November 16, 2002
.11.16.02. - present [solo/decker-imogen]

[north jersey, condo]

(james)
the steps are slow, strolling
even in the pouring rain
soaked dreads hanging limp on the shoulders of tattered trench
boots making little explosions in the puddles
(Italian Tankers having replaced the Cochrans, he's surprised they were even the right size)
he's not really in a hurry
nor is he particularly watching where he's going

but the Condo parking lot finally appears
then the sidewalk leading through the manicured planters
soon enough the condo steps

(imogen)
She doesn't ask for a match, because she should be quitting. Because she of all people should know what happens when the it's lung cancer that kills you. The cigarette taps against the arm rest. Dr. Slaughter's 12 steps. Take the cigarette out. Don't light it.

She flicks a damp strand of hair from her face, as she considers her answer, "In England, you've still got th'little fishing towns, those sort of places where everyone knows who y'are, and where you're from, where their grandparents know you're grandparents. And everyone does the same job their parents did, and you know you're never going to get anywhere." She doesn't sound bitter about that, perhaps because she has gotten somewhere, across the sea, to a large city, where she works the job nearly seven days a week, because she has to, and sits bare foot in forty degree weather. "Mostly fishing. If you didn't see it day in and day out, it would be rather picturesque."

A movement catches her eye, and she turns her head to watch James trudge bedraggled up the condo steps, lifting her chin in that direction.

(decker)
But you got somewhere, he could say, or maybe, are you glad you got out? but then she looks in James' direction, and her attention draws his, and his train of thought (her moment of unraveling) is interrupted.

It always is.

That line appears between his eyebrow. Getting to his feet with a creak of chair hinges, the thug crosses the balcony to where Imogen sat, and past it. Leaning out into the rain - the hood would protect him from it until the hood got soaked through, which was going to happen fast enough - he calls over the noise of the downpour. "Package for you on the coffee table." You can't call it a shout. Decker doesn't shout. The volume might rise, but it's still. not. a shout. A beat, and then, "From Bastian. He left it with Imogen."

James can tell how happy Decker is about that.

(james)
the lilting tones get something of his attention
glancing over with a quirked little grin
he doesn't want to holler a hello over the deluge
so he doesn't bother

though a brow lifts as Decker leans out
pack. age. ?
that gets a pause

......shit

shoulders visably sink beneath the rain heavy coat
door unlocked
and the Gnawer trudges inside
the door not exactly locked behind him
not exactly closed all the way, either

so he's a little paranoid

it's a good ten minutes spent staring at the package
dripping on the carpet
even if he left the trench in the foyer
and the bow.... cute
but Livingston's trademark smiley face makes him feel a little better about it
(barely)
tentatively reaching out to sneak open the bow

(ST)
The package was, for all intents and purposes, seemingly of the sort that the upmarket clothing stores used to wrap their merchandise... wouldn't want to wrinkle the fabric, daaaaahling!

(imogen)
One foot pulls back, to avoid being trod on, a toe pushing back the ashtray out of the way. It's not that Decker is clumsy, far from it. The balcony is simply that much close quarters, particularly with chairs pushed around to help avoid the splatter with rain.

Curling the leg beneath her, the other one bent, her arm draping across so her wrist lays against her ankle, chin resting on her knee, she watches as James reacts, however slightly, before walking toward the door, with no small amount of trepidation. She watches as the door half closes, staring at the dark slit of emptiness for a moment before glancing back at Decker.

Quiet, now, half listening for a sound from inside, unwilling or unwanting to continue the conversation, at least until she knows what was in the package. Like many of them, she has no trust of bastian, nor any gift he might hand out, particularly not ones brought by dead-eyed gun-toting black dressed chicks.


(james)
like he would recognize where it was from
the fine wrapping means nothing to him
nor the heavy silky bow
and when he finally gets to where he can open the top

looks like he's about ready for something to jump out of it at him
doesnt he?

all ducked down
head at that canine tilt
held real low
dreads the drowned spiderlegs hanging about his face
shoulders rolling uncomfortably

it's just a present, James
.... from Mr. Creepy

(decker)
To say Decker had no trust in Bastian was the understatement of the century. To say Decker wanted to rend Bastian to small bloody giblets was, perhaps, closer to the truth.

James disappears inside, and Decker stays where he is, ignoring (for now) the rain rapidly soaking through his sweatshirt. Eventually, as moments pass without incident, the Modi bends his elbows and sinks down - feral for an instant, a moment, shoulderblades rising and falling under his sweatshirt - resting his weight on his folded arms. Waiting.

(ST)
Blck wrapping creche paper specifically of the type that would not bleed color into the fabric of clothing was rumpled up inside, wrapping up whatever bulky contents was contained with the present... from Mr. Creepy

(james)
he's actually...... intrigued.... by the wrapping
half wondering if there is anything past the paper
(double paper? how odd....)
a hand is wiped on the carpet
a finger poooookes gently at the creche

oh there is something beneath it

that's about when he slowly peels the paper aside to find what else is in the box

(imogen)
If Imogen did want to rend Bastian into small bloody giblets, it would be a useless desire, because it would be impossible. She'll settle for her distrust and leave it at that. Her eyes fall on the Fenrir for a moment, waiting, before returning to the open windows and door of the condo. Something's gotta happen sometime.

Beyond them, and in front of them, behind them, the rain has begun to taper off, the deluge trickling off into a drizzle, a falling mist, spraying across the black streets, catching light in it's droplets, making the world ethereal in a way. Nothing beautiful about it, almost plain. Just a different perspective.

(ST)
The smell of fresh, unscarred leather stings the senses as creche paper is carefully (ever so carefully) pulled away to reveal an article of clothing of some sort - obviously leather and obviously heavy - folded neatly in the box.

(james)
well just color him confused

cautious, too

but finally the Gnawer wipes both hands on the carpet
just to make sure they're dry
and pulls the article of clothing out

(ST)
As he drags the leather clothing from its nest of papers, it unfolds into a leather trench coat quite accurate in size to fit the yonng Bone Gnawer. Safety pinned to the brand tag at the nape of the neck was a small fold of paper with -Jukebox- enscribed in flowing, flowering letters from an age long past. But atleast it was legible, right? Pretty and legible.

What if Bastian had a crush on James? Oh boy... that's an even creepier thought...

(decker)
"The hell's takin' 'im so long," mutters Decker under his breath, alert and quiet, compressed and coiled. A moment later, the thought echoes across the totem's wings - Hell's takin' you so long? What is it?

(james)
the Ahroun simply stares

flat. out. stares.

something tells him this is probably, without a doubt, the most money he's ever held in his hands
(and something makes him go cold, deep down inside.... and it's not the rain)
but he's fascinated by it
the heavy stitching
the long panels
the inner pockets
the patterend quilting

he's careful to keep it away from his soaked BDUs when finally unpinning the note
seeing if there's anything written inside

(imogen)
She doesn't answer Decker, because the question isn't really directed at her. She has no special vantage point or special knowledge.

One hand absently rubs at her neck beneath the weight of her damp hair, eyes still on the empty holes that are the condos windows and doors.

(ST)
The handwriting is flawless, with tapering curls and flowing squiggles among the cursive handwriting, that obviously assumed that James could actually read and decipher cursive easily enough.

...I had noticed during your journey through the sewers you were in need of a newer coat, more particular to this cooler weather. Do not be concerned, I expect nothing in return...

It was signed with a flourish, a dark sytlish "B" that bled deeply into the pourous writing paper that was of as fine a quality as the leather coat clutched in James' hands.

(james)
he can read, quite well actually
so the flowing script is little trouble
but he still only stares at it
the totem phone call finally breaching through

It's..... a coat.....

most normal denizens would be thrilled
he sounds rather..... withdrawn
he can't accept this
he can't

(decker)
Imogen, to be sure, is intelligent enough to know Decker has some way of speaking to his packmates that does not use the usual channels of communication. Something is spoken, somehow, and some of the tension bleeds from the Modi, who straightens at last and whips the now-drenched hood back from his head.

He doesn't have enough hair to end up with wet hair and pneumonia, but the sodden hood lying against his sodden back is annoying. His eyes flicker sideways toward Imogen and he tells her, "Was just a jacket."

(imogen)
She doesn't bother to ask how Decker knows the answer, suddenly. While not completely up to date on the communication of the pack, it's at least something she's seen in before.

An eyebrow lifts as he speaks and her attention shifts to him, a free hand lifting to run through her damp hair. "He sent him a jacket." Repitition, half disbelieving as her other eyebrow arches, and she shakes her head, dismissing it, eyes flickering toward the balcony over hang where water still drips, falling in singular drops, as the rain has slowed once more. Her attention returns to Decker dark eyes sweeping across his body, clearly outlined by the porch light, "You're soaked," she notes, as if he couldn't tell.

(decker)
Corded shoulders shrug under damp black heathercloth. She's known him long enough that she can start guessing at the unspoken. Beats me. "'S what he said."

Another glance at her, then - or, no. Not a glance. A look. Head turns first, then body, facing her as one hand fiddles with the wet hood, squeezing water out before giving the endeavor up as hopeless. A faint smirk as he watches her watching him - looks at her, looking at him.

"Yeah Einstein. Soaked."


(james)
there's a mess of time spent on contemplation
deep thought that furrows the Gnawer's brow
but at the end, he simple leaves the leather trench where it is
walking over to smack the door shut
then making his way to the upstairs shower

Posted by james at November 16, 2002 12:00 AM