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                               Today's Weather:

In the bitter cold daylight, a slight snow falls, blanking out the ground
in a cottony layer of white. The sunbeams catch the snowbanks and reflect
harshly back from their white surfaces. Salt trucks drive lazily up and
down the streets, attempting to save the roads from entrappment.

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At least he can fly with a coat on now, though it flaps awkwardly. Cold.
It's cold, and dark, and snowing. If he had his way, Liam would be
hibernating for the winter, but unfortunately, he's needed more than ever.
People on the street are freezing too. Winging in from the direction of
the Badlands, the angel descends in an easy circle to the step in front of
the door on School House Road. Assuming there is light or life of some
sort, the deferential knock will come next.

Less light than usual: the windows are covered, and only one room on the
second floor and the kitchen and (fortunately) the living room on the
first show any hint of life behind them. The house itself may have settled
in for hibernation: though there's a car in the driveway, both driveway
and car are layered in white, and there's no telling the walkway from the
rest of the yard. /Nobody/ has been shoveling. A couple of lonely trails
of small footprints lead back and forth to the sidewalk, and the concrete
front steps are clear: that's it. The deferential knock, mind, /does/ get
an answer: a twitch at the curtains to one side of the door, then the
chain being unhooked and the locks undone and Kitty's pulling the door
open. "Liam, you've got to be /freezing/! Come in, quick, before you start
growing icicles or something -"

"Could be worse," replies Liam, slightly dourly, hugging himself. Breath
frosting in the air."Could be yesterday. You know what I hate? Rain what
turns to /ice/." Kitty gets a friendly, if shivering smile as the angel
limps his way inside. He's managed some concessions to the weather -- a
beige sweater and some fingerless cotton gloves, plus the coat looks new,
if similar to his old one. On the downside, he's cold, and been losing
weight lately judging by the sharpness of his cheekbones.

"There are no men in this city," Kitty says to the door as she shuts it,
"who /like/ the cold. None. Not one. Anywhere." At least it's markedly
warmer inside - even if Kitty's temporarily won the argument about just
/how/ warm to keep most of the house. "Here, let me get your coat - and
get you something /hot/ to drink. Or something anything to drink, the
/fridge/ is probably warmer than you are right now..." She's not at her
best either, but the exhaustion of the last few days is almost gone, which
probably puts her several steps over Liam's condition.

"Are you implyin' that women like this weather? Are you implyin' that
/you/ like this weather? Because I must note, lass, mental illnesses of
that sort are in due need of a healer's attention." Removing his gloves,
Liam tucks them in a coat pocket before he sheds the coat itself, black
wings folded close to his back. Having given the heavy folds to Kitty, he
leans down for his boots. "Not interruptin'?"

"Well," Kitty replies brightly, "there /is/ something to be said for ice
skating..." She ducks to shuffle locations in the closet - there's a warm
spot by a pipe, and she pushes Pete's coat out of the place of honor to
replace it with Liam's. "Nah, just working on some Perl. I'm ahead of
schedule on it, though, so it's all good, you're not interrupting. What do
you want to drink? I figure you know the litany by now."

"You have no concept on this earth of how grateful I'd be for a Guinness."
It's not hot, no, but Liam's been cutting down on his beer consumption for
the sake of a certain green demon. And man, is it killing him. Liam rubs
his hands together, trying to warm his fingers. "Ah... you work with
jewellery, now?"

"Jewellery?" Kitty repeats, as she heads for the kitchen. No, it's not
hot, but the way Liam drinks the stuff, it'd probably do him at least as
much good. Besides, he's inside for the moment; it's a plus. "No, I think
that's K-- /oh/!" Mark the laughter from that direction. "No. No,
software. Computer stuff. Pretty simple, just automating a couple of -
well, nevermind. Strange arcane things that people are willing to pay me
money for despite not understanding what exactly it is or how it works,
how's that?"

She's laughing at him. Liam leans against the entry to the kitchen, as per
usual. It's like his personal spot. He looks amused, and slightly abashed.
"Oh. Glad you're gettin' work, then. How're things?"

At herself as much as at him; it took her a minute to figure out what /he/
was talking about, after all. Kitty finds Guinness, finds glass, presents
solemnly. "Doing okay, all in all. Pete's grumbling about the weather, but
he's going to keep that up till /next/ summer." And she's wearing a
sweater herself, so perhaps Pete isn't entirely the only one. "How're
things on your end?"

"About as usual," replies Liam, with a dismissive shrug. "S'goin' to be a
long bloody wint -- ach, you're an angel, if I could give you the wings
off my back you'd be bloody entitled." That, of course, is in response to
the Guinness, which he accepts, eyes lovingly, and promptly sips. "Y'look
tired, lass."

"Ah, but it'd disturb Pete so much." Kitty flashes a quick grin. "Long
weekend. You can tell Lorne there aren't going to be any more explosions,
though - at least not from /that/ group. Looks like things've been a
little stressful for you, too?"

"Were that you?" Liam doesn't seem exceptionally surprised at the idea.
"Heard about that. Nasty business all around. I'll tell him." Guinness,
sipped again -- nearly consistently, really, slow and steady between
words. "An'... ach, well. It's cold. People on the street're cold. Add
Bartleby, an' the business with Claire into the mix... an' you still, I
note," he adds, lightly, "owe me some explanations on that one."

Meddling: it's what Kitty does when not distracted by little things like
'work'. "Bartleby /again/?" she asks, shaking her head a little - then
grimaces. "If it's the explanations you're wanting - Liam, your accent is
contagious. You're going to want more Guinness than that. And probably to
be sitting down. And /I'm/ going to need a drink, at that."

"Not Bartleby 'again' so much as Bartleby never seems to bleedin' stop,"
replies Liam, with resignation. And worry. And a look that is just plain
tired. Mmm. Guinness. "An' if it's goin' to disturb you that much,
lass..."

"No," Kitty reassures him, "no, it's just that /long/. And weird. Even for
this city, it's definitely on the weird side. And it sounds like you could
probably use the break, anyway." She fishes out more Guinness - then
Pete's Scotch, to raid herself. Someday she'll give up the fiction of only
calling it Pete's, but not right now.

"Well..." Liam regards Kitty's armful, quirking a feathered brow. "If
you're goin' to sit me down an' pour Guinness down my throat, I can't say
as I'll be likely to object. Weird or no."

Kitty adds a glass to the armful, because Liam's actual /polite/ company.
"Well. I'm not exactly going to assault you with a funnel, or anything,
but..."

"Be fine if you did," Liam assures her, gravely. "I'm very forgivin' of a
lot of things, particularly when it comes to alcohol." Assuming she wants
to move into another room, he pushes himself away from the door, still
holding his glass.

There's seating in the living room. And a table. And it's the only room
that has any of Kitty's files in it that isn't also likely to have an
extraordinarily surly Englishman. Kitty tugs one of the newspapers off the
stack and unfolds it to put the various drinks on - she's taking the
couch-side for herself. No inflicting scary furniture on the angel. "I
have no idea what you know already, so I'm going to start pretty much from
scratch, and you can nudge me to skip things or ask questions or whatever
as you like. Claire St. Thomas is a very strong, uncontrolled precognitive
and clairvoyant. She sees things as they happen; she also sees things that
/may/ happen to the future, and she sees dreams as well as reality, and to
some extent she can share what she sees with other people or possibly give
them visions. The problem is, she can't turn it /off/. Her power
manifested early in her teens; her parents had her committed to the
hospital. She only got out last summer. Since then, she's been making the
rounds of some of the locals, dropping hints and advice and pieces of
information, and generally being oracular."

"I've met her," acknowledges Liam, settling into his own seat. The wings
flex and adjust behind him as he leans back, Guinness still in hand. Or
half of one, anyway. "Poor lass. She any relation to Seravina or is it
just bloody spooky coincidence?"

"Can't be blood relation," Kitty replies. "So it's pretty much spooky
coincidence. Though it does relate directly to how she /got/ out of the
hospital - we found out about her because the doctor that was working with
her started obsessing over Seravina."

"Sure an' she gave me a fright an' a half first time I ran across her."
Liam takes a pull from his glass, then sets it down on his knee. "She sees
everythin' at once. What has happened, what is happenin', infinite number
of things what might happen. Damned if I know how she stays sane, but
she's not mad. An' I know there's somethin' about black feathers an' red
balloons, an' she were goin' on about a lost watch at one point." His lips
thin. "I don't put much store in fate, but if this is linked in with that
what took Lorne over...."

Kitty nods back to him, calm. Well, surface-calm: she's pouring that
Scotch into the glass, her eyes down on that. "That's what knocked
Constantine out, when I came over to get you. He hooked in to what she was
seeing. And yeah. Claire seems to be trying to bring about one of a
certain set of futures. What took Lorne over seems to be trying to make
sure they /don't/ come about. Directly opposed to her."

"Aye, I got that much before I left. An' the bit about her daughter."
Sigh. That calls for the finishing of the Guinness. Liam shakes his head.
"Poor lass. Both of 'em." He draws in a breath. "That pretty much sums up
what I do know."

Kitty says dryly, "Well, that already puts you further ahead of the game
than we were for three or four months." There's more Guinness available;
Kitty leaves the option up to Liam on when. "You mentioned the black
feathers and red balloons. That's - well, seems to be symbols associated
with her opposite number. They've shown up a few times, or visions of
them. It gets hard to tell. There's a girl with a red balloon, not
friendly; she seems to be some kind of ghost, nobody's been able to hear
what she's saying. The black feathers - seem to be associated with, with
some kind of soldier for the opposition, being sent here to get something
it wants or needs."

"That sounds charmin'." He can live without more Guinness. For about two
minutes. Three, tops. "An'... vague." Liam shakes his head. "Claire sang
for Lorne last night. He were shakin' about it for a long while."

Kitty bites at her lip. "Yeah. Yeah, I bet. With her daughter dead - and
if the vision she gave Jack and me is at all representative of the spread
of futures she sees - and with her in the shape she seems to be in... man.
Poor Lorne." She shivers and takes a drink. Mm. Alcohol. Burning. Yes.

"She's alright now," corrects Liam, leaning forward to snag a bottle.
Presumably there's an opener as well, and the beer is carefully poured
into his glass and left to settle. "Ah.. as much as she can be, I suppose.
Got some rest."

Yes. The Guinness is well prepared for. "Good." Kitty hesitates. "I won't
ask about the rest, but - her hands. Do you know if she was bleeding?"

"No," says Liam, simply. "Not anymore. Don't know where she found healin'
-- she wouldn't let me touch her -- but she were doin' alright." He
pauses. "An' she did, last night. Touch me. Think it did some good."

"I hope so." Kitty puts down her glass and looks at her own hands for a
moment. "Wish we could do more to help her. But I think we're gonna be
kept busy pretty soon ourselves."

Liam picks up his own glass, since the Guinness has duly settled. "Because
of black feathers an' red balloons? Or is there somethin' else to be
worryin' about as well?"

"Black feathers and red balloons," Kitty confirms. "It looks like the
opposition is going primarily for demoralizing us, then for taking us out
if it can. It tried for Jack through Lorne - and it /got/ Faith." She
grimaces. "And I already warned you you might be getting an abrupt call
about a gunshot wound. I'm almost starting to look /forward/ to that
incident; it's the waiting that gets to you, you know?"

"Lorne were sayin' the same thing. Somethin' comin', an' it'd be better to
have it bloody over with." Liam's smile is humourless. "To which I
respond... rest while you can. Seems in this city there's /always/
somethin' comin', an' no use frettin' over it."

Kitty cracks an actual grin: the humour, apparently, fled over to her.
"Well. That's because I'm completely insane. I'll happily take the
downtime just as long as I've got something to /do/ in it. Run out of
projects, or run out of prep I can do for whatever /else/ is coming up,
and I start getting twitchy and looking for trouble."

Liam rubs the fingers of his free hand over the bridge of his nose.
"That's because you're bloody daft," he says, with affection. "An' from
the look of you, I'd say you should be lookin' for a few decent nights of
sleep before the action starts." Pause, for Guinness. "You said Claire
were... tryin' to bring about a set of futures. Any idea what she's aimin'
for?"

Kitty protests, "I've been sleeping /fine/ the last few nights." Because
she pushed herself too hard and Tired came up and whacked her over the
head with a large club, but really. She clears her throat quickly and
continues. "Yeah. Claire is aiming for one of the possible futures that
involves, you know, hope and life and cheerfulness and things going
/well/, as opposed to the city getting into even worse shape than it is
now. Which is, apparently, possible. I know, I didn't believe it either."

"The very thought fills me with horror an' disbelief." Liam makes a face.
"Aye, well. That's... unhelpfully vague. Though sure an' the lass is doin'
the best she can."

"I could be /less/ vague," Kitty admits, "but ..." She makes a sound that
could best be represented by 'guh.' And takes a drink.

"... would it be at all helpful?" Liam does not appear to expect an
affirmative answer on that one. Blah. Kitty was right, really, this
requires alcohol. Not that it's the worst thing he's ever heard, really.
Just... psychics. Vague warnings, looming doom, evil unseen power. And the
waiting. They keep talking about the waiting, and perhaps that's the
leaden feeling settling on his shoulders.

Kitty gets that dry tone again. "Only in that you'd be braced for it if
you got to sit in on one of the visions." She quirks eyebrows, slightly
more cheerfully. "'Way too much variety of awful. Anyway, the major branch
point seems to be associated with this ... tower. A tower in a field of
roses. The thing that took over Lorne wanted Jack to give up trying to
reach it - and told us that somebody or something is trying to take it
down. Presumably, we don't want that to happen. So the trick for us right
now is finding the people that this thing thinks can help fix or preserve
the tower, and protecting them from it as much as we can."

"Right," murmurs Liam, making the connection. "The tower Celliers were
lookin' for. Dreams of. But Celliers were dead." Pause. "Does that mean
this... thing, is of the dead? Or... your friend Seishi, she were involved
in all of this as well, weren't she?"

"Right. It seems to be connected. But - Seishi didn't have the problems
Jack did." Kitty leans back, regarding the ceiling. "Constantine's seen
the tower, too, briefly. And Claire showed me, too, for a second. Jack's
just ... the only one who started seeing it on his /own/. I've got no idea
what that means."

"Bloody wonderful." Liam sighs, and looks into his drink for a moment.
"You'll let me know if there's anythin' I can do, aye? In addition to
gunshot wounds what may or may not happen."

"I think what you're already doing, what you /do/ in general, might be
helping," Kitty says seriously. "Helping - keep things together, in a
sense. You know? That seems to be - one of the major dividing lines,
here."

"It's not enough," is all Liam replies, navy eyes dark and calm in the
peaked whiteness of his face. "An' this thing what's comin'.. it's puttin'
people in danger." He shrugs, a little, and finishes the current beer,
leaning forward to rest the glass on the table.

"Yeah." Kitty glances down at her glass, then lifts it to take another
swallow. "We do what we can, though, and try to figure out what more we
can do in the mean time. And try not to worry, right?"

"An' try not to worry," echoes Liam, wryly. He eyes the potential next
bottle consideringly, making no move forward. "My own advice, again --
take the time while you can have it." Slow exhale. "Ta for sortin' it out,
anyway."

Kitty says wryly, "I'm taking it, I'm taking it. I'm just short on things
to /do/ with it. Except go over to Kess's and get fittings done."

"No, sorry, were repeatin' it there for my /own/ benefit. You lot are
makin' me nervous." Liam quirks half a smile. "Kess makin' your dress?
How're those plans comin' along?"

Kitty can't help but laugh at that. "Sorry. It's what happens when you
come talk to semi-professional paranoids." Her eyes sparkle as she leans
back - mood shifted up again. "Kess is making my dress, yeah. /And/,
apparently, learning how to make body armor. I keep telling her she should
go into business for that one; she could make a bundle in /this/ city."

What the hell. One more. Liam leans forward and snags another bottle,
making with the pouring. An eyebrow rises. "Body armour? Ah... sure an' I
suppose it would be. Is that /also/ for the weddin'?"

It's a good thing Kitty isn't drinking at the moment, or from that
expression, she probably would've choked. "Oh, heck no. I hope not,
anyway! It just - well, if you /know/ you're going to get shot at, you
might as well be prepared, right?"

"Absolutely nothin' against that plan. Wise women, the pair of you." Liam
gestures vaguely in the direction of the entrance. "Lass made that coat I
were wearin'. Brilliant. S'got slits runnin' up the back, I can get the
wings out if needed."

Kitty's eyes widen appreciatively. "Really? That's /sweet/, Liam." In the
sense of 'cool and admired' as well as that of 'darling'. "She's /good/ at
making things, clothes - maybe especially." And she knows the problems of
wings.

"She is, that. I live in awe an' wonder. No bloody talent for it myself,
never could sew. I'll mend a shirt for you but it'll be fallin' apart
inside an hour." The angel settles himself more comfortably in his chair,
latest glass in hand. "Got a good heart, that lass, an' talented."

"She does. I'm so glad she and Tulio are doing well." No sense in letting
little things like prophecies of vague horrors influence one's opinions of
nice young birdgirls in love. "Probably two of the sweetest people in the
city."

Nope. Prophecies can't be helped. And while Liam is leery of taking up too
much of Kitty's time, he doesn't intend to leave the conversation on a
grim note. "Don't know the bloke, really," he comments, "but he gets
points for her opinion. An' speakin' of sweet people... or, ah, not so
much, really... how's Wisdom?"

"Spectacularly cranky." The question apparently gave Kitty's mood another
lift, and she's grinning now. "I had to rescue Lockheed from captivity in
a filing cabinet yesterday. Pete really /does/ hate this weather, and
between that, and the rest of this, and the wedding, and having to deal
with Rabbi Cohen /all/ the time, and a couple of other things - well, you
should probably be glad he hasn't come downstairs."

Liam tilts his head back to gaze up at the ceiling, as though he could
peer straight through it to fix on irritable Englishman. "You know what?
As charmin' as that sounds, I think I may just resist the urge to go an'
say hello." He looks back at Kitty. "He have problems with the cold?
Higher body temperature an' all?"

"Exactly," Kitty agrees, more than half amused. "It's five degrees colder
for him than for everybody else."

Liam rubs at his chin, considering, then makes a face. "Don't think
there's much I could do for that. At least, not for more'n a few minutes.
Still, five degrees won't hurt him."

"Not generally," Kitty confirms. "I got him a space heater he keeps up in
his designated mess, so it's not as if he's /suffering/, and ... well, if
he /weren't/ cold, he'd find something else to be cranky about." Okay,
make that 'thoroughly amused.'

"I can see as you're thoroughly sympathetic," replies Liam, wryly. "Listen
-- if he does think of any way to keep warmer, let me know? Or Lorne know,
more specifically -- he can't take the cold either, an' I think he's
gettin' a bit stir crazy inside all the time."

Kitty's eyes widen a touch. "Ooh, I didn't even think of that. Yeah, if he
comes up with anything, I'll pass it on as fast as we can."

Liam nods appreciatively, and takes a last pull of Guinness, setting the
glass down on the table as he moves to rise. "Ta. I don't mean to take up
too much of your evenin', know you've pearls to be workin' on. Or...
pearl. Ah. Computer... thing."

Kitty rolls her eyes and gives a mock shudder, glancing across at her
innocent little laptop and pretending to make a warding sign before she
gets up to fetch Liam's coat. Liam's ... nice, warmed-up, temporarily
/heated/ coat. "Lucky, lucky me. But it pays - well, /some/ of the rent,
anyway."

Liam slips into his boots and takes the coat from Kitty, making a pleased
sound at its warmth as he shrugs into it. "Ach, well. You were doin' it to
build up references an' contacts too, weren't you?" The world of work is
not /entirely/ beyond his comprehension. "Sure you'll find somethin'
soon." One hand half-rises, as though he would touch Kitty's cheek or
brush back her hair, but he aborts the gesture. Only a smile. "You have
yourself a good evenin'."

And a smile back at him. "You, too," Kitty says. "Particularly when you
get, oh, /home/. Where it's /warm/. Where it'd better be warm, anyhow."
She doesn't open the door for him till he's almost there anyhow. As little
cold as possible, thanks.

"I'm done for the night," confirms the angel, cheerfully. "Next is home, a
roarin' fire, an' some bloody sleep." Taking a step out the door, he only
glances around for unwelcome eyes before the black wings spread from
within the coat's cunning slits, and he takes off. Gone.