- - A/N - -

This is a bit of a chapter that settles the story.

Bree's point of view is a little different than, say, Nadine and my usuals. Most of them are very fiery or sweet, Bree's pov is very... stoic and lacks emotion. That is for a reason and not just because of lazy writing lol.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

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AN ANNOYED sigh broke out beside me.

I turned, one eyebrow raised at Marga. Their oldest waitress, Marga had been born and bred for this town with her tugged white hair in a ponytail and nails in a permanent shade of red. She smelled like citrus and smoke, even though she quit the cigarettes about five years now.

Marga caught her questioning look and tilted her chin forward. At the entrance of our little home base, Mo's, popular for serving grease on a platter, six to seven men came inside, laughing roguishly among themselves. They wore similar caps, beards and plaids like a little pack of truckers.

"More recruits," Marga muttered distastefully as she finished another round of extra coffee. Even during dinner, our little hub never ran out of coffee to serve or customers who wanted them, despite it being 9 o'clock already. "I hear they're getting paid for it. Hunting down those poor creatures. Rich people make me sick."

Elise pursed her lips as she listened in, her tray filled to the brim with thick steaks. Nothing fresher than getting your steaks from a diner that has connections with the local hunters. "Deers or wolves?"

Jeff, the cook, popped his head out the kitchen window and laughed. Through that small opening, grease wafted and popped. Bacon, steaks, tossed capers... anything that could be grilled and cooked, Jeff made them waist deep in the heat and grease without much preamble from years working with the familiar pan. "Werewolves, kid. They're hunting down half breeds."

Elise's eyes popped. "What?"

"Stop scaring her, Jeff," Marga grumbled. Elise wasn't like us - she was merely stepping in on her mother's job. Eva was sick and money was scarce between the two of them. Eva would normally forgo with the job if her cough hadn't been severe enough for the local doc to tell her to take it easy, so Elise took in a few shifts.

She was still a little wobbly as she walked, like a little deer still new to the world - a description that really isn't far- but common folks knew her and her smile was nice. She was polite and good enough at the job.

She was also easily frightened.

"There's nothin' to be scared about, kid," Jeff continued, his voice friendly and distant, like stating an offhand comment. He was wildly careless that way. "That's why the hunters are there. Paid to make the town a little bit safer."

At Elise's disturbed expression, Marga patted her on the back. "You and I both know it's not about safety, you old nasty." At Marga's glare, Jeff merely shrugged, going back to his cooking. She turned to Elise. "Ignore him. They're half people too. It ain't right when it ain't right. We all have our beliefs. " At a hand in the crowd, Marga patted Elise again and disappeared, following up whoever wanted more coffee.

The free thing always got out of hand, despite it enough to give a local man a heart attack with its purity in caffeine. Our boss took out money by pricing up the sugar packets and wild honey in jars. One full spoon was half a dollar.

Elise slid beside me, her frame shaking a little that the plates in her tray clattered slightly. "What about you, Bree? What do you think about werewolves? They're still human right? They're just... half wolves."

I captured the thoughts carefully before replying. "There hasn't been a werewolf spotting here in years. If there were, they're most likely living like humans since they can. What those men are doing are essentially murders. But don't worry so much. They're just here to eat... and they're at your table."

At Elise's swallow, I mustered up a small smile. Nonna always said that the best way to calm frightened people was to smile and mean it. The mean it part has always been difficult, but I try to empathise. Elise is young, things in the dark scare her. Those in the forest scare her more.

"Just do what you need to do and leave. That's all you can do. Unless you want me to cover for you?" Another table will be a problem with the house packed to the brim, and she knew it, quietly shaking her head with a sincere smile.

"Oh, you don't have to. Thanks though, Bree." As her gaze landed back on the table, she straightened her shoulders and kept her smile firm in her lips.

With everyone else moving, I checked my orders and went to the tables with swift precision. Unlike Elise whose smiles were sweet and aura calming, or Marga who welcomed each familiar person with a little chat, I did my work quickly and quietly. Those who knew me, and most of them too, this is a small town after all, went on with their little lives as if I was a shadow.

Which was fine, I was used to it. They were, after all, used to me.

"One medium rare steak and one garlic, gravy soup," I recited my final menu as I settle the plate carefully. When I settled my eyes on the person eating, I blinked at the familiarity.

"Hello," he said, the type of grin that Marga usually swooned over.

"Hi, is that all?"

He didn't look the least bit perturbed and only nodded, saluting me with his knife that he raised. As I went back to the counter, Marga slid next to me like a ghost, claws out and eyebrows dancing.

"Dear, dear, guess he's back."

"He is a frequent customer," was my monotonous reply.

Marga raised her eyebrow. "You know he likes you right?"

"He's a customer."

"He comes here everyday, he somehow knows what tables you're going to serve up for the shift - not to mention knowing your shift," she continued, each point with a plucked finger. "Shall I really go on?"

"What you just listed are points of a stalker."

Marga giggled restlessly, a slap to my arm. Though I wasn't kidding, I let her ride her little fantasy. She was an old woman who adored grand romances found in sultry books. She read them constantly on her free time, dog-eared pages stowed carefully behind the counter. I didn't need to peek through the pages to find out the initial plot line from the covers.

It was mean, but I wasn't judging. Apart from the locals and those long suffering hunters diving through the woods to find skin hide or the next trophy for the biggest bidder - even any whisper of a supernatural they could chug off to those in the big cities desperate for one - Mo's had a lot of quiet hours. And through the raging winters, closed.

"Has he talked to you? I can't even imagine the type of flirting when you're..." She trailed on, eyebrows rose.

I understood what she meant. When you're not very social and usually stoic, full of clipped sentences and interactions- it isn't a hard deduction.

"He's said hi. No flirting."

"Hmm. He doesn't seem the shy type," she continued to murmur to herself. And what does a shy type entail? The man in question wore one jacket over a shirt and ripped jeans. In this weather, with snow to fall anytime soon is completely idiotic. He did wear winter boots. Longish black hair that mused up on top and some facial hair, his brown eyes bright and clear, despite the heavy bags underneath it. Shadows that spoke heavily of late nights and a sort of wear, accompanied by the bent in his shoulders, that made me think of hard labour.

"You're watching him," she pointed out. "That type of boy shouldn't look shy, but I guess with you as the other party to flirt, it would be a little hard. Try to look less hostile and less unapproachable, honey, okay? So at least one of us in this damn diner can get laid."

She winked as another hand shot in the air for coffee.

I mulled her words a little longer, staring at the guy as I did so. Somehow, my stare seemed to pierce him and he turned, matching my gaze. This little line connected for at least three seconds. It wasn't appraising or judging or flirting. It was just knowing the existence of the other person.

Then he smiled and I turned away.

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IT WAS past nine when it happened, and the rest were gone save for a free stragglers - stalker and little gang of truckers included.

The slap wasn't pronounced or loud, it was almost just like a little pat on the butt. But Elise, who had received it with a shock, shrunk and gripped her tray hard. Her bottom lip wobbly.

Not a lot saw it, but I did. All the way from the counter, I could see them - truckers not around here, sniggering like fools among themselves. Marga saw it too, her eyes burning.

She was holding the coffee pot too as she ran like a bull.

"Hey, you motherfuckers!"

Though Marga was the oldest and usually very cheerful, ready for any new chat up, that did not stop her foul mouth from spewing very non-grandma things at people when they deserve it. Or charging.

She raised the coffee pot above head as Elise leaped with a yelp - people in tables between them scrambled out of the way. I chased her as soon as she bolted, sensing the impending scene, I dropped the tray I was about to pick up, my hand closed around her wrist just as a few drops splashed on their table.

Their laughter was immediately cut short.

"Bree, let go! I'm gonna teach these childish ass boys some fucking manners their mothers didn't teach 'em!" She was shaking from anger, her will stronger than I anticipated, but I kept my hand steadily closed around her wrist.

"That would be third degree burns and an assault case, Marga," I said calmly, keeping my eyes steady on her until she refocused her glare to me, her teeth grinding. "We can appeal sexual harassment, but if you throw the first punch - the first coffee, this could complicate things."

The nearest guy - someone with a red beard and sticky red flannel, grinned shakily but quickly. "Listen to the little girl, old lad -"

My slap, unlike his that was more of a pat, was sharp and rang in near echoes. Marga was so shocked she nearly dropped the coffee pot.

If the place was already quiet before, now was a still silence that was meant to choke.

"Are you a lunatic?" one of his friends howled for him, the imprint of my hand clear and burning red. His friend's eyes watered.

"Yes," I replied without much emotion. Marga had loosened her grip until the coffee pot was lowered. My hand burned, but I welcomed it. I stared at him, the good height between us with him sitting down and with my full height, and I know I looked menacing.

"Officially, the doctors call it 'psychopathy'. I can't feel it when I hurt you. And I want to. Hurt you, that is. But for now, I'll settle with you paying your bill with the biggest wad of tip for our dear Elise, leaving this place as soon as that final coin drops. Or -"

I welcomed a small, playful smile with such unsympathetic eyes, getting reflected with the slow fear that crawled in his features. "The police will be called because there will be six - seven guys tied to trees outside of the diner in 99, screaming because fire ants were slowly eating through their skin. It's an old torture method done by tribes in the South East. My grandmother loved to tell me stories about them."

I turned to Marga, her eyes wide. "Do will still have those wild honey from Tom? I hear fire ants love them."

The boys couldn't pull money out of their pockets fast enough. When they deemed the worth was enough, they started to file out quickly, muttering to themselves, but I wasn't done.

"Hey!" I was never one to raise my voice, but it reached heights through the quiet.

They stopped, turned and swallowed. One of them, the same one who howled if I was insane, glared but his voice wobbled.

"What?" he asked sharply and shakily.

"Apologise."

I pointed to Elise who shrunk further at all the eyes trained to her. As they all did, clipped and rushed, scattering out of the door not fast enough, Marga burst out laughing. Soon, some of those who were left, nursing their hot mugs, did too. I felt another pair of eye on me, one that I dutifully ignored.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side, honey. And fun time to use that psycho shit to use. I'll go and make sure Elise is okay." She patted me on the arm, smile satisfied as she bellowed, sauntering, "Free coffee on me!"

"Coffee is already free!" Jeff shouted back, everyone else falling into a laughing fit.

I watched this scene quietly, still feeling the pair of eyes until I turned to the boy with unruly hair and deep-shadowed eyes. He turned away. I turned back to the hunters' messy table and started piling up.

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Vote + comment and all that gloriousness!

The psychopathy thing was a ruse so the boys would pay up and apologise. Bree isn't actually a psychopath. (Unlike someone I know, made and love...)