December 30, 2002.12.30.02. - faith [rune][north jersey, condos]
(rune)
It's late, when she returns. It's quite late. One might even say, it's early. Somewhere in the middle of the long night (how long'm I indebted? for-fucking-ever), everything got turned around, and after long miles taken too fast, the blur of the road, the pit stop at the rest area in the middle of Bumpkis, New Jersey (her new name for everyplace that is neither here nor there, but rather someplace in the middle of it all) to suck down a cigarette and swallow a couple of Xanax (no Evian in the vending machines here. Just fucking Dasani or some such crap. Weak.) before climbing back into the car and finishing the goddamned drive back a little too fast, a little too recklessly, she pulls into the Rolling Meadows parking lot on the ass-end of morning. Five a.m.Traffic was already picking up, the foolish souls who bleed themselves dry with two hour commutes into the city so they can afford the big house with the nice garage, two Volvos, and designer clothes (Baby Gap!) for the children they never see were heading toward their high-powered jobs in the high-priced city, mainlining Starbucks in an attempt to remaing reasonably alert. The Beemer was the only car peeling off at the anonymous exit in the middle of the anonymous sprawl. It's drive was the only one who had been up the whole of the night, and she was the only one who was not exhausted, cursing blearily at traffic while checking email on the phone, reading the paper and gobbling down breakfast while fiddling with the radio (hate that song).
She had stopped just once after the smoke break, zipped through a drive-through for breakfast at a fast-food restaurant a quarter-mile from home. And so, when she climbs out of a car, she's swinging her keys in one hand and a brown paper bag stuffed full and stinking (deliciously) of sausage and biscuits and deep fried potato flattened into an unnatural shape. The door opened and flung shut, she fumbles for the lights (still rather dark outside) before flinging keys and breakfast across the linoleum breakfast bar. Quick survey of the living room - empty - before she grabs her cigarettes and a cold beer from the fridge, and heads outside for a smoke.
Rune stands there, on the balcony, fingers curled negligently around the neck of the beer bottle, which rests otherwise against her hip. The first tainted breath of poisoned smoke is heaven, and settles her nerves, soothes that which the Xanax had not touched into quiesence. It's not until the second or third breath (inhale/exhale) that she pauses to exam the niggling sense - pack - of James' presence, close enough that she can feel him, but not on the couch where she would usually find him. She exams the feeling as she takes her fourth drag, and stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray before taking the fifth, turning around and heading back inside.
She pauses in the kitchen to grab another beer, then follows the tug of his presence toward the steps. Her boots - the sleek, high-heeeled leather boots that would offer not a lick of traction on ice or snow - are discarded at the foot of the stairs, and through some complicated negotion, she doffs her winter coat at the top of the stairs without managing to spill her beer.
The bedroom - her bedroom - there - and she opens the door quietly, bare feet whispering on the carpet, left hand fumbling for the dimmer switch to turn the lights on low, to take the edge from the darkness, to let her see.
(james)
how long ago did he slink in from the balcony
(where she's standing now)
choking down some feeling brought back from the past
some jealousy he souldn't really have
Decker was back, he'll take care of Imogen
so he'll just crawl away unnoticed like a good boy
blindly moving up the stairs and through the short hallway
(where she navigates now)
opening the door to her room and shutting it behind him
and somehow, for some reason, curling up in her bed
(where she's standing, watching, now)he never does this
whenever she's not here
he doesn't invite himself into her bed
he takes the couch, or the chair, or whatever's convenient
but never in her own den
no matter how many times he's slept here with her
he never invades that privacy
never longer than a shower if the downstairs one is occupied
never longer than to grab something she asked him to anyway
he never does thisso maybe it speaks of something else, now
whatever it is that left boots and trench piled onto the floor
whatever it is that has the pillow clamped down tight over his head, back to the door
whatever it is that had him up in Albany for two days - without sharing a word of where he went
how much worse will it get, if they knew
whatever it was that he didn't want to leave, but did anyway, when calledwhen the lights climb in mimic of sunrise
there's little more than a half-sigh and a tightening of the arm flung over the pillow
(baby, it's too early.... c'mere, you don't wanna wake up either and you know it)
and perhaps some frown hidden deep deep below the fluffy down
it's the sleep of the exhausted, the sleep of the heartbroken
maybe it has something to do with the picture that's laying on top of his trench(rune)
The lights climb up - almost artificial sunrise, or perhaps some strange sunrise, the diffuse light spilling softly from the recesses bordering the ceiling all around the room - and then back down, until it is just enough by which to see, until it is just enough for her to set the beer bottles aside on the nightstand and send her cigarettes tumbling after without knocking off the red beanie bear that has taken the place of honor beside the glowing alarm clock. Just enough, too, that she can navigate the room - her discarded clothing in a pile in a corner, his trench, his boots piled two feet down - without stumbling over the objects on the floor.Just enough, too, so that she can see the picture atop the trench, draw back to the small pool along the wall where the light is brightest and glance down at the photograph. She takes a moment then (long fingers curled around the curling border of the picture, thumb sweeping the bottom edge, pausing at the crease in the middle.
Happy Y2K!
Well then. Dark eyes flicker toward the figure curled on the bed, then return to the photograph in her hand. She breathes in - a longdrawn breath, held until her lungs seem ready to burst - and then exhales a quiet sigh. The photo is folded carefully back into quarters, tucked neatly into the right pocket of the trench. The trench is shaken out and hung in the overstuffed closet, some three or four garments flung down to make room. That chore finished, Rune turns her attention definitely back to James, huddled on her bed.
She circles the room to the far side, closest to where he rests, then eases herself over the hard, leatherwrapped frame. The mattress rolls and shifts with the sudden added burden of her weight. She remains still until some level of equilibrium has returned, then eases herself across the distance between them, using the frame for leverage so as not to send the waves wild through the mattress once more.
When she has gained his side, she slips her hands beneath his shoulders, and lifts him so that his head rests against her leatherclad thigh rather than the sheets beneath. Though she does not disturb the pillow clamped over his head, her fingers find their way beneath, curling into the sleeping disorder of his dreads.
(james)
somewhere, deep inside, he feels her
which her?
that jangling warmth between his shoulderblades
which pack
and because of some scent or feeling or something else
it blooms further, a comfortable crawl up his spine
which love
and maybe, after the waves have settled
after her body draws close to his and his head rests upon her thigh
there might be the glimmer of a smile, thereas fingers sneak into his dreads
his hand sneaks off the pillow and around her hips
muscle flexing through his arm as the bed rolls in the shift of her weight closer
... she must be comfortable
she must be wantedhe just holds her there
asleep.. awake... does it matter?
five minutes pass on the digital clock
little neon bars playing musical chairs to count the time
and finally his fingers move along the waistline of leather pants
some absent, half-conscious caress
sleep (or something far worse) thick in his voice that stumbles out from beneath the pillow"How long you been back?"
a half roll
sliding the fluffy covering off to the side
umber (bloodshot) gaze lifting to her face in the almost darkness(rune)
The pillow is removed, and now her slim fingers have a full, textured canvas over which to play. And play they do, through the rough, disordered tangle, sorting the thick vines of dreadlocks by some arcane system known only to her absent, nimble fingers. This one shifted to the side, another curled beneath it, a third smoothed back from his brow and allowed to fall back across his head, the next spilling over the muscled curve of her thigh and then to the soft, slippery sheets beneath. Now and then her dancing fingers pause on his skin, the pads soft and uncalloused, the edges of her manicured nails cool in contrast to the heat of her fingers: his brow, his temple, the hollow beneath his ear, the corner of his mouth, before returning to his hair.She sorts and resorts and smooths and resmooths the disordered locks over and over again, watching him through half-closed eyes.
"Not long," she murmurs in response, daring to shift position, to uncurl her second leg from beneath her body, inviting the movement of the bed beneath them as she changes the distribution of her weight. Her hands still, then, fingers flattening against his dreadlocks, one hand sliding down to cup his cheek. "Long enough."
The painted red mouth traces a wistful curve across her sharp, pale featured-face. - If I could take this from you - She bends to press a brief, warm kiss to his brow. - I can never take this from you. - Then her thumb curls to rub the stain of her lipstick from his skin.
(james)
he can't help it
even in the depths of his sorrow
there's a small smile rising
that... shy... smile
at the way she plays with his hair
sorting and tangling the thick dread cords
the tilt of his face into the warmth of her hand
the half close of his eyes in some serene sigh in all this hurtas she so easily moves
in control of her body and comfortable in the deliberateness
he shifts to remain comfortable
or to just not allow her to move too far awaywhen she lifts from that breif, warm kiss
his arm lifts to follow
fingers sliding along the side of her neck
softly finding place to rest behind
(Long enough)
completing some symbolic circle of touch between them
there's a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth
there's a soft, chuffed laugh at her smearing the lipstick away
Someday, someone will find a way to....
though the sound doesn't remain in his words
the whole time his gaze never left her"Cooper's on the right... Sledge in the middle.... Chris on the left."
he doesn't say that's Jenna in his arms
their baby in her belly
he knows he doesn't have to"It's where I was.... bit North of Albany."
where I buried them
I didn't mean to not tell you
But how do you tell your pack your visiting the graves of three Spirals and a corrupted kin?(rune)
"Do you need to go back?" she asks quietly, head craning back against his fingers as she revels in the simple contact. The question surprises her, spilling out of her mouth before she has a chance to consider it, much like the offer that falls hard on its heels. "I could go with you. Luc and Livingston could watch out for Imogen for a day or two."How could he tell them? He couldn't. She wouldn't. Of course, there are no graves to visit (the bodies, burned.) and she would not wish to do so. His sorrow is more deeply felt, more real than whatever half-assed selt-doubt sent her running thousands of miles across the country, severing all ties with her tribe (and soon that ended. She's all tangled up, all over again), and somehow, it shames her, the way he still feels his grief, raw and fresh as if it happened yesterday, in a way she never has, in a way she never could. There's something so raw, something so pure about his grief, no matter what they became, no matter what he had to do at the end, for his lost pack and his lost mate.
The offer made, she begins sliding down into a more comfortable slouch. Her hand leaves his hair to grab the pillow he discarded and shift it so that it is wedeged between her upper back and the low headboard as she inches down. Her body moves minutely beneath his head - the bunch and release of muscle in thigh and calf - and soon his pillow is no longer her thigh, but rather the soft curve of torso between hip and waist.
(james)
his fingers stay at her neck
as he if could feel her reasoning
as if by touch he could understand her thoughts
just as he still feels his grief
and he's quiet as she moves
dark gaze dropping awayhis pillow becomes lean belly
he's twisting onto his side
so that her legs draw up over his thighs
his shoulder firm against her hip
keeping them tangled together
the arm that reached for her slowly slipping to curve around her ribs"I'd appreciate the ride."
the words so soft
.... choking
tumbling out in a half-thought before he falls silent again
his jaw tensing against her sweater
his fingers curling against her flank
he just.... listens to the echo of her heartbeat
the rush of living blood as it courses down into her long legs
he's not staring at the far wall, or the blink of the clock
just blankly into the darkness
just blankly into his past
was two days enough to pay his respects to those he loved?"...... or maybe I should just let them go."
they didn't let you go, Jamey-boy
they wanted to bring you with them
and you killed them for it
.... there are times a man should question his faith.(rune)
"You'll let them go when you can, James." Her words are quietly uttered, and fall softly in the dark, quiet room. The sounds of the city are a fine, white noise, a low incessant hum that forms the background to all their interactions, familiar (like the wind in the canopy of some vast forest constructed of concrete and metal pilings, rising, rising to blot out the sun) and noticed, somehow, only in its absence, the constant buzz of white noise. "Even if I wish you could now, if only for - "The sentence ends abruptly, and she sucks in another breath. His head rises and falls with the contraction of her diaphragm as she draws in another long breath, dreads shifting softly as the landscape of her stomach (his pillow) changes. " - for you, or whatever." She is not often at such a loss for words, but the gravity of the subject does not sit easily on her glib tongue. Her usual, casual dismissals are hardly appropriate, and she half-feels words stuck in her throat, half-feels as if breath has been stolen from her lungs, so strange and painful is it to find herself without something - anything - to say.
After a moment, she starts again. Another breath, drawn as her fingers twist more tightly in his hair, drawn as she settles more firmly against him, hip against his shoulder, legs flung over his thighs, bent faintly at the knee to accommodate his body half-curled beneath her own. "It's not a matter of should, I guess. I mean, it doesn't - " another pause, the wry twist of a smile - speechless - and then, quieter, so quiet he must strain to hear. " - I don't know what to say. We'll drive up, tomorrow."
(james)
as her stomach rises in the caught breath
he's a moment lingering before sinking back against her
he wants to ask what she was going to say
even if maybe he already knows
just.... maybe to hear it, just to really know
even behind some closed door in their own private world
he can still feel the dull ache of lingering jealousy
and a part of him that knows better wants the void to be filled anyway
but as his shoulder compresses beneath his weight
and he's settled comfortably back against her abs
he doesn't ask - and he doesn't sayhe lets it all slip by in silence once again
there's the crawl of his fingers down her side
some little mountaineer traversing the landscape her body provides
tracing the babysoft folds of her sweater
feeling how it smooths slick across her flesh beneath
mapping the stitches that curve leather to her hip
the stretch of seam down her thigh
then all the way back up again
strong hand firm across iliac crest"I'm glad you came home, Rune."
he doesn't say anything more than that
Posted by james at December 30, 2002 12:00 AM
he knows it's better that they not think about it
but maybe he can't help it, now
in one of those rare times the water is still below them
when they're not distracted in the heat of each other's flesh
as he's thinking about what made him dead inside, for so very long
how losing her brought an emptiness greater than any he ever imagined
and how he's laying here, now, in comfortable, sad silence
with the one that made him begin to live again
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