January 22, 2003.01.22.03. - need to talk [rune][north jersey]
(rune)
Its the fourth day of her absence. That's not so entirely uncharacteristic. She has gone before for a few nights at a time, with no word of where she went, or with whom, other than perhaps a disgusted look at her cell after checking her voicemail and a half-muttered tribal business. The Beemer's still in the parking lot, though, now covered with two finee layers of the powdery snow that falls when the temperature drops well below freezing, untouched and idle. Likely its the only car in the parking lot with such a virgin coat (not quite virgin. who can resist sliding his or her fingers through the untouched snow on an idle car, when everything else has gone to ice and dirty slush and half-ruin?), since no one in the northeast stops long after a small snowsquall. Life keeps moving through the long hard months of winter, because life must. There's been no brush of her mind with any of the pack, just some strange blank wall had anyone tried.James. It's sudden, not quite tentative, but not precisely forceful, the brush of her mind against his own. Sometime late in the day, mid-afternoon, the watery shadows case by the weak winter sun have grown long, thrusting a few flimsy fingers through the slats of the blinds darkening the sliding glass doors to the balcony. There's only the impression of darkness, early night, where the living room windows, facing east, front the parking lot. Somehow, it always seems like that in winter. Night comes to half the world half-way through the afternoon. There's a pause, then, the briefest of pauses. Enough for a response, even if it is little more than a sleepy query back carried across Eagle's broad wings.
The impression of hesitation, second-guessing, firming into something closer to resolve. I need to talk to you. Garbled, amusement, faint, bitter, self-mocking and raw, the briefest sense of it, accompanied by an impression of a hotel sign Coach's Inn and some no-name no-tell motel, its squat concrete structure flat against the winter sky. Route 62. Half-way to East Orange. Bring the car?
She waits long enough to hear his response, but the connection is soon closed. Some things require words spoken, rather than shared. Some raw things must be distilled into the framework of language in order to be tamed and reasoned and rationalized, some words deserve to be spoken.
(james)
four days
it's not uncommon, no
and he'd busied himself with helping out the Kin
menial other things to get ready for the trip they were taking
but with the Beemer still sitting there
maybe he was beginning to get a little worried
maybe that's why he chose to do what he did last night
even if he still ended up dragging himself back to the condo
(her condo)
and passing out on the couchhe and the Modi ran whatever preperatory errands they needed to
eight forty friggen five ey em
get things ready for the pack to head south
and once home, he crawls right back onto that couch
letting the rest of the day pass lazily on by(James.)
it's some etherial voice echoing into his dreams
some fairy, some entity, some grand presence surrounding in lights and waves and ephemeral glow
it's enough to startle him out of the semi-coherant slumber
right on into a state of continued semi-coherancy
at first he looks around, peeling his eyes open to take in the condo
that's when he recognizes the touch in the back of his mind
and there's a level of relief, thereCoach's Inn. Route 62. Halfway to East Orange. Bring the car.
repeated back to her
(quite possibly still slurred)
just to make doubly sure
by that time, he's crawling out of the deep leather cushions
in and out of the shower in five minutes
a change of her clothes shoved into a backpack
he doesn't quite have her devastating fashion sense, but it's warm and clean
he noticed her beloved bag of make-up left on the counter three days ago
who knows what she had or didn't have or went through or....
that's shoved in, too
just in caseanother five minutes and he's in the Z3
letting it warm up before pulling out of the lot
a pit stop by some burger joint to grab fast food
and then he's heading for the highway
this time twenty minutes rolls on by
the car quietly purring into the Inn lot
that's where he follows the feel of pack to find the room
rough knuckles softly beating on the door(rune)
Two minutes later - perhaps less - the door swings open. Rune offers James a weary half-smile, and steps back to let him get in. There's a shift at the sudden assault of cold from without, the energy suppressed and translated into movement, lifting her hand to her head and running her fingers through the strands, jet black and glossy again, still half-wet from a recent shower. There's a suggestion of roots, though, sundrenched blonde roots, surprisingly enough. She flickers a glance back at the room as he walks in, to be sure everything's enough in order, then offers him a lilting shrug. "C'mon in." Another glance. Down. Away. Back. Not shy (never shy), but subdued for all that. "...thanks for coming."The room is much as one would expect. Like all such motel rooms, its small and squat and ugly, worn around the edges. The wallpaper, some ugly, neutral pattern that might have been in vogue in the late 1970s peels away from the wall here and there, exposing the flaking layer of an old paint job, just as ugly, or drywall beneath. Two squat double beds. One with a rumpled comforter carelessly smoothed over the lumpy mattress, the second with bare white sheets, cheap and rough, tossed over the mattress. They're too white, too starchy white, to be anything but new. Maybe it's some attempt to chear the dreary place up. Maybe the old ones finally frayed so much that management had to cough up the ten bucks for a new set. Empty soda cans and cigarette butts fill the two wastebaskets to overflowing, and there's a pizza box moldering on the counter beside the sink, uncomfortable tuck up hard against a garment rack that hasn't been used in an age, since the hangers disappeared half-a-decade ago, never to be replaced. The television's on at a low murmur, some local channel, later afternoon talk shows in full swing. Rune crosses to the nightstand, where the remote is literally bolted down, and clicks it off.
The first sensory assault is cigarette smoke, polled and confined for several days in the squat little room. It hazes in the air, and coils like some faint rolling fog where illuminated by the two ugly sconces bolted to the wall above the beds. The second scent is deeper, more distant and subtle, less sharp. It coils beneath the acrid stench of too many cigarettes smoked in too small a space, but is still recognizeable for what it is: old blood, blood heavily spilled. And though the mattress has been turned over the sheets replaced, he can, perhaps, see the trail of it on the carpet from the door to one of the two beds if he bothers to look down.
She's wearing boxers, and a cheap white t-shirt that shows the lines of her black bra beneath. Flickering a glance at the bags in his hand, she manages a rueful smile, " - hope you brought me some underwear." There's not an ounce of make-up on her face, which makes her strangely vulnerable. The sharp, attractive lines of her features remain, but without smoky shadow around her eyes or red paint on her lips, without the sharp definition of black mascara to highlight the length of her otherwise blonde lashes, without which he has rarely seen her, she seems starched and drawn, drawn not in color, but in shadows and light.
(james)
even before he walks in
he can sense it
he can smell it
do you really think he doesn't know her that well?
something flashes in his eyes as she looks back down and away
to see that after not even a whispered touch in four days
question. worry. ache. fear
lower lip draws between his teeth
he doesn't say a word
not out loud, not between them
just nodding and quietly walking ineyes that plummet to the ground, so breifly torn away from her
they trace the faint trail of blood from the door to the clean bed
the sheets that are so white they blind in comparison to the others
some brilliant scar that will now remain blatant against the room's otherwise universal fade
the paper bag of food crackles and crumples in his grip
greasty bottom lowered towards the comforter hiding whatever may stain the other mattress
a sag and stumble of balance when the heavy backpack is settled next to it
both bags huddling together in this strange, strange (blood scented) place"Yeh." he's turned now, away from the bed and towards her closing the door "Brought that, too."
a part of him wants to demand what happened
why did she disappear without a word
why did she not even contact him in some way
to scream and yell and rage about how hard it was to not let it show
how difficult it was to shrug it off as just more business
how dare she let him hurt like that......not a word
not a single, solitary, word about it
instead, he just reaches
one long arm drawing out
fingers tickling at her bare wrist
crawling to wrap around her arm as they slide higher
past elbow, bicep, homing in on her shoulder
tickling the still damp tips of her inky hair
all the way up to softly cup her face
such a chaste (timid) affection
when he'd normally have tackled her the moment she opened the door(rune)
Her gaze follows him from door to bed, flickers over the heavy backpack and the greasy bag of fast food (sudden inhalation, the scent of grease heavy and blessed. she's healed. she's been healed, and no longer does the idea of food nauseate her from the sheer implausibility that her ragged, battered bodymight actually manage to digest it). She's still as she watches him, arms hanging uselessly by her side. The silence is awkward and fumbling, not first-date silence, but morning after silence, something fraught with the remnants of tension and everything left unsaid, by him (how dare you?) by her (i'm sorry).Then he touches her. Then he touches her, some slow, timid crawl of fingers up the bare length of her muscled arm, the unmarred skin now faintly glowing with the unnatural health of their kind despite the weary slant of her eyes, the awkward glance away.
And back. Always back. Back as his hand pauses on the curve of her slender shoulder, the cheap, thin cotton of the t-shirt, the bite of bra-strap beneath. His hand unfolds and opens, like a bird taking slow, careful flight, and rough fingers cup the soft skin covering her cheek and jaw, find the strong lines of muscle and bone beneath the skin. She sighs - some sudden dam bursting free of breath, some attempt to catch the expelled breath, throat closing hard in a quick, choked sound, and steps forward into his arms, drawn as if he had pulled her there.
Her forehead against the bridge of his nose, the spiderweb brush of lowering lashes against his cheeks, the shudder of something rippling through the taut muscles of her tense shoulders, the gift of her breath against his skin, impossibly, impenetrably warm.
(james)
suddenly, she's in his arms
they're closing around her like a giant damned flesh shield
(would he ever say he'd protect her from whatever it was?)
cup of her face leading into the circle of shoulders
the other drawing lazy slash diagonally down her back
how strange some smooth embracing movement
can feel like he's fumbling to gather as much of her as close as possible
tightening as the ripple works its way through her strong framehe's confused
he's curious
he's....... contentache of days washes away with each gifted breath
even if he's sure on inhale
she can smell the underlying guilt
he may be scrubbed clean
but his jacket still smells of tequila and smoke
and whatever else clung to his skin on the stumble home
smear of scents and oil and sweat because his shirt was left behind....but he doesn't think about that now
that will come when she asks
there are no comforting (condescending) words
there are no questions (demands) about the past
sometimes silence seems best
everything is spoken in the strength of his embrace
the weight of his head against hers
the slow breaths that are refilling depleted reserves(rune)
Her hands find their way beneath the shifting wings of his patchwork trench coat, smooth and whole and so terribly, terribly soft, the pads of her fingers. She's never done an honest day's work in the whole of her life - he must know that, he must be aware of that, if only from the softness of the pads of her fingers, the smooth curl of her cool palm against his flank. And around. And up. Up across his back over the ash-laced scars that mark him. Her fingers linger on the first furrow, splayed still raw - the raised nubs of flesh, the darkenedash burned into his skin - across the lean inverse curve of his lumbar spine, and linger there, then trace the furrowed flesh upwards, to another, and another, and another, some chaotic map of his past, his loss, his deaths, his strength.He cannot know it, but she loves him for his scars. She loves him for his scars (the lingering touch, blind, blinded, gentle as the swift flutter of a beeswing, thorough, as if they were some sort of braille'd map to past, present, or future. Her eyes are closed, and he can feel the soft brush of her pale lashes against his cheek, spiderdust, cool and feathery) and the strength of his faith, and everything that weighs him down, and everything above which he rises.
Time dilates. Each breath fills her lungs slowly, and is exhaled in half-time. He can, perhaps, feel the moment she catches the scent - sweat and oil, tequila and smoke - clinging to him like guilt. The tension that swirls once more into her shoulders, stiffens her arms, makes taut the long, sleek lines of paraspinal muscles as awareness coils through her sleek form. Her brow slides from the bridge of his nose to his cheek, and her mouth finds his flesh - just beneath the strong line of his jaw, the vulnerable skin of his throat - not even the illusory touch of teeth ( - throating him - ), just the warmth of breath, the quickening of tongue upon his pulse before she pulls away.
"We need to talk." Reluctantly, she breaks the embrace, pulling away from him, pulling him with her toward the bed, which offers the most comfortable seat in the room. There's a nest of pillows at the head, and an overflowing ashtray on the nightstand. There's a brief, reluctant glance - the flicker of dark eyes, framed by pale blonde lashes - upward, then away, followed by a strong, calming breath. "Some explanation." The brief quickening of her smile, some half-edged ghost-thing. "I think I owe you that much." ..and some pause, as she finds her seat and finds her cigarette and finds the words she knew she would say - the words she knew she needed to say - but which flee from her like so much mist on a sunlit morning. "I think you deserve that much."
(james)
how he just revels in this
dark eyes falling closed to feel the explorative touch against his back
the sensation then non-sensation then sensation again to cross scarred flesh
breath filling lungs to slowly, subtly, lift into her fingers
that soft, soft, soft skin against his ownhe's rough and rugged
his hands tell the story of his past
as much as the scars on his back and soul
the way callouses catch on the cheap, thin t-shirt
from both his fingers and palms
(uptown girl, and downtown boy)
he's scrapped and struggled and lived in the gutters his entire life
her condo the first roof he's had over his head for so many consecutive months
honest or dishonest (was he ever dishonest?) his life has been hard
everything he has is himself
and how completely and freely he offers it to her
there are times he just..... wonders
but soon enough it's always shoved away
don't question the dream, and you won't wake up from it, Jamey-boyhow strange..... this dedicated Hood..... enamoured with the spoiled rich Walker
he happily lives with nothing, she needs things he does not even comprehend the use of
yet still...
what he'd sacrifice to give her morehe doesn't care she's unpainted and imperfect
he doesn't care she isn't wearing her usual thesad of black and wicked, wicked red
even for the shadows and the exhausted wear
it's still so clear he adores her
in those simple returned touches
reassociating himself with that he missed so much it achedthroat contracts with thick swallow
feeling the slow tension weave into her muscles at the discovery
were he already not looking away and behind her
that's where his gaze would shift now
inwardly he grapples with things she does not yet know
so willing to tell her... though it may be things she does not want to hear
jaw stretches upwards
exposing his throat to her gentle touch
smile spreading just as warmed breath spills and floods across his pulsewhen she pulls away, he doesn't want to let go
(it's too soon, just a moment more....)
fingers reversing their intial crawl to slide down her arm
curiosity burns in deep umber eyes
but he only nods
while he expected nothing
there is an appreciation in him, to get something"Decker and I took care of getting the supplies for the trip."
softly, just to bring her back to speed
letting her know there's no press to return, tonight
the quilted coat drops from his shoulders to pool on the empty bed
some little mountain of familiary next to the pack and bag of food
from within a pocket comes his pack of cigarettes, the top opened and held in offer
half are his own Camels, the other half strippa pink, caribbean blue, and deep, deep veridian green
his weight sinks onto the mattress with hers
not beside her to look away, but facing to give her his full attention
one leg curling camoflaged angles beneath, the other resting boot on the floor(rune)
"I should have told you," she begins, deft fingers stealing a cigarette from the pack, faint smile wreathing itself across her features. Sharp, sharp and oh so light. Give her blue contacts and she would be the perfect WASP. Erik's cousin, Decker's sister - pale blonde roots and pale falling lashes and pale winter skin. It's hard to tell which is her true face, the one she presents to him now, or the one she presents to the world, or some strange, Picasso-portrait of the two, garbled together, unrepentently mixed. There's a brief gesture, up and away, as she lifts the cigarette to her mouth, as her mouth curls in a faintly ironic smile. "Days ago." Her gaze lifts from the too-bright sheets on the bed opposite, and at last finds his own. "...but it was the full moon, and I didn't want - "- what? She never finishes the sentence, and it hangs there, pregnant with possibility, as she lights her cigarette (blue as the eyes she should have, with that hair, with those lashes) and sucks in a long, staying drag.
"Decker and I fought." He can see the tug of her gaze, away. He can see - perhaps - the flicker of her irises, the subtle change of musculature, the sudden firming line of her mouth: resolute. "In war-form. He - " Some pause, a breath, a beat, as she fumbles for the words she wants to say. It doesn't matter, she knows, everything seems to come out wrong in the end.
"I wanted him to fucking - stop - " Her fingers tighten around the filter, crushing it. She has been without the hazed storm of her rage for days and days. She has not seen the moon. She has not sought the moon. She has stayed here, in this drab little room, and her mind - for the first time in more than a decade - has been unutterably her own. The rage was gone day one. The Xanax disappeared day two. Then, there were only daytime talkshows and worn-out room, the impossibly slow reknitting of rended flesh. The stark bite of pain, constant, and the slow drag of minutes into hours, hours into days. " - with his damned comments. I wanted him to shut the fuck up. It was the full moon." Self-mocking, the curled edge of her smile. Utterly self-mocking. "...and I suppose after so long, I'd forgotten how different Fenrir and Glass Walkers are.
"He trounced me. Thoroughly. And then wouldn't leave when I told him to leave, and then brought me here when I asked him not to take me home. I couldn't walk." There's a faint wave toward the rest of the hotel room, explanation. She knows, of course, that he can smell the blood. The scent is heavy beneath the scent of cigarettes, and still sits dark across her senses. "Livingston came and healed me the rest of the way, today. Earlier. We're fine, for now. The pack, I mean, for the trip, but I don't know about after. I don't know - "
It's something she cannot articulate: how little she understood the Modi, how little she understands now, how badly she misjudged him, how strange it is to find herself still Beta in his eyes after such a thorough defeat at his hands. Her eyes skim to the side, flicker across the ashtray long enough to find it again, and tap the fine cylinder of ash from the end of the cigarette into the overflowing mess.
"I should have told you, sooner. But I didn't want you to - " He will have to fill in the rest. Some things must be spoken, but some things cannot be said, not in so many words. Some words melt on the tongue as cotton candy, sugar in the rain. Her brow creases into a thoughtful frown. " - to challenge him. To think you needed to challenge him, but I still feel as if I've betrayed you, somehow, in keeping such a silence, for so long, in even considering my first instinct, which was just to run away."
At last, her gaze flickers away from him, to the shape of their reflections in the tarnished mirror on the opposite wall. He is there. She is there, they are figures, shadows in some shadow play, easier to comprehend when painted with such a broad brush. The corner of her mouth quirks upward, wry with sundered self-awareness. "I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say, but I've been here for four days, with only my own thoughts for company - " - her mind was closed to him. her mind was closed to them all. - " - and I decided I should say it, whatever it is."
(james)
she chooses blue
he chooses white
to each their own, natural addiction
right now there's no soft humor in watching him smoke one of hers
and she's without the harshness inherant in his
bic flares orange onto his features
and he just listens
and listens close
to her words, her expressions, her body language...... well shit
even if it's not the full moon
even if it's waning in the sky
there's still that underlying bristle
a defensiveness that comes from.... what... love?
a defensiveness that comes not from the beast.... but the man
a want to protect her simply on principle of what they never say
it's written in the slow coil of shoulders
it's written in the band of muscle that tenses along his jaw
it's swallowed away and exhaled in a lazy plume of smokethere are so many ways he could take this
why she fought him, instead of the Gnawer
why she doesn't want him to challenge
why she kept things from him
reasons that would wound pride and lash at his soul
reasons that would instill the deeper hurt or betrayal
reasons that would likely get him killed...can the man see through what the beast howls?
but that was four days ago
four... long... days
maybe he just accepts it for what it is
and reinserts himself into the present
there's a long (four day long) breath to aid in his digestion of her words
dark eyes falling away, studying the bloodstains in the carpet
(his lover's blood on the carpet)
half a cigarette killed in thought
straight white teeth raking over soft pink lip"Some fight with words.... others with claws and teeth. He fought for the right to continue with his little comments." brow lifts above a glance, to reassert or perhaps find his understanding "And he won."
okay.
digestion continues
his face, his eyes, a movie screen which plays the script of his thoughts
a word for words battled without them
two Tribes reconciling (creating?) their differences in their own way
perhaps unfair, perhaps wrongly done - but it's accepted
if simply for his own understanding of the Fenrir way
and how he understands, even if she does not, what exactly the battle changed
if anything at all.... okay.
there's a slow nod or three
dreadlocks reaching a few inches towards the floor
then pulled away again
only to repeat the process"Thank you.... for telling me." whatever it was, whatever it was worth, whatever it will become "And maybe I'm answering my own question, here, but the one thing I don't understand is why he never makes the comments directly to me."
he's heard them, or maybe seen the looks
and maybe he understands the reasonings of Rank
and maybe he understands the reasoning of Tribe
knowing he's Omega in so many ways
but that would make one think that it's the lower than would... taint? weaken? the higher....
there's another long pause
inwardly struggling with what he wants to say
and perhaps what he knows he should say
but he says it anyway, so very softly
for once with words, rather than the indulgence of their bodies"I missed you."
(rune)
"I missed you, too." Her smile curls slowly, like the smoke rising from the burning cigarette, coils itself across her lips as the fine stream of poisoned gray swirls up toward the ceiling to join the general miasma (too. many. cigarettes. and a half-smoked pack of Marlboro lights on the nightstand.) that floats along the ceiling like lifting fog. Each breath is poisoned. Their lungs will never blacken. They have another, more violent death in store.She stubs out her cigarette - her half-smoked cigarette - in the ashtray, and other cigarettes, devoured all the way to the filter, burned little remnants of filters, sifting ash, spill out over the scarred nightstand. She stubs out her cigarette, and then she offers him her hand, palm up. "He thinks I'm to blame. He thinks that I will grow weak, whatever he means by that. I'm not sure he knows that you've made me stronger. I'm not sure he could understand."
Hand out, palm up; long, lean fingers (how many have died beneath her hand? how many more?) just cupped, the chipped edges of her long nails flecked with flaking remnants of red enamel.
(james)
the first parts gets a little smile
just a little grin - that grin
the one that she only sees
they've all seen the full on smile when he's around children
but that grin?
the quirk at the edges of his lips
that no matter how small always finds its way into his eyes
the barest dimple of skin around his mouth, the slightest wrinkle around deep umber
has always been especially for herhis free hand reaches for her offering
rough skin against soft pads
dirt grained seeming so much filthier compared to remnant red - even as chipped as it is
callouses tracing inside length of lean fingers
wandering across her palm
then reversing the process until his hand falls beneath hers
only to rise again and allow fingers to twine
it's clear he understands the reasoning.... now
but as with the four long days, it's put behind him
behind them
choosing now, for what is likely the first and only time, to disregard pack"He'd never understand what you've done for me, either."
murmured
those dark eyes on hers
there's.... more... he wants to say
a half breath even drawn to begin to shape it
but they've never said it before
and he's unsure if she wants to hear it now
the hesitancy brilliant in dark, dark brown
the breath wasted, discarded
tossed away in slow sigh
(I'll tell you everything if you wished to hear it)(rune)
She knows that grin as well as she knows the shape of her own palm. She knows it as well as she knows the mask she lays upon her features, and perhaps better than she knows the flesh and blood and bone (and heart, somewhere, pumping strong. and soul, calcified, half-wild) beneath it all.( - raw, these edges, in a way that cannot be contained. bedraggled threads of wants and needs, thoughts and doubts, feelings and definitions and fleeting, sudden bursts of instinct that cannot - can never - be woven into some coherent whole. She is inexpressibly inarticulate. Her throat closes hard, tendons straining to swallow the strange, sudden rise of fear that is sharply, intrinsically entwined with love. She would like a tapestry. She would like a novel. She would like a video game, where the enemies are clearly marked, the goals so obviously stated, the stakes everything or nothing, but never this high. She would prefer obvious choices and clear consequences, the bright battlemind where time slows to a crawl and all one need do is act, and death is as good an outcome as any other - )
"I don't have any claim on you." Fingers flex, tendons strain, and she squeezes his hand, and then grasps it, harder, startled by the sudden rise of something, sharp and quickened, strangely shaped. "I shouldn't. I shouldn't even ask. I shouldn't. I can't. I've never - " felt like this before.
Her eyes flicker away again, up to the ceiling, the stained acoustic tiles she counted and counted again during the long, blank days and nights, when she was left alone with her own thoughts, with her own thoughts, and no clouding rage to speak of. The shape of her hesistation, the sudden glance away, the sharp look back, the inelegance of her words, the strange shifting curl of her mouth, and the faint frown that marks her brow, the tension that finds its way into her shoulders once more, lifting beneath the rough cotton t-shirt, lifting forward, and the taut, strong grip of her fingers around his, before it drops away.
"Tell me."
(james)
"I want you to."ask him?
claim him?
feel like this?
whatever it is, he lets it slideshe took the time to gather her thoughts, earlier
now it's his turn to wrangle his
distraction found in jumpstarting another smoke from the one he all but forgot about
(ran outta things to do with my hands)
pack tossed onto the table
a long stretch towards her to extinguish the butt
he doesn't draw back
one hand holding hers
the other elbow resting on his knee
smoking a quarter of the Camel in silence"When I....." puncuated by another drag, another exhale - no matter how much he wants to say these things, it's not easy for him, but for her he tries so hard "When I lost Jenna, I felt like I died inside. I didn't just kill her and the others. I felt like I had killed myself, too. It was more than the betrayal, it was more than their blood, it was more than any hurt I could ever even imagine. Everything vanished for me. And.."
eyes that had dropped to the floor lift again
brows lifting a bit as a nervous grin wanders
there might be an apology in deep brown
(I know you've never wanted to speak of this, and it's been fine with me)
there also might be something else, something deeper
something he's never fully allowed her to see
just because to do that, would mean to admit and realize
soul poured out not only in words, but in that look"... and when I'm around you, I feel like I'm actually alive again. There's a reason to stick around other than this blind faith in what I was born to do." what killed them "Maybe it's because there's never been a claim, whatever happened would happen for as long as it would. I'm so... happy... around you. I never expected it to be forever. It was only supposed to be casual sex for as long as you allowed me in your bed. I didn't care whom else you took there, and just..... adored.... the attention you gave me. But I think you know it's more than that, now."
there's another slow stretch of his body
reaching to flatten the almost finished Camel
the words he has to say now shouldn't be laced with its smoke
weight shifts on the bed, fully facing her
now he won't let himself look away
.... here we go."Last night I helped Tristan move in. Imogen was there, as well as another Garou named Diego. Imogen left and we were just.... wasted.... on tequila." there's a bit of a chuckle there, cause he knows she knows it doesn't take much "I think I killed over a quarter of the bottle myself." okay, way wasted "And.... some comments lead to other things.... I."
another pause
it's clear he's still wrestling with acceptance of what he did - on top of everything else
and maybe there's the slighest tremble within that strong grip"I got into bed with him and kissed him. And..... I think I would've done more. It's the first time I've even thought about someone else in all the time I've known you. But..... even though there's never been a claim, Rune, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I felt I couldn't do that to you, whatever it was. So I stopped and left."
(rune)
It's too much to absorb at once, but somehow she manages to keep her gaze firmly on his. There's something strange and vulnerable about such eye contact, outside the usual language of dominance and submission, instinct and pack in which even the most civilized urrah engage. Somewhere in the middle of the speech ( - 'round about the mention of Tristan - ), she slips her hand from his and goes diving for another cigarette. The last is stubbed out, sharply, with more force than necessary, half-smoked. The next is lit with his lighter, stolen from the quilted comforter, with its cheap nylon stitching and rough, coarse weave, and then replaced."Well - "
Silence comes then, a long silence broken only by the rhythm of her breathing and the hiss of the cigarette as tobacco and paper catch, hiss, burn, die to smoke that swirls up to the ceiling.
"Well, then." There's an echo in here, and some faint echo of her familiar smirk crawling across her lips. "Maybe it's my fault." The smirk slides into half a grin, something caught in between, something not quite classifiable. "I should've kicked you out of my bed afterwards." Her fingers brush his knee, then her hand flattens against the comforter, unnecessary leverage as she rises. She is still getting used to the feel of her body, whole again, to the smooth contraction of her abdominal muscles, to the effortless physicality of her strong form. There's something - still - even tentative, a hitch at the beginning of movement, just a little rock forward to test the waters before rising, and then she paces - forward, back - between the lumpy double beds, a trail she has worn, perhaps, clear through the carpet in the last several days.
Slender arms wrapped around her midsection, she pauses at the pivot point and turns half around. Her nails dig into her skin, and she flashes him a wry, self-aware little look. "Then it might have stayed casual. I'm not good at this, James." She finds his gaze again, but maintains the arms-length distance between them, because she needs the space to think, and she needs the space to breathe, and she needs the space to find the words that he deserves in return. "I'm not good at this at all. I've never - " - another pause, and she shakes her head to clear her mind of all the post-modern little tangles of ironic distance she is wont to weave as armor and wear as badge or shield. " - I've never done this before. I've never felt like this before. I never - what you felt for Jenna - I've never allowed myself to feel like that. I don't think I've wanted to feel like that. We all need our armor, don't we?"
There's a brief, dismissive shrug, encompassing everything. Armor, the war, the quicksilver death, the blood on their hands. The war. The war. The war. The fact that she is what she is, that she believes she must be - that, perhaps, she must be - harder, somehow, to survive. "I've never mated. I've never wanted to mate. That would be me having the child, that would be the mother, dead long before the child is grown. That would be - " some smirk, quicksilver, aware. " - me in fucking labor on the full moon, and me, out of commission for a hell of a long time, a warrior, breeding. And so - "
" - and so I'm giving you a fucking speech, one you probably already know. One you probably don't fucking need, because you already know it, if only to delay the inevitable. It's beyond casual. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, but that doesn't mean I want to stop, and it's oh so very post-modern of me to dance all around the issue, but I - " she's smirking again, some bewildering, bewildered expression that sits strangely on her face, self-mocking rather than knowing. "I should say that I don't care whom you kiss, or whom you fuck, or whom you want to kiss, or what you do when I'm not around, because that would be sane and right. But I didn't kick you out of my bed, and I've slept in your arms, and I like it and you're not obligated to stay, or leave, or go, or whatever."
"I have no claim on you." Dark eyes fall away, to the floor, and her hands fall to her sides: useless. Fucking useless. Her mobile mouth stills, the strange parade of half-mocking self-awareness crawls to a halt, and he can see the tension wreathing her frame as she forces her eyes back up to meet his: equals. " - but I'm not going to share you."
(james)
she dives for the pack
and he lets her go
she stands to pace
and he lets her go
she begins her speech
... and still, he lets her go, he listens
he watches as she paces
studying her with those raw, vulnerable eyesand even though they've spent half the night pausing to gather their words
to make some sense out of the thoughts to communicate them
now? he doesn't pause, he doesn't stop, he doesn't even blink"I don't want to go."
weight shifting on the bed to face her: equals
weight lifting to stand, though not invading her space: equals
it's a slow crawling lengthen of muscle
through his thighs and back
all the way to the set of his shoulders
her tension wraps around her frame
and his is there.... but so much more subtle
it's as soft as the words he dares to say"I won't ask you to claim me. I won't ask you to be my mate. I won't ask you to bear children that neither of us may ever see grow up. I won't ask you to change. I won't ask you to sacrifice anything for me. I won't ask you to do anything to weaken you to Gaia, her War, or even the rest of our pack."
her arms hang useless at her sides
his raise - fingers raking through tangled dreads
one attempting to occupy itself in fall and flatten against his belly
the other attempting to find something to do in the air
his palm exposed in some gesture reaching to grasp what he wants to say
but instead the route changes
a moment of indecision
before he finally chances stepping into her space
as if to still the vibrating tension
both hands lift
those rough fingers sliding along her jaw
finding the silken soft flesh just beneath her ear
palm's crease aligning itself with bone to tilt her face towards his
he cannot grasp the words, so instead he chooses her
looking into the eyes devoid their kohl-lined armornow comes the pause
as he searches those mahogany depths
like scrying some divination from the most polished, expensive table
because he knows what's on his mind is so apparent
it's open and exposed and just there for her to see
as if it takes every ounce of him to express this
to make sure she hears - because once they leave this room? it may never be said again
and he will. not. lose this chance"And I realized last night..... I won't ask you to share me."
(rune)
"Well," she said that before. She says it again, now, dark eyes half-closing against (or perhaps to receive) his words. It's painful, to be this open, it's like this bleeding, fucking, wound that never quite heals. The sharpness of want, the diamond-edged fear of loss, the fucking vulnerability to which one exposes oneself. Love is murderous; it cuts like a knife. " - then."Each word falls like a stone, strangely made, fully formed, rounded and solid and warm as his hands cupping her face. More solid than the breaths that quicken her frame - lifting shoulders, expanding ribcage, flaring through her nostrils on the exhale, shuddering through her strong frame - the breaths that come to quick now, and leap in time to her quickening pulse, and for all that she's bloody well shaking as she stands there (so this is what fear feels like, so this is why it makes you weak) she's oddly, oddly still. Sharpened awareness bleeds through her senses - the ceiling, the stink of smoke in the room, the blood beneath it, heavy and opaque, some shadowed scent beneath the rest, his sweat, another's, tequila, fear - and she watches the slow strange motion of her arm, rising of its own volition, the slow, strange stroke of the smooth knuckles of her right hand along the line of his jaw.
"I won't ask you to share me, either."
(james)
she trembles in his gentle, guiding grasp
how he is so aware of her... of them
the way his heart pounds, deafening, in muscular chest
hammering against ribs as if to reach out for hers, itself
pulse raging warmth beneath his skin
and still his thoughts and emotions play in dark eyes
the warmth of what goes deeper than affection
the deep glow that is the love he will never say
(they didn't tonight, said everything but, so does it matter if they ever do?)
the fluctuating relief to just... know
the fear, way down, of what it would be like to lose her now
on the eve of this trip they're taking into the unknown
there's never been a doubt in his mind what he'd sacrifice to ensure her.... anything
and he knows it is not the place of their kind to live and love and die of old, comfortable age
one day there will be more blood spilt, and more losses mourned
he understands the War that is the lives, knowing that is all they will ever be
but those are tomorrows...he doesn't think about it now
what he thinks about... is now
that little grin finding its way to the surface again
the smallest expression that says more than any collection of words he can findhis hands drop from her face
navigating their way past her raised arm
fingers dragging to catch on thin cotton
over shoulders, down arms, grazing flank
curving around to circle her back
that's when he draws her close, breaching the final barrier of space between them
gathering the strong, healed (beatiful) form up against his own
feeling the swell and dive of curves and taught muscle
how clinging tee and black boxers mold against faded shirt and tattered BDUs
his face brushes against the inky strands of her hair
his profile finding the warmth at the side of her throat
lanky form folding the short height differential between them
of all the wordless pauses, of all the awkward silences
they're all replaced nowunformed breath against her neck saying everything
Posted by james at January 22, 2003 12:00 AM
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