November 25, 2002.11.25.02. - slum epiphany [rune] *fv[north jersey]
(james)
there are some things a Bone Gnawer just can't handle
the little mummified jack-in-the-box was one of them
bad enough he knew where they were going and fretted in the hours after his declination to join
(she said it was okay not to go)
but when they walked in kentucky fried Garou?
that was pushing the limits
Decker uncerimoniously dumping the trunk on the floor?
that went well, until he found out what was in itneedless to say he's been walking a tight rope since
excusing himself at a convenient moment
they know how to find himhe just couldn't hang around with that there
so he's been here
on the streets (at home)
for however many hours its been
long legs folded beneath him in the half-crouch against the wall
long arms winding knees in loose embrace
tatters of his trench pooling a patchwork puddle around his ankles
dreads falling in disarray over finally.... finally.... relaxing shoulders
deep umber eyes simply watching the traffic go byanother vagrant on the streets
another homeless bum huddled against the building for shelter
another broken story left to crumble by the wayside(rune)
On these streets - these dark, dangerous, crumbling streets - upscale cars are remarkable, but not that unusual. They come from the city, from the suburbs, from the bucolic faux countryside, looking for sin: drugs, sex, sex, drugs, trouble of some sort, or just a good slumming story to tell the folks back at prep school. But mostly: drugs and sex, sex and drugs, the only commodities of any worth remaining in neighborhoods like this. In the space of an hour, he's seen a Mercedes, a Lexus and two BMWs - slowing as they approach the corner, inspecting the wares on display and moving on or stopping, as is the driver's preference. And so on.The only particularly unusual thing about the Z3 now coming into view is its color: metallic purple. There's another unusual thing though, too. Instead of slowing and stopping at the corner, where neighborhood's entrepreneurs congregate, this Beemer slows and stops in the middle of the street, pulls in parallel between a gutted Chevy and an unfortunate Yugo still apparently in service to someone, somewhere.
The driver kills the engine (another oddity, that. People who drive those sorts of cars never turn them off in places like this. They certain never exit them, as Rune does now, long legs swinging onto the pavement, lean body rising from the low carriage. Booted feet - those heels. She's almost as tall as he is in those heels - ring out against the cracked a buckling asphalt, and long strides carry her to his side.
She sinks into a crouch, an easy, low-slung crouch, beside him, arms draped carefully about her bent knees, mirroring his own posture, though she does not rest her back against the dirty brick wall as he does.
Nothing then. Just silence: companionable silence, and the slow unfurling of her breath, misting in the cold November air.
(james)
focus changes
the camera pulls back from pinpoint across the street
panning to follow metallic purple as it leaks into his vision
then parks
then diesa slow blink as chin lifts
gaze following
the heels beating the sidewalk into submission
the long leather curves of legs
the warm, generous fluff of jacket and scarf surrounding her torso
long and lean and skyscraper tall(uptown girl)
until she sinks beside him
until she sinks down to his level
his jaw following the turn and melt as it tucks near his shoulder
patchworked and stitched with layers that don't match
rags that would never, ever be riches(downtown man)
one arm unwinding
haphazardly (boxer) wrapped knuckles finding way to brush down stretch of calf
barely skimming leather... as if in a hobo's disbelief that money would find its way beside him
(those eyes know better, this silent hello)
he isn't sure how much she's healed in the past endless hours
..... Decker would be happy, a night he didn't spend in her bedhe hated leaving
but he couldn't stay(rune)
Her hands are wrapped in gloves: leather again, but softer and more supple than the leather encasing her legs, kid gloves, for all intents and purposes. One of those hands opens like a dark bloom, fingers spread wide, tendons flexing, every movement visible beneath the supple second skin, and swings down to brush against his own, light against her calf. Fingers open, and then half-twine with his, a slow gesture mirrored by the rising curve of her cheeks, which suggests the curve of her mouth: a red, red half-smile buried somewhere beneath the muffling scarf.Some few strands of dark hair have worked their way free of the wrapped scarf, and fall across her cheek as her head sways forward, the movement rhythmic, the acknowledgment oddly gentle. The stray lights of a passing car cast them in sharp, even stark relief - the sudden light in the weaving darkness shades her pale skin bone white whereever long shadows do not fall.
"Better?" the question murmured in his direction, though her eyes do not follow. Not now, not yet. Pupils contracted against the sharp assault of passing headlights begin to dilate, adjusting to the darkness once more, and remain trained on the edge of the trash-strewn curb as if it were the end of the known world.
(james)
her hand encased in delicate leather
her hand encased in expensive tailored warmth
her hand encased in finger tip to sleeve cuff warmthhis hand bound in filthy rags
his hand bound in whatever he could find and tear into strips
his hand bound in half warmth that covers his palm and leaves digits chilled against her glovefingers and leather and rags meet and tangle
grip firming into the embrace that will not happen (not here, not now)
umber dropping to this flesh tango before rising to the swelling curve of scarf
a soft smile finding its way to his face to show what hers will not"Yes."
does he speak of the frigid, lonely night in the city's open air compared to the warmth of a shared bed in a decay-riddled condo
does he speak of the simple touch that found its way between them
or does he speak of something else entirely
and does it even matter?(rune)
Dark eyes crawl at last from the edge of the sidewalk, over pressed and stained and littered concrete, over the crook of his knee, over the crook of her own, to the quiet clasp of such different hands, hidden from wider view by the shadows cast by their own bodies.She doesn't speak, at first. She says nothing in response to his quiet affirmation - of any of that, all of it, none of it, or something else entirely - and is content with her silence for a time.
The sun - bare, spare, wintry, but still somehow, somewhen warm of an afternoon - has long since set. Chill creeps through even the fine gloves. Chill creeps through the well-lined designer coat. Chill creeps little wintry fingers through the warp and weave of the scarf and finds its way through skin and muscle to bone.
The city is hers as much as his, but she cannot begin to imagine how he survives - has survived - a single night like this, much less two decades' worth.
"You must be cold." That's what she says, when she speaks at last. If her voice catches on a syllable, it is no doubt the cold fire in her throat, the frost in her lungs that makes it so. "Want to grab something to eat?"
It's then - at last - that her eyes find their way from his hand, and hers, travel up the length of his arm, over the broad sweep of shoulder covered in a spill of tangled dreds to find his eyes.
(james)
the sheer....ease..... with which he survives this night, this moment, this single kiss of cold that creeps and seeps its way into her very bones and core
.....makes one wonder how much worse he's seen
there is nothing but nonchalance in his shrug
the way patchwork quilt lifts and drops the tangle of dreads
the way chin ducks in the smallest of nods
yes, but it doesn't matter anymore"I'd love to..... c'mon."
now it is the guttermutt that stands
unfolding in slow procession that stretches muscle over bone
that unfurls the tails of the trench around his legs as some sweeping cape
shoulder dropping as arm stretches, wrist bending to keep their fingers twinedhow strange it must be for a Bone Gnawer to look down at someone
no matter how innocent it ismuscle bunches through bicep and forarm
this electric wire that bridges their divide curling
lifting her to his level
(in her heels she's almost as tall as he)
drawing her to stand infront of him
drawing her up to his level
the two Ahroun stand as equals
so close, yet still miles and miles away on the open city street
fingertips linger across her palm before dropping away
never once did his eyes leave hers"Walk or ride?"
(rune)
Walk or ride?His eyes never leave hers, but her eyes leave his now, as she half-turns to scan up and down the dim expanse of the neglected street. Three streetlamps are out, and most of the street is cast in eerie, watery shadows stretching into pools of close to utter darkness. The windows are barred from within and without, banded iron without, tattered vinyl shades within, dingy from years of neglect and tainted with the ugly brown stains of cigarette smoke. The cars between which she parked - the gutted Chevy, the Yugo so broken down it would cost more to have it towed than it would bring at the junkyard, and farther down the street, some ancient 1970s boat, all rust-eaten wheelwells and tricolor doors appended to it thoughtlessly, with a sign in the window: No. Radio. It looks like some modern, mechanical Frankenstein's monster.
Her eyes find his once more, then slip away - self-aware, perhaps even (dare you think it?) sheepish. The things she takes for granted. The things he does not have. The things she expects as easily and thoughtlessly as she expects her breath to come, minute after minute, hour after after, ceaselessly.
"...drive?" lowered eyes contrast with the smirk rising at the corners of her mouth, self-mocking. "Not sure I want to leave my car out here."
(james)
just as sheepish
just as self-awarehis smile tells that things she needs as much as breath
are the things he never thinks about
the things he never even dreams of having
much less ever needingothers need
he providesa laugh finding escape through the grin
(so, backbreaking sex first, then worry about the fumblingly shy dinner date?)
bandanged hand reaching to feint chuck her shoulder
as if the air compressed between his knuckles and her sleeve were too much to passhe still doesn't know how much she's healed
"Tell you what... you drive, I'll buy."
he still owes her dinner
that much comes through the teasing tones
though after having slept in an alley
he's sure as fancy as she'd like and dressed for won't accept him
they'll have to make do(rune)
His knuckles come so close, and no closer (he still doesn't know how much she's healed) as if they were magnets, forces opposing. She breaches the space between them, slim wool-covered shoulder bumping gently against his wrapped knuckles."Livingston." That faint smile. That faint smirk. "Decker wouldn't. I'm not that proud."
Her head bobs in acknowledgment - you drive, I'll buy - and the scarf slips down from her mouth, bunches beneath her chin, soft fabric compressed as she completes the nod and reveals her faint, smirking grin to him at last.
"Denny's?" she offers, brows rising in question as she beeps the alarm off, beeps the doors unlocked and circles the car to climb into the driver's side. Her own laughter - rueful, amused - escapes into the night then.
(james)
a nod up
(he's learning)
as enlightenment shines in his eyes
that would make sense
on all partspride doesn't always go hand in hand with wisdom
he knows of that the hard way"Nor as much of a masochist."
teased, still
sliding into luxury and closing the door on the (natural habitat) slum
seatbelt clicked with departing finality
how easy, it became, to step from one world into the otherand once more, the Gnawer reaches for the Walker
across the slim center console
as if his hand ached to catch up with his eyes
the eyes that gaze at the profile of pale face
the arm that reaches hand to just above her elbow
fingers sliding over soft wool to encase steel muscle beneathgrip firm and strong
a moment shared in the dark Z3 confines
a grin quirking only as she looks towards him"Denny's sounds divine."
I'm so glad to see you.
(rune)
Dark eyes closing, dark head lowering (almost like prayer) as his hand finds her arm. The pressure of strength - she can feel his in the warm grip, he can feel hers, solid beneath the give and clutch of soft wool - is both palpable and familiar and welcome as the dawn (or, for those who sleep all day: 4 p.m.).Sleek hair falls across her cheek, obscuring her profile as she starts the car. When the engine purrs to life, she looks to him at last: one long slow breath, the dance of eyes over his countenance, and the grin, mirrored and returned, returned and mirrored back at him: all the irony has bled from her lips and the expression is so raw - so disarmed - so unshielded that it is almost painful to see, that it burns like silver against the skin.
The moment is passing already. She turns her eyes to the road that unfolds beneath them, dark and broken as the buildings that surround it. His grip loosened, her arm slung casually around his seat after shifting into reverse as she backs up. Fingers brush across his shoulder, spill across dreads, graze the length of his arm (familiar) as her outflung arm folds back down to the gearshift.
The road, then. A corner taken sharply, a light just missed, the quiet silent idle until it changes again, and so on, and so on.
She doesn't like silences. He knows how she fills them with noise - CDs blasting, her own mouth running a mile a minute in desultory, meaningless commentary. She doesn't like silences, but she's quiet now. She doesn't say anything in reply, and perhaps the slow murmur of her breath and his drawn in tandem, perhaps the brief, bright grin, perhaps these are all the reply he needs.
[fade]
Posted by james at November 25, 2002 12:00 AM
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