Skinny fingers were tapping against Kendall's jean-clad hips. They were one of the old pairs " black faded to gray and white, torn and gaping in several places. She was wearing the new shin-kicker boots (that actually fit) but had taken some time to scuff them thoroughly through gravel to wear off the "new" look. Her t-shirt had said, "Space Cowboys" once upon a long while ago, but now it read, "Spa e Cow s" where the lettering hadn't completely faded or flaked away. She wasn't wearing her ring. And her pale gray eyes were scanning over Bashir in a look that was detached and assessing. Could he pass in her old haunts" Or would he just stand out too much' Her lips pursed while she thought, silent whistle.

"Is all of this really necessary?" he asked her, waving a hand up and down to indicate the clothes and the expression she was wearing as she assessed his flaws. He'd already removed all of his jewelry at her direction, including his own ring and his watch. He'd not shaved that morning, at her insistence. He was wearing a pair of deliberately faded jeans and the rattiest workout t-shirt he owned (all of the lettering was perfectly legible, sadly).

She dropped the silent whistle for a cynical curl of smile. "Buster, just wish you din't look so well-fed, roll it' You ain't gonna much like where we're headin', but best t' fit in, get in, get out clean. " She reached over, ran her fingers through his hair - almost affectionate, that gesture, it also served to mess the careful order enough for "fashion" in her old neighborhood. "All right, let's jet."

He reached out to try and hook a finger in her back belt loop as she headed out the door.

Hooked! She was brought up short, looked over her shoulder at him curiously. "What's on?"

He tugged her back a step and came forward himself pressing her up against the door jamb and looming over the little fighting cock he'd married. He honestly didn't know why he did it. Maybe it was the way she taunted him all the time, even when she didn't mean to. But he leaned in over her, and very deliberately crushed his lips over hers. It was hard and fast; but he drew back with the same deliberate intent. "I'm not going to like it, but we will get in and get out, and then I am going to work on fattening you up a bit," he said in that thick accent, "roll it?"

If she weren't breathless from the quick but thorough kiss, she would have snickered at his "fattening up" comment. As it was, she blinked, grinned suddenly, and answered. "Rolled. Yer th' muscle t'day anyone asks." She reached up to pat his arm, and then opened the door to slip out - water through his arms and heading down the stairs with a clatter.

"We're going to take the elevator coming back!" he called after her, trotting to catch up.

Her laughter echoed in the stairwell. "Thought you did them workouts an' all" Few steps shouldn't be all that." Down the flights of stairs - with the same wall-hugging habit as always, slinging around the turns to keep best field of view. When she reached the base, she paused. Rolled her shoulders, tugged up the back of her jeans a fraction, wiggled her right ankle. It was a quick and unobtrusive check that her knives were still in place.

Sometimes, he just wanted to turn her over his knee. Or laugh. Or both. His feet landed together on the tiled floor at the base of the stairs with a loud thump.

"You gone deep into West End much at all?" She asked it as the door to the apartment building shut behind them, locking itself. They were headed South first and her pace was brisk but not the jog she'd used on deliveries. Her eyes were scanning the surroundings constantly - even here, still in a relatively safe area of town. People, movement, locations, Bashir's relation to her as they walked.

"Not really. Couple of parties." He squinted at her in the sunlight, having left his sunglasses at home with the rest of his contraband possessions. The parties were probably not in the part of the district she was thinking of, at all. He skirted around a woman walking what looked like some sort of alien poodle on a leash, watching the dog over his shoulder for a few paces before turning his attention back to their path.

"A'right. Pro'lly hit th' Dive, maybe Frat House, like that?" Two of the better-known clubs on the edge of the district, known for good music, generous drinks and, on the seamy side, as places where a person could get anything they wanted. "Gonna cut Dockside from the Bridge then come in from th' North, not around that area. Cuttin' across River Ratz territory an' through Makos t' th' Ravens - my layout's on th' border there. Don't look anyone too close, don't look'em in th' eye 'less you want t' start somethin'."

Was she even speaking Common' He needed a translator, Allah knew he did. He listened to her, and processed his way through everything but the menagerie. Rats and Makos and Ravens. Oh my. "Don't look at anyone, yes. All right. Should I not speak?"

Copper hair shone in the sunlight, and she pushed it from her eyes as they crossed the West Bridge. Sidestepped around a falafel vendor who gave the scruffy pair watchful eyes to make sure they weren't going to lift his take. "Hopefully won't be no call. Huh. If'n someone says sommat t' you, though, best t' answer back. Just try t' keep short an' don't sound too rich."

"I don't sound 'rich'!" he protested under his breath, giving the falafel vendor a look in return that said, "I know where you are now and I will be back to eat all of your wares. Mmmm. Falafel." It was a very eloquent look.

He grunted, and mumbled something in Turkish under his breath as he jutted right into the alley she'd indicated. There was a distinctly unwholesome stink somewhere in the vicinity that wasn't completely explained by the rusting dumpster at the end of the alleyway.

The wooden building was tagged with a green-and-blue shark. The brick building was tagged with a black-and-silver raven. Kendall was breathing through her mouth against the stench. "Dunno what died." That was literal. Chinjerk up pointed at a gutter that ran next to the windows on the brick building, and a broken window on the second floor. "That's it. Goin' up with or want me t' chuck stuff down t' you? Ain't that much."

Also, it was probably a good thing she didn't speak Turkish.

"You're bloody kidding."

She shot him a glance, shrugged a familiar one-shouldered shrug. Her lips were curled back up in that cynical smile. "What, you ain't like my high-rise?" She freed her hands from her pockets, used a gap in the bricks to start up - window ledge, gutter, and up the wall. It wasn't really that high up, and easier than it looked with the gutter right there. She grunted as she levered up onto the ledge of the broken window, where several of the boards had been ripped free.

He sighed, watching her clamber up the side of the building, and marked where she placed her feet on the way. When she was up (he wasn't sure the guttering was going to support his weight, let alone both of them), he gripped the window ledge and began hoisting himself up after her. He wanted to see this high-rise his wife had been living in for himself. He was, sad to say, not nearly as nimble as she, and his feet were bigger.

In the end, he slipped twice and sliced the second joint of his middle finger on an exposed bit of flashing. But he made it up.

The gap between the boards was just large enough for her to skin through, normally. So she braced herself and kicked out another couple boards before she ducked through the window - making room for Bashir. And, incidentally, letting in a little more light.

Darkness would have treated the room better. There was a gaping hole in the floor near the closed door. Two blankets were piled in the corner to the right. There were a pair of vampire skulls on either side of the blankets, silently guarding a chipped mug, a small pile of clothes, two small wooden boxes, another pair of battered boots, one cream-colored envelope with flowing Gothic script on the outside, and, oddly, three wrenches and a screwdriver.

He hauled himself in slowly, right leg first, and left the mark of his blood to anoint her lintels. When he had both feet solidly under him, he swung an encompassing gaze around the room, taking it all in: the hole, her bedding, her meagre possessions.

She'd stopped with her hands on her hips, also looking at the small pile of things. Finally she glanced over her shoulder, gave another shrug that was more defensive than anything. "Ain't much t' get, yeah' Just couple'a things I ain't wanna lose." Three quick steps took her toward the blankets where she dropped to kneeling.

"What can I help with, love?" He asked it in Common deliberately, so there was no question about what he was saying.

Mark the moment of perfect stillness. It's rare. Another moment and she glanced back again, but this time the canted smile wasn't bitter. "You want t' grab Aunt Margaret an' Uncle John there" Wrap'em in th' blankets with th' boxes an' th' tools." She tilted her head toward the vampire skulls. They weren't fake. One of them had a large hole in the brain pan. She tucked the envelope into one of her pockets, didn't mention the clothes.

He went to collect the blankets, and carried them over to her little mound of treasures. "Which one is this?" he asked, picking one of the skulls up by the ragged hole and holding it up for her inspection. "Uncle John or Auntie Margaret?"

Now she snickered. "Dunno. Uncle John, I think. Tara gave'em to me, relatives of hers or sommat. I been using'em t' keep folks from my stuff - creep most off." One of the boxes was surprisingly heavy compared to the other. She left that for Bashir to carry, plucked Uncle John from his fingers. She was also watching his reactions carefully out of the corner of her eye; trying to judge what he was really thinking.

Honestly' He was happy. Happy to be bringing the things she loved home with her. Happy she was coming back with him, rather than staying there. Grateful that she'd survived. Impressed. He was impressed with her resiliency. And he was bleeding on Aunt Margaret.

Bleeding on a vampire skull. Hmm. Well, they were lucky this time, apparently. When she took the second skull from his hand she finally noticed the smears and drips of blood, and frowned. "Th' hell?" Pale gaze tracked the trail back to his hand. "What'd you do there?" Aunt Margaret was summarily tossed onto the blanket next to Uncle John, where the skulls collided with a hollow thonk. She reached for his hand to examine the cut.

Aunt Margaret was fairly detached about it all.

"It's nothing," his breath feathered over her brow as she bent over him. "Cut myself on a piece of the gutter coming up. Wasn't watching where I put my hand, is all." He hissed softly as his finger flexed in her hand.

"Huh. Gotta watch yerself." She scowled at the cut, shook her head, then reached into her left pocket. She came out with a butterfly knife, and flipped it open with one hand while she stretched out the hem of her shirt with the other. "Scrap on this t' keep it bleeding everywhere, we'll wrap it right when we get back home." That might very well have been the first time she'd ever called the penthouse home.

He held his hand out and watched while she fashioned a field bandage for his little war wound. And one silly little corner of his brain wondered, when they got home, if he would be able to figure out where she had all of her knives hidden. Maybe a blindfold.