She's an artist in a coffee shop. Thank the gods that she's engrossed in planning her next sculpture because Sadah would have cringed to her bones at the cliche. Later though, after she's had time to cringe and groan and shake her head, she'll be comforted by remembering that she is also eating a number of unhealthy sweets, safely off-setting the stereotype.

Goodness, she hates the cold months. Even in the farthest corner from the door with a fluffy green scarf around her neck, she shivers at the tinkle of the bell. Sadah would be wearing her gloves but it's just a little too tough to maneuver the pencil through their thick knit and she is on a roll. Both figuratively and culinarily. They have really tasty cinnamon buns here.

She's been here for over an hour and a half, but art knows no time. Sadah likes to imagine that she and time have a deal. If it'll let her ignore it long enough to produce a piece to sell, she'll let it be as unkind to her face in the coming years as it wants to. It's not like she's using it for anything, really.

By now Sadah's hot chocolate has gone luke warm and while she reaches for it, pencil in hand, the cold air from outside saunters over to her corner. The shiver starts slowly at the base of her spine, slowly working its way up her vertebrae until she can no longer ignore it and then her shoulders shudder dramatically. Well that could have been messy. Luckily, Sadah managed to set her drink down by the time it reached her arms but her pencil had not been so lucky.

There it lay, on the floor and annoyingly close to the door. Stupid winter.

Jay is not in a good mood. His latest case had gone dry and if he didn't find any leads soon he'd be looking at a job change. A forced one. Whoever he was chasing must have figured out that Jay was assigned to the case, because every time he found a new lead it dead-ended in a particularly strong scent bomb of peppermint, ginger or something else just as strong. Whatever they were made of, they usually sent him yelping for his human form and ended up with a terrible hangover the next morning. Last night had been particularly terrible. He'd tracked the man to the Warehouse and had gotten a noseful of cinnamon and orange extract going off in every direction. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. If he didn't find a lead soon...

Passing the Half-Baked Bean, he decides to go in on an impulse. At least the coffee might help his head. The bell on the door rings, followed by a click that wasn't part of the door closing. He looks down in time to see a pencil roll its way to his feet. He bends to pick it up then looks around to see whose it was. A petite woman with black smudges on her face is looking straight at him with a slightly guilty look on her face. He winds his way around the tables towards her.

"Here you go, miss. I'm Jay by the way." He holds his hand out for her to shake.

Well, it could have been worse. She could have been forced by necessity to move and retrieve the pencil herself. It could have been really worse and she could have been working with paints.

But Sadah was debating if undesired human contact was actually worth not having to move from her spot. He was so forward. Sadah tended to frequent little holes in the wall where everyone pretty much well enough leaves you alone because, well, they just don't care to know what you are. So why was she in the Bean? Coffee is an addiction, my friends, it doesn't matter how expensive or mainstream. Even an off-the-beaten-path artist needs her fix.

"...Thanks," she eyes him a little warily with a sort of 'what the heck?' attitude.

"You can call me Sadah," and if she hears 'Sadie' when he responds, this will not be a long conversation.

"Nice to meet you, Sadah," he says, noting with amusement the sardonic look on her face. She'd probably had lots of people get it wrong, but in his line of work, if you didn't get information correct the first time, there often wasn't a chance to go back and find it again later. There's an awkward pause and she continues to almost glare at him. He glances down at the tablet in front of her. He can't quite tell what it is yet, so he decides not to comment.

"Well, I can see you would prefer to be left alone. I'll let you get back to your work," He says in the pleasantest tone possible. For a few minutes he wonders if she can tell he works with the police and that's why she's so hostile. He turns away, trying to put it out of his mind. There are some parts of spending half your time as a dog that are definitely not fun. The emotional strain, for example, of meeting people that just aren't friendly. As a dog he hardly ever had that problem, unless he was dealing with a trained attack or guard dog, and he tried to do that in human form if at all possible.

Sadah bit back an audible sigh but had to roll her eyes at herself just the same. Wasn't Andrea just telling her how she should get out more? Of course, Sadah did get out (quite often, in fact), but somehow the girl doubted that conducting business transactions with people of questionable humanity counted in her almost-mother-in-law's eyes as 'getting out.' And here some perfectly normal guy was willing to strike up a conversation. And he'd shown an interest in her work. At the very least maybe she could get him to buy something, yeah?

So she set down her pencil and growled to herself (a habit from forever ago), and started to speak in halted sentences.

"No, I'm--Sorry. I'm just..not used to-" It was all because she didn't want to speak, but Andrea's comforting nag just wouldn't go away. "Look, I apologize, that was rude. It's nice to meet you, too." Looking back at her sketch, she made a face, "I need a break, anyway."

He turns and smiles at her.

"No, I understand. An artist at work is often more rude than they intend to be." Not that he was an artist himself, but he'd dealt with them often enough to know that some of them were positively troll-like when they were interrupted. "However, if you're sure I'm not intruding, might I join you after I order?" He gestured at the mostly full shop. "I'd hate to take up one of the few tables left for just one."

More rude than I intended to be? Excuse me, but I'm not the one who can't just give back a pencil without grand overtures of affection. Okay. So maybe she's a little bit harsh at times and a tad bit over dramatic. But hey, she's an artist, right? If she knew how terrible his day had been, she might be inclined to curb her mouth and her thoughts. Really, it wouldn't hurt her to try.

Join her? No, no, no! Come on, Sadah, it'll be good for you!

She smiles, keeping her thoughts to herself, "Of course!" At the very least, she's doing her best to put a stop to these thoughts here and now. Maybe the guy needs company. Maybe he's some unintentional hermit who spends all his time engrossed in his work and only emerges from his shell when he gets unbearably lonely, like a puppy who's been in his crate too long. How terrible a person would she be if she labeled him as a rude, intruding jerk the minute she met him? It would be like kicking him when he's down.

So she makes room and flips the page in her sketchbook. She likes the texture of his clothes, maybe that'll inspire her.

Jay bit his lips in an attempt to hide his disappointment. It was clear she didn't want him there, but she had already made room for him and she'd probably think him rude if he didn't join her now. Well, he'd dealt with awkward situations before. He'd just chug his coffee down and leave if he had to.

A few minutes later he came back with a plain black coffee. Cream was for cats and sugar was for wimps.

"So -" he started, "What are you working on?" If she decided to be unsociable, then he was going to chug down his coffee as fast as possible and get out of there. He couldn't deal with unfriendly people for too long.

"A sculpture," she says, rubbing her chin and staring at the page as if it'll tell her what to do. Her eyes drift over to his sleeve and catches itself on the texture and pattern of it. Snatching up her pencil once again, she begins to copy it to her paper. After a few seconds of working in the shading, other shapes and figures begin to form. The shadows change themselves into lines and faces, stencils and stamps she'll make later.

"Say, where'd you get this?" Sadah tugs on his sleeve, not really caring that she just broke into his personal bubble. She kind of stopped seeing it as a part of his person a moment ago.

"Uh -" he says, surprised "I'm not sure. I don't pay that much attention to my clothes." Lie. He pays a lot of attention to his clothes - if you can't get it off with teeth or if it can be ruined by slobber, then it just wasn't worth it for him. But, he doubted she knew of the Were-boutique and besides, if she was unnish then he'd get in trouble for sending her there.

"It's got a great texture," she complements, "like the fibers are damaged, some. I like it, it's got a lot of character."

It would be nice if she flashed him a smile, but she tends to furrow her brows when she's concentrating and forgets about the influence of her facial cues on others. So she doesn't mean to come off so callous all the time, and not now. Her compliment is really genuine.

"So what do you do, Mr. Jay?"

Erase. Erase. Line. Line. Scowl.

"Oh, you know," he says. He doesn't quite know how to tell her that he's police. People are usually either overly (and falsely) interested or immediately wary. He has friends in the force that would say it's only right, because "everyone's guilty of something," but that just wasn't him. In fact it was downright annoying that everyone assumed you were always a police officer. Everyone else gets to put in their hours and then go home to a different life, so why couldn't he? That's not to say he doesn't try to do right, and if he sees something suspicious he'll call it in, but he's not always on the lookout for criminals.

"Actually, I work for the government," he finally says.

Sadah might disagree with Jay's theory. She might not be on the clock 24/7 as an artist, but her eye is always roaming. The flash of a wing in the right light might send a chain reaction fizzing through her brain and it never mattered whether she was in the middle of a commission, working on a piece for the gallery, or trying to get ready for bed after two sleepless nights. She'd be compelled to finish it, write it down, get it out of her head somehow.

'Course...she was never a bartender when she didn't want to be. But the driving passion behind her life never went away. Money was nice when it came, but when your art felt like it should have its own pulse, you have no choice. Maybe if Jay's pulse screamed "Evil doers, beware!" he'd have a different perspective. But you never know. Two schools of differing opinions hardly ever work together in harmony.

"Cool," there were swirls on her paper, now. "So is that an 'eh,'" she shrugged, "'I work for the government' or an," her face got all serious and her voice went deeper, "'I work for the government.'" She tried to pretend to be all imposing, but I don't know how well it worked.

He laughs. "More the first than the second. I wouldn't dream of using the my position to gain any sort of favors. Beside, I'm not all that important. I'm a -" he struggled finding the right words "I guess you could call it a private investigator that works specifically for the government."

Sadah sets down her pencil. She's about reached the end of her creative extent without a cup of dye in her hands.

Her hot chocolate is now simply liquid chocolate which is good...but not what she wants. So instead she picks at her cinnamon roll and chuckles at the man, "You know, you can say 'cop.' It's a whole lot easier."

There's a certain type of thrill that tingles into Sadah's limbs. She's spent about a year building up her reputation within the initiate black market. Though she has no powers, no abilities or unusual, inhuman heritage; the girl has come to know and appreciate that knowledge and negotiation is pretty much the same no matter who you're dealing with. Especially if you've got one or two bad-asses to back you up. So she's a broker, really, but still digs around in activities of questionable legality. Being right next to a cop and knowing everything she does is downright exciting because there's nothing he can do about it.

So she thinks.

But whatever.

"I could," he agrees, "but then everyone does what you're doing now - tensing up." He can smell the tang of adrenaline coloring her charcoal, dye, graphite and lily scent.

"You don't have to worry, though," he reassures her. "I'm not on duty, right now. Though I suppose, if I saw a murder I could go on duty at a moment's notice. But I'm not here to rat anyone out. Besides, that's not my job. I come in on their unsolved cases. Forensics type - you know, CSI, only without all the cameras and the drama." He smiled, trying to put her at ease.

Tensing up...right. Can't deny, thought, that Sadah likes the adrenaline rush. The thought runs through her head that she might get his phone number and pull jobs under his nose all the time. Then again, no reason to be foolish.

The thing is, Sadah's not really ill at ease. She kind of has a thing for suspense. Call it a character quirk.

"Well thank-you so much. I'll do my best to keep all of my murders out of your line of vision, if it helps." She's sort of grinning.

"You're welcome," he smiles back. "I wouldn't want to see a pretty little thing like you down in the cells with the big criminals we usually have down there." He immediately wishes he hadn't said that. Their earlier awkwardness could very easily come back if he didn't watch his tongue.

Ha! Oh, if he only knew..

"Whatever would little ol' me do?"

Awkwardness? Pshaw. Sadah either likes to create awkwardness or pretend it doesn't exist.

"I'm sure you wouldn't do anything on purpose, but there are lots of ways to end up in those cells. Besides, you were the one suggesting you would do murder." He stops himself just short of adding that it wouldn't do her much good to keep out of his sight if he got called in on a murder she committed. He'd sat in a cloud of her scent long enough that he'd know immediately if it was her.

What is it with guys who don't know how to flirt?

She shakes her head once, lightly, and picks her pencil up again. This time her eyes dart to the corners of his eyes and the curve of his nose. Her pencil works in short strokes and soft circles.

"No, I meant..nevermind."

The image is taking his shape quickly. Sadah's sort of testing herself, getting back to some basics.

"Sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything. I guess I don't get out enough." Another lie, but this one with a grain of truth. He got out plenty - as a dog. It was just so much easier when everything could be communicated in a smell and a few short barks. No room for misinterpretation there. He could never quite get the hang of dealing with people.

"No no no," she's a little frustrated with him, but not enough that it's not funny, "You were talking about putting me in a cell with big, bad criminals. I played the part of the damsel in distress and you didn't get it. It was a joke, Mr. Jay."

Why is she using a title? I don't know.

"You know, if anyone's tense here, it's you. Maybe you should go loose yourself in a nightclub or something and then emerge as a beautiful...well, not butterfly, but something a little farther away from the edge, I can tell you that."

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry. And no need for the titles. It's just Jay, please." He shudders to think of what going in a club was like. He tried once, in college with a bunch of his unnish friends. The stink nearly made him ill. He stayed only long enough to plausibly lose his friends before sneaking out and shifting into the form he was most comfortable with.

"And stop apologizing." If there's anything Sadah doesn't like (well...there are quite a few things) it's weak people. She can be compassionate when she wants to be, but for a police officer who investigates murders, he's astoundingly skiddish.

She liked calling him "Mr. Jay," she decided. It reminded her of Harley Quinn. You know, from Batman. For a little while, she had a little brother. He loved comic books. She indulged him.

Just Jay, please "Why?"

"I don't know - it makes me feel older than I am, I guess. And it seems kind of formal, don't you think?" It's not that he's skittish. In fact, normally people find him very steadying. Unfortunately, he doesn't get much chance to interact with humans and he knows it. He finds it much easier to just apologize for everything than to figure out exactly what he said wrong. And he has no doubt he said something wrong in this conversation. Why else would she be so abrasive and short?

Oh Jay, it's not just you. Sadah's rude sometimes. She doesn't think about it. It's gotten worse in the last year, but she hasn't noticed. Doesn't help much, though, when Sadah has to explain jokes. She hates that.

But! Conversation piece: "So how old are you, then?" By now she's finished her gesture of him and has her head in a hand, leaning against the table but offering him her full attention.

"Old enough to drink, but not so old that I have to worry about wrinkles or grey hair yet," he says lightly, making his own brand of joke.

She laughs at it, too, and says, "You know, I should'a guessed. That's a very good age, I like that age."

He smiles, relaxing a little. "Thanks. How about you? You haven't told me much of anything." He lifts the coffee, blows on it a little and then takes a sip. It has cooled almost too much and he grimaces slightly.

Sadah laughs briefly, good-naturedly, "Well that's not my fault. You haven't asked much of anything, Mr. Jay." Back to the title. Well, she's in a good mood now and she's being playfully defiant.

She leans back for a spell and continues to pick at her pastries.

"What do you want to know?"

"I don't know," he says. "I already know your career, or at least your hobby, which is what you asked me." He thinks for a minute. For a moment he almost forgets he's in his human form and has the overwhelming urge to scratch his head with one of his feet.

"So are you from the Bayfield area?" He finally decides that this is a safe enough question.

Safe for most people, maybe. Sadah's not exactly most people. Her response isn't as clipped and unyielding as it could be, but she answers under a pall and doesn't make it last.

"No. I grew up in the 'States and I'd really rather not talk about it."

She could just lie, but Sadah's been lied to enough in her life and she's tired of it.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He laughs without much humor. "I guess this is why you were asking all the questions."

"Oh, you know," she shrugs, "Skeletons in the closet and all that. I don't mind you asking questions in the present tense, if you like."

Her pastries don't seem as appetizing anymore and she pushes them away. She does smile at Jay, though, to reassure him a bit. Maybe she's got a dodgy past but she's not a crazy person.

"Um, alright," he says, "So, what do you do? Besides that, I mean." He gestures to the pad of paper that she was now ignoring.

"Um, alright," he says, "So, what do you do? Besides that, I mean." He gestures to the pad of paper that she was now ignoring.

She shrugs and tugs on her hair.

"I bartend part time for this place called 'Triskele.' If you haven't heard of it you probably won't," and she likes that it's so exclusive. Her other business transactions go quite smoothly in there. "Invite only, you see."

'Course, a lot of stuff that might be considered illegal goes on there. It's really only reasonable that he might have heard of it in some of his investigations.

"It may be invite only, but I am a cop," he points out. "I've had a few investigations lead there." He almost bites his tongue. If she was a bartender she probably kept pretty close tabs on who (or what) went in and out, and he'd never been there in human form. He hopes fervently that she'll just think he's never been there during her shift.

At any one time, there's way too much going on in the Triskele Club for a single bartender to take particular notice of a single weredog. When you're dealing with a clientele that orders Bloody Marys by blood type, you tend to overlook random animals in the establishment. Mostly they trigger the, "you'd better clean that up when you get back into your clothes" reaction.

"Really? I bet it's been a bitch trying to get statements out of people." She looks at him a little pointedly. People who frequent the Triskele never really appreciate people asking after them or poking their noses where they shouldn't be. Most of the security staff is either a demon or high level mage for a reason.