She tossed her beat-up ol' backpack on Keaton's couch, lifting her nose to see if she could sniff him out. Most likely he'd run out to grab something for dinner tonight, and hadn't bothered to lock his door. Her fox was waaaay too trusting.

Not picking up Abbey Road on the Trusty Trixie radar, she swaggered into the kitchen to rummage. She felt bad crashing at his place so often, but he never seemed to kick her out, so like a stray shown affection, she kept coming back. Currently, her time was divided between the Scathachian pad and Keaton's flat, especially now considering she was on the outs with Brant, the old-flame, pain-in-the-ass friend, and bitchy lead singer of her band. He'd taken away her rights to driving the band's van, Optimus Grime, and was threatening her status as drummer. That boy didn't value his throat, apparently.

However, her time spent at the Scathachian's Paradise was also being cut down all the more by the fact that the part of West End where the posh HQ was located was precisely the part she had to be careful in. Be careful in, you ask? Well see, thing is, in her efforts to keep the streets safe, she'd sliced up the wrong hoodlum and managed to get a hit on herself. Frankly, she didn't really think it was a big deal, but Abbey Road wasn't too keen on his chick running around trying to hunt down bad guys when she had a few tailing her. She wasn't especially hard to miss in her catsuit, afterall, and with him being the sweet, protective thing he was, he'd gotten her to agree to lay low. Too bad she was risking her sanity doing it.

The half-breed curse had her pacing at all hours of the night, even now, although it was barely dusk. The world beyond the glass of the windows never seemed to stop calling her. It was all she could do to ignore it. She'd even had Keaton hide her blades away, just so the extra temptation wasn't there.

Preoccupying herself seemed to be the best way to get her mind off of hunting and her innate need for blood. It wasn't a cure, mind you, but a trick for getting by. Speaking of which, it was time to do that now, as she gave a hefty sigh, tearing her emerald eyes from views of the darkening skies. She made for the pile of dishes accumulating in the sink. Once Abbey Road got home, it'd get easier.

Trix, on the otherhand, was not smiling. Her nose was wriggling furiously, trying to track the weird odor from moments before. She'd lived on her own for a while after she was cursed, during which time she'd learned how to fend for herself and how to know when she was in trouble. That shadow didn't go unnoticed. Now she was unnerved.

Hearing her baby walk on in, rather than relieve, only proved to heighten this sense of paranoia. Was she putting him in danger? Or was she really just getting cabin fever? She stood, fretting, holding a pot encrusted with burnt cheese. One of her failed dinner experiments.

And despite danger, humor was never out of Trixie's reach. She giggled, setting the pot back in the sink before reaching out to clasp her hands behind his back. She put her chin up on his shoulder, giving a canine kinda rumble to her musician.

"Awww, the ol' girl can hack it. We'll juss' try again. Good show, Keaton J. Fox?" Yeah, she thought that up all by herself.

Still, something was keeping her uneasy. She was doing her absolute best to keep her usual grin out and about, but every chance she got, she threw a glance to the kitchen window, hoping ( or well, actually hoping against) to catch that shadow.

Aw crud. She was caught showing concern. But if he wasn't sensing it on his own, she certainly wasn't going to get him all riled. Plus, the creepiness was moving away for the time being, so it was alright to ease up. Wasn't it?
She pulled him in a little closer, nipping at his neck with the divine canines they both loved so much. She did what she could to keep her emerald eyes off the glass.

"What, baby-love? I'm cool. You know I juss' get kinda antsy, bein' all like...domestic-y. Didja play any ov' my favs? Get any panties toss'd on the stage?"

She grinned impishly, pushing him back into the living room. Maybe a change of scene would chill her out.

But even when he was glancing to her, she was peering over her shoulder at the window. At least she wasn't going crazy. That was the only satisfaction she could get regarding the new developments in the 'What the Hell is outside?' case. Her upper lip curled and quivered with the growl she was producing. That was an apparent yes to his question.

Without her blades, and without going into her other form, her line of defense was destined to be the steak knife closest to her right hand. She snarled again. Let the bastards come. God help them if they touched her fox.