November 22, 2002
.11.22.02. - got any film? [rune]

[north jersey]

(rune)
There's a salute for Lazarus, accompanied by the click of her heels. So Garou don't go by military protocol: someone's seen some war movies, someone used to live in the shadow of Hollywood.

Hands sliding into her pockets as James (by whom she managed to sidle during his confrontation with Lazarus) approaches the Beemer, fishing through the deep pockets for her keys.

BeepBeep.

Alarm system disarmed, both doors unlocked, and her hands are still tucked in the blessedly warm womb of woolen pockets, though she does have to slip one out to open the driver's side door. Voice command, that's what she needs.

"Wee-elll," the faint substance-thickened drawl, offered across the center gearshift as she slides the key into the ignition and turns the sweet little engine over (purr, baby, purr) is accompanied by a little... grin. "You've got a fan club."

(james)
by the time they reach the Beemer
he's out of the damp trench
and it's rolled into a ball on his lap when he settles into the passenger seat
slightly wet dreads a far cry better than an entirely wet coat against leather seats
the rebar tucked onto the floor
twisting to get comfortable
a bit of a glance back down the street

"I had been hoping to avoid her, to be honest."

then back to her
his grin a far more familiar site on features
easy, somewhat buzzed
even with the little game that was played
hands held out to warm infront of the heat belching vents

"But she tagged along with Imogen for some reason."

(rune)
Dark eyes shift from his face to the rearview mirror, as she puts the Beemer into gear and starts un-parallel parking. Half-an-eye for the scene beyond (the last glimpse of Lazarus walking away, Imogen and Decker still there, their figures distorted by the mirror, the truck a car-length back and her own eyes, crinkled up at the corners, reflected back at her. It's a good thing the mirror reflects only half her face, and she can't see the answering grin lingering on her mouth.

"She's not so bad, if you take her on her own terms," shoulders rising in a non-committal shrug, then curling forward as she shifts into first and peeeels outta her spot, all easy like. Her eyes flash briefly across to him, then settle back on the road. "...'course, that requires taking her own her own terms. No idea what she wanted with Imogen?"


(james)
he.....
now, he just can't help but laugh at that
relaxing to settle back against the headrest
dark eyes only glancing over
he's still getting used to this being driven around thing

a BEEMER isn't exactly like the bus he's used to

"She's a Lord, I'm a Gnawer.... that's water and oil right there."

meaning more than likely he'd never care to find out her terms
much less accept them
the whisper of shirt's fabric against the leather
muscle rolling in shrug

"No clue... they were talking earlier, but I chose stalling with Jimmy and Decker over going up and making nice with the good Doc and Laz. And...."

now his gaze would be going out the window
the sheepish grin reflected in thick glass

"..... you...... don't have to take me to the studio if you don't want to. It was just an excuse to get out of Laz's delightful company."

it was a little odd he actually asked for a ride somewhere


(rune)
"Not much of a Lord any longer, though I guess like Fangs they never lose their sense of entitlement." The statement is uttered with less... vitriol than any other mention of Fangs in recent weeks. Odd, that. "I just fuckin' hope Imogen hasn't acquired another stalker. That'll go over real well with Decker."

The city - as Zoe says - is indeed loud, and in the snug confines of the nicely appointed Z3 now sliding down the streets at a (relatively) sedate space, there's less of it: some road and engine noise to be sure, the hum of the blasting heater, the murmur of their voices. No music, not now, not yet.

Rune eases to a stop as the light ahead flashes yellow, then red and flashes James another glance. Her sharp features are bathed in shifting, watery shadows cast by the streetlamps over the windshield, lit from just below by the green lits of the dashboard, highlighting the sharp curve of her smile and the slow arch of a brow. She deposited the Silver Fang's check in her checking account this morning, and will spend the rest of the weekend checking her account online to see if it cleared, but tonight there's no rush. No rush at all.

Left hand low on the steering wheel (six o'clock, to give driving instructors everywhere a fit), long arm slung casually across her leatherwrapped thighs, right hand curled around the gearshift between them, ready to move when the light changes.

"Well, I don't have any other plans, so I'm yours for the night. Anyplace you especially wanna go?"

(james)
the sneered smirk is offered to the street outside, rather than the driver
lip pulling back in a distasteful snarl

"Ronin or not.... she's still a Lord."

doesn't that sound familiar
fallen or not, she's still a Gnawer
corrupted or not, she's still a child
oh, Jamey-boy, how strong it is your..... faith
how terrible will be the destruction when it crashes
for you hold onto it so tightly
no matter what it is you have to do
no matter who it is that dies at your hand
your Faith is always there

even when you had to kill her
how much longer can you hold onto it, boy
what will you do when it is no longer there to fall back on
when you realize how much of your soul you've sold
just to defend. that. faith.

on the outside
there's no clue of this inner gospel
only a smile that replaces the sneer
the outside street replaced in his eyes by luxurious interior
the ticktock of gaze that rotates its way back to her

dark eyes slink from the sleight of hand over gearshift
the drape of arm over leatherclad thighs
tracing the curves he knows are beneath the wool jacket
finding their way up to the painted smiling smirk

"You don't seem dressed to go wailing on bags at the studio.... so..... dinner? Movie? Bed?"

you can bet that smile is now. quite. shy.
he may be skilled at trading insults on the street
but when it boils down to this?
sometimes he still fumbles

(rune)
"Dinner and bed." Her reply is so very matter-of-fact. The light has changed - she caught a glimpse of it, the sudden glash of green in her peripheral vision - and so her eyes slipslide from his back to the road as the shy smile creeps across his lips, leaving him some blessed space. He can still see her in profile, of course - the almost-haughty lift of her chin, the sharp line of her jaw just above the folds of her scarf, which obscure the long line of her neck, the dark strands of hair tucked behind her ear, and deliciously wicked half of a damnably familiar little grin. "How about we skip the movie?"

There's a beat, and the brief flash of dark eyes.

"Unless you wanna make one."

(james)
pick your jaw up off the floor, James
that's rude
you're drooling all over the leather
(hers? or the cars?)

for a good space of a block or three
he can only look at her

not in his normal way
not in the way that traces and memorizes every feature
not in the way that speaks volumes in a single glance
not in the way that tells her what he would never, ever say
this is flat out staring
and, well, grinning too

"Got any film?"

(damon's interjection: (you go, tiger *ROTFLMAO*))

(rune)
"Film, camcorder, digital camcorder and a big-ass harddrive, baby," she's... tossing her head back and flashing him a look; she's accelerating without paying much attention to the road and just clips through a yellow light; she's flashing him an answering grin that's gotta make him wonder if they'll make it back to all that fancy equipment before the fun begins, and even though she never ever smokes in her car -

- she already wants a cigarette.

"An' if that's not enough, we can always tape over Decker's Powerpuff Girls."

(james)
he can only grin
(what the hell did you just get yourself into, James?)
just.... grin

finally drawing out, from deep down in his little dumbfounded body, about the only thing he can think of to say

"Skip dinner, we can order in later."

(rune)
"Tch."

The amusement in her voice belies whatever disapproval might be communicated by the clack of tongue against the roof of her mouth. Dark hair spills back from her face as she lifts her chin another fraction of an inch and practically guns the engine, crossing two lanes of traffic (light at this hour, to be sure, but still more than a bit reckless) to merge onto the parkway, preferable to the slow dragging no-man's land of stoplights and shopping centers and left-turn-lanes and no-left-turn intersections that could make the drive back to the condo interminable given sudden (animal) heat filling the confines of the little convertible, distinct in kind and texture from the dry blasting warmth pouring from the vents.

"Now you've gone and done it. I was gonna hold you to dinner, James," she murmurs, sidelong and sly as the Beemer hits speed and merges onto the parkway. Another grin, razor-edged and sure as sin. (Notice the past tense.) "I was gonna make you fucking wait."

(james)
yes, it is getting hot in here, isn't it
and it's not just the dry heater
this is the thick jungle humidity humans only dream about and animals know far too intimately
glad he was holding the trench balled up on his lap before this little conversation started

a shift of weight
a stretch that sends arm into the small space behind her headrest
covering the small distance between them in the Z3's cabin
braced to keep himself in the seat in the increasingly reckless driving

"I'm still going to pay for dinner."

half chuckled
half whispered

"And I'm still going to have to fucking wait until we get there."

(rune)
"Yes," amused, the twisting little smirk, the throaty chuckle that finds its way into that single fucking word. (or, not amused: something else, something else entirely masquerading as amusement, and not well, either. It's as hard to disguise as a war-formed Garou in the middle of Macy's Day-after-Thanksgiving sale. So: not amused, not just amused, not at all.) Leaning back until the muffling scarf makes contact with his circling arm, the blunt edges of dark locks spilling over like a waterfall of inky water, she doesn't look at him. Maybe she doesn't dare. "Yes, you will."

Silence then. Not the companionable silence of long drives back from the Barrens, softened by amused banter about the luck (or lack thereof) of their packmates, unpadded by familiar strains of the Clash or the Mekons. Just (charged) silence. The still before the storm.

The miles pass in swift succession, and though the Beemer shifts and turns and passes and moves in around and through the light traffic tracing a serpentine line, the driver doesn't see much of the road.

She almost misses the exit. She pulls hard across the left lane, cutting off some helmet-haired middle-aged woman in a Volvo in the right lane to make the turn(just barely) onto the complicated four-leaf clover, and zips through the red light at the end of the curving ramp. Two miles, three turns later, and they're pulling past the manicured Rolling Meadows sign out front, jouncing over speedbumps into the parking lot, turning into the empty space in front of Building A.

The whole time, she has one hand on the gearshift, two fingers curved at the bottom of the steering wheel. Two fingers curved hard around the leather steering wheel, grip so taut the knuckles are white from the strain. After all, they both had to fucking wait, didn't they.

(james)
the doors open

one sleek Walker releases the whiteknuckled grip of leather, spilling forth from spoiled interior, this controlled storm that has somehow decided to unleash itself upon the night, lightning in darkened gaze, thunder rolling a silent throb of Rage that pulses through her veins with each beat of strong strong heart, he can see her, he can see that look resting upon features highlighted by the yellow-glowing lamps, some latent fire that dares cast its heat upon pale skin, a heat that pales in comparision to what burns beneath her flesh, a heat that he can see in the vicious curve of that wicked, wicked smile, a heat that drives the long strides already moving towards the Condo

one frustrated Gnawer fumbles with the latch, all but falling out onto the painted and subdivided asphalt, during the last few miles the recirculated air did nothing to dampen the smokey incense that rolled heady from her skin, it kept multiplying, thickening and strengthening with each odometer number strolling by, there's a hunger, a wanting (needing) edge that's coiled itself into his smile, beneath the shaggy disarray of jungle-vine dreads, something that writhes electric beneath his skin, through his muscles, some strange teslic electromagnet that's wrapped itself around his skeleton, she can see it in his look (that wild look), she can see it in the shift in his stride

while the tattered trench and rebar sling is held in one hand
as soon as they pass the Beemer's shining grill
he takes a halfstep to the side
the other hand snakes around her waist
muscle flexes and contracts and arm lifts
his body folding in the little spinning bow
her body folding over his shoulder in straighten
three hundred and sixty degrees later he's carrying her towards the condo

just because he has to wait doesn't mean he can't play

(rune)
There was something she was going to ask him. There was something she was going to say to him. There was something on the tip of her tongue, lurking in the corners of her mind and - before the dinner comment, before the bed comment, before the movie comment - she was going to bring it up, all casual-like, offhand and passing, like dipping a toe into an unfamiliar pool to get a sense of the temperature before diving right on in.

There was something like that.

Notice the past tense? It kinda slipped her mind.

Somewhere in the middle of that drive. Somewhere in the middle of all that electromagnetic storm that rumbled quietly from full-blood to full-blood, full-moon to full-moon, lover to (admit it? Never.) lover, whatever-it-was curled up with the rest of her rational mind and went into hibernation, baby.

James bows and folds and lifts her, and she manages not to shriek. out. loud. It wasn’t that hard, even if the world is suddenly 180 degrees from where it was, and the spinning sky is now the spinning concrete, splotched wet from the remnants of winter rains. Her lean body tightens against the unexpected assault, and then - another moment of almost outrage, a quick breath drawn sharp, his shoulder digging into her abdomen, her hands spilling down along with her eyes, muscled legs curling at the knee seeking balance in the apparently precarious position. Has anyone ever carried her like this, ever?

If so, it was another lifetime, a world away.

“ - niiiiiiiice ass - ” and - laughter, rare and untainted by irony or sarcasm or post-modern self-amused distance or anything but the pure delicious physical sense of wanton well-being inspired by the moment - “ - y’knowi’mgonnagetyouforthis - ”

(james)
his gaze shifts to the left
following the curve of leathered thigh
to the swell of flesh and hips just below her waist
head butting gently against crest of bone next to his temple

"It is, yes."

if the night were to end right now?
if the night were to end just this very moment?
if the night were to suddenly evaporate into nothing and the dawn began to speak of tomorrow?
if all of this were to end. right. now.
he would be happy
he would still wear that uninhibited grin

past the molten energy that shifts and sways between them
above and beyond the promise of what will happen within the confines of the condo
past anything that has or will take place between them
(anything that they will never admit)
there's one thing that remains first and formost in his mind
not a conquest
not a success
just one. simple. sound.

that laughter

that full and free laughter
it's the sound of ultimate pleasure
it's the sound of ultimate joy
and that, deep down, is what he cares about
anything beyond is pure gravy
and his hand pauses on the doorknob

"Well, I'm sort've hoping you will."

only after the heavy door slams shut, locked behind them
does he allow her feet to touch the ground once more
rebar clanking in rebound on the carpet before tattered trench blankets it
his hands keep her close
keep that scalding warmth snug up against his
even in the darkness, he can find her lips and whisper across them

"Rather looking forward to it....."

(rune)
That. Laughter.

He’s the first person to hear it in a measureless time. He’s the only person on this coast to hear it (except, possibly, for those few neighbors still awake at this hour. The neighbors who dare look out when the familiar sound of any of their unsettling neighbors’ vehicles comes winging up from the parking lot, and there are fewer and fewer and none of those, these days.) and possibly the only living creature left who might’ve heard it, once, even across the country, beside a different ocean, beneath another, brighter sun.

She’s not laughing now, or if she is, the sound is lower and richer and darker and threaded with the sheer awareness of his body beside and against hers, hot and alive even through the layers of clothing she wore tonight against the blast of November cold.

“Yeah?” it’s not much of a question, the word she murmurs back across his mouth. The movement of her lips against his is long slow teasing touch that never quite becomes a kiss, unbroken as she reaches to untangle (and then tug and then rip and then whip) the fucking scarf from around her throat. The scarf falls to the ground, atop trench-covered rebar, only to be enveloped by her falling coat (arms akimbo, twisting back to get the fucking. thing. off. now, thank you very much.) Slim arms settle around his shoulders then, and her hands find his hair, and her lips find his the line of his jaw, a long slow hot trail until her teeth find the lobe of his ear. “...yeah. I must be fucking psychic, because I knew you’d fucking say that.”

And so it goes: her hands in his hair and on his body, pushing him back up hard against the wall, her mouth on his neck (scorched earth policy, baby. They’re warriors, after all), and her voice her breath blooming against his skin like some carnivorous flower, hungry as all hell.

And then: suddenly, just as suddenly, she’s not there anymore. She’s two feet (three feet. four feet.) away, sauntering through the darkened condo toward the jumble of equipment in what would be a dining room in any other home, casting him a shadowed glance across one shoulder, flashing him a wicked-red, wanton grin.

“We’ve got a movie to make.”

Posted by james at November 22, 2002 12:00 AM