drums-on-skulls: .12.29.02. - someplace we can talk [rune-imogen-decker]

December 29, 2002

.12.29.02. - someplace we can talk [rune-imogen-decker]

[north jersey]

(rune)
The trail of Rune's glance is broken when Cole enters the store, and she shifts her attention back to Imogen. Smoke spills her her lights, spirals into the sky. She returns Imogen's brief flicker of a look, and her shoulders rise and fall beneath the leather.

Two steps forward - a brief glance back - as the crowd of children spills from the corner store, heading toward the police cars. Though she is in their direct line, they keep a fair distance from her, and thus it is only the sudden assertion of noise that draws her up sharply, rather than some random jostling occasioned by small and overeager feet.

Another two steps forward, then, turning back to the tableau before her, gaze shifting from the brief glance toward Cole back toward Vashton as she strains to catch his words. She's too far away, though, and his question is only rumbled, indistinct sound melding with so many others.

(imogen)
He looks deep into her eyes, and she stares right back at him, without any fear, without any cringing (she does this because most people can't, and she has something to prove). Like him, much of what is beneath the fabric of cloth is hidden by it, as well as, apparently, some weapon of some sort. Only the impression of curves and a body that, while not battle trained, is fit. Not quite athletic. Because she is looking into his eyes, and he is looking into hers, he can see the faint widening, the minor shock as he recognizes her for what she is, though, as they narrow, perhaps she thinks she should be used to it by now.

A pale hand reaches up, tucking curls behind her ear impatiently as her face remains mostly impassive, but for the widening and subsequent narrowing of her dark dark eyes. "I'm the first one," she says finally, obscurely, because this is not the place to do such a conversation, only a block or two from a crime scene, and in a public place, no less.

"Though I was under the impression that there was always a time an' place for such conversations." She has a lovely accent, this one. Perhaps Scottish, or Irish. British, possibly, at a stretch. It slurs and burrs through her voice, well rounded like a good aged ale. Her cigarette is slid back between her lips, the ember sharpening it's orange as she inhales, softening only as she ceases the pull of toxins into her lungs.

She is a strange mixture of tugs and repulsion, this woman who has had heroes bear her ancestors, felt on some sort of supernatural secondary sense, felt along his skin like water, but almost detached, as if he was feeling it from a distance. The silver is felt in the base of his neck, down his spine. The kind of feeling that raises hair on his arms

(james)
there's a car that turns the corner
some little nameless, faceless car
what kind? he probably doesn't know
and he didn't really care
he just needed to cover a lot of distance in a short amount of time
and hitching just wasn't going to work for this round

so.... he hotwired the little car
it was a good car
it ran long and hard

he had gone back to the condos
and nobody was there
he looked around a bit, and even waited
and nobody was there
eventually, he got fed up with that
and figured if it was important enough to seek him out
it would be important enough to seek them out
and so he followed that little niggling sense just between his shoulder blades
that itch that contantly presented itself in the back of his mind

you know the one
pack

which has brought him here
where, now, he pulls it over to the curb
sets the e-brake
glancing down to make sure there's a full tank of gas
some cash left in the glovebox to fix the broken panel
(he'll call a tip in, for the owners to find it, later)
even going so far as to lock the doors upon exit
one tall raggedy man, dreadlocks and tattered (but mended) trench to match
and down the street he goes

(vashton)
~Good thing for him, he had no hairs on his arm. He lifted a hand to remove the hat from his head, in one motion his hair comes tumbling out, the silver mane massingdown his back and slighty over his face, shadows falliing to caonseal the light, an itimandating look taking over his persona as he started to step away even further from the crime scene, just a few steps closer to her, his hat being folded and tucked away in his back of his denuim jeans. Turing to look to her as she is beside him his speaks again, the sound of his voice a near whisperstointo the air, but the darkness making speak in vloumes~....When one has seen much as I have...you learn when to speak and when not too....Other times you just don't care anymore...~he motioned for her, to take a walk a with him. He was not in the slightest way showing agitation the silver presense, he just shrugged it off, walking slowly, just to get away~Vashton....thats who I am...~his voice seeming to carry a small accent not of this country, a ruff tone, with that dark demeanor. He turnes his attention back to the crime scene..but only for a moment...slowly taking his vision back to the one that was beside him~

(rune)
Pack

She feels it too, (now) does Rune, coiling between her shoulder blades, crawling down her spine, competing with the faint curl of hair-raising otherness unfurling there. Even given Rune's distance from Imogen, the Kinfolk's weapon still has an effect.

She doesn't glance back at James as he approaches. She doesn't need to do so. Doubtless, the scene unfolding before him will say enough. The stranger - with all his shadows, with the cascade of silver hair falling across his brow, glances at Imogen and murmurs something - softer now, so that not even the rumble of his voice can be gleaned from the air, even though Rune has taken several steps forward.

And then Vashton motions to Imogen. And then Rune stops dilly-dallying and walks straight toward them, booted feet echoing on the chill pavement, smoke spilling from her nostrils as she sucks in a last drag and sends her half-consumed cigarette to spark and die against the pavement.

"'Sup, Doc?" No more than that, and a stray glance from dark eyes. No more than a curl of the woman's red mouth, and a brief glance (chin rising faintly) toward the stranger. "Having a good night?"

(cole)
Another swig, his fifth one. Though he stops himself now, jerking the bottle from his lips and shaking his head in dismay. He screws the cap back on, his lips move but no words are heard as he mumbles to himself. Glancing at the crime scene and then to the ones talking nearby. He then eyes the rest of the area, letting the curiousity take over him. Opening the car door and placing the bottle inside, he then shuts the door locking the car up.

(imogen)
She stares at Vashton, which appears to be something she does a lot, eye to eye, dark blue near black orbs unrelenting and unafraid. He motions to her, and she does not approach, her hands shoving into the pocket of her jacket, cigarette still perched between her lips.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not." Healthy amount of caution in this one. At least in some things. Healthy amount of suspicion too, derision, and a general lack of ... well. Politeness.

Her eyes flicker toward Rune as she speaks, the cigarette bobbing between her lips as she speaks around the filter, ashes falling like snow flakes, "As well as can be expected," perhaps meaning the crime scene behind her, "Tell me," a tilt of her head toward Vashton, who has taken a step or two away from the crime scene, and thus a step or two toward her. But she moves no further close, "Have y'had the pleasure o' meeting Vashton... and I'm sorry, what did you say you're last name was?" this directed toward him, before back to Rune, the movement of her head indicating the silver haired man, "here?"

(james)
pack
maybe it's more than that
maybe it's more that has drawn him specifically here
rather than seeking out the others he calls family
gloved hands slide into his pockets
and the ground covering step lengths
it's a step that can devour cityscape miles
and it is just as effective in the slums as it is on Wall Street

the distance between them thins
(how thin is it already? what joins them beneath their skin)
his shoulders drop, relaxed and easy
boots some cadence as they approach the trio from behind

he's overflowing with questions
when you're called back to an empty condo
you tend to get a little suspicious
or at least paranoid
but with the stranger about
he keeps quiet
coming to a stop just behind Rune and to the left
chin lifting in a hello to Imogen

(vashton)
~he looked up, his head...his eyes turning to Rune.his thoughts....thinking a another one. Its had been two days and now there were three that he seen, he just didn't bother to even ask anymore at this point. A smile coming on his lips as he looks into eyes of Rune, a slight nod to her. A respect being shown in some manner, that he had attained from his mother, his smoke grey eyes filling her own. His hands start to seek the solice of his jacket but he does not put them up. The cold not bothering him, nuthing bothering him. He listened to her words and gave his own reply to them~...I didn't say what it was....~he looked to her, watching with no expression on his face...his insticts turning on, as yet another one stepped up. *Whats is this a party*, no comments offered but other than a hello to Rune, from that dark voice, the silent gets his eyes, looking long and hard at James, watching with astill no emotion their, looks like this wolf was alone on the wrong side of things on this night~..hello....

(rune)
"Better than him, anyway," the strange woman replies, a brief gesture with one free hand across her shoulder toward the crime scene beyond. Gallows humor, and little sincere about it. It's not a joke she would ordinarily make, but it serves its purpose tonight: spacetaker, placeholder, marking time. It serves her well enough, and allows her to reply without using either the Bugs Bunny-esque moniker or Imogen's given name in front of the strange. "Which is always a bonus.

"As for Vashton here, no." Dark eyes flicker toward Imogen, and then back to Vashton. Something about her stance has changed now, too. No longer does she stand in a lazy, easy-slung slouch. Her shoulders are squared, her feet planted shoulder-width apart, and her body fairly thrums with energy. It's that energy that made the children part when they ran past her, an energy reflected and expanded by the presence of her packmate, an energy that Vashton will no doubt recognize as rage. "I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure. Just gettng acquainted, were you?"

(cole)
As he slips the car keys back into his pockets, a beep is heard. He almost jumps from shock and hurries to dig back in the same pocket. Out he pulls a cell phone, but the beeping has stopped. He presses on it with his fingers looking eager and anxious. Finally the button tapping stops. His face lights up, quickly he reaches for the car door. Unlocking it and hoping back into the Impala. Something urgent caught him tonight, thats evident as he speeds of through the streets.

(imogen)
"It would seem so," she replies, looking at Rune only now, pausing for a half moment to suck on her cigarette, smoke trickling from her lips as she speaks again.

Rune and James, perhaps, are used to (as much as anyone can be used to) the feeling of heritage from the small kinfolk, the bright shine of her blood against the dismal normalcy of humans. Though the hiss of silver is a rare feeling, though she's done it before. Both are at least aware that she has weapons, though their source might be a little vague. And the question as to whether or not she thinks it would do any good? Is up in the air.

"He's one of you," she says, dark eyes flickering behind Rune to James, not having the same connection as the other two do, and it's the brush of her dark eyes that serve as her greeting before she turns back toward Rune, "At least I think so. Knew what I was."

Each phrase is chosen and simply stated. Information Rune needs to know, perhaps, or knows for herself, but Imogen is unsure. Informing her of the short unheard conversation in quick concise sentences.

(james)
there's a cool, easy grin offered back to Vashton's study
while Rune bristles with her Rage
his? stays at that low, constant seeth
it's well in his control under this moon
seemingly fitting with the way he's dressed

Imogen's crisp in her work clothes
Rune's slick in her designer clothes
James? Is scruffy and raggedy in his quiet literal street clothes
and damn well comfortable that way, too

there's a bit of a nod to Vashton
but it seems that he's not the highest ranking here
is he
but this is his territory

(Vashton)
~ice cold...that is what is heart is turning into, he looks between the three and just appears to be the odd man out in this one, but thats the way he likes it, an out cast is what he is...its what all chosse to make him. The beast withing starting to awaken with the presence of Rune's rage, how long can he hold on, how long can he surpress those instincts to just rip into something. He answered to man...or beast but his own. Seeking acceptence. No, just seeking....no real reason...he lost them all...and all that was left was his rage, and if things keep going to this way, it would be a demonstration....and not a small one. Nuthing was ever small on his part. He showeed so much restraint as he knew that he was infringing on their territory...but he can't simply give his full tittle here...To many prying ears around, and no one making a move to leave, he decides to...this was going nowhere for him and it was going no where fast. He looks amoung them once more and starts to trial off again, his feet taking him further away from the Crime scene a closer towrads solice and aloneness~

(rune)
The Glass Walker absorbs the information Imogen offers, and responds with a brief nod expressing her thanks and a lingering flicker of dark eyes away from the strange. She glances back, and goes so far as to open her mouth to speak, but finds that he is already walking away.

Dark brow rising in a lilting arc, she watches him with some faint, weaving sense of incredulity even as her mouth tightens into a fine, straight line. She pauses, watching him as he continues to walk, feeling the force of rage barely held in check (considering her pack, the feeling was familiar as her favorite leather pants) and fishes in her right pocket for another cigarette.

"You want to introduce yourself properly, find me sometime. We'll go someplace and talk." Her voice trails after him, but she does not. She remains where she is, shoulders turning to the side as she steps back, including James in the conversational space with Imogen.

(james)
his head tilts a bit
watching the stranger go
dreads a whisper across patchworked shoulders
a bit of that smile spreads at being included
not that he particularly minded not being in it, for that time
outranked and backup and all that
and even if he regards the two women as equals anyway
(what? a Garou regarding kin as an equal?! oh the tragedy! oh the audacity! oh, right, he's a Gnawer)
it's always nice to be included

and he waits until Vashton is far enough a way
(that was.. odd)
leaning in a little
and his voice is soft, even sly
dark umber gaze catching each woman in turn

"Think there's a place we can go talk so I can find out why I had to boost and you're carrying again?"

okay he was a little upset at the empty condos
just a little
he thinks he held it together rather well

(Vashton)
~If the others were not here, he probalby would have shown them...what he was and close to his tribe he really was. His ears catching the sound of her voice and just taking it in with a grain of salt as he raised an idle to show that he somewhat cares for the words the she spoke. He didn't look back, no point..they were quickly becoming a part of the past...a part of his past...Were they just a bmup in the road, or would they become his future in this dark world. A night so dark it almost makes him look bright, the silver hair trialig off underneathe the cover of the street lights. A hand comign to pull his ball cap from his back pocket, his hands straightening it out as he slipped it on his head. The black leather jacket holding a white-star on the back of, the five point star bright white, layered over the soft black leather~

(imogen)
Her hand lifts to her hair digging through her strands, and undoing more than half the braid that was starting to come apart to begin with. The insanity of her hair is rarely contained for long. An impatient hand reaches down to pull the elastic free, sliding it around her wrist. "They just come outta the woodwork," she notes, quietly, her attention drawn back sharply as James speaks, "You boosted a..." she begins, before he finishes his sentence and she catches up, one hand stealing backward toward the small of her back, stopping midmotion as she realizes what she's doing, and the action aborts, rising instead to her mouth to pull the cigarette from her lips, exhaling smoke toward the sky, raising and obscuring in the air.

"Shit." She frowns, because it happened two freaking days ago, "the albino said she'd sent somebody," well, something, but anyway, "after you." After a while, Imogen'd simply decided it was a lie, or perhaps the spirit had been unable to find him, somehow.

Her head tilts down for a moment a faint nod as she ashes her cigarette toward the ground, her hair falling forward, some of it still caught in the once weave of her braid, the rest of it falling in kinks and curls over her shoulders and across her cheekbones. Eyes flicker back up, between the two Garou, "There's two perfectly good condos." Rather empty, too, as James has no doubt noticed.

(rune)
"It's fuckin' bizarre," Rune snorts, the words spilling out beneath the swell of her breath, muttered, half-voiced and impatient. Gradually, she shifts her gaze from Vashton's dwindling form abck to James and Imogen, flicking each a glance in turn. She glances down, then, staring at the ground as she fumbles her cigarette from its cardboard box and snags a lighter with the same deft fingers. "Fucking bizarre."

The second declaration is left to float in the air, to settle, her only contribution to the conversation for the moment. Brows knit in thought as Rune's gaze shifts from James to Imogen - the albino? - but the expression is smoothed away when at last her cigarette is lit.

"Meet you there, then." Rune replies, pivoting in place to seek out Imogen's SUV. "Twenty minutes." There - there - the familiar vehicle, half-hidden by the bulk of a police car. "You wanna ride, James, or you wanna go with Imogen?"

(james)
there's that look
that almost assertive sheepish grin in the
Yeh, I boosted a car
sorta way
and his hand rakes through dreads in the
but I locked it and left a full tank of gas
sorta way
the nod is curt

yeh, he noticed they were empty
and after the urgent message?
not. good.

"Yeh.... took a bit for Kota's messenger to find me, had some stuff to take care of in Albany."

and something about the way he said that
he probably wouldn't be back, yet, if he hadn't been called
but whatever ghosts are in those eyes
they disappear as he follows them towards the cars
lower lip gets sucked between his teeth in thoughtful nibble

urgent message to come back, regarding tha Doc
tha Doc that's carrying silver
riding comfortably with his l.... packmate

"We'll meet you back there, Rune."

though there's a glance to Imogen
just making sure that's allright with her, too

(imogen)
His reply results in a startled glance, enough to even break through her inscrutability, before her shoulders lift in a slow shrug, ascenting. She had no reason to say no, though she'd also thought he'd have no reason to make that suggestion.

after all...

But anyway.

Her eyes flicker toward Rune, shadowed, as her hand digs into her pocket for her keys and her other hand pulls the cigarette from her lips, stubbing it against the wall. "Meet you in twenty minutes, then," she says, pulling keys from her pocket, and walks back toward the finishing up crime scene. A police man getting into his car, several men dressed in wind breakers similar to Imogen's but with Forensics emblazoned in yellow rather than OCME, stepping out and crossing the street to where they've parked their van. It's not exactly subtle, but more unobtrusive than some scenes.

The SUVs interior light turns on as she unlocks the car from the keychain held between her fingers, a faint click audible as she unlocks the other doors as well, so James can get inside.

It's unlikely any conversation would be offered, unless the Gnawer offered it himself.

(james)
once in the SUV, he doesn't particularly offer any conversation
a part of it is because, underneath all that.... ease?
he's worried

whatever it was that the messenger said to him?
was important enough to get him here
and fast

so he's here, now
in the SUV
weaving through traffic in a far less hectic manner than he's sure would be happening in the Beemer

(rune)
Twenty minutes.

Fifteen to drive back along the now-mostly deserted streets, decrepid porches festooned with sagging, sad little strings of lights and a rather confusing array of holiday figures: santa and his angels, the baby Jesus and his reindeer, Mary holding court over the crech with a phalanx of toy soldiers marching attendance alongside: the usual holiday non-sequitors.

Two minutes to gather an assortment of packages (she went shopping! ) and schlep them back into the condo. Long, slender fingers, a strong, capable grip: she can manage them all in one trip, despite the bulk and weight. Even the cigarettes - four cartons, enough to last two weeks, if she's lucky - dangle in their little net shopping bag.

Another two minutes to barge on in and let the bags fall, spilling across the plush carpeting. That leaves a minute, give or take, to grab a beer and settle carelessly on the breakfast bar, leaving the more comfortable couch free-n-clear.

(harlequin sinclaire)
*theres some kids santa didnt come to visit this year those who dont have homes dont have families, those who live in the human services appartments who with excited glee unwrapped their 2 dollar toys only to have them taken by the older kids broken by the larger ones and destroyed in fueds with the other residence in the over crouded houses. so it is for these kids harlequin is going shopping. the line of condominiums so much nicer than his own slum. the CD's that line his pockets. tut tut people leaving them in the car like that so silly when you think about it the distant wail of a car alarm blocks away marking his presense. as he makes his way along the street. eyes looking for that telltale sign of abandonment that i have gone south for the winter and left all my valuables behind

(imogen)
She's actually careful of the time, because Rune actually thought to specify. It seems unlikely she would have specified it otherwise. 18 minutes to get there, following the speed limits, mostly on the way, hitting many of the stop lights that makes the silence seem even louder, until she breaks it by off handedly turning on the radio, its sounds quiet on the cusp of hearing. Generica music, mostly, which is likely why she doesn't play it loud. It's something to break the tedium of silence. Filling in where words do not.

She pulls into the condo plaza, pulling to a stop in the parking spot beside the beemer. Nineteen minutes, now, as she closes the door behind her, waiting for James to exit, before the headlights flash as she locks the vehicle and a chirp as she arms the alarm.

She walks up the path as Rune is sitting down free and clear, letting James take the lead because, well, he lives there.

One hands pushes through her hair, pushing it over her shoulders and away from her face. At least for now.

(james)
he's been silent through the ride
he's been silent through the walk up the drive
he's even silent when the jangling keys come out to open the door
home
and even though he knows she'd be there
there's still that relieved smile that it isn't empty

he makes a beeline for the fridge
dragging two beers out of the airlock closure
one cracked to hand to Imogen as she passes
the other taken with him to the couch

and then he finally shrugs off the trench
still. damned. silent.
it's broken only after the long slug from the cold bottle

"Now.... what the hell has been going on?"

(rune)
Rune's shoulders rise and fall in a lifting shrug. Lifting her swinging legs, she tucks them beneath her and edges back against the framing wall. Boot boots have been kicked off, somewhere amidst the packages she brought in, and her bare toes splay against the tiled countertop.

"I'm not sure." The lilting rise of her shrug repeated, dark eyes swinging toward Imogen even as she offers a casual gesture toward the bags tumbled from the foyer into the living room. "I went shopping."

(imogen)
All eyes on her now. Great. Fuckin' great. "The albino shouldn't have sent for you... or anybody," she mutters as she takes the beer, her fingers curling around the cool bottle, "If I'd known, I would have tried t'tell her no."

Possibly because she didn't intend to tell anyone. Or possibly simply because she didn't need all the attention paid, and she would have brought it up on her own time. "He was already gone."

He?

She inhales slowly, as she moves to sit on an arm rest of the couch. "Some bloke showed up on the balcony. Knew my name, knew my tribe." Tightening of her mouth. Tribe. "Said he knew me, and was disappointed when I hadn't the foggiest clue who he was. Said I was needed, wanted, even, and that I would understand it all soon enough, that I had no choice." She's telling the story, terse as it is, mostly to the beer bottle, the floor, rather than toward the other two Garou as she passes on the information. "He said I would realize it soon enough. Forever, my love," her voice changes slightly, and in spite of the lack of actual story, it's in that slight change of characterization that her fianna blood holds true.

If she wasn't passing on information that something had happened where they felt she needed protection again (send me to a motel, and I kill you. Or go out the window), she might actually tell quite the yarn. "S'what he said. Then raised his arms like jesus on his goddamned cross and fell backward. Gone afore he even hit the fuckin' ground. the albino saw it. Said she didn't think it was good," and from her tone, Imogen at least has the sense to agree with that, "and that I shouldn't be alone. Disappeared for a while inta th'umbra," stumbled word, unfamiliar. She almost said ombre. "Came back, said she'd gone for you," with this she looks up, canting her head toward James, "and was going to do more voodoo things on the other side haven't seen her since.

She takes a swallow of her beer, sharply, and her shoulders lift in a faint shrug, as she brushes a bit of lint from her jeans, "Strangest thing, too. I hadn't a clue who he was, but damned if I hadn't seen him before."

(rune)
"You can take a few days off, right?" While Imogen is speaking, Rune is checking her voice mail, phone held negligently in her left hand, only half-an-ear for whatever it is she finds there. Her face tightens, mouth twisting into a frown. "Or at least, confine yourself to daylight hours, don't go anywhere without the cops, and so on, until we figure this out. I'd ask where you saw him before - " the phone held up, show-n-tell style, as she clicks it off and stuffs it back into her pocket. "But I have some family business to take care of. James, keep me posted, will you?"

The Glass Walker slides from the bar, setting her barely touched beer aside as she grabs her car keys. Somewhere on the way to the door, she pauses to retrieve her boots, then pauses at the threshold, shimmying into her clinging boots. "James'll stay with you tonight, Imogen. We can't leave you alone at night for the time being, I'm sure you understand. We'll work out something with your schedule. I'll see you later."

The door opens and closes. Thirty seconds later, the Beamer purrs to life. Headlights flash across the front windows, and she's gone.

(james)
"Her name's Dakota."

softly
then he listens
just. listens.
slowly (and quickly) draining that beer

he doesn't know where Decker is
but he knows he isn't around
so it makes some sense to him
his packmate's mate (his friend) is having issues
(he was never told? but he figured them out)
he steps in to help out until issues are resolved
or the packmate comes home

he's not going to drag her off to a motel
but it's not as nothing as she makes it
cause she's damn well carrying silver
and he knows she hasn't since the Spiral was killed
so, sum it all up
and it's safe to say he's got that feeling again
(seriously wicked mojo, man)

"Yeh, she sent a messenger to find me, probably didn't expect me to be as far away as I was."

to why he was so far away from home, he doesn't elaborate

and the gaze ticktocks to his Beta
he came home as requested
(this is urgent James)
he dropped something very important to him for this
and he didn't quite think of what step two would be
nodding at the instructions
okay, there's step two
now about step... three

"Okay, now? You're not alone. Tell me more about this crucified guy...."

(decker)
Back of the cab is overwarm, musty, and threaded with more than a little hint of exhaust smoke. The ride is quiet - silent, actually, except for the crackle of the ham radio - and long. The cabbie had considered bitching about the drive out to the Barrens, but something about his passenger dissuaded him.

The eyes. The scent of blood. The silence.

Cabbie forgets to give him change. The walk up to the condo is slick with ice. The air is cold and the sky is overcast. He has no coat. These are things he notices only peripherally. Bone-weary, every step seems a mile. Every moment (in that place...) had seemed a year. It hadn't been the banes, nor the screams, nor the ceaseless battles, nor the wounds. What had struck him at the core of his being, in the end, was something he'd never talk about.

Top step mounted. Door's a few feet away. He's wearing the same thing he'd worn when he left. There are new holes in the fabric - rends from the claws of some unknown beast, jagged holes from gaping maws, long thin slashes, as though from some whip. Most of them revealing only unmarred skin; a few revealing lingering wounds. He shifts his shoulders, flexes them like a boxer stepping into the ring, and turns the door handle. Opens the door.

Come back to us, Modi.
He'd come back. In one piece.

More or less.

(imogen)
Her eyes follow Rune, inhaling as if to speak, and probably protest, before exhaling sharply through her nose as her lips twist in a mirthless smirk, "shit." is all she says, half muttered under her breath, as she turns and looks at James as she speaks.

No, it's not nothing, and she drains half her beer in a few swallows. She might consider pushing the issue, or arguing the possible house arrest (A few days off? I can't even get a weekend off. Never mind evenings or any other time.), she sets her jaw instead, her shoulders lifting, "I've told you most everything. I don't even know how he managed to get onto my balcony. I didn't see him at all. Like I said, he looked familiar but..." a shrug, "I couldn't place it." She pauses, her teeth setting hard before continuing, "Said he knew me from before. Something about.. .my effecting his life, or something."

A shrug of her shoulders, "He seemed very amused by it all. But..." the sentence trails and she tries to grasp the threads of her meaning, slipping between her fingers like water, "something was wrong." A twitch of her mouth, not quite humourous, "beyond the 'strange fucking man on my porch' wrong. Just..." Gears change, abruptly as she tries to find a way to make the meaning clear, "I knew someone once, who raped and killed some ten or fifteen women. I was there for his interview with the police. He made me feel the same way as this bloke."

She doesn't wax lyrical, and there's a faint sense that she's looking for simply important information. Whatever it could be, anything. To help them, or to help herself. As soon as they'd figured it out, Rune said, this would end. One might be able to understand that Imogen would be eager for this to end as soon as possible. She raises the beer bottle to her lips once more, swallowing deeply of the liquid.

(james)
there's a nod
wrong
he knows that feeling
his past two days have just been... wrong
wondering if the rest of the pack knew where he was
how much more wrong would it get?
(you're not supposed to mourn them, James)

his beer's gone
seems that's becoming more and more of a habit, lately
he rarely drank at all before this
guess it's true what they say about being twenty-one
so there's the slow rise of long, lean body
the steady pace of boots across carpet back towards the fridge
that niggling sense between his shoulder blades
pack
coupled with the raking scratch at the base of his skull
silver
he's not going to push it anymore
(just what were you doing hanging around four.... five graves, Jamey-boy?)

"Well... nobody should be alone with people giving off that vibe around..."

half murmued over the suck of the door opening
three bottles clinking as they're pulled from the confines
bottles hissing as three caps zing towards the trashcan
two in one hand
one held out with the other towards his packmate somehow making it through the door
a brief glance, a nod up
he figured out where he's been
(Your kids have nightmares? I'll give 'em to him)
but he doesn't say anything
it's not his business anyway
settling back into the deep couch
that second bottle set on the table within Imogen's reach for when she's done

(decker)
Nightmares. Nothing he hadn't had before. Nothing he hadn't seen before. Nothing he hadn't survived before. Nothing he couldn't take.

Except for one thing. And whatever it'd been, it still haunts his eyes.

He pushes his shoes off. Half-disoriented still, half-feral, he's spirit slowly reverting to flesh. His gaze is steady on James, the only acknowledgment of the other's greeting. One dirty boot comes off, mud and grime caked to the sole, and then the other. It's warm in the condo. For that, he's grateful.

At some point Imogen's words filter through. He looks at her, watching her for what seems like a long time before he clears his throat. His word comes rustily, just a single one - "Who?"

(imogen)
Her head turns back toward the sound of the opening door (Hey, Rune that was.... oh.), eyes settling on the Fenrir's face, one hand reaching out blindly to put the empty beer bottle on the table and then picking up the one that James had given to her.

If this goes on all night, James isn't going to last. While the Fianna cannot outdrink Rune, or likely Decker (though she's yet to put that to the test), she can certainly out drink the Gnawer.

She doesn't greet Decker, perhaps not wishing to waste her breath after his reaction to James's offering of booze. Or simply just meeting his gaze as he looks at her for what seems like a long time.

He speaks out rustily, however, a single word through a corroded throat. "I don't even know," she says after a moment, her hand lifting to dig through her hair, untangling the last tendrils of braid, and letting it fall loose over her shoulders in it's usual cacophony of colour. "Didn't get name out o'im."

Raising the now full beer to her lips, dark eyes slipping across the living room.

(decker)
Beer. Imogen's got one. James is holding one out. His body remembers it: the concept of food and drink. His grey eyes follow the arc of Imogen's beer bottle until he realizes James holds another out for him.

He reaches forward, snags it, raises it.
Gulps.

In the relatively quiet living room, they can all hear his throat clicking with each swallow. When most the beer is gone, he lowers the bottle, lowers his head, gives it a slow loose shake like a waking beast. All right. Okay.

Frown. Recollect thoughts. Frown harder. "He threaten you?" Decker hands the beer back to James and heads for the fridge.

(james)
no, he probably won't last all night
he won't last another two hours if he keeps this pace
he's getting a tolerance
but it's not that good of one

Decker's bottle is settled on the table, too
and that's about where his eyes go
other than the random shift and blink in tandem with tilt and swallow

there's a (tentative) touch in his packmate's mind
some impressionistic series of flashes and images
a quicker story than Imogen can retell
filling him in on what he knows won't be said

(imogen)
It's the stare between James and Decker that kept her from speaking, and simply leaning back, a movement that is not repose, simply a shifting of her position, as she takes a deep swallow of her beer.

It's like two people speaking a different language, except this is one she has no chance to learn. And so she waits for speech, or for some sort of change, some way of knowing that the conversation of the mind is over.

(decker)
It's the stare between James and Decker that kept her from speaking, and simply leaning back, a movement that is not repose, simply a shifting of her position, as she takes a deep swallow of her beer.

(decker)
The stare isn't held. James, if anything, would be looking at Decker's back. Decker is looking for food.

The images pass anyway. The story is told, and there's some sort of strange tug-of-war between the unfamiliarity of total weariness, and the familiarity of aggression. Anger.

Could sleep for a thousand years.
Could tear someone to bits.

He settles for heating leftovers. As the microwave turns and hums, he comes over to the table to take up his bottle again. He had a strange talent for occupying the same room as Imogen without ever intersecting her space. She had the same.

The microwave turns, hums, beeps. He heads back to get his food, aware that his presence had killed the conversation without really caring.

(james)
the microwave beeps
the scent of nuked food floods the condo
the Gnawer, then, stands again

of all the things he knows his packmate needs
space is one of them
he recognizes that familiar aggression
of all the things he knows his friend needs
two Garou watching over her isn't one of them
with Decker here, she's not alone
so he grabs his coat and his beer and heads to the balcony

(the silver is uncomfortable enough, the silence makes it just... peachy)

the door almost closed completely behind him
boots are kicked up on the ballustrade
a lighter flares, throwing his shadows on the sculpted stucco
and that's thick smokey haze floating back inside
whatever he looks at...

it's not the stars that flicker above the city's afterburner glow
it's not some mystery that's hidden up above the frosted clouds
it's not even the casual study of the surrounding area
it's something in his hand

(imogen)
Decker's eating, and moving around her space as they often tend to, as if neither are there, or as is if neither mattered (and sometimes she wonders). James gets up to leave, her head turns for a moment to follow him.

It wasn't much of a conversation, anyway, and close to dying because she'd told him all she knew (it's amazing how a five minute scenario can change the way you live your day to day life, even for a short period of time), and there's only so many questions to ask. And there certainly isn't much of a conversation now.

Some of James's quietness, that edge-of-depression silence has seeped into her like an infection, or else she'd had it before she'd met up with the two Garou. It's one in the morning on a Sunday, and in spite of Rune's suggestion, she was going to work tomorrow. Part of her honestly believed that whoever it was wasn't coming back.

She's not hungry, and she doesn't want to ask about the look in his eyes, so after a moment, the palm of her hand scrubs sharply against the curve of her jean clad thigh and she stands, "I'm going next door." She says, picking up the half empty bottle of beer, and looking over at him for a moment, eyes passing across the path of lingering wounds half visible through clothing that has obviously seen better days and skin that has likely seen better days too. A momentary comment passes through her mind and dies before it quite reaches her mouth, saying instead, "I doubt the silver's all that pleasant, I'm going to put it away." And her foot steps start to take her toward the door.

(decker)
"No."

Halfway through his food as he is (leftover chinese? something like that? can't tell, don't wanna tell), the word is muffled, nearly a grunt. She might think he hadn't heard her at all, or worse, didn't care. There's so much he didn't care about. His packmate stepping outside, for example. That hardly seems to register on him at all. It's all blocked out. Food: that's the center of his universe right now, in a mechanical way completely different from James' worship of his cheezy burgers.

Then, a click when he sets his fork down. He reaches across the breakfast bar to snag up a paper towel, wipes his hands, his mouth, tosses it aside. Progress. Evolution. From wiping on pants to wiping on towels.

Probably temporary.

Standing then: "Don't." Don't go. Has he ever said that to her? She's said it to him once, and nearly said it many times. He's nearly said it more than he can remember. Aware of the silence that stretches and stretches, aware of his body remembering what it feels like to hunger, to thirst, to tire, to lust, he shrugs. Lies, "Don't mind so much."

And then, "C'mere."

And when she does, he draws a breath like he might say something else. Instead, he reaches around behind her, his eyes following the motion of his hands as though he could see through her. He seeks out those selfsame silver weapons strapped to the sheath on her back, tracing the shape through windbreaker, sweater and blouse before reaching beneath her clothes. One hand's all he needs. He uses both. He draws them, one and then the other, and sets them on the counter.

One, and then the other.

Then, a strange moment. His hands are still chill from the night, shockingly so against the skin at the small of her back, warmed by all her layers of clothing. He draws her closer until their lower bodies are pressed together, but not to kiss, and not to possess. Simply enough, he lays his brow against hers, eyes shut, and listens to her breath. Breathes her scent.

A moment later, his hands slip from beneath her clothes to rest on her hips. He exhales and, again, meets her eyes.

"Carryin' silver again?" Makes him want to put her in a motel again.

(james)
he's outside
where it's quiet
there's maybe the sound of an errant car rolling through the lot
or maybe.... some car finding it's way down the main street
if he could hear the neighbors sleeping or fighting or fucking
he doesn't care

he almost forgets about the Camel burning its way down towards his flesh
it's an afterthought that finally flicks the half-wasted smoke away into the night
("Since when did you smoke?" Since I ran out of things to do with my hands)
it's blind luck that the butt makes it over the railing
he's still looking at his other hand
the one that's cupping a picture

not like he could ever forget the faces

and after awhile, it's folded
slipped back into a pocket as he stands
bottle scraping over the dusty glass of the small table
eventually there's piece of mind enough to lift it
the balcony door sliding open on whispering wheels
and closing just as unnoticeably

I'm supposed to keep an eye on her tonight it's barely there, in Decker's mind, maybe more of a feeling than actual words, exchanged as steps guide him across the living room Guess since you're back you'll be doing it.

he's watching the ground
(he's ignoring the jealousy)
climbing the stairs

(imogen)
No. Her head turns, half way toward the door, one hand sliding through her hair as she looks at him for a moment, waiting for the finishing of his thought, of this sliver of conversation, one sided a s it may be. C'mere.

And when she does (and she does), he reaches out, finding the security of silver beneath her clothing, the shape felt. The knife hilt. The curve of the sheath.

His hands are cold, for once, and goose flesh riples across her back, felt just beneath his thumbs as he traces the shape, both hands, when he needs only one.

There's no kiss, no possession, her forehead against his, hip to hip, and his hands beneath her clothes cold against her flesh. She inhales slowly of his smell, a mind that notices nuances catch the smell of sweat and blood, the smell of flesh scrubbed raw.

Her fingers, one hand cool from the beer bottle, the other normal temperature, trace the contours of his arm, cautious of welts, more felt than seen (because her eyes are shut, too) by changes of heat, swelling of the skin. His hands move, falling to her hips, and her own hands pause, not willing to move up further because his body is a road map of injury.

"Yeah," she doesn't speak loudly normally, and only inches from each other, she certainly does not speak loudly now, her voice low, stirring the air between them, "I figured if I was watchin'm'back, I should probably have somethin' to use if I actually saw something. Otherwise, there's no point."

[sort've paused until further notice]

Posted by james at December 29, 2002 12:00 AM

Comments