December 23, 2002.12.23.02. - home is where the heart is - merry christmas [rune][north jersey, condo]
(rune)
Sometime in the middle of the night - after seeing Imogen safely to her door - Rune lugged the tree and boxes of lights and ornaments from the truck to the condominium. She took a breather - a cigarette or three smoked in the frigid winter night, huddled close to the wall in hopes that it would break the bulk of the wind that whipped around like a little dervish before tackling the tree once more. It's rather hard to manage to hold a tree upright while simultaneously tightening the screws on the tree stand to hold it firmly in place, but with Eagle's strength and the added height of her Glabro form - who knew it would come in so useful for such things - Rune managed it. She was up until after dawn decorating the tree before crawling off to bed an hour or two after Imogen left - how much sleep did she get, anyway? - for work.The tree then: it's a live one, a pretty silky douglas fir, covered in every imagineable sort of lights, because Rune likes them all: bubble lights and chile pepper lights and little twinkling lights in every color of the rainbow, decorated with the sort of generic glass ornaments available in every drug store, and strung about with a garland made of Rune's colorful cigarettes threaded lengthwise through a long string rather that popcorn or cranberries or any of the usual sorts of garlands one finds on trees. There's no tinsel - it would be a bitch to clean up, would get all over everything - but there are long strips of irridescent paper coiled into mobius knots and settled here and there on the branches. Someone around six a.m., Rune realized that she had neglected to by a tree-topper. Thus, she made one herself, stuffing a short strand of lights into and around a glass beer bottle, which was upended and shoved down onto the highest branch. It seemed appropriate.
The lights in the condo are off, as are both television sets and both computers. Only the tree's (rather bright) glow and the soft filtering of the light above the stove illuminate the living room. The Glass Walker sprawls there, on the couch, a bottle of tequila settled between her thighs, shot glass balanced on her thigh. On the table: a salt shaker, a plate of lime wedges, and a platter of munchies: cheese cubes, shrimp cocktail, little cocktail weenies, just the usual supermarket deli appetizer platter. Smoke from burning incense (lit to relieve the room of some of the piney odor) spirals up toward the ceiling, colorfully illuminated by the tree's glow. There are only a few presents under the tree, expertly wrapped by someone other than the Glass Walker (no doubt the charity gift wrap booth at the mall, or the gift wrap department at Neiman Marcus, or whereever it is she went to shop.
Only two CDs are currently in rotation: a Charlie Brown Christmas (purchased last night, now the only Christmas CD she owns) and the Clash, in memorium for Joe Strummer. Rune prepares another shot (salt on the wet curve of her hand, lime wedge held between thumb and index finger), licks the salt, downs it, bites the lime and casts it away, then stretches to light a cigarette. It's oddly... peaceful in here, and so cold outside, so tonight is an exception, and she'll smoke inside.
(james)
it seems they both had looooong nights
somewhere in the afternoon
he had untangled himself from the pile of bushes that served as bed
Erik had made sure he was still attached to his legs
then sent the Gnawer on his (weaving) way
when he bought the bottle for the Fenrir
he had not expected to share it
(r.h.i.p. and all)an hour later he thumbed a ride
granted, it was a chilly one
he was in the back of an old Dodge pickup
but it was better than walking off remnants of the hangover
and at least someone had given the raggedy man a ridelong after dark, the truck rattles into the Rolling Meadows
and the Gnawer picks his way out of the bed
holiday wishes exchanged, hands shaken, even a friendly smileboots crunch on the remnant snow and rocksalt
weaving his way around the still slick spots
pack adjusted on his shoulder as keys are fished out of his pocket
out of the many hundreds of keys on the ring
he seems to find a specific one
even without any spirit candy
... yes... he has a key for this place.... homea little surprised at the darkness
a lot surprised at the sudden appearence of the tree
(that was not here before, he'd remember that)
dreads whisper across the shoulders of his trench as head tilts
boots sinking into the plush carpet
Jansport pack slipped from it's heavy perch and settled onto the floor
a bit of a grin at the soft music
a bit of a grin (that grin) for her"Hey..."
(rune)
"Hey," her reply, warm, murmured, is followed a moment later by the weight of her gaze. Inky strands of hair whisper on leather as she turns her head to catch a glimpse of him, then muscles her way from her complete and utter -lounge- (elbows digging into the cushions, dragging the long, lean body into a more taut curve) into something semi-upright but no less relaxed, careful of the bottle, careful of the empty shotglass precarious on the curve of muscled thigh. "Merry Christmas."Smoke spills from her mouth to accompany the word, further cutting into the pinescent that (despite all her valient efforts) still fills the corners of the room. Smoke, and more smoke, as she brings the cigarette to her lips with a casual twist of elbow and a negligent flicker of her rest, and draws in another nicely poisoned breath.
The curve of her faint grin (no smirk tonight. Not even a suggestion of one at the moment) is shadowed in the dim light, and those selfsame shadows soften teh sharp angles of her features - the arrogant cheekbone, the widow's peak, the defined curve of her jaw. "Welcome home."
(james)
dark eyes the color of mother's earth watch her
they watch this agile city creature moving on the plush leather landscape
and the smile begins to grow, further
(how he lo.....)
and his gaze tears away to the home-deco tree
dragging away to study the colorful lights and paper
the lighted bottle tree topper
that grin just can't seem to quit"Merry Christmas...."
the words so soft, a bare murmur above the music
he knows the others aren't around
(he. knows. they're. safe.)
steps taking him between the coffee table and the couch
straddling her knees with his as he sinks onto the laquered surface
a hand running through chilled dreads as his gaze drops
lower lip bitten in that grin
yea... the "home" thing still gets him"You've been busy."
sparkling gaze raises
above the exhaust collected on the ride home
he smells of the forest
he smells of the whiskey
(his head's still swimming a bit)(rune)
"I have," she confirms, with an offhand gesture toward the tree, made somehow elegant by the curve of her fingers about the burning cigarette. She rises another half-inch, leaning forward to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray tucked to the side. The shot glass wobbles precariously with the movement, but doesn't quite fall, not now, not yet. Empty as it is - only two clinging drops of moisture in the bottom - it wouldn't matter if it fell end over end to the plush carpet below."Imogen and I went out for a few beers last night," - more than a few, James can no doubt guess. Both women can likely outdrink him, after all, even if his tolerance is growing thanks to the alcoholic tendencies of the pack. "Then picked up the tree and some ornaments. I don't know - " the curving grin slip-slides into something wry and self-aware, though still untained by her customary caustic brand of irony. " - the snow, or the cold, or something, made me feel like Christmas."
The cigarette out, Rune draws in a deep breath to clear her lungs, and then another deep breath to taste his scent: exhaust, beneath it: woods, pine boughs crisp and clean in the chill air, the pungency of discarded needles mixed with leafrot, and the subtle sharp sweetness of whiskey. Beneath that: his scent, ineffeable and (always) present, familiar and comfortable as a well-fitted glove. "So've you."
And still, his grin (that grin) remains, and still, her grin (shades of that grin) answers his own.
(james)
he has no doubts it was more than a "few"
or more, a "few" for them drinks him right under the table
and there's a bit of a laugh, his gaze dancing away again"Spent yesterday in AC, picked up a few things, ran into Erik on the way back and gave him his."
which, obviously, lead to his passing out drunk in the middle of the Barrens
but his gaze can't stay away for long
not with her thoughtless elegance
not with that smile on her lips that's without her natural edge
not with the way the christmas lights bring a soft, colorful glow on pale skin
and when he looks back
he's just.... caught.... for a few, silent, moments
(breathless)
the shy smile ventures out again"Nothing wrong with the holiday spirit. I..... brought something back for you, too."
(rune)
"Whiskey," she murmurs in reply, grin quirking wider, amused. "I should have known what that meant."Rune uncurls her right leg and lifts it. Her toes crawl across his knee, bare foot settling upon his thigh, the arch fitted to the curved bulk of muscle beneath fabric and skin. Now the shotglass goes tumbling, end over end over end, falling to the carpet with a ringing thud, and soon the bottle of tequila joins it on the floor, though more deliberately: she picks it up and sets it down beside the couch. The Christmas lights bring a colorful glow to her skin, and gleam in the darkness of her eyes, which are made darker - almost black - by the absence of revealing light.
"I have something for you, too. Under the tree." She lifts her chin in the general direction, settles her foot back on the floor, and rises in a smooth, economical motion. For a moment or three, she stands there motionless, looking down at him as he sits on the coffee table. Then she reaches out brushes his cheek with her fingertips, pushing back an errant dreadlock so that she can see the whole of his face in a gesture of easy affection. The moment is drawn out, measured by breaths drawn and exhaled: one, two, three, until at last she invests her expelled breath words. "I'll go get it. We can open them together."
(james)
there's a soft chuckle
even Luc can out-drink him
there's a lazy crawl of fingers up her leg
starting from ankle and moving all the way up to her kneeand as. she. stands.
(oh, my, god)
his fingers fall away
but his eyes don't
they crawl up the length of her form
every intimate plane and curve
every well-known spanse of muscle and tendon
the tight stretch of leather
the soft cling of cashmere
the softness of her palm against his cheek
(the things he would say right now....)
there's just the curve of smiling muscle
something in that moment totally overshadows the the surprise that she got him somethingstill... he never expects to get anything
from anyone
even herand as she walks towards the tree
he leans to pull the lain down backpack closer
heavy zippers thick as they're opened
pulling out a little oddly shaped package
(hers was the only that actually got wrapped)
letting it rest easily in the cup of his hand(rune)
Bare feet whisper against the carpet, and clinging leather creaks softly as she returns from the tree, package in hand. This package - like all her packages - is wrapped, professionally so, by whatever saleswomen or college fraternities or high school cheerleading squads were offering the service, wherever she was shopping. Rectangular, in shiny gold paper with a red red bow a shade or three brighter than the lipstick she favors, it is about the size of a shirtbox, and when she passes it to him, (as she settles down onto the couch, cushions sighing a breath of air displaced by her weight), it is light in his hand.Rune resumes her easy, languid pose on the couch, sinking back into a lean lounge, planting one foot on the floor and lifting the other to settle once more on his thigh. Her toes flex and curl, kneading the muscle, sly counterpoint to the smile curling across her mouth as she accepts his package for her in turn. There's a brief interruption as the Clash comes on, but she grabs the remote and sends the discs CD player spinning back to Charlie Brown's Christmas (Christmas time is here...), which seems so much more appropriate at the moment.
There are no mirrors here, to reveal her to herself. There are no others here, in whose eyes she can see judgment or approbation, in whose eyes she could gain or lose face for this easy intimacy, this quiet affection, and thus there is no hitch, no interruption, no sudden smirking self-awareness to break the thread of whatever-it-is being spun between them. Not tonight. Not now.
"Count of three?" she suggests, finding his eyes as she casts away the remote. Her palm curls around the package, nails rustling against the paper. "One. Two..."
(james)
no smoke
no mirrors
only... her
and he can't help it
there's some entrancing thing that just has. him. hooked.
he has to blink when the box is settled in his hands
a split second to pull out from wherever it was his mind had wandered
letting the small, soft, light gift find its way into her hands
he just... can't stop grinning, can he?"Thank you...."
he just... doesn't know what to do with himself, really
he's not used to getting gifts
especially not one that's wrapped so professionally"...... three."
within her hands the package gives
it's soft and plush and light but there's a centered weight
some three foot square piece of holiday paper
which... he used most of
sharp nails cut so easily through it
and he can't help but watch her instead of what he's doing
even if he can feel the paper tear beneath his hands
it's so clear that it's not expensive or not much
whatever it is she'd need he simply can't afford
it's something that made him smile
it's something that made him think of her
(when does he not?)
the little red red red beanie bear that's now sitting in her palms(rune)
He doesn't look at what he's doing. He doesn't see the paper tearing beneath his hands. He watches her red red nails riiiiiiiiiiiip through the layers and layers of paper until the prize is revealed: the red red bear now steepled between her red red nails, the red red smile curving her red red mouth.It's a good thing he's not watching her eyes, or maybe he is watching her eyes, and maybe he sees something spark there, so achingly warm, before they shy away. Certainly, there's no heat beneath her skin, rising to briefly color her pale cheeks. Certainly, it is merely the reflection of the Christmas lights on the pale canvas of her soft flesh.
Thank you, James.
The words are a warm caress in his mind, and the tone says more than ever she can, than ever she will. They sink gently, softly, through the layers of his consciousness, wrapped in a strange, forbidden feeling, more than pleasure, closer to delight.
If the vision of her distracted him from the paper that tore beneath his hands, perhaps the sudden, intimate connection distracts him from the box as well. Perhaps he misses the Victoria's Secrets logo (she did not know what to get him. She did not know what he would accept from her. She did not know what his conscience and his beliefs would allow him to accept, and so - on half-a-whim - she chose this) as he lifts the top off the box, and pays no attention to the pink tissue in which his gift is nestled. Perhaps he does not even look down until his rough fingers graze some silky stuff, some flimsy garment that could not be meant for him to wear.
No, it could not be meant for him to wear, the silky, lacy black lingerie complete with garters and thigh-high stockings.
And as he shakes the pieces out, as he examines them (arcane, mysterious, enigmatic little strips of fabric and lace, whose function and shape may not be entirely clear until the empty things are filled by her familiar body), three envelopes fall out with soft chuffing thuds, crackling the tissue paper beneath.
Three envelopes. Three cards within. Happy Holidays! A donation has been made in the name of James Branson to.... Three organizations: Sojourner House, the Community Cupboard and Arts Collective, and the Martin Luther King Memorial Scholarship Foundation. Sojourner House: a shelter and transitional housing organization in Albany, New York. The Community Cupboard: a food bank and afterschool program funded day-to-day by proceeds from a thrift store and arts collective in Jersey City. The Martin Luther King Memorial Scholarship Foundation: an organization providing scholarships to deserving students in inner city Newark, New Jersey.
She has recovered, by now. Her eyes have found his face, and the delightful hint of color in her cheeks has faded, though the glow (the Christmas lights, the shining light in her eyes, the curling surety of the smile curving her lush mouth) remains.
(james)
he's watching her
(he can never take his eyes off her, or at least never his mind)
so he doesn't see what he's opening
he only sees that smile
there could be nothing in his hands and that smile would have been enough
more than enough
all he wants is to make her happy
and to hear that tone.... it's more than ecstacy
he can't say anything back
(dumbstruck)
that's when one hand reaches out
rough palm soft against her cheek
just held in a moment of (loving) silencethat's when his other hand finds the silk
..... silk?
she's granted a breif look of confusion, and a blink, before he looks down
confusion slips to incredulity
(pick your jaw up off the floor, James, that's rude... even if.... appropriate)
tentatively shaking out the little flimsy fabrics to make some sense of the tangles of strings and lace
(ho. lee. chit.)
that grin grows.... just.... grows as he figures it out
though pauses as the envelopes crunch tissue paper
and the exploration of the fabrics shifts to opening the little Happy Holidays! packagesthere's a look in his eyes as he opens the first
then the second... then the third...
just.... staring.... at the three certificates in his hand
before he didn't know what to say
now? he couldn't say anything if he wanted toand carefully, almost reverently, the paper is set back into the box
placed just on top of the silken mysteries
and the box is placed next to him on the coffeetable
those strong, rough, sure hands reach towards her
palms sliding up her thighs, grasping her hips
his weight shifts forward to let knees hit the floor
and arms find their way to circle her waist
pulling her from the plush depths of the couch and to the very edge
the embrace tightens until familiar curves are snug against his chest
the warmth of his face buried against her neck
Thank you whispered so softly across her mind(rune)
Her sly is a sly thing, and changeable. One moment gently, almost painfully raw (his rough skin against his cheek, the breathing silence unbroken except for the rustle of tissue paper beneath his other hand) and the next sly and sure and knowing (the arcane bits of silky things shaken out, the glance of confusion returned archly, the incredulity met with laughter, warm, centered somewhere low and rough in her throat.).His hands slide over her hips, and her body moves in almost involuntary response. Beneath the second leather skin, he can feel her muscles tightening, her body half-rising in natural response to his touch. He slides from his perch on the coffee table to settle on his knees before her, and her gaze follows him, never leaving his eyes. They are of a height know, she sunk in the cushions of the couch, he kneeling before her. His arms encircle her waist, dragging her from the depths of the couch, and her legs encircle his hips, completing the circle of their embrace.
And her smile - now hidden amidst the rough spill of dreads - is at once gentle and knowing, painful and sure. He can feel her heart beat beneath her breast, her can hear the tidal rhythm of her pulse which quickens (some storm approaches) as he buries his face into the warm curve of her neck. Somehow, her arms have found their way around his neck, and while one hand buries itself in the tangled vines of his hair, the other travels down, exploring the muscled planes of his back. In his mind, some soft, wordless sort of sound/thought, the most intimate of touches there, expressing so much more than mere welcome ever could, returned across the still-open channel as her arms and legs tighten around him with sudden, transporting strength, as if she might - by some strange alchemy, by some arcane ritual, by mere desire - bridge the barrier of mind and flesh and consume herself in him.
(james)
the way he holds her
the way he completely gives himself to her in this embrace
perhaps it speaks even more than the words he wishes to say ever will
so he's silent
save the even pull of breath that washes heated moist exhale against her neck
save the steady thump of his heart in cadence with hers
his eyes are closed against her flesh
but he's so. painfully. open.
some meager cup held for her to fill until he drowns
planes of hard muscle are supple beneath her touch
letting his body mold against her familiar curves
just... melting against her warmthwondering if she really does understand how much and what her gifts mean to him
minutes stroll lazily by
lit only by the blushing glow of the tree's lights
and some fire burning that only they can seeand there's finally something other than his breath against her neck
lips pressed against flesh, and she can feel the slow smile grow
his face never leaving contact as head lifts
pressing back into her hold in his dreads
bridge of his nose tracing the line of her jaw
dark, dark eyes finally lifting to find the light's reflections in hers
and once more, he just. stops.
lingers."Show me my present?"
murmured almost upon her lips
Posted by james at December 23, 2002 12:00 AM
and the way one arm tightens around her waist
the way hips flex between her thighs
his other hand reaching to take up the box before he stands and takes her with him
that... that little grin growing
he already knows her answer
CommentsPost a comment