nothing gold |AM I SUPPOSED TO CALL YOU DADDY?|

[nala tess winston]

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Nothing gold can stay

Nothing Gold Can Stay – Robert Frost

The ride, first car, then plane, then cab again, had been a long one. The traveling companions, a young girl, almost painfully petite, blond, and a middle-aged man, tall and dark, with salt and pepper hair, seemed at first glance to be an average father-daughter out for a vacation. If an observer looked at the pair more closely, he or she would have seen a different relationship. The teen, clutching a small messenger bag, clothed in straight legged light wash jeans and a baby-doll tee, proclaiming her as a resident of West Point Military Academy, and wearing her platinum blond hair swept back from her small ovoid face held lightly in place with thin elastic functioning as a headband, offers a stark opposite to the man, personifying corporate America in a dark suit, briefcase, and graying hair slicked back. He looked harried and slightly grumpy, and she looked a mixture of frightened, sad, and hopeful. The man had been attempting to make conversation with the fourteen year old girl for the entire journey, but each time he tried he was offered a falsely interested voice and a monosyllabalic response. He eventually gave up, halfway through the plane ride, much to the chagrined happiness of the teen. The pair didn't quite see eye to eye.

Alana Tess Winston, recently uprooted teenager, sat silently on the many forms of transportation, using the time to look back on her old life, think forward to her new life, and pray. The traffic noise lulled her to sleep for about half an hour of the nearly five hour trip. She did not dream; she had not been sleeping for the past few days, not out of excitement, or fear, or self-harm, but more out of busyness. When she was not sleeping the young woman, Nala to those who knew her, mused. She thought back to the past week, remembering.

The hospital room is stark white and silent, with the exception of the steady beep of the monitor hooked up to the pale woman lying in the gurney-style bed. Her hair, once a shiny sandy blond, is now dull and thin, much of it has fallen out since the last round of chemo, but the proud woman refuses to cut it. Her form, always small, is now emaciated, giving her the appearance of a skeleton draped in ill fitting skin. The face, always smiling and bright, is calm now only in sleep. Eye sockets are hollow and sunken, the cheeks following suit. The woman is so pale it is difficult to distinguish her from the sheets. In a corner chair, eyes wide and almost as sunken as the woman’s, sits a teen-aged girl. The physical similarities between the two are striking. They have the same face, and build, and, if the woman had been awake, their expressions would have been identical. Their relationship, that of mother and daughter, is easily identifiable. A doctor enters, white lab-coat adding to the clean sterility of the scene. He checks the status of the woman without giving the teen a second look. She watches the man silently, seeing his callous touch, his muttered words. She is enraged, but sits silently, fuming. The man leaves and the girl moves closer to the woman’s bed. While she watches her sleeping mother, the numbers on the screen of the monitor attached several ways to the dying woman fall. The incessant beeping speeds up, setting off an alarm and bringing the callous doctor back into the room. He shoves the girl away; all she can do is watch the man, followed by a flood of others, touch her mother. The beeping continues, screaming for the girl who cannot, until it suddenly stops. The silence is worse than the hustle and bustle of the frantic hospital employees trying to save the woman’s life. They all stop, realizing the time to help is over. Slowly they turn to the child, seeming very young now, vulnerable, and for the first time in her life, alone. A young nurse, female, goes to the girl, and tries to comfort her. But the silent tears cannot be stemmed.

The girl, now garbed entirely in black, stands in a corner of a funeral home. People mill around, greeting her when they enter. Young men with crew-cuts adorned in formal military uniform make up the majority of the attendees at the funeral. There are no children, and no family members. The blond child stands solitary vigil for the loving mother, unable to speak. She clutches a bible in her small hands, running her hands over and over the spine. As she moves to the coffin, open, at the request of the deceased woman, she holds back her tears. She has not cried since the day in the hospital. Sometimes it feels to the teen that she has nothing left to cry. A young man, twenty-one, with black hair cut like his fellow soldiers approaches the youngster, enclosing her in his arms. He had been with her before when she needed to give face to her grief, and he has promised to be there again. The two stick together for the funeral, and when the party moves out into the graveyard he remains with an arm around her shoulder. She speaks naturally to the other mourners, asking them not to grieve, showing strength alien in one so young. Not alien in this child. As the coffin is lowered into the deep hole the teen, quickly growing up, showers the empty gash with earth, and throws down a sunflower, her mother’s favorite flower. The headstone, white marble, reads “Bethany Rose Winston / Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints / May 25, 1965 – August 14, 2009”. As the mourners leave, the teen is left alone in front of the open grave. She stands, silent, unable to shed a tear. When the woman attired in a green business suit comes to take the child, the girl does not protest.

Sitting in the hallways of an office building the teen is alone again. Her clothing, an ocher yellow shirt-dress and green-black belt set her at odds with the drab building. The voices from behind a closed door to her left can be heard easily. They discuss the future of the very child seated on the uncomfortable bench-like seat. They speak of legal responsibility, about the will never being changed, about fourteen years, about underage. They speak of no family, of no home, of the soldier, of insufficient funds, of cancer. They speak of not legally dead, of a prisoner of war, of the limit of time. She can hear every word they say, and she understands. Beth never changed her will, so according to the document, the teen was the possession of Russel Winston. As Rusty had been classed POW/MIA years ago, he clearly couldn’t take the child. But, as the voices said, he had not been declared legally dead. What would become of the girl? The voices finally stopped, and their owners filed out of the room. The look in the girl’s eyes must tell them she has heard everything, because as each adult passes they look away quickly, never keeping eye-contact for more than a millisecond. The last to leave, the soldier from the funeral, looks angry. The girl knows why. He cannot have her since Rusty is not officially dead; there is no way for him to adopt her. He kneels down next to her, his tall frame hiding her small one in a huge hug. There is nothing he can do, and as the dark suited man approaches he moves away. They exchange heated words, but he cannot change the final pronouncement; foster care.

The two travelers, Thomas Monroe, Social Services agent, and Alana Winston, orphan, arrived at what must have been some real estate agent’s dream. The house was gorgeous, if a little cold, trying to look homey and welcoming; the effect seemed somewhat austere to the girl. A dog barked from a nearby fenced in yard, making the girl, even inside the cab with the window closed, start slightly. Nala exited the dusty vehicle after the man, wiping the sleep from her eyes, her heart full. Through the window her pale face looked washed out, and the light hair and wide eyes -still sunken- looked as though they belonged to a ghost. The not-quite-dawn light filtered into the interior, adding to the illusion. The young woman, for that was what she was now, brushed a long strand of ashy hair, curled slightly that morning before the plane, behind her pierced ear. The lobe was adorned with small silver crosses with cubic zirconium set into them, and the hand bore a ragged yellow string around the finger. The teen moved quickly around the back of the car to stand with the man at the driver’s side. She followed the man in charge of her future up light steps to a large door. As she walked she closed her eyes; the teen was, for the moment, on autopilot. She could hear the sounds of traffic and the rustle of a light wind. The messenger bag, army surplus, an old possession of her brother, was slung over one thin shoulder, covering part of the open puffed jacket and washed out jeans. She hadn’t let them put those possessions in the garbage bags which held her clothes and other things. Her garbage bags were still in the trunk. A Foster child, she held all her important possessions in the messenger bag, and left the rest of herself in the black plastic bags. Because, to the state, a fourteen year old foster child was nothing more than garbage. She stopped a few steps from the door, watching as Agent Monroe rang the bell, wondering what her life was about to become.

Time Of Day: Way too early for normal humans to be awake.
Month: Late August, a Wednesday
Others in the RP: Draco Malone
Attire: clicky!
Words: 1651
Notes: Well. . . its kinda long and not really all that pertinent. But it sets the stage. . .

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[draco andrew malone]

» Draco went through the motions of becoming a foster parent years ago. In all honesty, he never thought they'd let him do it. He thought for sure they'd be able to see right through him, see him for what he really is- a psycho, a killer. He never used the term "vigilante', because in a way, that would be trying to justify it to the world. He didn't feel the need to justify himself. The people he killed deserved to be six feet under- or, chopped up into little pieces and put in the ocean, as it were. In any case, they had done something unspeakable to someone else, and deserved to die. Draco was 100% sure what he was doing was the right thing. Still, he knew he could never tell anyone. In the eyes of the law, he was just another serial killer, and judging by the number of people he'd put in a watery grave, he probably wouldn't even get a plea bargain- not that he'd actually admit guilt as far as expressing remorse- and would just go straight to the death penalty. It didn't scare him, really, so much as it kind of pissed him off. Why couldn't there be more people like him? Anyway, when he got approved, Draco could honestly say he was shocked. So far, he hadn't had anyone placed with him, but he made sure he had a spare room ready at all times, just in case. It was just a room, sparse like the rest of the house, and its walls posted a gender-neutral soft green. The room had a small closet, white dresser with three large drawers, and a bed in the middle of the room, with a standard white pillow and sheets and a comforter that were just a few shades darker than the walls. He never used it, whether for sleeping or storing bodies he couldn't immediately dump in the ocean, but it was always there, just in case.

» Today was just a day like any other for Draco. He got up early, was at the hospital trolling the ER for about eighteen hours. It was an incredibly busy day, too. A lot of gunshot wounds, some stabbings, car accidents... But it wasn't like he hadn't seen it all a thousand times before. Part of him hoped something crazy would come in, like someone who swallowed a fork or something, but nothing like that came. Draco wouldn't say he was bored with it, though, as he was kept way too busy to acknowledge boredom. He had about a fifteen minute period of time during which he could eat, and he chose to grab something out of the nearest vending machine. This doctor's food of choice? Three bags of peanut M&Ms and a can of mountain dew. Hey, just because he had a medical degree didn't mean he had to eat healthy all the time. He had vitamins that he took every day, which was how he justified his lack of vitamins from a regular diet. He was busy at the hospital; what was he supposed to do, just leave the patients in the ER alone so he could walk down the the cafeteria and have a nice, leisurely lunch? He couldn't do that. Even being the cold, calculated killer that he was, Draco couldn't bring himself to leave innocent patients. Besides, he could always cook himself something when he got home. He wasn't exactly five-star-restaurant-chef material, but his food wasn't unbearably bad. He survived, after all.

» Draco didn't even realize he was tired until 10 P.M., when he was in the parking deck trying to find his car. He walked in a giant circle three times on the second level before remembering he parked on the roof. He found his way up to the roof and finally found his car, which he drove home. Part of him was tempted to just collapse on the couch, which was only about two yards from the front door, but then he decided that he really liked the idea of being in bed. So on his way to bed, he stripped. He threw his scrub top onto the couch, took his white shoes off and dropped them at the entrance to the hallway, and about half way down said hallway, he stopped and peeled off his scrub pants, so he was left wearing just plaid boxers and a white wife beater. He saw no problem with randomly tossing his clothes about. He lived alone, so there was nobody there to bitch about it. And it was easier to do that than to organize everything right away, especially as tired as he was. Obviously, judging by how insanely clean the house was otherwise, he did find time to organize. Just.... not after 18 straight hours of working. He stopped by the bed, took his contacts out, then put them away and collapsed onto said bed, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. For three and a half peaceful hours, he was asleep, and it was great. But then the phone rang. His eyes snapped open, and his first thoughts were how he was going to get to whomever had called and put them into the ocean. Without looking at the caller ID, Draco reached over and picked up the phone, half-mumbling a greeting and resisting the urge to bitch whomever was calling out. It was then that he was told there was a child- a girl- coming to him.

» After hanging up, Draco got up, picked up his clothes from wherever they fell, then took them back upstairs and threw them in a pile in the corner of his room. Then, for whatever reason, he forgot why he'd gotten up in the first place, and collapsed back on the bed, falling right back to sleep. He stayed there until, about an hour later, the doorbell rang. Draco groaned, suddenly remembering what was going on, and rolled out of bed, grabbing his glasses- which had thick black frames- and sliding them on his face. He then stumbled his way downstairs, and opened the door. God, he must have looked like a mess. His raven-colored hair was disheveled, his eyes were half-closed, he had a 5-o-clock shadow, and he was still wearing only plaid boxers and a white wife beater- no shoes or anything else. "Yeah?" he asked, taking his glasses off with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other. "Hey," he said in a gruff voice, finally catching sight of the girl. He offered no explanation for his haphazard appearance, just letting the man and girl assume whatever they wanted. Yawning, he motioned for them to come in. "Just uh... leave whatever you don't immediately need on the couch. It's not going anywhere. You can sort it out in the morning." He was speaking to the girl, whether or not she actually responded. Actually, he didn't care what she did with her crap, as long as he didn't have to do anything. He just didn't want to go to bed knowing someone else in the house was awake. Then he figured she might want to know where she'd be sleeping. "Upstairs. First door on the.... right." He kept forgetting whether it was left or right. One- the one on the left- would open a storage closet. On the right, which was where he told her to go, was the spare room. Then he looked at the man. "Anything I need to know? Problems? Medications? Allergies?"

status » finished ?!
outfit » use your imagination. ?!
notes » lulz. ?!

[nala tess winston]

- - - - - - - - -

Nala, on the threshold, worried. She had been confidant that this would work out when she had been placed. After all, the man was a doctor, and he clearly was compassionate and such; it shouldn’t be as frightening as it was. She had faced things worse than this. She had fallen from hundreds of trees, nearly drowned more times than she could remember, she’d cliff dove, she’d played rough with the soldiers. She could put together an M-16 faster than the average soldier, and knew how to fire all armed forces issue weapons. Not that she ever shot at anything other than targets. She had survived boot-camp, when, a year ago –it seemed much longer– she had followed the new recruits every day, participating. She had stood with her mother at the funeral for the empty casket which was all of her brother that had come home from Iraq. She had helped the dark haired soldier to fold the flag, as she had promised Rusty she would do in the event of a disaster. She had raised and lowered the POW/MIA flag which stood sentinel on their flagpole every morning. –Would her new foster-father let her put one up? – She had sat in the sterile white room alone with a dying woman. She had stood and greeted the mourners on the misty day. She had read a eulogy. She had waited for the soldier to come out of the office, hoping against hope he would be able to take her. She had been scared before, for much better reasons. This was to be a new start, an experience. She was alive; every morning she woke up and she was alive. There was music in her world, and beauty. Nothing terrible had happened to the girl. Not in her eyes, at least. Alana Winston, fourteen and frightened, took a deep breath.

Mr. Monroe rang the bell again, and fixed the teen with a stern look. His charge had barely spoken on the trip from New York; her nose had been in her bible. He was anxious to get rid of the girl. There was nothing wrong with her, she hadn’t witnessed a terrible crime, or been abused. She was fine, and he wanted to be on with it. After hundreds of cases which broke new agents in ways they could never have imagined Thomas Monroe was hardened. He switched his briefcase from his left hand to his right, checking his watch. Nala sighed inwardly. She was just as ready to get rid of this man as he was of her. He huffed, looking sidelong at the teen. She looked so small, so fragile, so easily broken. What the man didn’t know was that the little girl in front of him was already much older than her fourteen years. She had lived on a military base all her life. Her brother had been taken from her by a war she no longer believed in. She had attended many funerals for empty, flag-draped caskets, seen many mothers, lovers, daughters cry. She had held hands at vigils, read letters others were afraid to. She was as much of an adult as he was, but she was nowhere near as jaded. The world had not been entirely kind to Nala, but she still loved it, still reveled in it. She was ready.

As they stood, Mr. Monroe impatiently, Nala hopefully, he turned to her. “I don’t know what is taking this man so long. I expressly told him what time. He ought to be expecting you.” His voice was like gravel in a blender, and the girl had to exercise every ounce of self control she possessed not to flinch every time he spoke. The older man looked thoroughly displeased at the turn of events. The Social Services Agent had the amazing ability to look down at an individual, and make even the most confidant executive, or the most abusive father feel small. The effect was not lost on the young woman. She felt, in spite of her past life and her current hopes, as though she were a particularly disgusting bug which had been ground into the spotless stoop by the man’s polished shoe. Somehow, though dust had swirled around the two, and Nala’s sneakers were already several shades darker than they had been at the opening of the trip, Mr. Monroe’s polished shoes didn’t have a speck of dirt on them, nor did the hems of his straight black pants. Nala marveled at the anomaly, wondering how he did it.

Suddenly the door opened and a man, clad only in boxers and a wife-beater, peered grumpily out at them. He made no introductions, and skipped all the small talk, getting right to the point. Or, perhaps, not. ‘Yeah? Hey,’ He didn’t look pleased to see her, but didn’t look angry either. He looked –she though– rumpled and disheveled. It was, after all, late at night. Or, conversely, early in the morning, and Nala knew her foster-father was an emergency room doctor. What sort of shift had he had? His hair was rumpled, and he fiddled with his thick glasses, yawning. Monroe looked stern, which seemed to Nala to be his default. The man beckoned them in, gesturing toward a dark room. ‘Just uh... leave whatever you don't immediately need on the couch. It's not going anywhere. You can sort it out in the morning.’ He pointed up the stars next. ‘Upstairs. First door on the.... right. Anything I need to know? Problems? Medications? Allergies?’ Though the man hadn’t really invited them in, Mr. Monroe entered the house, flipping on the lights. Nala smiled shyly, and sat lightly on the edge of a couch, next to Mr. Monroe who had sat down before he was invited. She grimaced a bit at his rudeness, but there was nothing she could do to change him. She looked apologetically to the man, who looked slightly appalled now, hoping he wouldn’t take offense. Nala was never sure what to expect from people, but tried her best to be polite and courteous when she met a new person. She allowed a bright smile to cross her face. Looking away from the SSA, the teen took in the man she would be living with now. He was disgruntled looking, tha was for sure. But it was the middle og the night. He’d clearly just stepped out of bed to open the door, and his ruffled hair and clothing were easily explained. Her own polished loose curls and slim clothes, not to mention Monroe’s starched suit, made them look strange in comparison. Where they over dressed, or he under? All in all it made the man look a bit threatening, and the stare he was shooting at the new additions worried her. A stab of fear touched her heart, and, momentarily she was lost in the sight of the man’s cold eyes. Then, with a mental word of chastisement, she relaxed. He wasn’t frightening. But then, a new worry, one that she hadn’t considered in the hustle and bustle of the past few weeks, hit her. What if he didn’t want her? What if the man was resentful at getting a foster child foisted in him, or –as was a problem with many families– expecting one ,much younger and generally more adorable than a teen. What if he didn’t like her? What would she do if she made an enemy of the only ally she had counted on in this new town? With a small shake of her head, tossing the curled blonde hair behind the small shoulder supporting the messenger bad, and a smile in the direction of the man, she resigned herself to what was to be, and readied herself to make an good, but true, first impression. Before she could speak, the Social Services agent interrupted.

Mr. Monroe began to speak quickly, ignoring the introductions. “Now, Mizzter Malone” he drawled in his terrible gravelly voice. “I’m sure you understand, but everything is arranged for the child to be transferred into your custody. I understand you live here with alone, and keep strange hours at your job. You’re hardly ever home, isn’t that right?” Nala sighed. He had been on the phone throughout the journey complaining about this. Apparently it was not a DSS to transfer children to a single=parent home, especially if the parent in question worked long hours. But, in Nala’s mind, Agent Monroe was being callus and unfeeling; if this man had signed the papers and all that, he clearly could handle a child. Mr. Monroe oughtn’t bring it up like that. And if he had gone through the process of fostering her, then, she hoped, he was ready. Nala assumed this was just Grumpy-puss Monroe being his difficult self. She looked apologetically at the man again, hoping he had this figured out. Nala was looking forward to the new start. Mr. Monroe started up again. “Are you sure you’re ready for her?” If it had been anyone but Agent Monroe saying this she would have been grateful that they were interested in her wellbeing, but she knew the salt and pepper haired man was just being difficult. Nala blushed, hoping it all worked out. She also hoped the man wouldn’t hate her because she had caused all this trouble. She knew how important it was to make a good first impression, and Mr. Monroe wasn’t helping one bit. Nala sighed inwardly. She hadn’t even been able to get a word in edgewise.

Time Of Day: Way too early for normal humans to be awake.
Month: Late August, a Wednesday
Others in the RP: Draco Malone
Attire: clicky!
Words: 1587
Notes: Gosh, that's massive. But, at least it has more interaction than the last. Even if it's just Monroe.

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[draco andrew malone]

» Draco knew when he got approved for this that, when and if he was chosen to take care of a child, it would likely be short notice, and no matter what he was doing- killing someone, working, or even sleeping- he would have to stop to take care of the kid and get them settled in. He also knew that, even if he was given enough notice to have time to go out and get things to make the room more homey, he wouldn't, because it was too much of a hassle, and who really knew what kids were into these days? The only exception would be if an infant or very young child was assigned to him, in which case he would make a mad dash to the store to get the appropriate baby-specific supplies. But more than likely, his placements would be old enough to handle waiting a day or two in a very plain room. And even then, it probably wouldn't be much. He would never know how long any given kid would stay with him. Maybe the birth parents would be given custody, or the government would find a living relative. So he would avoid doing anything major, like repainting the room a whacky color, for that specific purpose. Almost anything else was fair game. Or maybe he'd get lucky and the kid would only be there for a couple days. Draco didn't have time to ponder what the kid might be like- he was too tired, and fell back asleep almost as soon as he'd picked up his randomly-strewn clothing.

» At this obscene hour, Draco wasn't expecting much small talk. If anything, he thought that whomever came with the kid would drop said kid off, maybe have Draco sign a form, and then leave. Draco was never one for politeness anyway, especially when he was so tired- and, yes, grumpy- but the way the man just invited himself in was a little... unnerving. Really, he had nothing to worry about. It wasn't like he had a like of coke on the table ready to snort, or empty beer cans everywhere, and his supplies that he used to off people were safely hidden away, so even though there was nothing appearance-wise faulty about his house, he was still uncomfortable with people coming into it unexpectedly. The girl, of course, was fine. Poor thing looked like she was scared, but at the same time trying to be polite. Maybe someone taught her that? Probably. Draco must have missed that metaphorical memo. It was the man who accompanied her that Draco had a problem with. He groaned inwardly. He wasn't too used to not having his questions answered, and even less used to being grilled about how fit he was to foster a child. If the kid weren't there, Draco would have killed the man in a heartbeat. As it was, he was struggling to keep his temper in check. "Listen, butt munch," he said in a gravelly voice (not all that dissimilar from Batman's) "I've got a black belt and I just got off an 18-hour shift in a very busy ER. From what I've seen so far, you're the one who should be grilled about his aptitude for his job, because I just asked very important questions, none of which you answered. What if she's lactose-intolerant and I give her ice cream? Or has Celiac's and I make her a sandwich? It'll be on your head, because you were too busy questioning my schedule to answer important questions." By Draco's standards, this was keeping his cool. He was a beast in the ER. The only reason the man to whom Draco was speaking was still alive was because of the girl.

» As stated before, Draco wasn't mad at the girl. It wasn't her fault whatever situation causing her to come to him culminated in her doing so at this hour. Hell, he'd be willing to be anything that, if given the choice, she'd wait until a more human time of day, and especially so if she knew his crazy hours. It would be unfair of Draco to get mad at her for this bullshit. That was the thing about Draco- he was fair. When he killed someone, it was for one of three very good reasons; either said victim had killed innocent people, was a threat to someone he cared about, or was going to expose Draco for what he really was. Unlike other serial killers, Draco didn't kill based on looks, or to cover up rape. It was not random killing in any way. Anyway, Draco had not yet heard the girl's voice, and was beginning to wonder if it was because the man with her wouldn't shut up, or because she didn't actually have a voice. "Name," he demanded, his tone significantly kinder than the one he'd used on the man, but still pretty grumpy. He wanted sleep, damn it!

status » finished ?!
outfit » use your imagination. ?!
notes » lulz. ?!

[nala tess winston]

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As Nala watched the man, she was nearly terrified. This was strange in a girl with her background. She was never afraid. Rusty used to kid her claiming she ‘laughed in the face of danger’, and the men on base had always said that trouble was her middle name. She was forever exploring and pushing her body and mind to the limit. She’d scaled expert level rock walls un-tethered (not the best idea, and one that got her copious scolding from Rusty and the rest of base, although her mother had never found out), allowed the new recruits, several times her size, to spar at hand-to-hand combat with her. She had been a fan of adrenaline for as long as she could remember, whether the rush came from mastering a particularly hard song on the harp hidden at the rear of the women’s barracks, jumping from the cliff overlooking the little river on the edge of the base, sneaking out late to sit and watch the stars, or standing barely clothed on the roof of the little concrete house in the midst of a thunderstorm. Anything that could give the teen the high she so loved was game. Except, of course drugs. She would never do that to her body, a temple she had been given and should care for. And, as much as she loved the rush of danger, she would never do something destructive, or something she knew, however far back in her mind, that she wouldn’t be able to handle. The teen had, in her fourteen years, faced down a notorious drill sergeant, talked down a suicidal soldier, and delivered the news of a death to loved ones more times than she could count. She was a bit if a daredevil. She’d experienced stage fright, performing in front of the men, and she’d experienced the fear of the unknown, after the terrorist attacks in 2001.

In the past few weeks she had lost her mother. Her brother had been classed as a prisoner of war/missing in action since 2006. That was a fancy way of saying no one knew what had happened to him in Iraq, and that he was never, ever, coming back home. She had learned that early on; she knew that even though his coffin was empty, and weighed less than she did, it didn’t mean that he was just waiting for the right time to come back. Beth had had cancer for years before God took her up to heaven, and the chemo had been horrible. Nala had cared for her mother as early as 2005. An eleven year old girl had taken care of a thirty nine year old woman. There were nights when Nala didn’t go to sleep, because there was no guarantee that Beth would be there in the morning. But, even then, even after the men in the black suits came to the door, even after the callous doctor disconnected the machine, Nala had not been afraid. She had been sad, both times. She had felt as though her stomach had turned into a bottomless pit, and that it was swallowing her heart, trying to swallow her up. But, she had not been afraid. Even when the Child Services woman in the green suit had taken her from the funeral, or when Todd told her he couldn’t take her, she had not been afraid. When she had gotten her tattoo at the age of twelve, it had hurt, she had cried; she had not been afraid. For one so young, she had seen quite a bit. Never would she be accused of being innocent, or naïve. She acted that way, so it was one of the first words that people attributed to her. But she wasn’t. Although she never showed and never let it affect her, she was nearly as disillusioned as Mr. Monroe. Although her disillusionment had come from a different place, it was just as strong. She no longer believed in the war that had claimed her brother’s life or the government that had started it. Another difference between the teen and the man was the response to their trials. While Thomas Monroe had grown hard and unfeeling, Nala had done the opposite. She was alive. In every sense of the word. But, she was never scared.

After proving unbreakable, Nala didn’t understand how the sight of one man waiting for her could terrify her. She shook herself mentally; he was here for her. He had chosen her, chosen to open his home to an uprooted teen. But, the look on the face of the man sent her shoddily constructed confidence shattering into a hundred fragments. Again, the doubts surfaced. He could be, and seemed for all intents and purposes, sleepy, surly, disgruntled, angry… She stopped herself with a small shake of the head. She wouldn’t judge her foster father before they had spoken to, or even seen each other for more than a minute. She didn’t want him to do that, and she wouldn’t do it to him. Let things progress as they would; she was here, she was alive, she was ready.

She was terrified.

The man looked angry, but also something else. What it was,, Nala didn’t know. For the first time it dawned on her. He might be as nervous as she was. As she watched Mr. Monroe tear Mr. Malone apart with his sandpaper voice her hopes fell. Now, even if he had had been alright with her arrival, Grumpy-puss Monroe was going to make him wish he had never gotten involved. For, while Nala never gave up on someone, even when he or she was considered a lost cause, she did not believe others were like that. People were all good, yes, but… As she snapped back into reality Draco Malone was speaking, clearly angrily, to Mr. Monroe. The callous man had thrown him off, as Nala herself had been when they had first met, but he seemed to be taking it in stride. At least, as much as he could. He sounded angry. She felt hope bloom again. Perhaps her foster father did want her, and was showing Agent Monroe through his answers. She listened to what the man was saying. He took control of the situation, speaking more confidently, but also much more callously, than she had expected from what she had seen. He sounded truly angry. She hoped, right then, that she never got on his bad side. ‘Listen, butt munch, I've got a black belt and I just got off an 18-hour shift in a very busy ER. From what I've seen so far, you're the one who should be grilled about his aptitude for his job, because I just asked very important questions, none of which you answered. What if she's lactose-intolerant and I give her ice cream? Or has Celiac's and I make her a sandwich? It'll be on your head, because you were too busy questioning my schedule to answer important questions.’ He sounded so angry, almost juvenile in his rage. But then, maybe this was how he worked. He seemed to acre about her, and a small part of her was glad that someone was finally putting Mr. Thomas Monroe in his place. But, a larger part of her was scared, and more than a little intimidated. The teen, feeling the uninvited fear churn the pit of her stomach, took hope from the frank attitude and the words which sounded as though they confirmed what the agent had grudgingly agreed to on the trip. She was relieved, but even this could not banish the new fears she felt.

Her foster-father then turned to look at her, speaking in a much less aggravated voice. He still seemed angry, but not as mad as he had been before. She had to remember that it was the dead of night, and this man had just had a long shift at work. ‘Name?’ Nala went to speak, but before she could, her agent took the chance to continue. Mr. Monroe opened his mouth, perhaps to protest to Mr. Malone’s earlier words, perhaps to quote policy, as he often did. He swallowed his words at the look the man of the house shot him, and opened his mouth again. “Well, Mizzter Malone, you seem to have this under control.” He motioned towards Nala with one hand, taking out some papers from his case with the other. Her foster-father’s words came back to her. He seemed to be on her side. Nala smiled gently, hoping. Perhaps, her heart whispered quietly, breaking free of the black plastic it had been so carefully packaged in at the corporate building, this man truly did care about her, in his own way, and would be allies in the new town. She wouldn’t allow herself to hope for friendship or affection from the man she had never met, the man whose life she had interrupted, but an ally she could dream of. Mr. Monroe offered his parting words. “The girl’s bags are in the trunk. I’ll be off.” As an after though, he tossed back. ”Her name is Alana Winston.” He gestured to the man, expecting him to help the girl get her belongings. Brushing a strand of blonde hair behind an ear Nala looked to the man. In his parting action, Thomas Monroe waved at the car, and clicked a key pad, opening the trunk, and showing the two bulky garbage bags to the world. The girl blushed, and averting her red face from her new foster-father, spoke quietly, ashamed. “I’ll get those.” She did not look up to see if anyone was following, but blinked hurriedly, feeling the ache of unshed tears at the backs of her eyes, tears she couldn’t find it her heart to cry. She headed towards the open trunk, furious at the man who had, for such a short time, been in charge of her well-being. Furious that he had shown the world how he little he cared about her. Terrified that the man she was placed with would do the same.

Time Of Day: Way too early for normal humans to be awake.
Month: Late August, a Wednesday
Others in the RP: Draco Malone
Attire: clicky!
Words: 1684
Notes: She SPEAKS!!!!!!!

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[draco andrew malone]

» Draco was always an incredibly apathetic guy. Even early on, his friends knew he was not the guy to whom they should go if they wanted to whine about girl troubles, and definitely not use him as a shoulder on which to cry. But he did care a little bit, so on rare occasions he could offer insight and sometimes comfort. This all went away when his girlfriend died. Then, any amount of free caring he had in him disappeared. He no longer, even on rare occasions, offered advice, or would even let people who were trying to tell him things finish their sentence. He didn't care about their problems, because he was too wrapped up in his own. The first couple of years were the worst, where he was a complete icicle to the rest of the world. Any subsequent roommates he had knew it all too well- Draco would be at his desk studying, and no matter what the roommate said or did, Draco had nothing to do with them. He has settled down a little since, but is still a very icy man. It took him a while to warm up to things, and even when he did care about something, it wasn't glaringly obvious all the time. Still, given all that, the agent's behavior disturbed Draco. The man obviously didn't care about the girl, even though it was supposed to be his job. It made Draco angry yet again. All he wanted to do was knock some sense into the guy. But the girl... he didn't know what kind of background she came from. Maybe she had been abused. The last thing he wanted was to lose his temper and kick the agent's ass in front of her, then have her keeping him up any longer because he scared her.

» Draco gritted his teeth. The agent referred to her as the girl. That was just so... callous. Draco half-expected the man to start making orphan jokes or something. It pissed him off beyond words. At least Draco was finally given her name. Alana. It was a pretty name. He couldn't say he'd heard it before, but then again who had ever heard the name Draco- beyond the Harry Potter books? Draco hated that he was constantly asked about Harry Potter. He had never read the books, and definitely never seen the movies. It was ridiculous how many people thought he was named after a character in the book, despite the fact that he was born well before the book was written. Anyway, part of Draco wondered what he was supposed to call the girl. Did she want to be called Alana, or was there some shortening or variation of it she'd rather be called? But then again, he figured she was wondering the same thing about him. He didn't know how much she knew about him, but was sure she must be debating what to call him. It was a conversation they would have to have after Draco had a good amount of sleep; otherwise, he would never remember what she told him. He figured she must be tired as well. It didn't matter though, because regardless, Draco needed sleep. If Alana wanted to lie in bed awake, that was her problem.

» Even though he was practically in a zombie-like state, Draco felt obligated to help Alana carry her stuff in. At least, as a foster child, she wouldn't have fifty suitcases full of hair accessories, high-heeled shoes, and slutty short-shorts. In fact, he wasn't expecting her to have much at all. He didn't know everything about the foster-care system, but common sense told him that uprooted kids, even teens, traveled lightly. He was right, too, and showed no reaction when the trunk opened, revealing two bags, not shocked to see only two, or the fact that they were garbage bags. He stepped past Alana quickly, picking up both of the bags, and then turned and headed quickly back to the house. The less time the agent man was there, the best. Draco didn't like being questioned about how little he was home. When he signed up to do this, the people that approved him knew his occupation, and that his schedule would be crazy. If they had a problem with it, they would never have approved him. So this man had no basis to be questioning him. Suddenly, he set down the bags, shot out one hand to attempt to cover Alana's eyes, and used the other hand to slip the agent the bird. Then he dropped both hands, picked up the bags, and headed inside. Draco was a man of few words, so his actions were mostly what people had to go by- and this sudden action said a lot about him. He made i perfectly clear that he did not like the agent. He suspected Alana felt the same.

status » finished ?!
outfit » use your imagination. ?!
notes » lulz. ?!

[nala tess winston]

- - - - - - - - -

As Nala rushed out towards the car she fumed. She was not garbage, no matter what the callous doctor who had disconnected her mother from the life-support machines, the woman in the green suit who had collected her from the funeral home, all the men and women in the conference room with Todd, and horrid Mr. Monroe said to the contrary. She had watched her mother die, folded her brother’s flag, and scattered dirt on the caskets of the two people who meant the most to her. She had saved a life, she had broken bad news. She could play the guitar, as well as the piano, harp, accordion, and pan pipes, masterfully, and had dabbled in flute, trumpet, and bagpipes. She was a world class swimmer, and could defend herself against men twice her size. She was intelligent, she was kind. Even if she hadn’t been, she was never garbage. No one deserved to have his or her possessions stuffed in black plastic bags; no one deserved to have his or her life regarded as just as much trash. And no one deserved to have the man they were trying to get a fresh start with see them as garbage. Draco Malone had no idea what sort of girl she was, and this was not the impression she wanted to give. She was not the kind of girl to allow all of her things to be wrapped up like household waste. But, neither was she the kind of girl to fuss around with her clothes. She had a few nice dresses, and some fancier shirts and skirts, but she mostly wore jeans, plaids, and thin long sleeved layers. Her clothes being wrapped was not the problem, more the impression that it gave. She hadn’t let them wrap the important things, not her journal, not her bible, not the guitar in its leather case, not her box of treasures, not the box containing Rusty’s flag. Those, as well as some other personal items, were stuffed into the handed down army surplus messenger bag.

As she allowed her foster-father to take her bags, blushing scarlet and staring at the ground, she flashed a look at his face. He quickly hefted the heavy-duty black plastic bundles onto his back, nonplussed by their bulk. He still didn’t look happy to have her there, and she felt her heart sink. She knew that he had lost his wife a few years ago, and maybe he resented her for taking the woman’s place. Not that Nala wanted to take anyone’s place. There was no way this man would take Rusty’s place, or Beth’s, but she wouldn’t begrudge him if he tired to be a family figure. She wasn’t angry that all of a sudden she had a new father, even when she could never really accept that her own family was dead. Rusty especially –the closest she had ever had to a father figure– she would never accept it unless she got a body; an empty coffin was like a story without the last chapter, like a chord progression without the resolution. She hated the fact that she was just supposed to pick up and leave, leave all her memories behind. But she didn’t complain, because she was alive, and she had a chance at a fresh start. She could be anything she wanted, here in Miami. For some this chance at reinventing themselves would have been something to celebrate, a chance to wipe the slate clean of any misdeeds, a chance to become a new person. Not for Nala. She was, and would always be, whether she was wanted to or not, who she was. There were no masks, or, if there were, they had been worn so long they were synonymous with the girl herself. The sharp edges of the boxes and books in her bag pressed against her thin ribs, stabbing slightly. She adjusted her baggage, and watched as Draco closed carried the bags, mute. As he passed her, he didn’t look her way. She followed him towards the house, watching Mr. Monroe.

The steel haired man watched the two at the trunk, and as soon as they had returned to the home, she felt Draco’s hand swing over her face. Taken aback, she stopped walking, starting a little at the strangeness. When his hand moved away, she looked to her foster-father, but before she reached his eyes her gaze caught Mr. Monroe’s face. He looked enraged. She had never seen much emotion on the hardened agent’s face, but this was strong enough to light a fire in his dark eyes. With a quick turn he folded his lanky frame into the seat of old battered cab. With a word to the driver he was off, opening the window to leave one final remark: “I’ll be checking up on you.” She saw his clipboard in his hands, and he seemed to be writing something down. And then he was gone, little yellow car kicking up dust from the roadway. Nala turned her back on the receding shape, and followed Draco into the house. He opened and closed the door for her, but still didn’t speak. She left him with his silence, wishing that this would all work out. She wondered if he had decided to hate her before she had arrived, or if Mr. Monroe had influenced the man with his callousness. She wondered what he had done to make the agent so angry. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes, but the look on his face made her swallow the worlds. She seemed to be a magnet for callous people. Perhaps her foster father was just another. She followed him into the house, and, picking up the bags he had dropped, she made her way toward the spare room he had directed her to earlier. Conscious of the awkward silence, but not knowing what to say without making him madder, she turned down the hallway, wondering if he would follow her.

She entered the spare room, looking at the walls, a pale green. The large bed was draped in a green bedspread, darker than the walls, which she automatically loved, and the room held a closet, and dresser. No desk, she noted, and not a lot of shelves or chairs. She hoped she would be allowed a desk, eventually. But she didn’t mind if she didn’t have one. Her small feet, clad in their rough sneakers padded over the rug. She wondered, for a moment, remembering the size and dimensions of the house she had seen from the outside, whose room this had been. She sighed, and placed her bags down at the foot of the bed. Standing, stranded in the empty room, and stared at the door. He hadn’t followed her. She sighed, wondering why. As a polite little girl, raised a certain way, She felt like she needed to say something to him. But as he hadn’t come, she wasn’t sure how she could. And, then of course, she didn’t know what it should be. Should she apologize? Should she try to start a conversation? Should she thank him? Suddenly she realized she had never really been introduced; Mr. Monroe had simply tossed her name out there, but nothing more. Perhaps that was where she ought to start? Turning toward the door, she retraced her steps, ending in the hallway, looking for him. She stopped, flustered. She felt exposed. She didn’t look up, didn’t know if he were there, or if he had left, and she was going to be talking to the air. She still had her messenger bag over her shoulder, and her gently curled light hair fell over her face, shielding him from view. Look what she had become, a scared child, embarrassed and unsure. She should have been stronger. How she had fallen.

Time Of Day: Way too early for normal humans to be awake.
Month: Late August, a Wednesday
Others in the RP: Draco Malone
Attire: clicky!
Words: 1311
Notes: She’s a sad bebe now. Naughty Draco to make her sad. But she'll be ok. I have a feeling theirs is going to be an uneasy accord at the start.

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[draco andrew malone]

» The exhaustion was overwhelming. Anyone without as much self-discipline as Draco would be out cold right now. But he knew long ago that this kind of thing would happen- not this situation specifically, but something similar. He knew when he decided on medical school that he would spend mass quantities of time in the hospital, sometimes with little to no sleep. There was always the on-call room if it got unbearable, but Draco hadn't had to go there yet- he didn't trust it. He refused to sleep somewhere that other people had access to. Even though none of them knew what he really was, he didn't want to take the chance that someone would search his bag and find evidence enough to either kill him or have him arrested. Plus, the beds in there were like ones he'd imagine would be at an under0funded summer camp, with steel frames and thin mattresses, and pillows that were barely there. Still, that didn't mean he wasn't tired. He had simply trained himself not to care about how tired he was until he was out of the hospital, at which point it was fair game. Half the time, he would be dead on his feet just walking between the hospital and his car, but somehow he always made it home. But then again, once he was home, he was usually able to crash for an extended period of time. How often was he actually going to be randomly interrupted?

» Self-control was the central force governing Draco's existence. Without it, he could not continue to be who he was. Without it, he would be on death row, or committed to a psychiatric hospital at best. That was bad, right? That Draco, as a physician, believed that he belonged in one? No matter. Anyway, he was excellent at control. But he wasn't a control freak in the traditional sense. He didn't get off on making others do exactly as he wanted them to. If he were forced into an interactive situation, he didn't order people around for his own good- the only orders he ever barked were in the ER, when the patient needed something immediately. Otherwise, the only control he cared about was his internal control. He had to- it was the only thing keeping him from flying off the handle as he was apt to do. Without self-control, half the meeting he interacted with on a daily basis wouldn't live to see their next birthday. He internalized everything, and as a result was outwardly emotionless while inside all he wanted to do was turn the situation into a massacre. This, the making an obscene gesture at Mr. Monroe, was the closest he would come to losing that control. “I’ll be checking up on you.” Draco simply smiled- a very fake smile- and waved before grabbing the bags and going inside once again.

» Walking up the stairs, Draco watched the girl go into the room. He kind of assumed she would stay there, as it was so unspeakably early and she was probably tired, although probably not as much so as he was. But tired was tired, and they both needed sleep regardless. Draco quickly made his way down the hall into his own bedroom and shut the door. He took off his glasses and set them on the bedside table, then laid down, and just as he closed his eyes... he realized he was incredibly thirsty. Sighing angrily, he stood and walked out of the room, not bothering to grab his glasses. As he walked back down the hall, his eyes were half-closed because he was still dead tired, and what little he could see was blurry, because his eyesight was crap. So he failed to notice the little girl in front of him, and ended up walking right into her- one could almost hear the "ping" as her tiny body hit his muscular, giant-esque one. Draco stumbled back a couple steps in surprise, opening his eyes just a little more. His vision wasn't a whole lot better. "Did you need something?" he asked, trying to iron the grumpiness out of his voice. Poor girl was in a completely new environment, and Draco wasn't exactly being a stellar host.

status » finished ?!
outfit » use your imagination. ?!
notes » lulz. ?!