook. After years of being the head chef at Casa del Donnelly, he knew his way around a kitchen better than most men his age. Of course, things were a bit more difficult now that his height was permanently decreased as it was -- even after seven months living here with Mrs. Brent, she still occasionally put things out of reach. Probably because, when she was around, she insisted on doing all the cooking. It was like he was five again.

It hurt.

Regardless, there was steak and some French fries left over from a dinner out he'd had the other night with his keeper. He'd found his appetite wasn't quite what it used to be -- even after he'd started being able to keep real food down again, he just wasn't ever really that hungry. He didn't really enjoy eating anymore, he just ate because he knew that he had to. Food had used to bring him some kind of tactile happiness. Now, like so many other things in his life, it no longer did.

Like the feeling of a soft blanket, the kind that Liv slept with, softer than an eight-week-old puppy. Or the sensation of someone running their fingers through his hair, like his mother did when he was little.

Oh, not now...

Sighing, he rolled to the toaster oven with a plate of cold fries on his lap and popped them in for a few minutes. They'd come out too crunchy or too soggy, he knew, but it didn't make much of a difference to him. If it was at all edible, it was suitable.

The meat sat in its styrofoam take-home box on the counter, pathetic in its simplicity, its singularity. He smiled wryly at it, reaching for the cabinet that held the plates.

Shit.

Reaching as far up as he could, he found that he could barely brush the cabinet door with his fingertips. It was out of reach. How had he not noticed this before? Had his chair been higher somehow in the past? Had he just legitimately never gotten a plate out of this cabinet for himself?

Fuck. Shit. Dammit.

Swearing silently to himself, he grabbed a paper plate from one of the lower cabinets and plopped the meat onto it unceremoniously before shoving the wobbly disposable dish into the microwave and pressing the appropriate functions to get the steak to at least an acceptable temperature for consumption.

And that was when he heard the scratching.

At first, he thought he was hearing things. He did that sometimes. Auditory hallucinations, thinking he heard his sister and brother arguing in the next room or the sound of his dad's favorite TV program. But this was different. Scratching wasn't something he usually heard. It was insistent, like an animal. A cat, maybe...?

Brow furrowing, he glanced toward the window, and almost immediately, his eyebrows shot right back up. A fox. There was a fox at his window. "The hell--?" He frowned slightly and licked his lips, rolling toward the window, watching the fluffy orange creature with mild suspicion and more than a little confusion. "What do you want, little guy?"

[HANNAH VULPINI]

Outfit:: yo!

Little guy?

True, it wasn't exactly like she had tits at the moment, yet an irked expression came over her narrow face as he said this. Guy. She was all lady, even if she a lady fox. Remembering that she was begging, Hannah's tail curled coyly around her tapered, vermillion, body. There was a queer intelligence to her. Though she never interacted with people- as that may inspire experiments and the like- her clever ears had picked up the voices of a few onlooker. How she'd use trajectory to her advantage, or how she'd outwit a neighborhood dog. God she hated those things.

With a little yelp- it was difficult to bark when not threatened, and so her noises were more pitched- she scratched lightly at the window. Hannah wanted to let him see a tame, intelligent, thing. And not because that steak was making her salivate- which it was, even if it was remade improperly- but there was something about hm specifically. A confined sadness. Not one that she could technically understand, but one she could have a vague comprehension of. That is to say, Hannah's legs worked fine. She could even grow extra at will. But she understood what it felt like to be trapped. To be tied down. To be alone. It was not sympathy, but empathy.

Hopping down from the window, Hannah yipped as she slithered to the back door. He must stay in quite a bit, as his smell was encompassing. There was another one around... female. Older. Smelled slightly of oatmeal lotion. Did he have a taste for... well seasoned women, as a polite one would say. It certainly wasn't unheard of for a young man who wasn't so bad on the eyes to be keen on older women. And then Hannah reminded herself that it hardly mattered, that she was meeting him as a fox and probably never as a human. And that she was here for food, not a date. Though the last time she was actually on a date feels like a life time. She loved her brothers- even Frankie, with his frustrating childish nature. But by no means did she love not having any time but fox time to herself. There was even a pinch of dread in the back of her mind that worried about Joel's reaction if he might beat her home in the morning. Bless his heart, he did worry.

But right now: Steak. And maybe a few fries. Being a canine with an empty stomach did lower ones finickiness.

Going to the door knob, she batted at it, making it clear she understood it's purpose. Urgently she yipped and yapped, making it as clear as possible she wanted in. That she meant no harm, like a cat but far more interesting. On her hind legs, she peeked in the house through the window, seeing if he was coming. At the very least he had to be interested. He hadn't shooed her at least. Back to the door, she rattled the doorknob once more.

Let. Me. In.