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[dedikated]

Who: Kate + anyone and everyone
What: Catchall log for June
Where: The clinic | the bar | spire 4 | riverside | caves & rage's temple
When: Any time this month, really!
Warnings: Alcohol, violence, injuries, the usual things + philosophies on killing


[wildcard | anywhere] come on hey brother, someone stop these kids

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[open | clinic] 'cause i just wanna free somebody

[dedikated]

[ After a week, the nightmares begin to fade. Kate begins to have dreamless nights and longer stretches of rest. She feels better, able to walk into work without the dread of panicking when an injury comes. (It's still there, her haemophobia, and it will never really go away, but she stops obsessing and starts breathing. She can cope with this, she's done it before). Her hands don't feel dry and angry from all the scrubbing, because she doesn't feel the visceral need to rub until her skin peels off and gets rid of the blood.

(There's no blood anywhere but her conscience.)

She goes through her day with relative ease, writing up schedules and checking cupboards to write down stocks, spending most of her time around the front of house as much to treat people - to prove to herself that she can handle this stupid phobia - as to go through all the admin parts of her job.

Need patching up? Wanna chat? Looking for someone in particular? Just yell for her. ]

[strangelic]

[ Castiel is by no means back to his old self yet. He's dressed in his hospital whites still, beneath his coat, but he's at least wearing shoes again, at least when he goes out. So today, when he drops into the clinic looking just a tad lost, he doesn't look completely out of it...just mostly.

For a moment he just drifts around the place, studying it, and then he stops in front of Kate rather abruptly. ]

I'm looking for Dean. I thought perhaps he may have come here.

[ He's always getting into scrapes, after all. ]

[dedikated]

[ she's half buried in a cabinet on the floor when Castiel drops in, digging out a tub of rubbing alcohol from the back to place it on a shelf above for easy access.

She starts when she stands, the sudden appearance unnervingly silent, and grips the tub more firmly, as if she might use it to clobber him. Jeez. She has got to get over that reflex. ]

Dean? [ hold up hold up, processing. Oh. Chef. ] Sarcastic, tall? [ But to her most everyone is tall. ] He hasn't been here, I don't think. [ a beat. ] He's not here now.

[strangelic]

Yes, that's him.

[ And then his face falls into an expression of disappointment, possibly sadness, and he tips himself away slightly, sparing only the briefest glance for the wall next to the door. ]

I'm sorry if I startled you. [ He says, remorsefully, and then without a pause or a breath he changes the subject back, and his tone snaps back as well. ] I hoped he'd be back. I wish he'd take someone with him.

[ Someone. Anyone. But not him. His gaze drifts up to the ceiling, as though looking past it. ]

It's not really much like a hospital, is it?

[ It's much smaller, for one. ]

morning of june 6

[unfollowing]

[It's Emily's turn with the coffee cart today, and she's off to the clinic to serve coffee to their fearless physicians or some shit. Look, she's awake and she's not up for sewing quite yet (she doesn't want to stab herself with a needle ... or anyone else, for that matter), so since by now she's got this coffee thing down, that's what she's doing.

She wheels the thing in and stops once she's cleared the door with enough space for someone to walk (or run) in for actual treatment. Kate is easy to spot (that hair though, very nice), so she's the one who gets asked the question.]

Where should I put this?

[dedikated]

[ down her fucking gullet, that is where. Kate looks up from a piece of paper and pushes her ponytail back off her shoulder. ]

In the office. [ She offers Emily one of those not-quite-smiles she's very prone to, a look that isn't quite neutral nor happy. Just- content. ] Pass us one. [ she extends a hand, waiting for sweet, sweet caffeine.

... Really her coffee thing might be worse than her alcohol thing. The latter has died down since she changed careers. The former... Probably got worse. ]

[zen_en_vert]

This is boring today.

[Bruce out and out admits.]

Obviously one never hopes for patients, but pupils would be nice. We could give more lessons.

[Any kind of company.]

Maybe we should find cards?

[dedikated]

[ Yes, yes it is. When you're resorting to dusting cupboards you dusted an hour ago... It's really fucking dead. ]

Cards? [ Those she definitely doesn't keep on her person. ] Didn't have you down as the type.

[whichend]

[ Arya has lived in Hadriel long enough to classify the locations in one of two categories: safe or unsafe. The clinic is safe because she knows, unequivocally, that Bruce won't hurt her.

But this person is not Bruce. In fact, Arya doesn't see him anywhere -- and that's worrying. Arya draws her sword. This woman could have captured him, hurt him.

Killed him. ]

Who are you?

[dedikated]

[ uh. That was-

Why is a kid pulling their sword on her?

Her hand naturally ghosts over the bag of weapons she keeps strtapped to her hip even now, years after any actual constant need to use it.

But she doesn't draw a weapon, not yet. ] Kate. [ And then, because she thinks that's probably not enough; ] I work here.

[open | clinic] this new world i'm falling deeper into

[dedikated]

[ A full day's work is done, but Kate hangs around the clinic anyway, hair piled into a bun and pencil in her hand, scribbling notes down on scrap paper that have nothing - really - to do with the clinic itself, but the office is far more conducive to her focus than her flat in the Spire. The paper is a mess of hastily drawn diagrams and spiky, rushed writing that's hard to read. It would likely mean nothing to most people in Hadriel - all notes to do with her enchantment power - but she's engrossed in working out whatever problem seems to be plaguing her.

She fills the paper and lets out a breath, stands up and starts tapping on the kettle.

Feel free to tell her she looks crazy, but there's a point to this. ]

backdated a bit!

[greywaren]

[There's usually less people around the clinic in the evening, and so that's when Ronan usually visits. He knows by now that there's someone else working here other than Bruce, and he's made efforts to avoid them whenever possible, but sometimes needs must.

Which brings him here now, with a bag slung over his shoulder. Ronan pushes open the door and walks into the clinic without much preamble, looking every bit the type of person that would sooner put someone in the hospital than show up himself to help out. Ronan might as well be a walking stereotype here, with ripped jeans, black tank top, buzzed hair and a wicked-looking tattoo curling up his neck and along his exposed shoulders.

There's a raven on his shoulder as well, though she takes off once he's cleared the door, back up onto one of the shelves to poke around for some of the treats that may be kept here. Ronan doesn't pay the bird much mind, and instead hones his uncomfortable stare toward Kate herself.]

-who the fuck are you?

Aaaayyyyy

[dedikated]

[ That is probably the question she should be asking. Kate looks over from her enchantment work - not before waving her hand over the kettle and frowning when nothing happens - over to the sullen lad standing there. She has, vaguely, noted that equipment and supplies turn up every so often without it being from the gods, but Bruce always handles it and he's never been forthcoming with the information so she stopped trying to find out. It isn't that important, as long as the stuff works.

She doesn't put this kid together with that information yet, assumes he's just here for some other reason. Probably a chat with her boss, she'd guess. The guy is pretty popular for someone who literally lives here. She shifts her weight more onto her left leg and leans against the counter, glancing over the kid and sounding thoroughly... Not bothered by the blunt question.

(It's not like she has any room to talk on that front.) ] Kate. [ Answer bluntness with bluntness, her expression decidedly neutral. ] What are you here for?

[open | caves > rage's temple] 1 2 3 4 come here, come here before i count to 10

[dedikated]

[ Kate has long disagreed with the much discussed topic of art in killing. At least, much discussed among those she knew back in The Agency... They were a strange lot. There is no art to killing, to the plunge of blades or blast of bullets into flesh. There can never be beauty in strangling something into oblivion, only the rush of adrenaline and power that leaves the victor shaking.

Perhaps that is what they think of as beautiful. The chance to play God. But anyone can kill something; the only difference is the efficiency with which a person does it. In that way, Kate supposes it is like art - after all, anyone can draw, it's just a question of how well they can do it.

As for her? She's an especially efficient killer. Not beautiful or artistic, but efficient. There had never been time to be anything else back when she worked in The Agency - games outside of the confines of an interrogation room meant blood and panic attacks, chances and hesitations that get people killed. Instead, she learned to aim with deadly accuracy and strangle with ropes designed to drain power as they extinguished lives.

But sometimes things go wrong even for her. Sometimes an opponent is far faster than her reflexes, able to dodge knives and get into her space before she gets a chance to defend or retaliate. Like today, where her forearm sports a particularly ugly gash courtesy of the beast she's dragging by a rope. She's already torn off part of her t-shirt, worn under a hooded jacket as always, and tied a tight tourniquet around it to stem the bleeding, but it hurts like a motherfucker and the smell is nauseatingly metallic.

Understandably, as she makes her way to Rage's temple, she is not looking very happy, distracted by her path towards the temple. She might not even realise if you're right in front of her. ]

[dedikated]

[ ways to ensure a very jumpy ex-Agent: take them by surprise. Start taking their stuff by surprise. Even in her own little world of 'holy fuck this is going to need stitches and washing it out is going to hurt like a mother', Kate notices the weight suddenly disappear from her arm.

She whirls around, dragging a knife out with her bad arm, quite ready to attack whatever-- ] What the hell-?

[ ... And she stops the second she recognises just who is carrying her kill. ] Oh, it's you. [ that sounds decidedly neutral - neither displeased nor exceptionally grateful. She's still unsure what to do about their last meeting, ending as frostily as it did. She wasn't normally the one trying to patch things up when they went awkward - she left that to her friends who were far more willing to make steps in reviving relationships.

For the moment, she supposes she can play it as normal. The effects the dreams had on her mind have slowly been fading, and she would quite like to keep it that way. Blood was once again something she could swallow down her revulsion of, she didn't want to remember just why she's been so shaken up about it lately. Not quite so vividly. ] Thought you were summat out the caves.

[sam | bar] is anyone here taller than me?

[dedikated]

[ Really, she doesn't drink as much as advertised. There was that one ill-advised bender when the bar opened but since then, she's maybe been here a handful of times for alcohol instead of coffee, and even then it was rarely more than one. But after the madness that was attempting to explain why sex ed was important here, Kate really needs a drink. And a distraction. Especially a distraction.

Solution? Call in Sam Winchester so he can talk about his weird versions of vampires while she drinks herself into a really potent hangover.

Sounds like a plan indeed.

She's running a bit late - quite literally sprinting over rooftops - having stayed a touch longer in the clinic than intended and spilling coffee down her t-shirt. Ergo, a trip back to her flat was needed to throw on something clean... And now she's five minutes late.

(Finding clean clothes was not an easy task when you have a tragic history with washing machines.)

She jumps off a rooftop opposite the bar and brushes herself off. ] Hey.

[hollowly]

( up until very recently, sam hadn't made much of an attempt to see what the bar was all about. there's one thing about sharing a six-pack with one's brother – and another altogether to drink oneself into a stupor to get away with not having to deal with the day-to-day bullshit that comes from being raised a hunter's son. ( and, ultimately, a hunter yourself. ) not even the situation with the wendigos had driven him to drinking in excess, but once the dreams had started – the nightmares – he'd found himself coming here more than a handful of times to drink his weight in coffee, so at least he knows what the place looks like on the inside.

the promise of decent company is, as always, a nice addition, even when he finds himself thinking that a shot or two of something wouldn't be so bad.

five minutes late isn't cause for any real alarm – but maybe a bit of teasing once she's there – and once he catches sight of her roof-hopping, he doesn't think he could possibly picture her arriving any other way, though he hadn't really been thinking about it in the first place. it just so happens that his most vivid memory of her happens to be their first in-person meeting, in those small hours of the morning when the lights had gone out, and she'd mentioned having already run around the city twice.

he grins on her approach. ) Hey yourself.

[dedikated]

[ Rooftops are just quicker, okay? They avoid any of the mess of having to navigate streets or get sidetracked talking to people. ] Had to do some extra filing. [ Semi-lie. Let's not talk about the coffee stains. Let's just not. ] How've you been? [ She pulls her hair out of its ponytail and re-styles it into a bun as she asks that, walking into the bar as she does both. Alcohol, sweet, blessed, helping-her-to-forget-that-there-are people-unfamiliar-with-sex-ed alcohol. ]

[carlisle | spire 4] why are you stuttering?

[dedikated]

[ hey, hey, Carlisle. What's that noise outside your door? And why is there paper slid underneath?
Is that... Yep, that's a sex ed leaflet with the attached note 'Makes sense? Y [] N []
-KG'

What do? ]

[tongueamok]

[Why. Why.

That same note gets shoved back under her door, though with some addenda: there's an X in the box for Y, and below that is written I'm not sure why you're asking my opinion on this.]

[dedikated]

[ because she wanted the opinion of someone who didn't work at the clinic?

After a few minutes, another note finds its way under Carlisle's door.

You were the first person I thought of.
-KG ]

[dean | riverside] we are trouble trouble, we are trouble itself

[dedikated]

[ since the dreams, Kate's found herself at the river more and more often, sitting at the bank and talking into the ether. Without her parents' gravestones, without Marc's or his parents', this is the closest she can feel to them, in the same area as she was when she was trying to avoid Marc's funeral. There's no mile high bridge to sit on top of, watching cars underneath pass by (there are no cars to pass by) and wondering how it must feel to be human and caught in the aftermath of a battle you knew nothing about.

She sucks at swimming, but from a distance the water is beautiful and calming in its normalcy. So she mumbles away until eventually, she runs out of things to talk about, and falls silent, watching the flow of the river and stretching her legs.

It's peaceful enough for now. ]

[kickingand]

[ Dean's trying to contain himself for the day, a thing that is always a struggle. Instead of wandering directly to the caves to shake out his own personal cobwebs, he's instead meandering here, not through the woods but definitely over the river, seeing what he can make out in the depths of the running water. Because if there's something down there, there might be a potentially vested interest in hunting for it, in fishing, in finding another means in which he can take out his aggression that leaves nobody to get hurt.

Combined with those efforts, Dean has begun collecting a pocketful of perfectly sized smaller pebbles, stooping every so often to pick one up along the bank, rolling it in his palms for a moment before carrying on.

Which is right around when catches sight of Kate ahead of him. Tossing the last pebble he picked up in his palm, catching it again with ease, Dean carries on along the way, lifting a palm in greeting as he makes his way closer. ]

How's it hangin'.

[dedikated]

[ she follows the arc of the pebble with her eyes, idly fiddling with the rope she takes out of her bag, wrapping it around her hand and pulling it taut, letting it drop loose again and pool onto the embankment. ] Better. [ she waves back and surely it is obvious what she means by better, after their last face-to-face meeting was the epitome of drink and denial. ] You?