December 04, 2002.12.03.02. - at the carwash [rune][north jersey]
(rune)
The parking lot to the access road, access road to the freeway. One mile. Five miles. Ten miles. Fifty aimless miles later, they’re still in the middle of the vast Jersey sprawl. North, and then east, around the endless loops and whorls of the interstate system that coils and recoils upon itself, sending out rabid feeders and drawing them back again, incestuous.She drives hard, and fast, shifting angrily and passing recklessly, and despite all her rough handling, the engine still leaps and purrs, responsive to her hand. So five miles, ten or fifty miles later - half-an-hour, perhaps a little more - she drops the car into lower gear and slides from one of the many loops of interstate into one of the many vast strips of congested commercial development, the vast plantations of malls and strip malls with their wide asphalt skirts of parking lots spread out around them like so many demure southern belles.
The malls are closed, as are most of the stores (though the bars - sports bars, car bars, naked-women-dancing-on-tables-with-overpriced-watered-down-drinks bars - and a few of the kitschy restaurants and every damn pizza place and Chinese take-out places remain open), except for those monstrosities of discount commerce in which Rune almost never sets foot: Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Target. In Rune’s peculiar hierarchy, Target is the best of the damn bunch, and it’s there she stops. It’s there she parks in the handicapped space at the front of the populated lot and climbs out of the car with half a phrase be right back falling from her thinned and still angry mouth. And it’s from there she returns, bag swinging in her hand to be dumped on the floor in front of the seat where her packmate perches: boxers, two pairs of pants, two shirts, jacket, all in James’ approximate size visible through the yawning mouth of the plastic bag..
Half-a-mile later, she pulls up short and spins in a wild left-hand turn across traffic, maneuvering around a darkened service station to the deserted self-serve car wash beyond. Her door, then his, opened and closed, the windows secured, the convertible top checked for leaks before she begins feeding dollar bills to the machine mounted on the wall, summoning steaming water and soap to exorcize the demons of mud and ill-use from her beloved BMW.
(james)
perches?
clings
four paws are not made for high-speed driving
three, if you count the favor on right front
and while he has better "car balance" than most canines would
the ride and.... perch.... is a little precarious
is it possible for a dog to look worried?he does
just a bit
velvet ears half-cocked backwards
browpoints slightly lifted
not even wanting to consider the consequences of nailmarks upon leather
he doesn't relax until they're parked in the handecapitated space infront of Target
(nono... it is Tarzje)
pulling the typical greeing of the wagged tail as she slides back into the driver's seat
he doesn't risk shifting just yetit's not until she pulls that wide left-hand swing that leaves muscular shoulder leaning against the door that he really moves
the door opened
the animal nosing into the bag to pull out a set of clothes and disappearing out the back of the self-serve carwash
into some conglomeration of bushes that accounts for privacy
while he was able to dedicate most of his clothing
he was not particularly in them when he shifted
a few moments later the dim floodlights reveal one Bone Gnawer strolling back towards the carand what a strange sight that must be
James. In unstained clothes.
James. In wholly clean clothes.
James. In new clothes.
Opening the door and sinking back into the seat to open the packet of new socks.
Pulling on new boots.
Standing and shrugging on a new jacket.
Then closing the door to walk towards the sprayer nozzle and lift it from the wall."Thank you."
murmured past that silly little grin
while he's gotten clothes that were new to him
they've never been new new
brand. spanking. new.
crisp and stiff against his skin and needing to be broken in
the cotton thick and heavy
the boots unscuffed and with a tough sole
he's actually.... rather fascinated by the experience(rune)
"Yeah," the word, breathed, acommpanied by the quirk of something familiar in answer to that silly grin lurking somewhere beneath her tight-lipped and ever-so-damn-red smirk, though not quite breaking through, not now, not yet. The wave of her hand - not quite dismissive, at least, not dismissive of his experience, just of anything like gratitude for her part in it. "Don't mention it."The last rumpled dollar is finally (at last!) devoured by the fitful and exacting machine, and Rune punches the obligatory codes into the control panel on the side of the concrete block wall, ordering up the SuperDuperSupremeMegaUltra Wash, and it damn well better be good: the whole time he was disappearing and dressing and unfolding new socks and folding new-socked feet into stiff-new-boots, she was feeding bills into the greedy little car wash idol.
He grabs the spraywasher. She grabs the soft-bristled scrubbing soap-mop thingie and yanks the slithering hose with more force than necessary, making sure she has enough give and play to reach the both sides without dragging it over the car and scratching the finish, then strips off her gloves and stuffs them into her pocket.
"You spray, I'll scrub." Flatly spoken, almost a concession, she would almost like to do it all herself, to throw herself into the effort until every iota of anger hand been translated and trasmuted through the virtue of hard physical work. And indeed, for all her spoiled air, she is not adverse to hard physical work, to getting her hands dirty: she pumps her own gas, she changes her own oil. No, she's certainly not adverse to hard physical word, long as she doesn't break a nail.
And then - just then, as she turns away from her - the flash of genuine humor in a smirk tossed over her shoulder, along with a few dry words. "...just remember. The water should go on the car. Not me."
Was that an invitation?
(james)
a brow lifts
a grin spreads
there's a half-pause, but he says it anyway"But I like it when you're wet."
he's not about to dare spraying her
but heavy dreads swing to help hide
(can't believe he said that out loud)
stepping back to angle before pulling the trigger
hosing down the Beemerand, most definitely, not her
scrubbing off as much mud as he can with the blasting water pressure
she may be looking forward to the hard work to vent the anger
he's still tripping out on the new clothes(rune)
The twitch of almost-movement as she half-turns her head, as she comes just this close to glancing over her shoulder at him. Dark strands of hair fall gently across her angled profile - no more than the curve of cheek and the suggestion of nose beyond - before she turns back and dives into her work: swan dive baby, with a triple flip back round-off, or something of the kind.Soon enough, she shrugs her coat from her shoulders, flings it out into the parking lot as protection against the water rolling off the sleek lines of the car and pooling on the concrete floor, oozing with mud and thick with the dust of endless miles from whereever the hell it is that Decker went. Silence - this intense silence - still his answer. Only the rhythmic movement of her strong, lean body, the bunch and pull of muscle revealed more with every passing second because - even though he - most definitely - does not spray the steaming water at her, her shirt soaks it up when she sprawls across the front end to get to this spot, or than, when she rests her shoulder against the side while scrubbing out the wheelwells and on, and on, and so on.
Hot water flies through frigid air, and by the time the convertible is bright and gleaming clean, the narrow little car wash stall is filled with a soft, rolling fog. Only then - only when the metallic finish (unscratched, praise everything that's holy) and roof are gleaming, the windows shining, and the alloy wheels and even the damn tires scrubbed clean of every last shred of mud and dust and dirt and salt and grime, only when every last kamikaze insect body has been sluiced down the drain with all that spent earth, only then does she rise and look at him at last, dark eyes scraping a slow path over James in his crisp new clothes (notice how well they fit and you'll know how well she knows the body beneath), still rough, still not broken in.
"Yeah," she says, her eyes finding his, slow smirk breaking through her thin-lipped mask at last. "I know you like it when I'm wet. Y'know what?"
Thunk. Scrub brush and every other accessory she managed to use and abuse shoved back into their metallic forceps, arms swinging back to her side, one rising to rake through her hair, the other beginning a long, twisting stretch above her head, a stretch that rolls through her body like water, twsting all the kinks out of well-used muscles with now-lazy precision.
"I kinda like it too."
(james)
throughout this, he watches
throughout this, he helps as best he can
spraying off where she scrubs to reveal any leftovers beneatha brow sorta.... lifts.... as she leans across the car
(oh. my. god.)
head ducking a bit to let dreads swing and cover the resultant grin
the growing steam helping soften the clothes
(he noticed how well they fit, which.. still... surprised him)
and when she shoves the tools away
he adds the sprayer to the rackturning back to just
watch
her for a long, lingering moment
the way the fog ripples and swirls around her
an absent wonder on how it must feel on her arms bared by sleeves pushed up
an absent step closer to her stretching form"Oh?"
a hand reaches
from one urban predator to the other
lost somewhere in this cityscape mist
he could so easily forget the rest of the world exists beyond the humid blanket
finger closing on the soaked fabric on her belly
and sloooooooowwwwlllly pulling it from her flesh and the curves beneath
that grin rather boyish
(and so, so shy)"Guess I should have.... sprayed you...."
(rune)
Dark eyes drift down, then - linger over the shy curve of his smile (if anything, her own knowing smirk grows wider in response), crawl over the muscled flare of shoulder, follow the long line of outstretched arm to the capable hand and rough fingers gripping silky soaked turtleneck, pulling it away from her skin."Maybe you should have," her breathing slows, her breathing stills, and each drawn breath is deliberately taken, deliberately expelled, with careful and oh-so-aware precision, diaphragm bunching and lifting and rising and falling against clinging fabric. "But I don't think it matters."
She should move. She should step forward, or backward, she should shift or twist or turn. She should spin abruptly about to rescue her discarded coat from the dark expanse of the asphalt skirt beyond or saunter deliberately forward and kiss every vestige of breath from his lungs. She should move. she should do something, she should do anything to break the wicked tension growing between them now.
She should, but she does not. She does not, she does precisely nothing but stand there and fucking watch him and fucking smile that devouring, predatory smile.
"It looks like I managed it anyway."
(james)
her breathing stills
his breathing near stops
lips parted to say something that just doesn't quite make it past that damned grin
lack of breath amplifying the thump of heart behind his ribshers is wicked and devouring
his is just sorta stunned
watching the rough curve of knuckles against soft fabric
and finally
finally
he brings himself to look up
to crawl up the lines of knit to her throat
across her jaw, chin, nose
finally finding those dark pools of her eyesand somewhere in there - he drowns
"So....."
the drop of gaze away
lower lip drawn beneath teeth
the grin wandering rogue
grip on fabric tugging her gently closer"What do we do about it?"
(rune)
"I don't know."Sly tease dances in her eyes when he finds them, dances - still - when his eyes drop away. Her own gaze drops in almost mocking mirror of his own, head shifting to the side, chin lowering to graze the lowering fall of right shoulder, eyes half-lidded now, gleaming through a filter of fine dark lashes. But there's nothing shy about that look. There's nothing shy about that look.
He tugs her gently closer: a mere tug on wet fabric, no more than a suggestion to movement. And move she does, so perhaps that suggestion was all she needed. Move she does, one long lean stride, and then another, forward, boot planted (a quiet thud) between his feet, leatherclad thigh of her forwardmost leg pressing assertive between his own, damp fabric brushing against brand. new. cotton. with the crest of each breath, his now-trapped hand the only bar between the utter collision of their bodies.
"Why don't - " Lazy arm unfurling to drift over his shoulder, lean lazy hand splaying to plunge into his dreadlocks, lazy mouth parting somewhere in the vicinity of his ear. "- you. tell. me."
(james)
the shiver that runs through his form is not from the cold
it's from something quite opposite
and when she moves
(oh god she moves)
he relinquishes his hold on her shirt
and then takes hold of herpulling her damp form against that new coat
pulling that assertive step right. on. up.
her smile infectious... contagious
she can feel it against the curve of her neck
drawn by the warmth of slow (shakey) exhale
in response to her lazy words
in response tothat lookand that's when he moves
a step back
pulling her with him
back towards those sheilding shadows"I. Have a few ideas."
(rune)
"Do you." There's a short quick rise on the first consonant, followed by a knowing descrescendo on the looooooong drawn out vowel. Despite the lingering emphasis on the first word, the phrase is nothing like a question. "...I was hoping you did."He steps back - and back, and back, and back - pulling her with him from the floodlit theater of the car wash to the dark shadows - darker, even, than most in constrast to the brightly lit bays - beyond. He steps back, he pulls her with him, and she follows, not even a step behind. Nowhere close to a step behind, stalking forward as he retreats, each inch a heated mile marked by the strong retort of her booted feet against asphalt.
Somehow her hands are on his skin, thrashing the new jacket from his shoulders, winding (sidewinding) up beneath the stitched hem of new cotton shirt, tracing the cut and curve of long muscle framing his spine that flexes and extends with every backwards step. Somehow, the heat generated by strong bodies crushed close (and moving) is enough to banish the winter chill from the air. And somehow her mouth finds his - teeth scraping from ear to throat to jaw to lips, tugging hard before closing in for the kill.
I have some ideas too.
(james)
a part of him screams they're in public
and a part of him suddenly craves it
others can show how they feel so easily
others can be witnessed without repercussion
and while he doesn't exactly feel the sudden urge for exhibitionism
right now?
they aren't behind the closed doors of the condo
and perhaps some of the jealousy that had grown in the past twenty-four hours
finally finds a tiny spark of freedomsomewhere in the shadows
somewhere beyond the bays
somewhere around a corner
somewhere in their own, private, mist shrouded darkness
there's a wall
he found it before to hide his shift
he uses it now to hide themtheir progress halted when his shoulder snags cinderblock
his path changes to spin
jacket shrugged from its final cling to his arms
hands finding their way beneath soaked turtleneck and pushing her against the wall in sudden pin by the length of his entire formTell me.
words heated as they spill across her mind
her ability to speak consumed by scorching touch of lips
she had idly pondered kissing the very vestige of breath from his lungs
now he is the one to complete the thought(rune)
The rough wall screens them from the wintry wind, and its falling shadow hides them from the world. Above, the sky - almost cloudless but still tainted with light through which only a few of the brightest stars can shine - is wide and endless as the vast stretch of unwelcoming concrete and brick and asphalt, another sort of jungle, the kind their kind own. Around them: the city's distinctive, noisy silence, a constant droning hum of engines and electricity, neverending, neverending.His assault surprises her, and for a moment - for only a moment - she is defenseless, yielding to the forward surge of his body. The moment passes in an instant - in less than an instant - and she is surging back against him, back arching to meet the press of his body, meeting him strength for strength in a familiar war of attrition.
Tell me. His words curl gently in her mind, the communication more intimate than any other shared on Eagle's great, sweeping wings. Tell me - he says as he spins, and pushes her back against the rough wall, pinning her between strong invasive body and hard, unyielding brick in the shadows where none can see. Rough mortar and red stone catch on the weave of delicate fabric - and then as the hem rises beneath his hands, rises with the tide of their bodies - scrapes soft skin beneath, but she doesn't feel it. She doesn't feel a thing.
You.
She doesn't feel a thing beyond the cocoon of heat cycled between their crushed bodies, nothing beyond his thigh pressing between her own (or is that her thigh between his. both, then. both.), nothing beyond his hips against hers, lifting her up by certain degree until only her toes have purchase on the ground beneath them, and then not even that. Her arms are around his shoulders, one hand buried in his hair, the other pulling bunching cotton blindly in some attempt to separate him from the last barrier between their bodies, tearing at last when the weave does not give. Her arms are around his shoulders, and her thighs have settled at last in a tight circle around his hips. It's as close to surrender as she will ever come.
Make. Me. Burn.
Violent action is unclear to most of those who get caught up in it. Experience is fragmentary; cause and effect, why and how are torn apart. Only sequence exists. First this then that. And so it is now: first this, and then that, his mouth, her lips, her thighs, his hips, her hand tangled in his hair, his hands burning against her skin and the stoic rough wall behind and the night spread out from them, at once finite and neverending.
Posted by james at December 04, 2002 12:00 AM
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