November 26, 2002
.11.26.02. - welcome home [rune] *fv

[condo]

(rune)
Rune rented a pick-up truck to cart the chest from her condo to the pack apartment earlier in the day, then finally managed the transfer under the cover of darkness, because she certainly wasn't driving that thing across town in her baby. The scent would ooze into the leather much as it oozed into the carpet and the walls of Decker's room. Incense left burning in the condo did much to disguise the scent, but keeping the door to his room was even better defense against it. She actually dragged out the carpet shampooer and cleaned all the carpets (domestic work - the horror) in a valiant battle against the lingering scent of scorched flesh and dry-paper skin.

And so for James it was at last safe to return, after two nights on the familiar streets (she cannot begin to imagine. She will not begin to imagine. She would not begin to imagine were it anyone else out there, when the sleet started to fly and snowflakes drifted down from the burnt orange sky. She certainly did not imagine it last night, as she curled in the electric warmth of her heated waterbed beneath a pile of soft blankets and comforters. She certainly did not imagine it tonight, as she sorted through her things and packed a pair of suitcases for the brief trip home.)

This time tomorrow night, she'd told him the night before, you can come back. There was no other elaboration, for words failed, all words failed. A child in a box, a dead child in a box, the house blooming into flames and then collapsing upon itself, the memory of the stain beneath the carpet that they hadn't even bothered to try to scrub out of the floorboards: all words failed.

And so, now that it is yesterday's tomorrow, now that the remains have been transferred and the glaziers summoned and the tickets (first. class. baybee) purchased and the bags (mostly) packed, she settles into the embrace of the leather couch and draws a heavy blanket over her shoulders, around her slender form. On the lacquered coffee tale, an open beer. In her hand, the remote control. On the television, CNN - mute. On the (brand new Bose) stereo, the Clash.

It's yesterday's tomorrow, and she's waiting for him to come home.

(james)
home
for two decades, home had been the streets
in the warmth of summer
in the dusk of fall
in the sleeting rain of winter
in the dawning blush of spring

there were times he was more comfortable in that unknown
the he would ever, could ever be beneath the closed in walls and shallow roof
how odd things change
now he's heading back to a place he considers.... for now.... home

just like with everything else
he's not sure how long it will last

tank boots thunk up the front porch stairs
his hand pausing fingertips on the handle
images flashing through his mind

burnt flesh
singed hair
crumbling clothes
and the trunk
the mummy-in-the-box

this time tomorrow night
shoulders roll
you can come back
settling muscle beneath patchworn trenchcoat
settling beneath haphazard dreads
strains of "Lost in the Supermarket" vibrating through the brass knob

what the hell
he trusts her word
and the handle turns to let the guttermutt back into her expensive world

(rune)
Dark eyes lift from the never-ending parade of bodies and chaos and stocks (they're up, or down: it's always news) and men (or women: equal opportunity bullshit these days) spewing some sort of ideology, or none, as their preference goes. CNN is better with the sound off. The Clash is the perfect accompaniment. She knows what they're going to say; or she doesn't know, and doesn't particularly care. One thing bleeds into another. The world's like that.

At the sound of the front door, she drags her eyes from the hit parade (five minutes ago it was war. Now it's fashion, brief glimpses of the perfect outfits for the coming spring, as long as you have the cash and the body, even though winter has just set in. ) and they flash across the scalloped shadows at the edges of the living room, which would be bland if she did not inhabit it, which is bland (at the corners, behind the doors) even though she does inhabit it, and find their way to him.

She begins at his feet, dark gaze trailing lazily upward over the folds of the trench and the shadows beneath, over the frayed BDUs and haphazard layers above them, over the tangle of dreadlocks spilling around his shoulders, over his mouth and nose until her eyes settle on his.

"James," she doesn't try to hide her smile. Maybe she's not even aware of it. Oh - but - the corners deepen, widen, turning the smile into veritable (welcoming) smirk. "Good to see you."

(james)
the door opens
she smiles and he......just.... grins
dreads slipsliding to dangle freely when head ducks
even if his eyes never leave hers
door closed securely behind him

the trench (filthy) shed
the boots (muddy) wiped on the doormat
the Gnawer (tired) making his way from the foyer onto the plush carpet
haphazard layers shift across skin as he folds to sink
sitting not onto the plush leather but instead the coffeetable
as a pauper before the throne

"It's good to see you, too."

murmured through that silly grin
fingers reaching to skim thick weave of the blanket

"Need me to warm the place up?"

(rune)
Rune's hand curls around the edge of the blanket, traps his skimming fingers between her own and the blanket draped over the curve of her thigh. She shifts forward, half-rising to uncurl one long leg from beneath her, propping her bare foot on the coffee table beside him. Toes curl and uncurl, dragging her foot completely onto the table proper and then higher: the muscled curve of his thigh, firm beneath the chill fabric of worn BDUs.

"Yeah," half-a-grin, half-a-smirk, curving her painted mouth. The expression is familiar as breathing. "You won't need to do that much longer. The Fang's check cleared. The window people are coming tomorrow or Friday. Told them I'd leave the key under the mat, since I'm going to LA for a few days. Unless you'd mind letting them in, keeping an eye on things?"

Her eyes leave his, and she nods over her shoulder toward the matched set of luggage parked beneath the breakfast bar. Then her gaze sliiiiides right on back, lashes lowered, dark against her pale skin.

"Maybe when you're done, you can warm me up too?"

(james)
"Not a problem."

turning the trapped hand into hers
boxer's wrapped rags rough agaisnt her palm
his other finding its way to explore the pull of blanket over extending leg
there's only a breif glance towards the luggage
but always, inevitably, she draws him back
just as his hand draws some strange dragging line from ankle up her calf, to her thigh
leaning forward to blaze a trail back and around her hip
muscle flexing
dragging her from the couch - blanket and all - to straddle his lap

"We could reverse that order...."

how far away they've been these last two days
suddenly so. very . close.
trapped hand guiding hers around his shoulder
both his arms settling about her waist
lungs filling with her incense scent
his skin, dreads, and clothing smoked with asphalt and exhaust

"Because I.... desperately.... need a shower."

(rune)
He drags her - blanket and all - into his lap, and already the blanket is falling away, shaken from their tangled hands, shrugged easily from slender shoulders to spill down her back, until it is trapped only by his arms settled around her waist. He drags her, and she moves with him, curling forward when she is at last secure, slender arms, muscled thighs wrapping around him familiarly.

The lights are on. The windows are open. Cold November air spills through, stirred by every sudden gust of winter wind. She doesn’t seem to notice.

Her smirk - her favored, unselfconscious smirk - widens and darkens by slow degree as she lowers her brow against his, as she breathes in his scent (it’s there, beneath the smoke and asphalt, beneath the remnants of two nights on the streets sleeping catch-as-catch-can, it’s there: peculiarly and distinctively him, clinging to his skin beneath it all) and breathes out a warm rush of misting breath.

“You do need a shower,” she concedes, her familiar voice grown hoarse (and not from the cold), red lips moving across his in slow caress. Teeth, then, scraping a line from his jaw to his mouth, closing around his lower lip - hard - as her hips rise and her thighs tighten to drag her a scant half-inch closer to him. And laughter - rumbling low, vibrations unfolding against his hands splayed across the small of her back, laughter and that smile, laughter and that look. “...but I’m not sure you’re going to make it that far.”

Welcome home, James. Welcome home.

[fade]

Posted by james at November 26, 2002 12:00 AM