November 08, 2002
.11.08.02. - my pleasure [rune]

[cont'd, north jersey, rune's apt]

[north jersey, rune's condo]

(imogen)
Decker unlocks his door a moment after. With the key gone from the lock, the car doesn't bing when the door opens, though the roof light does come on. Riding all the home with them, Lucian must wonder if there was really anything going on at all. Imogen drives, Decker stares out the window and, occasionally, fiddles with the radio.

Apparently he could hear it.

Now, back at the condo, he shuts the door of the SUV and looks over the hood at Imogen. "Goin' back to yer own place, or..?"


(james)
the ride was quiet save the purr of the Z3's motor down the highway
the sleek Walker drove
the raggedy Gnawer stretched out
relaxed
long day, nice ride
all comfortable against the leather
dark eyes watching the stars as the miles passed

conversation ebbed and flowed liquid in the darkness
few comments cast between them
into the city
into the parking lot
into the parking space
and into the condo

the tattered trench is shrugged next to the pack
sling piled on top
he pauses between the couch and windows
the votive still sitting quietly at drape's base
it got cold in here today, but he asks anyway

"Want me to seal it again?"

(decker)
Decker unlocks his door a moment after. With the key gone from the lock, the car doesn't bing when the door opens, though the roof light does come on. Riding all the home with them, Lucian must wonder if there was really anything going on at all. Imogen drives, Decker stares out the window and, occasionally, fiddles with the radio.

Apparently he could hear it.

Now, back at the condo, he shuts the door of the SUV and looks over the hood at Imogen. "Goin' back to yer own place, or..?"

(rune)
She's slipping her coat from her shoulders - such a natural, thoughtless action, more reflex than anything else - when the cool air hits her bare skin. Shrugging the garment back on, she flashes James a thankful glance as she crosses the living room to peer out the window.

"That'd be great. Thank you."

Opening and closing doors echo through the broken windows. That'd be Imogen's SUV.

Arms folded across her torso for warmth, Rune crosses the living and turns into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge as James completes the ritual. She returns with two amber bottles in one hand, fingers curled deftly around the longnecks. She settles on the couch and waits until James completes the ritual, then offers one of the bottles up, some tracery of a smile curving her mouth. "I got the sampler pack. You want the oatmeal stout or the india pale ale?"

(luc)
He watches thier interaction, if he was any good in school he might have been taking notes. Such was the intent of his gaze on the pair..

(imogen)
As Lucian exits the backseat of the SUV, the locks click as Imogen locks them from the small keychain. His door shuts, and the alarm chirps.

She turns to look at him over the silver hood of the vehicle, glancing down at her watch and the time, before back up at him, "Yeah," she answers after a moment, glancing toward the damage still visible in Rune's condo, before back to Decker.

It's hard not to feel the intent gaze of the Cliath, though she doesn't look his way, instead arching an eyebrow slightly.

(james)
it doesn't take long
not like they got around to actually opening any of the windows
he just makes sure the drapes are sufficiently closed
from the candle comes life and the propensity for wamrth
even if it's not lit
cardboard palace, baby

though a brow lifts
grin quirked
just..... reaching for one
like he would know the difference
finally unfolding from the crouch to stand before her
just before her
twisting the cap for the satisfying explosion of..... carbonation, right
bottles clinked

"Thanks."

removing himself to stretch on the couch
(the others are coming back, James, behave)

(decker)
Lucian would probably learn very little from Decker, other than the fine art of silence. At Imogen's answer, he's silent again. The audience had something to do with it, but not much. Suddenly growing aware of the wide-eyed staring, he turns to the Skald. "Lucian, fuck off."

He starts toward the walk. He had until the path parted to make up his mind: go left, go right, turn around and go to the city to do what he did best.

"You workin' tomorrow?" he wants to know. They always seemed to walk like this: hands in their pockets, not quite touching.

(Luc)
Luc Fuck off.
Luc Clean the Apt.
Luc watch the Kin.

Pssht. Luc goes out of the parking lot for a walk--yeah cool off a bit.

(imogen)
A brief flash of blue as she glances at Lucian, before starting to walk down the path, turning to glance at him as they reach the fork in the paths. "I'm not on call," she answers, though she still wears her pager in spite of all that.

"So, no," At least not in theory.

(decker)
Decker's looking over his shoulder at Lucian storming off, if only for a lack of a more interesting thing to watch. When Imogen stops at the part in the path, when she speaks, he keeps walking for a step or two, stops. Turns back to her. Looks up - past the path lights, past the condo complex, past the trees: clouds and stars. Celestial matters, too high up for him to grasp.

And back to her. Eyes: blue.
(Celestial matters. Too high up...)

A slight shake of his head; or perhaps simply a tilt to the side. His hands are still in his pockets, but they are relaxed now where a few short (endless) hours ago they had been balled into furious fists. Whatever he might say, the mere presence of his pack had been reassuring, even necessary.

He takes a step back towards her, and away from the left path. It's never been his style to ask, but there's a lilt up at the end - as close as it comes. "Invite me in."

(rune)
Dark eyes, half-lidded, travel ever-so-slowly up the man standing before her (just before her) as her painted mouth quirks upward into a very knowing smirk. The hiss of carbonation and the clink of bottles puncutates the brief meeting of eyes: rich-huded; dark, and darker; warm umber and polished mahoghany.

When James swings onto the couch, Rune cants her head to the side, slitening to the tell-tale slap of footsteps on the sidewalk, on the stairs outside. Normally, she would have the windows closed and the CD-player turned up high, so there would be no such monitoring of the others' movements.

It's hardly been an ordinary week.

"My pleasure," she murmurs, still listening for the others' approach. Empty little phrases, hollowed of meaning and refilled. They don't really need words to communicate. "Thanks for dinner."

(imogen)
A faint quirk of a smile, a bare lifting of one corner of her mouth, as she starts walking again. As close as he gets to a question.

The few steps between them are closed, her fingers cool for a moment against the half bent crook of his elbow, before she slides them back into her jean pockets, moving her head slightly in the direction of her condo, too slight and smooth a movement to be a jerk. "C'mon in," she says simply, moving her feet again to walk up toward the stairs of her own condo.

The sounds that Rune listens for are not quite heard. The stairs for the neighbouring condo are mounted, but apparently not her own, for the moment.

(james)
they need not words
they have other sounds
they have other gestures
they have other scents
they have other looks

he's more than aware of the foosteps outside
the set that walks away
the two sets that stop
but not outside
at least not outside this door
yet

"My pleasure."

another little grin
mimicking her murmur
his weight shifts to slide over leather
head tipped to comfortably lean against her shoulder
dreads spilling snakes down her arm
least if their door ends up opening he can move quickly

(decker)
Too slight and smooth to be a jerk: the faint cant of her head, sarabande tempo. The touch of her fingers raises gooseflesh on his arms. She doesn't touch him much, after all, and he couldn't remember the last time she had been the first to reach out to him. There was no last time.

The wisps of hair that have come loose from her braid move with the gesture, but she's walking again before he quite makes up his mind to smooth them back. A beat after, he follows her up the stairs, battered boots clanging dully up concrete, nearly tripping on the top step before regaining his balance. Standing behind her while she unlocks the door, he casts a vague glance over at Rune's condo. Windows blasted, drapes shut, candlelight flickering out the edges - it was like some sort of neoprimitive cave. Imogen's windows would have to be privacy enough for all of them.

C-c-click. Dead bolt slides out of the door. Hinge squeals softly. You'd think the guys who put her door back up would at least oil them. Inside, it's even darker - no moon, no stars. If she starts to reach for the light switch, he catches her wrist halfway there, his palm rough on her skin.

His hand loosens. Her arm is held surprisingly gently (he has bruised her more than once before), even delicately, between fore, middle and thumb. Musician's fingers, hers. His: humans had no name for it, and it is better that way.

His fingers; sliding up her arm, seeing by touch, until his hand rests warm over the tattoo. There's no way he can see it, and it's unlikely that he can even feel it, but he always finds it unerringly. In the darkness, he clears his throat quietly.

"Thanks."
For walking away.

(rune)
The footsteps outside do not come, or do not, at least, come closer. James can feel her relaxing by slow degrees. Beneath his head, her shoulder falls a fraction lower as tense muscles loosen and the long, lean form sinks lower into the luxuriant leather. The cushions beneath the sigh as her weight shifts and her center of balance changes, drops half a degree lower to somewhere at the center of her slouch.

Her head turns, and chin and cheek brushing against the dreads, sleek black hair spilling low over the brown, spreading and shifting as her breath pushes it away and the currents of heat in the room make the strands dance right back.

"I don't think they're coming. They can think of better things to do." Murmured words spill into his ear, and the whisper of her cheek against his dreadlocks tells him all he needs to know of the slow-forming grin. "...I can, too."

(imogen)
As he fumbled over the final step, she had turned her head abruptly to look over her shoulder. He doesn't fall, so she doesn't move to help, another beat of watching him, before turning back. The door is unlocked and she steps inside, allowing him entrance. He shuts the door with a squeel of hinges, a protest of a dented and much abused door.

She does reach for the light, not in the habit of walking in darkness, stopping in a half pause, half freeze as he catches her wrist. Her skin is cool against the roughness of his palm, and for a moment she doesn't bother to breath. His fingers pass across musicians fingers and callouses, roughened by use, because she plays her music the hard way, without a pick. She can literally play until her fingers bleed. The crescents of nail bitten flesh against her palm is long since faded, leaving only a faint tear, the slightest cut that did not draw blood. It's only where one nail bit deep enough into the flesh.

It takes her a moment to decide what he meant by his thanks; Two possibilities. A slow inhalation of breath, a faint whisper as she draws air into her lungs, before answering, her voice quiet in the pitch.

"Did'ye honestly think I wouldn't?"

(james)
in the low light animal senses come alive
primal survival instinct to survive, to conquer, to continuously get the upper hand
vision wanes to the background - content with just the passing flicker of shadows
scent expands - past the spa's pampering, beneath the smoke, there's musk
hearing notches slowly upwards - picking up the symphony of night's sounds, the scorch of murmured words racing a tickling quiver through so strong frame
touch prickles ever sharper - he can feel the warmth of her body relaxing against the leather, low, supple, lean how muscle suddenly seems to reshape skeletal boundaries, he can feel it pulling at his own skin, a poetic wax of flesh melting and twisting into this comfortable amalgum of emotion, presence, feeling, and raw, gut desire

his head twists
curling against hers
brush of cheek along her jawline, his brow against the smooth crest of cheekbone, breath that scalds an exploration the silken skin behind the curve of her jaw

"Oh? Well.... it would be my pleasure....."

smile finding its way against her
movement of lips' speech a strange kiss in itself
his hand finding its way into the inky strands of hair in spreading caress
wrapping around the back of her neck
when he moves from the couch, he pulls her to join him

(decker)
He shakes his head, a slight gesture neither seen nor even felt. It's for his own reference.

He doesn't know what she thinks he meant. Three-way unknowns, walls upon walls. He leaves the lights off because somehow, a fourth unknown makes the rest easier to grasp. Confessions are given behind a screen. Doomed men are given blindfolds before they face the firing squad.

(To go blind into the night...)
To go blind for the light.

Something like that. Meaningless sentences, bad poetry and artless prose: they flit through his mind and are lost. He is no Fianna. He is no Fianna and she is no Fenrir, and where his callouses come from axes and crowbars, brass knuckles and switchblades and fists in the backalleys, hers come from steel strings.

A silence falls in his mind then, complete and still. Thoughts like dust drift through slanting beams of consciousness and in the end his hand slips down to find hers. His thumb traces over the last tiny tear in her hand, a scratch to the wounds he has known, will know, will one day die of. He raises her hand as though he might kiss it, but the impulse is checked halfway there and his breath washes shallow over her knuckles.

"Dunno what I thought."
Don't know what I think.

(and player promptly passes out to get rest of scene later)

Posted by james at November 08, 2002 12:00 AM