December 19, 2002.12.19.02. - lights off: one week, pt 2 [rune][cont'd from previous scene, north jersey hotel]
(rune)
Lost somewhere between sleep and the waking world, (It’s dark. - it’s dark? - Gotta be. Can’t see anything. - eyes closed? - Hmm. Open now. Nope. Still dark.), Rune gradually, cautiously, and with great care and forethought, dares to open one eye. She see some dim reflection of that eye in the convex surface of a stainless steel dome lid blinking back at her from several feet away. They ordered room service somewhere in the middle of the night, or the day ( - what day is this?- don’t. know.) or the next night: it’s really hard to tell. They ordered room service at some point while still conscious and semi-coherent, and devoured the food necessary to refuel with little regard for the niceties of tables manners, and now, one of the lids cast unceremoniously aside sends an image of her half-open eye back to her from its precarious perch on the plundered cart.( - wonder what that is - )
The rest of the reflection is distorted and malformed. Her eye is elongated, the lashes impossibly long, floating in a sea of tanned flesh that stretches to the edges of the dome and curls back around. Warmth asserts itself - she can feel that too, his body beneath her, and the slow rhythm of his breath, and she knows he is there because she can feel him sleep, not just through the fine, frazzled nerve endings scattered through her skin, but also somewhere in her mind.
( - he’s sleeping. - ) half-a-slow .smug. smile crawls across her bruised and swollen mouth ( - he is sleeping - ) and she can still taste him, his sweat, his blood, his scent, heavy on her tongue ( - yum - )
She can feel him sleeping somewhere in her mind, the faint white noise of his dreamless slumber a low, comforting hum in her subconscious, never quite grasped but oh-so-present. Somewhere in the middle of the night the connection opened between them, and never quite closed. It was - amidst it all (and the specifics are sketchy, and will remain so) - an endless loop of feedback, some strange self-feeding flame.
( - should try to move. get up or something. shower. - )
The first bruises they inflicted upon each other have long since healed, the last have not even begun the process. There is not an inch of her body that does not ache, it seems, and indeed she has found new aches of which she was never before aware. Somehow she’s sprawled not alongside him, but mostly atop him, her head curled against his chest, her hair fanned out over his shoulder (even her hair seems to throb, each fucking individual strand.), her legs tangled with his. Taking careful inventory, she seems to have identified one single solitary spot that does not ache, and carefully curls her big toe against his calf. Turns out she was wrong. That hurts too.
( - can’t. stay here I guess. you’re still there. you’re sleeping. - )
(james)
mental feedback
physical feedback
visual feedback
vocal feedback
(oh. voooooocal)
fucking. sensory. overload.there's the low comforting hum of blown circuits sizzling in the back of her mind
that would be him.
(Hello? My name is James. Whatever you did to me last night has made me. Stoo. Pid.)
and so he cradles that stupidity somewhere in the aching blessed sleep of he who is so exhausted and happy about it it's ridiculous, whatever it is she did (what did she NOT do?) whatever strange mystical hedonistic voodoo that was suddenly in this preistess Ahroun's grasp on the full fucking moon has plummeted this guttermutt, this Bone Gnawer, this chosen of Gaia's warriors into a legless armless senseless mindless pile of musculoskeletal primordial OOZE that couldn't move right now if he wanted to
and he doesn't
he's happy right where he is
veritably pinned beneath herhe doesn't even want to think about how much he missed her
(well, he can't, he's unconscious)
he didn't think about it last night
he only thought about that she was here, with him, NOW
and he was treating it as if it were the last night on earth
because for all he knows, it could be
(I don't know what I'd do without you)but somewhere, down in the deep, dark sea of transcending sleep a thought sparks to life
there must be a surface up there, somewhere
and with a slow, deep breath be begins to swim for it
moving up through the levels of his senses
(he can smell the musk of her skin)
crawling towards some semblance of conscious thought
(he can feel the full body armor ACHE of muscle well abused)
twisting and weaving his way up towards this incredibly warm thing that's waiting for him
suddenly well aware of where he ishis tongue slips out, running over the swollen split of lip
(her. teeth.)
he doesnt even bother opening his eyes
(what? and break the spell?)
somehow coordinating muscle to tighten that arm that's slung around her(rune)
- you’re awake -He’s awake. She’s awake. She can feel him awakening, and not just physically - the changing rhythm of his breath, the faint shift-slide-shift of his musculature beneath her, the thousand unthinkably small, unthinkably difficult movements necessary to coordinate, somehow, the flex of bicep and tricep and whatever-other-ceps might be lurking beneath the blessedly warm skin of his blessedly warm arm to contract that appendage around her back.
The new pattern of his breathing and the minute shifting of his body beneath her dislodges several strands of her no-longer-sweatsoaked hair, sending them sliding over his moving shoulder toward the bed beneath him. The strands are short enough, though, and never quite reach the twisted sheets, but still - ouch. That hurt.
- you. moved. -
Her mental voice is suffused with surprised amusement - how’d you manage that? - as the ordinary workings of muscle and bone and sinew and nerve fibers and firing neurons and whatever the hell else goes into the simplest of movements has become the deepest of mysteries.
She draws in a ragged breath - fuller and deeper than any she has yet dared - and swallows hard in an attempt to tame and sooth strained, swollen vocal chords, but there’s nothing doing. Her swollen, still-bloodied lips twist painfully in a vague attempt to shape some sound that should be emerging from her throat right. about. now. but there’s nothing doing. There’s not even a vague croak; the only thing that emerges is a distinct absence of sound.
Well then. We’ll try something else.
- wanted to talk to you. (warm and sleepy and so blissfully, deliciously achingly amused. the words in his mind are not precisely whole sentences. they’re closer to sound portraits or sense impressions, little nuggets of thought sifted and distilled from the chaos of her mind.) made me speechless -
(james)
there's a low thick laugh
just a short one
just one sound catching in his chest
(ow)Have you any idea how long that took to coordinate? he bets she does Not happening again any time soon... I think you really did break me this time her amusement met by his satiation. Rage? What Rage? it's nothin' but smoooooth sailing right now, totally kopasetic (stoo. pid.) even the words are slow and sluggish and most exquisitedly sedated in her mind
take me drunk I'm homenow... he wants to move
he wants to cuddle her on up
let hands smooth over her back
rub out the aches and strains (and... tears?) that halt her movement
towards her ritual morning shower while he continues to try to find his way out of bed
towards him in another ultimate conquest that will leave him further lost in the tangling maze of sheets
anything she asked
anything she wants
no matter how much it hurt right now - he'd push through the pain to do it
but, until she asks, he'll settle for fingers pressing into her skin as a rain check for that yet-to-happen cuddlethey're breathing in tandem, that's a caress in itself, right?
it wouldn't be the first time she's stolen his ability to consciously breathWell.... soft, sighed, outright grinned in tone It was the least I could do, since you.... y'know.... drifting off in the muse (I think that bone -is- broken, James), she'll note he isn't speaking out loud either, and that's about when his eyes finally dare open, brow considering lifting (but doesn't) at the glint of light that refracts of the silvered dome cast aside (we..... stopped long enough for room service?) then the entire thing cast aside as he returns his focus (both outward and inward) on her What'd you want to talk about?
(rune)
What’d you want to talk about?There’s a faint shrug, not so much seen, not so much felt, as apprehended. Her body didn’t move beneath his hand, but her mind moved against his. There’s a door there - opened by the long week, the incomprehensible actions of the country cousins during the bizarre fight and all it’s aftermath, by the exhaustion thereafter, by the full moon that rips away inhibitions and brings all that is raw and sure and doubtless flooding to the shore, high tide - already half-closed, and he can feel the tug of negation ( - nothing. you. what’d you want for Christmas? or any of a thousand other trivial things meant to fill up the slippery space between signifier and signified) assert itself before slipping away.
Not talk. Tell. That night.
He dared movement, and therefore so she must. Her forearm flexes and her hand tightens amidst the tangled sheets and she draws herself half-an-inch up his body, until her chin gains purchase on his chest and she can catch his profile in her peripheral vision. She can’t see his eyes. She doesn’t even look for them. The slant of his jaw and the taut curve of his cheek are enough for her.
And so he gets the full story - or most of it - (Decker wouldn’t fucking listen. The flash of the Modi’s gray eyes, the bullish refusal, the incoherent rage. Something about his father.) in a shifting flood of images and words and sense impressions (Corran just fucking sat. there. all the way from who knows where. The calm Theurge’s complacent eyes and smug defense of himself - I’ve done no wrong) of the night that Decker sought out Noah (Called him out three times and the fucking Fianna hid behind the door and kin. The large man’s body and the quiet rumble of his voice as he, too, transferred blame to the Coggie.) in Eliza’s (Kinfolk wouldn’t step aside. Eliza’s voice half-heard through the door: not here, not now.) house.
...and all the inexplicable actions and all the accusations thrown and received, all the fucking self-righteousness (and through the thread, how much that self-righteousness wearies her) of all the various actors and her doubts about the stars in the little passion-play: Decker. Noah. Corran. Eliza. The intimate form of communication leaves little room for half-truths, and thus her own doubts filter through as well: her weaknesses and her judgments and her doubt in those judgments, though these are incidental to the tale, not so much asserted as sensed amidst the disarray of the tale.
She’s not seeking absolution, and it’s clear that she doesn’t want to sort through the tangled strands tonight. She just needed to get it out, somehow, to sort through the tiresome scene and order her memory for later use.
(james)
there's a drop of his chin
maybe it's a nod
maybe it's just so he can rearrange beneath her for her comfort
(it's always about her)
dark eyes find their way to wander across the darkened ceiling
her words painting images in his mind that project onto the blank screen abovestorm grey Fenrir eyes and the Rage that was directed at him, for a short while this evening
the red and gold Fianna coward that's not allowed in their territory
the Coggie who is new, but now further remembered
the tired, sad Kin standing at her door for what became the last time
(the children, he notes she leaves out the children, but maybe that's something he doesn't want, or need, to see)
how strange his story must be, after hearing it told so many different ways
and finally, the sleek doubting Walker that's no memory, but here... nowthat's when he moves again
(kee. riste.)
fingers trailing up the flexing muscles in her flank
(no, thumb? come with me little one... don't fall behind)
drawing so slowly over ribs, scapula, long line of slim strong shoulders
finding their way to blaze trails through tangled forest of inky hair
as if he could cup and shape the tangled thoughts beneathflick away that doubt
(off wi' ye!)
mold something else to take it's place
maybe pluck some of his own confidence in her to replace
but he understands the doubt, the weakness, the questioned judgement
everyone doubts themselves
especially after situations like that
(what if I... what should I....what could I....)
he doubted (questioned and HATED) himself for two years
but there's something in his touch that tells her everything
but there's something in his touch that speaks a thousand murmured words
even if it's just a simple, surface caress
(I'd never doubt you)but he doesn't say anything
she wanted to tell
and he listened(rune)
The professor always said human behavior was absurd, she continues, curving her neck back, craving the slow caress of his hands through her hair. and Garou behavior moreso, not so much because of - (a flashfire impression of the moon, the rage, the sundered worlds of spirit and flesh through which they move and the calcified web to which they are so tightly bound) as the inheritance of tradition and forms to which we’re bound, the way those shape our instinctual responses into the structured whole, or some such fucking thing.Amusement, faint, receding. There’s no pain in this memory, or if there is, it’s soothed away by his presence, by the shared bodyheat and the awakening awareness that asserts itself slowly and surely beneath the thrumming aches, or perhaps within, these many and sundry small battlescars of the blessedly exhausting night before.
S’why he told us to stick with urrah. If the old ways don’t work, you gotta find new ones, or whatever. He can feel her smile unfold against his skin, the slow blessing of bruised mouth painfully moistened by a tentative tongue, that soon finds its way from her lips to his skin. Irony was important, or something, the displacement of meaning, or questioning meaning, or twisting it around or something about the way the things that don’t quite fit together are forced together. Sounded better when he said it. Sounded better when it didn’t mean packmates and friends and acquaintances.
Her attention is already drifting away from parroted philosophizing, and back to the very real body splayed beneath her. Conscious thought has brought back some capability for conscious movement, has wakened her sleeping body and her sleepy mind to the physical fact of his flesh, which is far more immediately interesting than the ramblings of someone long dead, and just that easily, she shuts closes the door again.
Need a shower. The mindvoice is accompanied by croaked, half-spoken syllables that more or less echo the phrase, though she’s so damn hoarse that he would never catch the meaning were he still not sharing some primal part of her mind. She has found her hands again, and found that they work well enough to settle on either side of his chest and ( - ooooooooouch - ) strain and lift her from her sprawl atop him. ...you coming, or what?
(james)
the lights are still off
they're in their own private darkness, their own private primal cave
as she speaks, as she thinks
he still listens quietly
letting his fingers relearn how to walk and talk and breath playing in tangled hair..... wait
that's you James
and dare you admit what she's taught you
re-taught you?
what she's unearthed that's been dead and buried for years?
at least out loud, to anyone but yourself?
(careful what you say, boy)he knows it
he wonders if he'll ever say it
..... he wants tobut there's only the words in his eyes as she pushes to stretch above him
but there's only the pull of that silly little grin (her grin) that finds its way to her in the darkness
he lets his hand fall from her hair
exploring taught, moving, living, breathing (bruised) flesh canvas that's suddenly offered by her movements
curve of shoulders, plane of ribs, length of back and swell of hips
(he's thinking things he shouldn't)
and his brow.... finally.... takes the chance to liftWhat... again? Already?
of all the taboo'd secrets they've shared
he's -still- shy about some things
there's a few reasons for the heat that crawls beneath his flesh
so when she's pushed up above him
that's when he slowly follows
muscles in his abs which still wish to be forgotten crunching
shoulders lift from the mattress
the movement of his body lifts hers in sit-up
and those strong arms wrap around her
(not matter how. much. it. hurts.)the lights stay off
he wouldn't dare let go of her now to find the switch
this is the third time he's just bundled her up in his arms
this is the third time he's gotten away with it
leaving the liferaft safezone of the bed
between there and the bathroom her feet never touch the ground
and he carries her right across the threshold
(careful James)
the lights stay off
he doesn't need to see the bruises to know they're there, he doesn't need to see the loving wounds to know they are there, he doesn't need to see the marks of that which have claimed him to know of the things that have lain their permanent possession across his body and soul, whether they're from battles of years past, or the battle that waged roiling war last night, or the marks that have mixed and bled (red red blood, like her red red mouth and nails) and healed to turn all these scars into a single suit of armor - he just knows - and that will have to be good enough for himthe lights stay off
Posted by james at December 19, 2002 12:00 AM
the water blasts and steams
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