October 12, 2002
.10.12.02. - fingerprints and beer [imogen]

(james)
so ya got style
a bassbeat backbeat lowslung swingin' groovin' homeless man'o'the'streets dreadlock swayin' patchworktrenchoat playin' style
or somethin like that
deep brown eyes search the apartment numbers and lock on Rune's
then slliiiiiide over one

must be Imogen's

second hand cochran's avoid most of the light drizzle's puddles and blaze a slightly damp trail towards the appropriate stairwell and door, a quick sleight (or swipe) of hand dries his face and makes the urban primitive look mostly presentable
i mean
when a doctor supposedly needs you
you should at least attemp appearing presentable

and knuckles rap a lively beat on the door

(imogen)
It's far into the evening, and she's only been home a few hours. Being a part of a respectable profession like a doctor, really, should mean that you have better hours. Office hours, right? Wrong. It's her weekend on call. And she got called.

Dragging her slender frame frame the chair, she walks toward the door, rubbing a pale hand across her face abruptly trying to wash the fatigue from it. For the most part, she expects to see the Fenrir Modi as she opens the door, either that or some door to door Jehovah's Witness. She doesn't tend to receive visitors. Rather likes it this way.

The door slides open with a muted creak of the hinges, and a petite woman stands in the door way, dressed in a pair of jeans, slung low on curved hips and a simple pale blue t-shirt well fitted to a well-fit body. She's pretty enough, if you look. Red hair, in curls and locks and unruly falls around a face of delicate features, all sharp angles and pale colours. It's these features, that are open and subdued at the same time, these features that tighten, and this face that suddenly appears uncomfortable upon beholding the man on the porch. Nevertheless, with only the barest hint of a sigh (she couldn't help it, anyway), she steps aside, to permit him entrance to her home, a gesture of a slender slightly chapped hand mimicking her apparent meaning.

(james)
an easy grin slides across his features
it's that easy grin that never seems to fully go away
..... except in his darkest moments

a step inside opens the patchwork coattails to display worn black BDUs under the surplus drab shirt that could probably use a wash sooner rather than later but now the pack has a place to stay it might get that wash sooner than expected (lo and behold) - the baggy clothes and heavy coat betray the body beneath, revealing little more than square shoulders somewhere beneath the haphazard lengths of light brown dreads

but he doesn't go too far in
head tilting
he heard that barest hint
the sliding harmony to her heartbeat

"Bad time?"

soft and smooth
every predator knows when another is uncomfortable

(imogen)
She shakes her head slightly, dragging a hand through her hair as she permits a small smile to touch her features. It's not a smile that goes beyond her lips, no deeper than her teeth. "No," she says after a moment, stepping away from the door, but leaving it open so he can enter. Bare feet whisper against the hard wood floor of the condo, an immaculate affair. High class, really, all warm wood, and sedated elegance. Couch. Easy chair. Wooden coffee table, that has a file folder carefully closed, resting beside a beer, sitting on a coaster to protect the surface of wood. Framed paintings on the walls, soft colours and whimsical subjects.

"C'mon in," she continues in a voice that lilts, an accent caught between british and irish, warm brown tones. She crosses the living room and picks up the beer, taking a swig from it, before turning to glance over at him, blue eyes scanning him up and down before narrow shoulders shrug slightly, "I'll get me shite together and do tha fingerprintin' down 'ere."

(james)
when his eyes finally leave her, there's a little bit of something in them
just a flicker
not something one will see very often and its hidden very quickly
rarely will a Gnawer show how out of place he feels
but in the midst of all this immaculateness

..... he feels very out of place
dirty
low
tresspassing

fingers run through and ruffle dreads before finally willing himself to follow

"I have to admit this is a first..... "

(imogen)
"Hopefully it will be tha last, too," she replies dismissively, "So long as ye and your packmates start wearing gloves or somethin' when you re-enter a crime scene." She scoops up the file folder, gesturing eloquently with one hand, "Have a seat. D'ye want something to drink?" It's courtesy, but it's uncomfortable. She does it because she knows she should. She waits for his answer, and without a flicker more, turns and heads into the kitchen.

(james)
there's a nod
chastized
even though he knows he didn't touch a thing
and a part of him is wary at being recorded in such a way
but Decker passed the message, and he trusts his packmate

"Yes please."

with a flicker of a (shy?) smile
Momma didn't raise an uncouth mutt
she raised a civilized one
and the Frankenweiler's helped propagate it
but the lessons never covered where an appropriate place was to sit in a place you didn't belong

the floor seems as good a place as any
ankles crossing as the drummer folds onto the plush carpet

(imogen)
She returns with another beer, and a small ink pad and several official looking cardboard sheets that are squared off, with small numbers and other indicators along the top. A pen is tucked behind her ear.

A slight blink as she notes where he sits, before coming to sink down in front of him, offering the beer as she crosses her legs indian style beneath her, shifting sideways so she can write on the hardwood floor just beyond the carpetting. John Doe, she scrawls across it, in a left hand scribble, before including a small round circle at the end. Cracking her neck with a sharp movement, she slides back over, placing the finger print card on the coffee table, holding out a hand, "Give me your hand, please." She didn't appear to be a talkative one, but at the very least, she was polite.

(james)
the 'thank you' is surprisingly soft
dark eyes lighting up at the prospect of a beer
and a beer all of his own
not to be shared with any other

and even to a stranger, it is obvious how much he enjoys the first swallow

palm smears across his thigh, dried, before silently offered
calloused from the rebar drumsticks
scarred from living on the street
some dirt may never wash away

"He mentioned they wouldn't stick around..... but he never told me why you wanted prints."

there are several assumptions he could draw
the Gnawer was well-read and smart
but there were some parts of the real world he had little experience in

(imogen)
"Because when the door was kicked in, the police got the bright idea to finger print again. I want to be absolutely sure there are no traces of you or your packmates anywhere in the system. If there are traces, I want ta get rid o' them," she replies as she takes his hand, and effeciently turning his wrist so she can roll his thumb on the finger print pad. The thumb is then carefully pressed against the card. His index finger is completed next. Followed by the rest of his fingers, all indelibly marked on the card board. As she moves, he can see the print of a tattoo across her arm, revealed by the pull of her sleeve. A fianna glyph turned sideways.

"I'm not sure how careful all of ye were, but I want to be absolutely sure." one fingerprint card is completed. "I need your other 'and, please."

(james)
there's a slow, thoughtful, nod
it makes sense

"You won't find any prints of mine on record. Like I said... it's a first."

offered with a touch of a warming smile
the beer set on a coaster before he reaches to pull his sleeve up a little so the tatters don't get into the way
and when she's ready, the process reversed
a few ash scars rubbed into the other arm

"Kin or chosen?"

chin pointing towards the revealed tattoo

(imogen)
"But I might find your prints in that room. And that's what I want ta get rid of. Stop the problem before it starts and whatnot. Even if they canna connect it ta you specifically, the fact you're there would not be helpful." She stops mid fingerprinting to glance where her looks, a hand reaching over to jerk irritably at the sleeve cuff, though of course, the attempt is too late. And she's bred well, her pure breed would declare what the tattoo did not.

"Kinfolk," she replies reluctantly at after a moment, as she continues the process, placing his mark on the print cards. Finally, it's finished, and she offers him a damp cloth, brought for this purpose. as she carefully picks up the finger print cards.

(james)
that went well, didn't it, Jamey boy?

hands wiped clean before reaching for the beer again
she already knows he's Chosen
so he doesn't say anything

almost sorry he asked

(imogen)
Making sure not to smudge the fast drying ink, she stands, glancing at him through pale red lashes, startling eyes narrowed into blue triangles, jerking her head at the cards, "Once I've checked, these will be destroyed. There's no need ta be concerned on that score." she says quietly as she reaches over, grabbing the cloth, and turning to walk back into the kitchen.

After a moment, she returns, sitting back down, this time in the easy chair, leaning over to pick up her beer, glancing at the amount through the amber glass. After a moment, takes a sip of the brew, attention turning back to the Garou for a moment, "What tribe?"

(james)
he watches
doesn't stare but watches to find out what's going on, what she's doing
just curious

another long sip as she sits back down

"Gnawer."

(imogen)
She's run out of things to say. She hasn't asked him his name, but he assuredly knows hers, and in the end that's all that matters in their world; at least in her jaded opinion. She knows he is chosen, and she knows his tribe. Even in the end, the former is more important to her than the latter.

A soft sound of acknowledgement, a quiet 'hmm' as she drains most of the beer in an easy swallow before placing it back on the coffee table, chewing lightly on the inside of her mouth. Likewise, she watches.

She doesn't stare, but she's aware of his presence. It's a quiet pulse of his rage, and the simple fact that she knows what he is, and what he can do.

And in part, he knows what she is, and that's not something that she's permitted to happen in a very long time. Recently, she's simply turned and walked away.

(james)
as uncomfortable as he seems in the place
it is not because of the silence

the quiet inner conemplation as each rolls their thoughts over as if tasting a virgin wine
and drains their beers
can't forget the beer

it's a few quiet breaths after his is empty (savored) that a hand stretches towards her
in her chair
in that safety zone in comfort and above the floor
above him
dark brown eyes lifting to find the brilliant lights of hers

"Name's James."

(imogen)
She pauses, for a moment, before leaning forward to deposit her beer, nearly empty now, on the coffee table before taking his hand in a firm grip and shakes. Her hand is cool in his, with rough edges and callouses, small and delicate. She, nevertheless, has a firm grip, "Imogen," she replies, with a polite smile.

After a moment, out of habit, as she releases his hand, "Nice ta meetcha."

(james)
there's a nod
a bit of a smile
his shake firm but not rough
even with the rage, even with the physical power
.... there seems to be a softness to him

"Nice to meet you, too."

the empty glass settled aside

"And thank you for the beer."

legs flexing to extend and rise
not wanting to chance overstaying his welcome

(imogen)
"Any time," she replies quietly, as she untucks her legs, pulling herself to stand and let him out of her home.

Posted by james at October 12, 2002 12:00 AM
Comments
Post a comment
Name:


Email Address:


URL:


Comments:


Remember info?