November 07, 2002
.11.07.02. - i'm filthy [rune]

[north jersey, rune's condo]

(james)
after all the glass chunks had been gathered
after all the glass shards had been swept
after all the glass fragments had been vacuumed

after the counters straightened
after the ruined electonics unplugged
after the apartment seemed so deathly unreal.... so... foreign now

the Ahroun sits
crosslegged
just infront of the couch
just before the useless television
legs tucked up to cross beneath him

there is something ethereal here
now
in the unnatural silence, the sheer openness the condo now holds, it has become a completely different place, it begins to feel like another world, ancient, removed, a strange mix of preter-super-natural stillness that almost becomes divine

it is said the Gnawers are so far removed from the Wyld they have forgotten what they revered Gaia for
that, sometimes, the city's taint has blinded them, misguided them, reiterated the mass opinion of why they are so low among her Chosen Warriors

the dreadlocked Ahroun sits the modern shaman
the strange urban primitive with eyes as dark as the worshipped earth beneath the concrete scabs
drapes drawn back from the open window that was once a sliding door to the balcony
leaving only the light sheer undercurtains swaying in evening's light breeze in slowmotion drunken haze
he watches, silently, reverently
last remaining rays of the sun shine orange amber on tanned skin
fire reflection deep in those umber eyes
the brilliant inferno climbing above the city's skyline silhouette before night claims the lands

he knows exactly what it is he fights for

(rune)
Sunset, twilight, rawlight spilling over the concrete and asphalt, the endless snaking trails of commuters worming their way home on the crowded thoroughfares, locked inside their personal airlocks, separated from the rest of the world. She walks through them, past them - bare feet on the cold asphalt, arms tucked around close around her torso for warmth - around them, among them: past the fast food joints and the strip miles, the acres and acres of parking lots, over the short strips of sidewalk that give the illusion of community even here where the actual thing is nigh non-existant and turns at last onto the private drive, circles the smug, banal planter: home.

No keys, but she doesn't need them, does she? The handle turns, the door swings open. It would be pointless to lock the damn place anyway. She pauses to wipe her feet on the map before walking in and allowing the door to fall shut behind her, but the dirt on the soles of her feet still smears the pristine carpet with each footfall.

Dull dark eyes flicker over James, on the floor in front of the couch - reverant - as she passes back into the kitchen and rummages through the shelves, retrieving a tall glass of water, and a small bottle of pills. She swings herself up and over the breakfast bar, long legs dangling into the living room from her raptor's perch and god, she looks like hell frozen solid then tossed into the microwave to defrost - black hair stringy, eyes bruised from sleepwant, lipstick long since smeared away, polished nails chipped and broken here and there.

"Cold in here."

(james)
even though he doesn't pull his eyes from the vision before him
it's obvious the sudden heighten of senses now that she is there
in the set of his shoulders, the way hands slide over BDU covered thighs
and only after the sun finally finally gives in to set over the horizon
in that brief moment of solar flare that's brighter and stronger than all the rest
just before the flaming beacon settles for its journey about the other side of the earth

then nothing but the approaching darkness

it is then that he turns
dark eyes still filled with the waning glow finding her
the way he looks at her
not that way, anymore
but it's there, waiting, just as he has been since she left

wondering if she's allright
something aches to see her this way
she is his packmate - the care is genuine
as is the guilt for knowing this is his fault

tongue traces over chewed and skinned lips
a slow breath filling his lungs
finally expelled in softly murmured words

"I did not want to waste the heat..... but.... I think I should have gotten most of the glass."

(rune)
"It'd just fly out the windows again," her reply, murmured. Two pills, swallowed quick thereafter, followed by the music of ice clinking in the glass, clear and sure in the unutterably strange stillness. Hands sweep smooth and slow across her face, then crawl through the oily black hair, pushing the limp strands back and away. "...and you didn't have to."

The faint, weaving shrug that lifts her shoulders lifts also the hem of her t-shirt. She draws her knees up, planting her dirty feet on the tiled bar, settling her arms around her legs in a loose circle.

"It was hardly your fault."

(james)
the Gnawer just..... watches..... silently
chin dropping in a half-nod
accepting without argument

"I didn't have much else to do....."

(rune)
Drawing in a long, slow breath of the cold November air, Rune nods in brief response - acceptance, or acknowledgment, or merely a reflexive action puppeted back to him in lieu of anything else.

Her eyes flicker up to the television still hanging ruined on the far wall and all the bits of circuitry exposed behind the illusion of the glass, staring back at her like a ruined eye.

Where the hell to start?

Another dark-eyed flicker, through the strangely dead room, toward the computer equipment tangled in what others might use as a dining room and a long breath, sucked in, blown out again like smoke. "Christ."

It's November. Their breath frosts in the cold air.

(james)
and a chilled fog coils before him
frosted plume drawn out towards the night
dissipating into.... nothing

there's only the sound of rough fingers scraping over canvas
wrists twisting as hands ball into fists
soon thereafter there's a smooth arc of his body
away
something in his belly pulls
shoulders following
and finally, eyes
gravity settling in once he's turned back to the window
back to the base of the flimsily billowing curtains

"I..... think I can make it warm for the night.... if you want me to."


(rune)
There - there - the faint thread of a sardonic smile, little more than a suggestion of a twist on the uncharacteristically pale mouth.

"I'm filthy."

(james)
that
gets him to look back at her
a brow lifting, slightly
a faint echo of the fainter thread that seemed to draw upon her smile
finds its way to his

"I......"

don't care
you look just fine to me
that inclination was the last I expected to hear out of your mouth

"..... it's just a rite I know."

but this time
he doesn't look away

(rune)
"That'd work just fine." Some echo of the strange humor in her voice finds its way into the glint in her eyes, the quirk of her lips wry, now, utterly self-mocking.

She's such a strange sight, without her make-up, without her masks: the sweep of long pale lashes against her pale skin, the curve of cheek and twist of mouth less vibrant and defined, the shadow of the wakeful night beneath her eyes.

(james)
pale, bruised, unlined, undefined.... he still holds her gaze
for just another few moments
something of a smile widening across his features
if breifly
it's the same, easy trademark smile they know him for

it's then he stands
lower lip sucked into his mouth in thought
line whizzing through the draw to slide heavy drapes closed

all the other windows were already taken care of
he had been thinking ahead
he had been prepared
this was the final step
hand sliding into cargo pocket to pull out the remains of a votive candle

strong hands wrap around the paraffin wax
cupped a loose chamber that's brought to his lips
dark eyes hiding beneath half-mast lids
a long breath (life) filling the empty space

the Ahroun folding to crouch, candle set, unlit, just before the drape's center part

"If you turn the heat on for a little bit..... it should stay in, now."


(rune)
"Thank you, James." She's swinging down off the counter - easily lifting herself with one hand planted on the corner, fingers curled over the edge for leverage - half slip-slide and half-prowl. There's music in the movement, some dark sure theme locked in the lower registers that pulls at the unconscious heavy as the moon even when the conscious mind skims right on past.

Chill hands folded beneath her arms, arms criss-crossed over her abdomen, hips swing-songing the certain gait, she crosses the living room to the thermostat and flips the heat back on.

High. California girl: she hates the cold.

The furnace rumbles, and the first blast of dry delicious heat pours through the vents. Toes curl into the deep pile of the carpet, basking in the first blast of good warm air. She sinks, back to the wall, into a familiar slouch and flickers a glance at him.

"I wanted to kill her, you know." Calm, the words - the confession? - cool and distant as a winterscape glimpsed through (unbroken) glass. There's another breath, not quite deep enough to be a sigh, that does little to ease the pressure of the (welcome? unwelcome?) worm curled in her gut. "I think I still do."

It's not something in which she takes pride.

(james)
the Gnawer remains crouched
the Walker poetry in motion

he had rotated, on the balls of his feet, to hear her slip from the counter
he's there, before the window, some strange predator silhouette from the bare streetlamp light eeking through the drapes in diffuse glow, one of Maureau's beasts wrought from the science of primitive advanced to contemporary civilization
dreads hang down, low, still waving from the smooth shift of weight
to turn
to watch
to breath the first warm blast of dry air
and all it contains in its rush towards him

"I don't blame you."

he wanted to kill her, too
she waltzed into their territory
she broke Rune's stuff
that's just wrong in his book
no matter her Tribe or breeding
all silver eventually tarnishes
that much he knows

and on the bait of scent the animal moves
unfolding, rising, slowly covering the ground between them
one hand straying to grab sweatshirt from its perch atop his pack in the corner

a silent offer as muscular shoulder makes connection with the wall beside her
he slept in the open cold last night
you just don't enact rites on someone's place without their permission
it will take time for the condo to heat up

"I'm not too fond of her either."


(rune)
"I'm not sure how I'm going to pay for all this," she remarks - quietly - as he turns and crosses the room. Her voice remains distant - almost musing - drained of the force and surety of rage, spent somehow during the long black night. Sardonic, still, the upward twist of one half of her pale mouth. "I'm not as rich as y'all think."

Smoke and mirrors, baby. It's all smoke and mirrors.

Slender, capable hands curl over the fabric of the sweatshirt, dig sharp into fuzzy pile. There's a half-look: sidelong, lowering (pale) lashes and the dark sweep of eye highlighted by the long harsh sweep of light from the streetlight, outside.

"Thanks," she murmurs, glancing down at the sweatshirt in her hands, rising slowly, back still pressed against the wall. Arm brushes arm, hip brushes thigh, and she looks away. "...but I think I need a shower, first."

One step, another through the dark living room, sweatshirt trailing from her hand, whispering sweet nothings to the carpet as it trails along the floor. One glance, then another, tossed back across the lowering curve of her shoulder.

"Coming?"

(james)
there's a gentle, soft, chuffed laugh

"Depends on how you define rich."

the man that grew up living in whatever shelter he could find and defend on the street
looks to the slow upward slide of the spoiled Californian
hand hanging loose at his side twisting as she glides past it
knuckles tracing graceful curves
until their heat is replaced by absence's chill

gaze a lazy trail behind her
jerked up to her eyes at the question
yet again.... there is silence
save the slow intake of breath
that look
her only answer another little grin
the foreward momentum that pulls him from the wall to follow

Posted by james at November 07, 2002 12:00 AM