drums-on-skulls: .12.05.02. - counterstrike [rune]

December 05, 2002

.12.05.02. - counterstrike [rune]

[condo]

[decker and imogen are already playing,
damon: (it's Werewolves of Our Lives again...)
wolf: (hey man, every thursday night at 8 *smile*)
damon: (*LOL* "and in this episode, Decker confesses to being madly in love with Rune, who is pregnant with Erik's child but in love with James, who's in love with Rune but really gay deep down inside, and Imogen's coming out of the closet as a lesbian.") ]

(james)
he's watched them play it a thousand times
most of the button clicks are still random
though he has the menu figured out
setting the level (easy)
choosing the options (uh... none)
customizing the controller buttons (.....right)
navigation is rough
and this is red-screen of death number four

but each time he seems to get another 15 yards or so into the game
.... maybe

tucked down between the couch and the coffeetable
beer half-finished and sitting on a coaster
long muscles of his back pressed against the sculpted leather
brows furrow in half confused concentration
dreads hanging in disarray over his shoulders from the repeated rake of fingers driven by humorous frustration
the trigger-clicks of buttons pauses
hand flexing as he lets go of the controller and reaches for the beer
toasting red-screen of death number five

(rune)
Maybe the dying cries of his alter-ego cover the scrap of keys in the door and the swing of netted shopping bag (damn weird environmentalists) and the clang of bottles and cans jumbled together and shoved as best they could be into the three shopping bags she brought with her (paper or plastic? the cashier asked, eyeing the sleek woman nervously. something about her made him want to bolt. neither, she said, red lips quirking upward into a caustic little smirk as she lifted her hand above the conveyor belt that would not stop moving. I brought my own. That much glass, that many cans, and she brought her own bags? Twisted priorities.) to the Safeway. Maybe the martial soundtrack covers the muted retort of her feet on the carpet and the clatter of three bags shifted and dumped across the breakfast bar. Still, the game does nothing to his sense of smell.

And that is her scent, carried on the sharp current of wintry air spilling in from outside. Her scent, made ashen by cigarettes, overlaid by the sour tinge of the cab in which she rode to and back from the store (risk her Beemer on snow-covered streets when she hadn't seen this much snow on the streets in almost fourteen years? Think again.).

"Practicing for the pack tournament?" she asks, from behind him, from just behind, leaning her right hip against the back of the leather couch. Rune tugs her leather glove from her hand - grasping the wrist between her teeth and pulling - before sliding her fingers across his scattered dreadlocks. "Y'know, we used to settle some challenges with video games. Doubt that'll catch on with this crowd, though."

(james)
her scent
above red screen of wailing death
above the beer
above the humored frustration at every failure
he would never, ever, miss her scent
a brow lifting with quirked grin
chin lifting in leaning back into her touch while still attempting to maintain the 15 yards per persona level of excellence

"Oh no.... I'm aiming for more deaths in one hour than all of you put together since we've been here."

red screen of death number six
this is not among his repetoire of two things at once
celebrated with another slug from the bottle
twisting to lean elbow across the pillows and toast her, this time

"Last time I played video games was at nickle arcade down on 42nd in Albany... oh.... two years ago?"

(rune)
"You've got a long way to go to match all of us put together, you know. I've been here for more than a year," she murmurs, watching as her hand drifts idly down over thick dreads until at last she finds his skin. The soft pads of her fingers drift idly over his temple, then skim to trace his hairline down to his ear. "...and I can't even begin to count the number of games I've played. Y'need to find the grenade launcher. It's the best weapon in the early part of this level, and it'll help you get past that guarded door."

Dark eyes drift down from Red Screen of Death No. 6 and settle on the beer bottle, watching as he toasts her, watching as he lifts it to his mouth, watching as he takes another swallow of the amber liquid.

"What'd you play at the nickle arcade in Albany?" half-a-step to the side, half-a-step forward, half-an-amused grin, and she is balanced against the back of the couch, which hits her just below the waist, and leans forward like a bird of prey perched on the edge of its nest. Dark hair dances around her jaw line, falling free until she tucks it behind her ear. Amusement laces her tone. "Ms. Pacman?"

(james)
"Grenade launcher.... right."

when soft pads hit scalp and nails comb dreads then reach around to cup his face
he doesn't give a damn about the grenade launcher
soft smile turned up towards her
dark eyes climbing slowly up the length of her arm towards her face

then after a moment of searching memories
those eyes drift away
focusing maybe on her ear, the curve of her jaw, the swell of her cheek
then at the multi-buttoned controller of complication doom

"Cooper and I used to stick to games that had one joystick and three buttons.... Mortal Combat, Street Fighter, and yeh, Frogger and Pacman, too. Sledge dug Grand Turismo. Pinball was a hit with everybody."

(rune)
"Love pinball, but not the modern ones that try to be video games, too. There, your fate's mostly in the hands of luck, there's less you can do to direct the ball, keep it moving and so on." The half-grin does not fade from her face, nor does it grow wider. It remains there, softening the sharp lines of her features and warming her dark eyes. "Mostly I prefer shooter games like this one, but I have a soft spot for Frogger. I remember someone had an Atari when I was a kid, and whenever my folks and their roommates would be all passed out, I'd sneak outta our room and play."

She continues her exploration of the lines of his face - trailing her fingers along his jaw until it meets his neck, following the trace of pulse beneath his skin to the broad expanse of muscled shoulder, finding the sharp line of collarbone beneath the corded muscle. Meanwhile, her other hand has taken the place of this first, slender fingers dancing lightly over dreads, sifting through and sorting them from confused disarray to some semblance of order.

Her can feel her hesitation - a drawn breath held for a moment, then exhaled almost soundlessly, then another, all expectancy, similarly spent without words. Then even her trailing hand stills, palm settling over his shoulder, fingers draped forward, thumb just grazing down his back. This time, when she draws a breath, she speaks, voice quiet, with only a minimum of breath to give wings to her words.

"Cooper, Sledge. Your pack?"

(james)
beneath her slow exploration
his eyes just fall lightly closed
he can't see her soft grin
but it's reflected in his own features

"Yea... Momma Ruggs had an Atari that worked occasionally. Where I first learned how to play Frogger."

his voice soft in remniscence
bicep curls
lifting rough fingers to trace across the smooth planes of the bones of her hand
thumb and forefinger circling her wrist
as if to capture and mold that hesitation
but instead it seems to be what pulls him up onto the couch
socked feet pressing against the ground in the slither up onto the pillows
rough new fabric of his pants chafing scrape against leather
lifting himself into the near embrace
head tilting to lean against the lowest curve of her ribs
there's a silence inbetween them
then a breif nod... down

"Rounded out with Chris and.... Jenna."

(rune)
The last of her breath is exhaled with the quiet amusement of shared experience - the occasionally available Atari, the crudely animated frog hopping from log to floating log, then scurrying over a flat gray street, heavily trafficked, straight as a ruler.

His hand circles her wrist; her own hand turns over, wrist and palm sliding through his grip until her fingers can lace with his own. Her second hand stills against his dreads, smoothing them against his scalp. He can feel the movement of her arm expressed through her body, the subtle movement of musculature, and he can feel the breath she draws, diapraghm contracting as her lungs fill with breath. This time, there is no hesitation. "Jenna?"

(james)
there's a sound that's in his throat
caught somewhere between sigh and soft moan
brought on by the twining touch
brought on by the sudden ache that surfaces again
and that grip of fingers tightens
slow roll of each digit pressing between her knuckles
spreading her hand against his
one. two. there. four. thumb sealing the deal

"Jenna was kin, but hung out with us enough we joked she was just one of the gang. She....."

he stops
breath filling lungs in slow sigh
as if the one he had before was wrong
it wasn't the one to utter the words
this one seems right
but the volume is so much smaller
he always said he'd never keep anything from them

"She was my mate."

(rune)
She was my mate.

She knows the shape of his loss, and she knows the weight of it. She knows how it fills him - wide and achingly deep - how it burns him as silver burns, still, how it does not heal. And now there is a name for it it, two-syllables, not enough to warrant even a full breath, little more than half-a-sigh.

"I want you to know, James, that you don't need to answer if you don't wish to answer, but I'm going to ask in case you do," she murmurs, her sardonic voice solemn and oddly reflective. Compassion - or empathy - or whatever it is that drives her to speak to him, to flex her fingers and squeeze her hand in his grip, to cup his cheek with her second hand before it drifts down, fingers splayed, to settle over his heart. "What happened?"

She has never felt such sorrow. Perhaps, she reflects, unseen mouth curving into a bitter half-smile, she is incapable of it, made of more brittle, less giving stuff than he.

(james)
what he's made of gives so much it has crumbled into pieces
but only if the right thing pushes on it
that right thing sharper than any blade
stronger than any jackhammer
it can take what won't back down from anything and turn it into fracture pieces that may never again be whole

and he can't help the slight smile
some wry twist that creeps over his features
even breaking through the thick layer of sorrow
but before he answers
his body twists once again
free arm hooking around her waist
slow contraction of muscle pulling her over the back of the couch
bringing her into his lap
bringing her up close
replacing that hand against his heart with the long muscles of her back

"I'd answer anything you asked."

murmured by warm breath against her hair
trapped between his lips and her neck
hands wandering to find hers and reclasp again

"Chris fell first, he was the youngest, the most impressionable - whatever it is they said to him must have sounded far sweeter than anything he could ever sing to us over trashcan fires in cold winter nights. Or they finally found something he couldn't fight. Sledge was next, Chris was the one that helped bring her into the labyrinth... and together they brought down Cooper. Then Cooper corrupted Jenna to get to me."

he was always the strongest
he was always the one with the blind faith in Gaia's war
and for some reason, he still has his faith
even if he has every reason to question it
he still holds so tight to that belief it suffocates

"And. After I finally realized what had happened. I killed them all in the same order."

[con't .12.06.02.]

[condo]

(rune)
James shifts and pulls Rune over the edge of the couch, strong arms contracting about her waist and lifting her without much apparent effort. As he settles her on his lap, he can feel the thread of her resistance in her paraspinal muscles, knotted with an odd tension. She remains stiff for a moment - two, perhaps even three - before allowing her body to relax back against his by slow, yielding degree.

It’s hard to imagine Rune sitting so easily in any other’s lap, secured by his arms wreathed around her flanks to clasp her hands, but she has broken the pattern for him in so many other ways, why not in this? She - who usually kicks her partners out of her bed before falling into sprawled and blissful sleep (alone) has woken to James beside her, his arm tucked around her, his body stretched long beside her, sheets rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath, his abdomen warm beneath her outflung hand more nights than she can count.

And so: he snags her about the waist, and lifts her over the edge of the couch. He settles her in his lap, and - oddly enough - there she stays. His breath stirs her hair, and seeps through the inky strands to stain her skin beneath. He finds her hands again, and their fingers clasp together, fitted like molded pieces of a scattered puzzle. Strange to think it, but it all feels as natural as breathing.

Hips shift, hamstrings stretch long as she extends her legs and nudges boots molded to the shape of foot and calf off with the concerted movement of her opposite foot. The leather sighs as its grip is broken, and once both boots are loosened - toes scraping the instep, heels somewhere in the middle of the generous curve the fits so well to her calf - she kicks the boots off. Each lands on the coffee table, and skids across the slick surface to fall on the other side with a soft thud. As she settles back against him, she drags one clasped hand across her body, to settle on the opposite hip, and lifts the other to her mouth, red lips moving gently - indiscriminately - over their clasped fingers.

You did the right thing - she could say - or they had it coming. How awful, she could respond. There are any number of platitudes, any number of clichés that present themselves, packaged for just such occasions, hollowed phrases worn smooth, emptied of meaning by the passing generations. There are any number of phrases she could utter now, but somehow her quiet statement speaks volumes more than any of them would, offered in its place. “She was pregnant.”

(james)
it's been two years
it's been two years

since he's allowed anyone remotely close
since he's woken next to a warm body in bed
since he's willingly pulled someone towards him instead of recoiling away
since he even realized these emotions existed within broken soul

since he's spoken single word of what happened

he's quiet as she adjusts
as the boots she wears to tackle the frozen sidewalks disappear in favor the warmth he offers
strong muscle relaxing, directed by her hands
fingers curving around the crest of her hip, pulling her snug
the other submitting to red, red lips' exploration
bathed in the words that never fully form

how willingly he's given in to her

his chest fills against her back
slow and deep - but the last eighth hitches
as if the knife plunged so deeply were twisted yet again after it had been still so long
and the exhale is idle, meandering, and distracted
he can still see the look in her eyes
every emotion he begged to see still existed
twisted with everything he had feared most

she can hear the shift of dreadlocks over his shirt
she can feel the movement of his head
the answer to her statement laying in the way his head tucks against the back of her shoulder

(rune)
Silence, then. Only silence.

Silence is all she can offer him. All she can offer him is this silence: breaths drawn in tandom - his chest expanding against the curve of her spine, her shoulders rising slow against his chest, subtle and unmistakeable - and the silken movement of painted lips over rough knuckles, passage smoothed by smeared lipstick, the faint creak of leather as she curls her legs to one side, the sure shift of her hips in his lap as she half-turns in his embrace, the curve of her shoulder digging into his muscled chest.

She uncurls her hand from his and reaches to shift his dreadlocks from his face, then presses a warm kiss to his temple, his forehead. Acknowledgment, shared sorrow, awareness of his pain, the mute helplessness of her response.

This silence - this pregnant, breathing silence - she offers him in lieu of empty words, in lieu of comforting platitudes that hold nothing in the way of comfort, in lieu of stoic righteousness: this silence, this pregnant, breathing silence.

(james)
condolences are never a comfort
no matter how much someone seems to understand
even if they've been through something so damnably similar
they were never there
they could never feel the same pain
they could never fathom everything
because it didn't happen to them
it happened to him

someone who believed in his cause so very much
he destroyed his family instead of joined them
and oddly, it is something he never questioned
he never wondered why he simply didn't fight back
there was never the thought to cross over the darkest of lines
he knew without doubt what he had to do
he could just never understand why they abandoned Gaia

or maybe that's the one thing he couldn't accept
why they abandoned him
and now, perhaps, is when his temptation is the greatest
in these strange silences that allow him to think
to remember and to wade through the tangible sorrow
to wonder, maybe, if he could have saved her
(even if he knows beyond anything there was no other way)
to wonder, maybe, if he could have saved his little girl
(even if he knows the darkness had already overtaken her)

her shoulder digging into his chest reminds him of the present
and his embrace breifly tightens
wondering if the pressure on the front of his heart will push the knife from the back of it
his head falling to hang against her
tucking down into the curve of arm that reaches for hand to smooth dreads
then his mind changes, lifting yet again

"It's when I earned my deed name."

a sad smile tugs at the corner of his lips
everything else he's told her looking away
but for this he once more found her eyes

(rune)
Her brow finds his temple, and her hand slides from his dreads down over the back of his skull, until her arm settles around his shoulders. Hips shift gently against his body, thighs draw up and knees crook before she bends to peel the sheer trouser socks she wears beneath her high heeled boots from her feet. Bared now, her toes curl into the depression between cushions as her body relaxes once more against his chest.

"It's a cruel name to have to bear."

She carries no such reminders. There are no battle scars in her soft white flesh, no furrows from which blood once flowed to remind her of almost-mortal wounds, no names appended to her that must be announced every time she meets another Garou. There are only stories, and here - on another coast, so far away from tribe and sept - perhaps not even that. It's almost as if it never happened. Here, she can pretend it never happened at all.

"My Alpha fell."

Dark eyes calm - only reflected sorrow there, only his own sorrow reflected there - dark lashes lowering to shade the dark orbs, she offers nothing more. Shaking her second hand free of the twining clasp and curling his now-liberated hand firmly upon her hip, she curves her arm against the curve of her torso and lifts her fingers to his mouth. She traces the line of his sad smile, absently following the heavy curve of his lower lip before her index finger comes to rest against the corner of his mouth.

(james)
even now, discussing what hurt him more than anything before
he's comfortable here
with her
curled on the couch
(you're playing with fire, James)
for however long it lasts
his shoulders shrugging beneath the settling arm
his pause acknowledges her loss
his ramble simply filling the silence

"The scars are from Cooper's talons..... when he gave me the name that night, the Theurge rubbed ash into them so I'd never forget."

the tragedy
the honor
the regret
the glory

"He kept going on about something about the day I stopped being just Jukebox and became a true Warrior. It doesn't hurt to say as much as it used to."

helps him remember they did not die in vain
rough palm tightens against leather
soft smile risking itself against her finger
but his lips remain pressed together
a breif question in his eyes
but gaze drops before it can even complete itself there

while he loves knowing anything she will tell him
while he wants to know everything about her
it wouldn't matter - being with her now is what he cares about
and he knows it is not his place to ask

(rune)
How many nights has she scored his back, red nails drawing red blood from superficial scratches among the darkened furrows that criss-cross his shoulders and back? Her mouth curves into a reflective - deflective - half-smile, and in place of offered words, in place of broken silence, in place of confession (what could she hope to gain, how much did she have to lose?) she gives him her touch.

(She bears no scars.)

The hand splayed across across new cotton lifts and dives beneath; warm fingers, soft and uncalloused, find one of the many dark scars etched into his flesh and trace the twisted, knotted flesh. Five talons, digging; five fingers, spreading to follow their path, the glide of her hand felt more referentially - when her thumb crosses unscarred skin, when her index finger skids over the crest of a particularly deep gouge to the unbroken skin beyond. Beneath the scars, she can feel his strength, not merely the physical strength of young muscle swelling beneath skin, but - perhaps she imagines it - something deeper, more rooted and more sure.

(She bears no scars.)

The gleam of recognition - the question unasked, never completed - and dark lashes lower, demurring answer. She finds his skin beneath his clothing, and she finds his mouth beneath her hand. The kiss is gentle and brief, but lingers somehow, still, presaged by a quick inhalation, followed by the rush of her breath - hot - over his lips. He will feel her words before he hears them, so quiet is her voice. "Another time," murmurs. "Maybe I'll tell you another time. There's not much of a tale to tell." And then she finds his mouth again.

(She bears no scars.)

(james)
muscle slinks a slow roll beneath her fingers
as if it were twisting and stretching sentiently in rise to her touch, to her nails
it is far more than simply the swell of breath
and there's a tremble that etches its way beneath skin
but he doesn't even tempt the reason why
simply accepting the exploring touch

he wonders
without the jagged ridges
would she still know the paths to trace?
(yes)
does she know him more intimately than even he intended?
(do you really want to know, Jamey-boy)
how strange it is the things he questions
how strange it is, the time his eyes choose to lift once more

surfacing from mired past to focus. directly. on. her.
sitting perfectly still though she touches the deepest wounds
(I had everything I ever desired and needed..... everything....)
deep umber falling to drown in recognition's gaze
following the demure downcast as if he could see through lashed curtain
(and when I lost it all, I shattered into more pieces than I can begin to count)
one hand lifting to cup her jaw after the kiss
lips drawing into smile warmed by the rush of her breath
a soft wonder tinging the slow curve
(.... and why is it..... you seem to be putting my pieces back together...)

and without a word
she knows it doesn't matter when she tells him
she knows it doesn't matter if she never does
what matters to him, here and now
is that she's here.... now
that she would consider sharing with him what he has lain prostrated at her feet
that she has accepted him - for however long - without judgement
that her curves press (burning) against him

it's that contentment, now

and while he would never put to words the expression that watches her
perhaps that is something else she has come to know
the silly little grin that begins to bloom again before her mouth finds his
the way he has put aside everything that was, for everything that is
past forgotten
death forgotten
beer forgotten
counterstrike forgotten
as weight shifts to hide dark scars against the plush leather pillows
arms wrapped round drawing her over him
right now.... she is all he needs

(rune)
There’s heat, beneath the tender touch of her lips, beneath the weaving caress of her fingers across his deepest wounds, slow-growing, slow-seeping heat that burns (still) just beneath the surface of her skin, just beneath the reflective darkness of her eyes, shaded by half-lowered lashes. Heat that rises like the sun on a bright summer’s day: it’s path plotted, observed, decoded, mapped and known, but still surprising (the sudden catch of her breath, the rapid rhythm of her peripheral pulse beneath his hand, answering his own.

Outside, snow still falls, blanketing the suburban/urban landscape in a fresh, clean blanket of white above the reflective glaze of icy streets. The parking lot is covered. The tracks sketched by her taxi down the access road and to the front of the house have already disappeared. The snow mutes the ever-present hustle and bustle of the city, and some of that quiet has found its way into the bland condominium, undistinguishable from half-a-hundred others in this development, by half-a-million others within a fifteen mile radius.

He shifts back, and lifts her over him, and she shifts with him, moving with effortless instinct at his direction. Both hands find his hair now, plunge through the tangled dread locks. One remains, twisted amongst the heavy dreads while the other falls to cup his cheek, lift his chin, lift his gaze to hers.

Dark as her eyes are, they still catch and refract the ambient light. Perhaps he can see himself through her eyes. Perhaps that is another gift they give - and freely - in moments such as this. If only he could see himself through her eyes.

And so there is heat: her mouth on his, her hand in his hair, her hand on his skin, the slow pressure of her thumb beneath the kiss. There is heat, rich, smoldering like a peat fire, like a coal seem aflame beneath the skin of the earth: everburning. Her mouth slides to the corner of his own, lingers on the apex of his silly grin, then falls across his skin and her body burns in his arms.

He will not say the words.
She will not say the words.
And so their bodies speak for them. And so there is heat now. There is heat, again. There is always heat.

And someday, he will see himself through her eyes.

Posted by james at December 05, 2002 12:00 AM

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