November 22, 2002.11.22.02. - don't touch me [pack-lazarus][north jersey]
(imogen)
The smell of blood still washes through her nostrils with each breath, hanging in the back of her throat like a bad cold as she walks down the rain dampened streets, bright head bent against a sudden gust of wind that whips through down the street, tunnelled by the cement buildings and skyrises. The wind gentles, and her head lefts again, one hand reaching up to brush back tendrils of vibrant flame hair, tucking them behind her ears as she steps across the street, mindful of late evening drivers, who careen down slickened streets. Dark eyes, half caught in shadow because the sun is long gone down, crest across the street as her hands absently search for cigarettes. She's quit again, the movement is only a habit.She reaches the other side, head turning this way, and that, off handedly searching for someone. Three times, now. Hardly a coincidence. It's a testement to her odd sense of duty, that she never mentioned certain things to the police. The fact that she searches this thrice-seen woman now is testimony to... something. But she cannot say what.
(lazarus)
What is it about the guitar. Is it its hallowed wooden body that howls--or the taughtness of strings? If this were a fairy tale the misic might twist in the wind, grey-tinged tendrils paws at the air around the good doctor.Smell something good.
(..sometimes the feet understand things the brain does not.)Either way, she's perched on the back of the bustop. Just another broke muscian, frail lookng form, drawfed by the heavy presence of the wooden instrument--or perhaps her talented (..a practiced ear might hear the less that skilled pinch of frets.) handling of twisting tune. Its just another fifure in the night, one of many...
Oversized fleece.
Over-worn Levi's.
Woolen cap pulled low over her head.Could be anybody, right?
(imogen)
She's played the guitar since she was old enough to force her fingers to the frets. It's a beautiful sound, the strings can be manipulated so the notes moan, so they scream, so they pound. Whisper notes in the wind, like a fairy tale(if this were a fairy tale)
She steps over the gutter, where leaves have accumulated to drown faded in dingy black water, choking drainage, and as she turns in the direction of the musician, boots dull against the concrete. Jeans, carressing thighs and hips, worn along the cuffs. A cotton shirt, pulled across slender torso, and accented by a fleece vest which is presumably for warmth, though with this wind, it's nothing. She approaches the musician, and her music, and a quarter twists end over end to fall into the open guitar case, where already several coins and a few bills have accumulated. It doesn't matter if you really are playing for money. Sit on a street, and everyone thinks you are.
"You're a bird of ill-omen," she notes, almost conversationally, her voice lilting british, remniscent of smokey pubs, delicately musical. "There's a dead body, and lo, you're there, leaving, or coming, or just sitting somewhere playing your music." Third time's a charm. Too much coincidence this days.
(laz)
Sparkling strands of silken melody that spin the senses in aweb of thought. (Can music change you?) The street where Laz lays seems a pace slower than the rest of the hood. Black & White remain the same but its the grey that changes...What is, is.
(...oh lovely watercolor subjectivity.)Dusky hued features lift from thier downward, guitar-angled, pose. And amber hued eyes slide against pale-pale-pales (..all the better to spark the flame of hair.) woman how speaks her lips twitching faintly.
"Thanks." The quarter still rolls along the inner surface of the case. "'--could say the same of you couldn't I?"
(james)
maybe it's the kid still alive somewhere in the Ahroun's frame
maybe it's the semi-sweet jaded-ness that he's been through far worse
maybe it's..... something
but the Italian Tank books don't do much for avoiding the errant puddles
a splish here
a sploosh there
a splash over herehands tuck into his pockets
the rebar clinking in its sling over tattered trench shoulder
dreads hanging heavy and wet (just how long has he been out?)
gray cargo's dark charcoal their soaked bottoms
winding through the streets to find his way home(imogen)
Her hands slide into the pockets of the vest, head tilting slightly off to one side, causing a fall of vibrant hair, all the colours of red, roan, auburn, blonde and strawberry, across her cheekbone, explosion of colour against pale milk skin. "Yeah, but the difference is, when I'm there," words offglide, and are shortened meld together in a british drawl. Cornwall is like a whole other country; it has a language of it's own, and though she speaks without the slang of her home, it still shows through her rich accent, "the police don' start askin' questions.""'bout a month'r so ago, girl raped, killed 'cause she hit her head, guy killed from a shattered cheekbone," her pale hand reaches up, brushing strands of hair from her face, mimicking, either unconciously or not, the fall of Laz's great crinos paw, as it had once crossed the rapist's face. "And, just in case that wasn't enough, shot to the head. You?"
(voice of midnight shadows)
Dancing through the streets playing a panpipe softly, emergies a colourful but bedraggled spectacle.His purple jeans are kept off the gound by a pair of green and red shoes and his longsleeved yellow t-shirt is covered by a blue and orange vest. The music gets a little quieter as he thinks he is nearing people.
(james)
while they remain neighors
..... since he seems to be at Rune's more than the pack apartment
he's done his fair share of avoiding
..... since he's often rather.....uh... occupied
he's rather not remember that night they last met
..... since the Litany says nothign about not feeling guilty about what they do, that was a child
but there are some people that are just unmistakable
..... since, well. just because!
and the flaming haired doctor is one of them
he's a good idea who the musician sitting at her feet is, as wellhow.... delightful
needless to say the tall Gnawer doesn't do much to increase that strolling pace towards them
he's uh, listening out for that random panpipe note... yeah
(laz)
Music rolls on ceaselessly, as if there wasn't a help for it; as if her finger's, formed spinets, could only weave against the ache of urban night. Spinning dreams of atrophy. (Shh.. I know.) And so when head twists to follow the movement of 'Red', as she had been silently dubbed, it seems ony natural the score should continue. Another fixture of the moment..Like the, florescent bright, flicker of drizzle that slighes between beams of lamp light. And the click of 'Red's' shoes against gritty-slick asphalt. Her nose wrinkles briefly in thought--
"..been talk of a woman showin up at the wrong places at the wrong times. Man with a needle in one hand a blade in the other--turf war by Abbington projects..."
Her voice, a shock against the sounds of city-eve, not raspy or hease, but even throated purred. It was the roll of pleasuable reception--the voice in your head you thought never existed.
"--girl builds up a rep like that folks notice. 'specialy when she don't talk much. Folks talking bout a red-heared ju-ju woman--Stuff like that?"
Eye flicker towards the rattle of rebar in the strance and straighenting the stumming hand (The music stopped?) pauses to slide spectacle higher up the bridge of her nose.
(voice)
wondering if the audience tonight is actually real again he calls out into the night."Hello, anyone there?"
(james)
a bit of a grin rakes at the sudden call
unable to help the wryly chuckled answer from just down the block
from behind the pipist"Just nod if you can hear me."
(imogen)
Purity. It's one thing that all Garou, young and old, tainted and clean, spiral and fang recognize. It's one thing that they have in common. It's one thing all kinfolk wish to have, and those that have it, sometimes, must wish they didn't. It's the song of heroes. The memory of past times (when the war was not so desperate, and the cities, not so big), and at when one is pure enough, it must be almost like a flame burning admidst the shadows. Imogen is a candle in a dark room, flickering and burning, and to be sure, a galliard would have a story to tell about her ancestory.Her weight shifts, slowly, from one foot to another, twitching her attention toward the clank of a metal rebar against shoulder and cloth, the approach of James. The sound of Jimmy speaking, and James responding.
They're everywhere. She doesn't answer Lazarus immediately, waiting, as if to see if she had more tumults of wisdom to pass on. Or perhaps the flame haired woman had nothing to say.
(voice)
he nods his head, then looks casually 'round to see where the semi familiar voice came from."I can hear you."
There is a tone of friendliness in his voice, as he turns to head toward the sound. A small skip in his steap as the rainbow clad figure wanders toward them.
(laz)
The guitar doesn't start again, only shift to her back. The embroidered strap that holds it to her replace in with the minimal slice of stretched matrial--cutting through the pillow-ey folds of the fleece to pink at thin shoulds and disaapear around the width of her waist.It might seem that the activity has affected the musician as well. A tongue slides over lower lip thoughtfully. And though, perceptive lil thing, she is more alert her gaze always ends back towards the woman.
Moth to a flame.
"You got reasons or just questions, Red?"
(james)
hm.... cooooooool as ice doc and at-one-time-annoying Lord...... or family?
he's going for family
even if he doesn't know the pipist save for passing
family is family
Gnawer is Gnawer"How the shows been going, Jimmy?"
smile waxing easy
relaxed
he's had too much seriousness lately(decker)
"Is there anyone home?"A quiet Southern slide pulled over a tone with a hint of gravel, a even slighter hint of amusement, completing the verse. Seems like even Alabama trailer trash hear a bit of Pink Floyd now and again.
The thug comes strolling his thuggish swaying stroll out of the alley at right angles to the street. One hand's in the pocket of his sagging jeans, dark-dark blue. A cigarette (no; wait - take a sniff - a joint) glows sullenly in the other hand hanging loose at his side, chapped knuckles and callouses. A breath of smoke drifts sideways and the Modi nods up at his packmate. "'Sup James."
(jimmy)
Good, hows things with you and your friends?.He reaches into his pocket to retrieve a chocolate bar and offers it to James.
(imogen)
She watches the movements, the shift of the guitar over the small woman's back, before her eyes, an uncoloured darkness in the night, shift back to Lazarus's face. Lazarus's eyes. Rarely, can others meet a Garou's eyes.Her weight shifts, however slightly, another glance over her shoulder before back at Lazarus, a dark eyed stare. "Mostly, I've questions." She replies, finally, after a moment of indecision.
"Was it you, or not?" Lazarus dances around the questions, and Imogen, well... she just asks again, more directly. It will be another two seconds before she gives up and leaves off.
(james)
"Decker"grinned
nodded up
s'aaaaall kopacetic
all that full moon pms'ing has drained out of him, it seems
or it just might be the Floydthe offered bar exchanged with a half-pack of jerkey without even a second thought
only a grinned thanks"Things have been well. Quiet at least...."
(jimmy)
He takes some of the jerky then looks at the other newcomer. He nods at the man, grinning happily and seemingly slightly oblivious to the world around him. He looks back at James."Who?"
(laz)
She shrugs at Imogen."..dunno. I's just a poor arab girl."
That said she smiles at (older?) woman meeting her in the eye as if it meant little to her if anything.
(decker)
Waning moon. Settling blood. Slightly, at least, but as any poor boy knows, slight is better than nothing. Decker's never been the talkative type, and he's not about to start now. As chocolate trades for jerky, the Modi throws his shoulderblades to the wall, slouches down an inch or three and plants his feet wide. His eyes are grey and so is the smoke drifting from the fat joint held between thumb and two fingers of his hand.Take a hit. Hold a hit. Ash a joint. Let it go. The redolent stink of burning herbs is oddly flat on the open street, in the cold, in late November, and he's nineteen years old now, and old enough to know better, but not old enough to do better. That's how it'll always be.
A glance down the street picks out Lazarus and Imogen. Didn't mind hearing one talk (though listening to her or not was another matter entirely); didn't mind watching the other. Black and red. Shadow and flame. Somethin' like that...fuckit. Inhale. Hold. Tip head back against brick, eyelids lazy. Exhale.
(mmgh. fuckin high as a kite.)
For a few minutes, at least. Until his Garou metabolism cleans it all up. Until his rage burns a hole right through it, like a chemical fire that you just can't blow out.
(james)
"Jimmy, this is Decker, my bro... Decker this is one of Dakota baby's bandmates."gesturing throughout the entire thing with his piece of candybar
Decker, of course, offered as well
it's just his way
plus he knows munchies are a constant thing around Garou(jimmy)
He nods to the modi."Hi, I'm Jimmy." He offers a chocolate bar to the modi as well.
(decker)
Slow as southern heat, his eyes go between James and Jimmy. This is bound to get confusing. The Modi's gaze flicks the chocolate-bar-toting saxophonist, grey as a thunderhead, and under the marijuana haze is the undying thrumming pulse of rage. A lot of it.Dakota's bandmate. Oh yeah, white chick. White as paper.
A grunt that suffices as hello; a shake of his head for the offers of chocolate as he makes a vague motion with the hand that held the joint and its attached, ever-diffusing stream of smoke. He was good with what he had. Another hit sucked off, the seventh or eighth in a quarter as many minutes. Keep it rollin'.
Hold, exhale. Across the way, lights blink on and off in the apartment tenements.
(jimmy)
He pockets the chocalate bar and looks toward the two women in the distance. He points vaguely in the direction of the good doctor.Isn't that Imogen?
He doesn't do more than that. He is meeting someone new tonight, and that has his attention for now. He looks at the woman beside her.
Dp you know who she's talkin' to?
(james)
shoulders roll as slow tide beneath the tattered trench
rebar clinking in afterthought echo
thought it's Jimmy's question that gets a bit more of a reaction
easy smile touching upon a minor smirk
just minor
just a liiiiittleand oddly?
he doesn't even seem to notice, mind, or think anything of the sudden realization and bolt of the other Gnawer
seems a perfectly normal thing to him
and maybe it ishe was just happy to be around family
for however long it lasted
thoughtful chew on the current bit of bar
though a brow lifts at Deckersharin'?
(imogen)
An eyebrow lifts at Lazarus's question. "Just so." She replies, smoothly, a quiet utterly british phrase, so perfectly matched to her voice, as she breathes a faint snort, turning and starting to walk away, hands in the pocket of her vest.(decker)
Sharin'?
Good question, that.The Modi cocks an eyebrow at Jimmy's hasty departure. Then he cocks an eyebrow at James. Then he pulls the joint out of his mouth, thumb and forefinger and middle finger, a deep-felt motion, slow as an anaconda.
(clikclikBOOM.)
Gunmetal grey eyes around gunbarrel black pupils. They look at the joint like he ain't never seen such a thing before. Lifting, then, those eyes fix on James and study him now, critically. A beat. The eyelids droop - amusement - and he extends his arm in a steady arc.
"Help yerself." A nudge of his chin in the direction of the departed Jimmy. Ripple-ribbon of displeasure: Decker said he wouldn't let anyone find out about her, dammit. Look how well that was turning out. "How's he know Imogen, anyway?"
(james)
and yes, in the sudden interpretive dance of the eyebrows
therein lays the entire conversation
he wouldn't have minded if Decker didn't share
it's more, even though they're pack
he wouldn't have taken unless offered
else risk losing his armand beneath that careful, critical consideration
he just waits, quiet and calm
still so relaxedor so he seems
blunt taken
hit
held
passed back"Dunno, only met him once before in passing... was after our little fiasco with Luc and the little bitch."
just how low are you
when another Gnawer won't even refer to you as family(laz)
Eagle Scouts.Strange Crime-hound Garou,
Oh yes possibilities abound. And Laz is not the type to miss out on a good possibility, no not at all. She hops the back of the bench and follows behind, hands shived deep into pockets as she goes.
(decker)
After James takes the joint his arm drops loosely to his side like it was too much effort to keep it up. Don'tcareslidedown. The Modi slips down against the wall until he's crouched at the foot of it, knees against his chest through the fifteen-dollar secondhand winter coat he's taken to wearing these days. Too damn cold for sweatshirts.Passed back, he takes it up and sucks it down. Turns it sideways before his eyes, measures the distance between cherry and ...well these things ain't got no filter, man. Had maybe three or four hits left on it, if he didn't let it just burn down.
Smoke trickles out the Modi's nostrils, tugged off by the wind. A snort blasts a fresh puff out into the night. "Talk to 'im 'bout it." Sounds like a command, but Decker left out the subject of the sentence: I. I'll talk to him about it.
Pass the joint back, turn his head sideways. Didn't the boy ever smile? Had that perpetual half-frown going again, that line between his eyebrows, that downturn to his hard mouth. He looks at Lazarus, he looks at Imogen. "Here comes yer favorite Ronin," muttered, half-choked to conserve the last of the marijuana curling in his lungs, to James.
(laz)
First words."Fuck you."
To no one in particular, or both. Hell the idea of the Eagle scouts irjked her--and if it hadn't been for Rune. (its not like she could do much about it.) Oh but they'd know they didn't belong here - she was the perpetual reminder.
(imogen)
Imogen's glance over her shoulder as Lazarus approaches, her head turning away with a sharp exhalation of breath. As she approaches Decker and James, she catches half wind of what Decker says, a coppery eyebrow flickering up in question at the unfamiliar word.Chances are she'd been out working, this late. Jeans, a cotton shirt, and a vest to keep warm, casual clothing best suited to stepping around blood, and previewing a body. A badge clipped to the waist of her jeans, barely visible beneath the fall of the vest.
Conversation passes around her. At least now she had her answer as to what Lazarus was.
(decker)
He twists his mouth sideways to blow smoke off like a locomotive. Hell, she was everybody's favorite Ronin. Eyes like a winter storm sweep Lazarus up and down, lazylike, and then the soles of his shoes scraaape over asphalt as he straightens his legs out, blocking off the sidewalk, planting his ass on the pavement. Guess his momma never told him to keep his pants off the pavement 'cause it was dirty."Bring it." A curl of a smirk, and then his attention flickerslides over to the good doctor. His favorite mistake. Nod up, eyes slide down...and up. "'Sup Imogen."
(Was it a mistake? No.)
All right then.
(james)one Modi crouched down into a ball for warmth
one Ahroun still standing at ease, trench dangling from his shoulders, tails swaying in the occasional breeze
this ain't coldthough the trickling buzz from the blunt is helping
it helps lubricate that chuckle working its way out over his tongue
it helps guide that kopacetic smile into something of a snide grin"Aw common, Laz, you know I expect so much more from you. Having a bad day?"
didn't belong here
.....really
that familiar grin appearing once again in a half toss towards Imogen on the vestiges of the word-driven exhale(rune)
...and here comes their favorite Glass Walker, from the other direction, in a slow, familiar saunter. Eyes on Imogen, they must've missed the veritable feat of parallel parking that took place, as Rune took up two and a half-spaces on her own, somehow, to make sure no one else would park too close and accidentally dent her Beemer, which is a little less obvious with the top up against the winter weather.And winter it is. The Ahroun's hands were tucked deep into the pockets of her fine wool coat, a scarf tossed around her neck for good measure, singing back across her shoulders as the wind whips past like a long black tail, much longer than the short hair blown by in similar fashion by a sudden gust of wind tearing down the alleyway. Least the street on which they lounge is north-south, and therefore somewhat sheltered by the tenement from the cold wind.
Heels on pavement, the slow staccato rhythm almost hitched from the lazy stride, though these high heels are boots, rather than her usual strappy sandal-things.
"Y'all." It's a general greeting, offered to the group at large as she draws close. The corners of her mouth curl upward in a slow smirk, mostly hidden by the muffling scarf.
(laz)
One hand uncurls from the brace of the guitar strap to -snap-, the sound rippling against the air in a (...thunder..) crack."I left my whips and chains at home--nother time then."
A nod to James. Just waiting for his opening remarks, the artist (formerly known as a moonsinger) could trade cracks all night.
(decker)
"Yeah," and he rubs the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand, "whatever."Joint's made its way back to Decker somehow. James had a trickling buzz. Decker's bone marrow was molten. The effect was going to blow over soon - it always did - but damn if Rune couldn't get them some high-quality shit. He'll take every minute his metabolism'll give him.
Rune walks up. Decker holds out the joint with one last gasp on it for the Glass Walker.
"Ain't bad." That, for Imogen. "Yerself?"
(james)
gee
darn
he looks. so. disappointed."That a threat or a promise, M'Lord? I thought you liked trying to annoy me daily..... you're slackin'"
so maybe not all of that full-moon-madness has left him
there's a challenge in his grin
even if it warms a little at the approach of Rune
no matter the glaring exception of Lazarus
he's surrounded by..... family
s'all good(laz)
"Maybe I just have bigger fish to fry, than country club caddies?"Her words are soft almost whispered as she leans against a parked car (tires removed) seemed like it wasn't goin anywhere.
(rune)
The joint - the almost-roach - the roach, she takes carefully between her painted nails, and now their (other) function becomes apparent. They're just like nice little forceps, perfect for holding the last bits of paper and pot and sucking all the good sweet smoke right into your lungs.She takes her place against the wall - fuzzy convention, Garou line-up - woolen coat slung across her shoulders catching on the rough brick, and sucks up a hit, holds it - and then manages one more, when poor Decker though there was only one. Dark brow lifts with a critical eyes (there's another hit here) and she raises her hand offering it around.
"Anyone?" thin-voiced from the strain and smoke, that half-chortling pothead's voice spills from her mouth, along with a thin stream of smoke. She doesn't really care if there are no takers. She's a greedy girl, is Rune.
(imogen)
She nods her head, a faint inclination that throws curled strands of hair free from her braid, falling forward before her face and dark eyes. "I can't complain," she answers she says with a slight shrug of slender shoulders.Her eyes flicker up toward the bickering of the Lord and the Gnawer, before following it's sweep to touch upon Rune with the Walker's question, a slight shake of her head.
(james)
second hand smoke from Rune's exhale fills his lungs in cleansing breath
managing a fairly passable shocked look"I'm not on top of your priority list anymore, Laz? That's mortally wounding"
smirked
even.... sneered
the deep umber gaze swings towards the Walker"Heading to the studio, gimme a ride, Rune?"
(decker)
"Cut the generosity crap, Rune," drawls Decker from the ground. "'S yer pot anyway."Number one benefit of sagging your pants: don't have to arch off the ground to get at your pockets. The Modi just slides his hands right in, digging around in his pockets for the sheer sake of digging around. See what he's got to keep him occupied while James and Lazarus bicker like cubs. Baggie. Cig paper. Matches. Hmm, mint filched from some store's front counter. Plastic wrapping crinkles as he unwraps the candy (drops it, catches it against his stomach), pops it in.
Doesn't seem to be much to say back to Imogen, and he's content not to say anything until something does come to mind, surfacing. A tilt of his head sideways, indicating the pavement next to him. "Sit?" Eyelids sweep down: a glance down and across at the spot he indicated. Fuck, even dirtier than the spot he's sitting on. A quirk of a smirk flirts across his mouth. " 'Less you want me to lay down my coat like a real," pause here: eyes slide down, mint slides across his tongue to clack on the opposite side of his mouth, "southern gent."
(laz)
"Girl can dream, can't she?"Oh that smile that blossoms to her lips, unbidden. as she adjust her spectacles on her face and stretches.
"I was just waiting to se if y'all wanted me to buy some Eagle scout cookies an' shit."
(rune)
"Yeah, but nobody likes a stingy bogart. Mari-ja-juana wants to be free, baby." offhanded, the comment as she takes the initiative and sucks the last lungful of smoke from the fragrant little roach, then opens her fingers in an elegant little gesture and sends the smoldering paper floating to the concrete beside her. No filter: no foul. She doesn't bother bending to pick it up.Rune buries her bare hand in her deep pocket, and lifts the other - still gloved in leather - to adjust her scarf back up, half-over her painted mouth again. Another slow smirk crawls above the muffling edge of her scarf. "S'the girl scouts who sell cookes, Laz. Eagle scouts sell pop-fuckin'-corn. An' sure, James. You wanna lift? you got it."
(imogen)
A brief spurt of amusement, resulting in a half breath of laughter, as she shakes her head, "No, that's alright," a momentary glance at the greyed concrete he'd mentioned, covering the space between her and the other side opposite to where he'd indicated, apparently having decided or discovered it was at least somewhat cleaner than his originally offered place, "I wouldn't want your southern blood to freeze."She drops to sit on the curb, shoving cooled hands into the pockets of her vest, her warrior against the cold.
(james)
"No, Laz" tsk'd "If I wanted to poison you I wouldn't ask you to buy it. That's just uncouth."reaching out to actually
pat. her. head.
as he walks by
back towards the feat of parallel parking Beamer
half a wave to Decker and Imogen(laz)
See, here's the thing.the EAGLE scouts are high, Laz isn't. And when james reaches to pat her on the head she duck around his touch a legs kicking out against his ankle with the bodily readjustment.
"you wash your hands, James?"
(decker)
The Modi's eyes narrow as James and Rune walk off...alone...together...again..."Later."
Imogen drops down on his other side. He shifts a bit to accommodate, though whether he ends up moving away or closer is hard to call. Grey eyes still narrowed, a hard candy clacking its way from one side of his mouth to the other, what her presence against his arm might do to him doesn't show one bit on his face. He doesn't talk much to her either. "Good." A grunt here, another there. "Wasn't gonna take it off none, anyway."
Apocalyptic thug lovin' in this grim faceless north-jersey urban sprawl. Go figure.
(rune)
The flash of a wry smile rises above the muffling scarf, as Rune lifts her chin and then lowers it to scrunch the fabric down so Lazarus can see the little smirk. Both hands are buried in her coat pockets now, though there's movement in the right pocket, as she struggles into her glove, then lifts her hand to her mouth to finish tugging the smooth leather snugly over her fingers by snagging the wrist with her teeth.Rune offers a nod - Lazarus, Imogen, Decker each get their own - and the gesture serves as both individual greeting and farewell, as gloved hand is already finding its waiy into her right pocket as she saunters in James' wake.
"He's an Eagle scouth, Laz. 'Course he does. You know what kinda upstaining citizens we are."
(james)
see, here's the thing?Decker is high
he? is just buzzed
and fast
fist wrapping in the oversized fleece
actually picking her up off the ground
and settling her back onto the hood of the tireless car
rather uncerimoniously"Of course."
smiled
fingers loosening so smear his palm over her shoulder
just for good measure
and then? he finally moves away to catch up with Rune(imogen)
"Yeah, well. I didn't want to ask you to go against your nature, anyway," southern gentleman Decker is not. She turns her head to look over her shoulder, weight shifting slightly forward as James and Laz further their bickering to physical contact, weight moving to her feet, because she has no desire to be whacked by a Garou turned projectile. The shift is slight, and likely Decker, so close, is the only one to feel and see it.Her hands leave her pockets to rest loosely on her knees, fingers curled lightly. Now we're paying attention.
(decker)
Ccccclick. Mint sliding over the ridges of his teeth. So blunt in this form. So deadly in the others. Decker's high. Decker never stays high long.The slowroiling seethe of his rage is like a tidal wave moving into shore. Imogen leans forward. Decker rolls his shoulders backwards, slouching down just a little lower against the wall like some bum with nowhere to go but down. There's an awareness to him, though. You know I don't like it when you....
Southern gentleman, Decker is not.
(laz)
Both arms -held-. It was almost gentlemanly the way he asserted dominance. (how cute.) But see some people just don't take to polite, some people would just as soon a bullet to the head than a pat...Some people--don't play touch games. Laz is one of those people. As as he lifts her, "Don't." he feels a flury of movement arms pushing against the greater unyeilding musculature of James. Lifted into the air--And feet kick up under his mouth. Teeth clanking shut with certain motion.
"..touch me."
(james)
one foot heading up to make contact with his chin
one short leg deciding, instead, to settle that foot on his hip, and push
which does shove him a bit off balance
but her strength isn't his
her weight isn't his
and that's about all it gets
a shuffle step awayBig. Scarey. Lord.
he's trembling in his boots
that isn't laughter
really
no! it's not...."Maybe some other time, Laz, don't forget your whips and chains."
called over his shoulder
as he really, this time, does move away(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."
Posted by james at November 22, 2002 12:00 AM