8:30 am, and the house is finally quiet -- relatively -- after half an hour of frantic bustle as all the school-age kids grab clothes, food, and books and tumble out of the house. The tumult has woken Bernie -- though apparently not Matt, yet -- and she emerges from the girls' room, practically sleepwalking to the bathroom and appearing again damp, clean, and somewhat more awake.

Michael stands at the counter. The man, though dressed for work, is still unshaved and looks as if he could still be asleep. His motions as he packs himself a bag lunch are methodical and practiced, as if he's done them enough to be doing them /in/ his sleep. Bernie's shuffling draws his sleepy eyes up, and as he catches sight of his daughter a small smile tugs at the lips of his burly face.

Bernie smiles back, slowly, still not at full speed despite the shower. "Hey," she greets her father, barely stifling a yawn, "g'mornin'. Sleep okay?" She heads for the fridge, and begins making herself breakfast, falling right back into her old morning routine.

"There's some leftover eggs," Michael says, pointing at the covered scrambled eggs still in the iron skillet. A couple pieces of bacon sit off to the side, as well. "Couldn't sleep," he adds, sitting to lace up his work boots, briefly eyeing his daughter surreptitiously while she's searching the fridge. The smile widens a bit, out of pure pride.

Bernie straightens up suddenly, barely avoiding banging her head on the fridge in her hurry, and turns toward the stove, bumping the fridge closed with her hip. Setting the orange juice on the table, she gets a plate and claims about half of what's left in the pans. "'m SO hungry, this morning... how come you couldn't sleep? Basic insomnia? You're not, like, gonna end up jackhammering your foot or anythin', are ya?"

Michael gives the girl a glare, as if the mere suggestion of such incompetence--even due solely to sleep dep--was the greatest of insults. He snorts, to drive the point home, and finishes lacing his left boot. "No," he says. "I was thinking about you. All growed up."

Bernie blushes, looking rather pleased, and pours herself a glass of juice. "Y'think? ...that's good, right?" Taking her plate, she drops into a seat at the table, and starts in.

Michael sets his booted foot on the floor with a dull thud. "Maybe," he answers, giving Bernie a more serious look. It speaks of concern, now, as well as pride. "How do I know what things are like up there in Seattle, or wherever you are."

"St. Claire," Bernie corrects between forkfulls, and glances around to make sure the rest of the family isn't hidden somewhere about. Sam and Penny are in the other room, focused on the cartoons, so she judges it safe and adds a bit more softly, "Caern of th' Hidden Walk, 'f y'ever hearda it."

Michael's eyes narrow faintly as he tries to place a distant, fuzzy memory. "I think so. That's Barlow territory, ain't it?"

Bernie grins, and sits up a little more, nodding. "Uh huh, sorta. I mean, he's not th' tribal elder anymore, which I think he was b'fore, but he's 'round, y'know?" She pushes a wet curl back behind her hear. Moist, it actually remains there for the time being while she massacres some bacon.

Michael looks thoughtful a moment and then nods. "Hearda him," he admits before leaning back in his chair to watch Bernie eat. He gives the living room a cursory glance before continuing, to make sure the kids are still engrossed. "Tell me more about...Matt." He does have to search to remember the Fianna's name, apparently.

Bernie glances briefly toward the bedrooms, via the living room, while she chews and swallows her current bite -- she never =was= one to talk with her mouth full -- and takes a quick sip of the juice to wash it down. "Matt Fulton, sometimes called Speaks-In-Circles, Cliath Fianna Philodox, an' like I said, onea my packmates. An' my best friend, pretty much. Lessee, he's from London, th' East End, an' he ended up here 'cause he came t' find his sister, she's in Portland, 'cause, well," she pauses a moment, looking down at her drink, and her voice is a little quieter as she continues, "he had his first change back there, an' his stepmother an' his dad didn' survive it." She glances briefly up toward her father, almost through her lashes, expression a bit distressed -- possibly imagining being in that position. "What else... he's seventeen, eighteen in September, an' he's gonna start goin' t' th' college up there next s'mester; me too, with any luck. He works at onea th' restaurants...," she pauses again, but grins, this time, "...an' he helped me a lot when I was, well, you read in th' paper 'bout all the weird things happenin' up there, by chance? With, like, bigfoot an' crop circles an' sh-stuff? 'cept for th' Bigfoot, that was mostly me, an' he helped a lot. I mean, a lot. It was fun. Hmm. I dunno, anythin' in particular you wanna know?"

The news about Matt's parents draws a hard but understanding look from the burly Gnawer Philodox. He nods simply while Bernie goes on. The mention of school makes him blink again. "College? Why? Ain't gonna do you no good for what your life's got to be, girl. You know that don't you?"

Bernie sighs again, and drinks the rest of her juice. "I know 's prolly not quite like I'd figured it'd be," she replies as she refills it, "but, I mean, 's not useless. Even if I =didn'= like school, th' learnin' part, an' you know I always did. An'..." She pauses, regarding him. "I was always s'posta be th' firsta us t' go t' college, 'least Mom always gave me that impression, an' I don't see why I oughta change that, really. I mean... we got some of us, like this one Fang, I think she's a lawyer, y'know? An' you don't get there without goin' t' school, so we wouldn't be th' first."

Michael starts to laugh. It's a deep, barrel-of-a-sound, and although the younger Gnawer might first take offense, the admiration has returned and is easily written across the Philo's face. He shakes his head and grins at Bernie. "Fangs. School. I'll say this much, yeah, you got your mother's ambition. And I /know/ you're smart enough, Bernice."

Bernie smiles a little, and attacks some more of her eggs, before they get completely cold. "...we'll see how it goes, I s'pose. I'm gonna try an' get a job, parta th' time, too. T' pay for it, an' 'cause I feel all, like, freeloading, y'know?" She makes a face, and picks up her remaining strip of bacon.

Michael shakes his head, asking. "No. Freeloading off who? Where you living at right now?"

Bernie gestures vaguely toward the bedrooms with her fork. "Y'know th' address I gave you guys t' write back t' me? Th' second one, not th' hostel? 's Matt's 'partment. So, y'know, I wanna be doin' my part, an' all." The bacon disappears. In the expected manner.

Michael's eyes narrow now, and the look in his eye is suddenly a little frantic, wary, and displeased. He darts a look in the direction of the bedrooms again, then back to Bernie. "The whole pack live there?" he asks.

Bernie shakes her head. "Kaz an' Max live in th' Rialto, 's an old theatre, an' N'vada lives with Yi in Jay's old 'partment, an'... huh. I never act'ly asked Li'l Tim where he crashes." She misses the expression, chasing the last of the eggs hungrily with her fork, but doesn't seem to feel that there's anything untoward with the arrangements.

Michael takes notice of the girl's innocent non-chalance, but he's not a fool and the scowl he wears shows--even if he is a Gnawer--he's still a Philodox. "So. You two live there alone," he states, and the implication can't be ignored this time.

Bernie glances up, notes the expression, and favours her Dad with a very rare (for her) typical-teenager reaction: she sighs exasperatedly, and glances toward the heavens, turning her head slightly. She doesn't =quite= roll her eyes, but it's close. "Yeah, most of the time, we live there alone. If you care t' know, it's got two bedrooms an' a nice serviceable couch, an' he bought it -- th' apartment, I mean -- partly t' house new cubs. 'cause there's a few places people host 'em, for a while at least, but th' main one is this Farmhouse twelve miles outta town. Which is kina a hike for thosea us who hang out in th' city a lot, as you might 'magine," she replies, a note of annoyance in the otherwise intentionally calm and patient tone.

Michael listens carefully, nodding in all the right places, but that expression of wariness doesn't leave his dark eyes. Finally, he just repeats. "Two bedrooms, hmm?" Then, just as quickly, he seems to drop it. He picks up his lunch and gets ready to head out, apparently. He doesn't quite leave yet, though, hovering around the archway of the kitchen. "I hope they know the Litany up there. We may be Gnawers, but don't mean we gotta, you know." Ok, so maybe he didn't drop it, but now he quickly changes the subject. "If you want, after work, I gotta meet up with my pack. You and .. your friend can come along. Meet them?"

"Yeah, they know th' Lit'ny up there," Bernie echoes a bit sarcastically, setting her fork down on the plate, "an' =I= know it, an' =he= knows it, an' it's =not= gettin' broken..." She shakes her head slightly, "He's a =philodox=, Dad. An', okay, so maybe I wasn't ever that huge on rules, but was I ever stupid 'bout them?" She shakes her head, tossing a few drying curls back over her shoulder. "Hell, I'm th' first kid in this fam'ly in at least two generations t' still be a virgin at sixteen," she mutters, and then blushes. That hadn't actually been something she intended to say to her father. Or out loud. "...anyway. So, yeah. I'd love t' meet your pack, an' stuff. Just gimme th' when an' where, 'less you're gonna come home an' pick us up, 'kay?"

Now it's Michael's turn to blush. The burly Gnawer's ruddy face turns a much darker shade of rose, and his black eyes blink continuously for several seconds. Clearing his throat, he goes to grab his lunch, only to awkwardly realize he already has it in hand. "Er, hmm. Well, why don't you come down to the Brickyard, around 5. We'll be there." The Brickyard being a pub he and his crew often frequent--something Bernie would know about, no doubt.

Bernie nods, still a bit pink, but ignoring it. Her friends up north have given her plenty of practice doing that, after all. "Cool. They'll let us in, then?" She knows the place, but the very few times she's been inside, it's been brief and arriving chaperoned. She gets a small, slightly mischievous smile as she adds almost teasingly, "...will they serve us?"

Michael finally gets himself mostly composed again, and a sly, soft grin is turned toward his daughter. "Yeah. I'll let Little George know you're 'Family', with a capital F, and he'll let you in the back way." He doesn't mention the serving part, but the twinkle in his eye suggests something.

The little smile grows into a mirroring grin -- almost literally; it's clear to see who Bernie takes after in that department. She nods again, and starts gathering up her breakfast dishes. "Cool. I'll see ya then, then."

Michael adds a simple nod before slipping out through the living room. The bear of a man pauses to wrestle with the kids watching cartoons, several child-like laughs echoing back before the squawk of the front screen door proves he's gone.