drums-on-skulls: .01.28.03.

January 28, 2003

.01.28.03. - healing [rune]

[north jersey]

(james)
some towns are nameless, they exist only to pass through if you don't blink
some streets are nameless, they look like any other out there, easily noticed and forgotten
some people are nameless, they're nondescript, easily blending into the background
junglevine dreads wash out against the rusts and browns of the brick wall
patchwork quilt trenchcoat so worn that the colors seem nothing more than faded stains
BDUs are camoflaged anyways, so maybe this is just their element

maybe it's just his eyes that are dark enough, and alive enough, to make a difference
they're glaring out across the road, up and over the cars that randomly cruise by
there's a fire burning in them, stoked and embered by the hate that smoulders in his gut
and probably by the paper covered bottle of.... whatever he's sucking down like a dehydrated city nomad
there's a shadow in them, too, caused by whatever it is he's drinking away

outright drowning, by the pace of it

scuffed tank boots brace as shoulders press against then push away from the wall
balance wavering like a bouey until he's settled himself on the sidewalk tide
(right-o, James)
his turn is lead by the drop of right arm, pulling against some anchor on the ground, pivoting
the journey down the sidewalk is more meandering than meaningful
guess he must have stayed in one place too long
cause something caught up to him
so he's on the move again
whistling what should be "Uptown Girl" - but it's questionable

(rune)
Northern New Jersey is full of nameless towns. Or, rather, northern New Jersey is full of nameless towns that once had names and vibrant identities, where people worked rather than merely lived, where people lived rather than merely slept the few hours they have free from work and responsibility, in some cookie-cutter suburban box with all the appropriate amenities. Now they blur together, endless, nameless, faceless sprawl. The old cities have becume new urban nightmares, the oldest suburbs follow them down the road of decadence and decay, rot and poverty, while new suburbs spring up on the periphery, gobbling up what once was free, wild land that must have - at one point - contributed to the state's nickname.

The Garden State.
What a fucking joke.

He's not the only one out here tonight, when the frigid temperatures are beginning to warm (at last). Even if its still below freezing, it feels like a heat wave. No longer do the homeless wait in line all day in hope of a bed at a shelter that will keep them warm and alive for another day. They're free to wander - collecting cans or bottles, engaging in petty theft, drinking away whatever troubles have brought them to this impasse. He's not the only one out here tonight, stumbling down the sidewalk aimlessly, brown-paper-wrapped bottle (Popov Vodka. Cheapest pint of liquor you'll find. Old Grandad's. E&J brandy for those feeling flush. Mad Dog, Thunderbird, Boone's Farm or a forty ounce of cheap beer or malt liquor for those poor bastards with only a few coins to spend). He's not the only one out here, tonight. But he's the only one she's looking for.

It's not coincidence that she finds him. She can feel his presence in the back of her mind. There's a vague, certain map, a beacon, some homing device ( - pack - ) that joins them all. The Beemer is parked a few blocks away, in a great concrete parking garage, in hopes that it'll stay whole and safe, and since then she's been following that beacon, that faint, shimming thread stretched between them. Injured though she still may be, there is purpose to her steps, and she gains on him with every block, even as he climbs to his feet and begins to stroll away again.

Hers are not the only heels to clatter along the sidewalk tonight. There are ladies of the evening on the corner, dressed in their tawdry finest, far too much skin exposed for the weather. Their sauntering pace is punctuated by the clatter of their cheap heels on the sidewalk, and camouflages the sound of her approach. But these aren't cheap heels, on the sidewalk. This isn't imitation leather, brushing against his shoulder as she falls in step beside him, and that's not cheap perfume, wreathing around him as she joins him, fingers crawling lightly across his shoulder.

'lo.

That's all she says. Not: I was worried about you. Not: where were you. Not: how are you holding up? Just 'lo, soft and faint, some sound-thought unfurling itself in his mind like a penant against the wind.

(james)
just as she uses it to track him
he should be able to feel that deep spirit tug between them
some little magnetic force, a little tickling on his spine, a little tickling on his shoul...der?

he was never approached by the others out tonight
he didn't appear to have any money
just another slumdog like them hoping to find a way to escape
even if he walked a little straighter
even if he, underneath it all, was a little cleaner
he still just blended in with the rest of the nameless and faceless on the streets
so wasn't worth the chance to take to climb up out of it all for an hour... if that

so the touch surprised him
brows lifting to look to the side
and it throws his balance askance
not that he was pulling away from her
simply because gravity suddenly got the best of him

whatever world he was in, suddenly he's falling out of it in a half-step back-stumble quick-reach to grab her wrist for balance movement across the sculpted concrete
and then for a moment
there's a little clarity
a little bit of him showing back up through the alkaline haze
maybe it's the edge of that grin
maybe it's the softness that's in his eyes
maybe it's just the softness finding way from grab to caress

...'lo there....

(rune)
He belongs here. Just another slum dog with a bottle in his hands, the closest, fastest way outta the endless concrete hell they must find some way to survive. He belongs here, but she does not. The high-heeled boots cost more two months' local rent; the rich camelhair coat (the leather and fur coat - her favorite - too soaked with blood to be salvageable) in a weave so fine it feels like silk where his thumb grazes the cuff as he grasps her wrist, as his flailing grab for balance changes to something like a caress is worth more than most of the jalopies parked streetside. And so on: the turtleneck, the expensive spa make-up, the professional manicure, the impeccable dye job, complete with highlights and lowlights and all the color definition of natural-grown midnight hair, none of it belongs.

So it's surprising, the connection - instant - between the suggestion of his grin, and the appearance of her own quicksilver little smile.

"Fancy meeting you here." He touches her wrist, and she slides her hand down to twine fingers with his. Half-turning, an easy movement, sidelong, that rustles the coat and the bandages beneath the fine turtleneck, she finds his gaze - some spark of him beneath the alcoholic haze - and her footsteps slow and still. "That's a really, really bad line." Her smirk - red, curving wicked red - appears briefly, then dissolves into her smile, softer and somehow more real than the ever-present mask. "I was looking for you."

(james)
rough fingers trace over the silky soft weave of the coat
his eyes have dropped away from hers to study it
for some reason, that she wears this instead of the other strikes him
just at this moment, for whatever particular reason
maybe he thinks about it and draws the meanings together
some subdermal chill to acknowledge the blood that soaked it
some oblique thought to silently admire how different and rich it looks on her

this beakon of color and style somehow rising instead of drowning in this slumland sea

there's a low chuckle, slick and slurred, at her line
it curves lips into a smile, and allows shoulders to quake in ebbing wave repercussion
amusement is there, beneath everything else
and even inspite of himself, no matter what he's liquorly dampened
that smirking wicked curve melting into something only rarely shown?
it tugs at him, inspiring some little smile in return to linger

"How are you?"

chin lifting a little in subversive point to the bandages he knows are still there
he knows she was talking about him
but just like always
he puts her first

(rune)
"Fine." Her response is quiet, offered with a lilting shrug that tugs at the still-open wound and newly closed flesh. Her smile twists momentarily tight with the pull of pain, but it is only a remnant, now. "Mostly, it itches like hell. Another few days..."

Her fingers fold lightly, self-consciously, over the curve of her breast. The camelhair camouflages a silhouette that would otherwise be odd and lumpy from the gauze wrapped beneath over the long, raw scores raked from left shoulder, down across her chest in a vicious diagonal. Half the furrows have closed, but the others remain open, raw and red with remnant inflammation, oozing just - bleeding now and again - against the bandages. Her other wounds have closed, and only this, the worst of them, remains. "...and I'll be fine."

Of course she will. He knows how well, how easily, their kind heal even the worst of wounds. Decker crippled her, and she was on her feet in a day, fully healed in less than a week. So it will be again.

How easily their kind heal physical wounds.

Her hand flattens, and then she allows her arm to fall to her side. Weakness, her own weaknesses make her awkward as the teenager she must have been, once and there's a furrow of fallow silence that falls then, bleak and blank.

A beat. A breath, no more than two, and the curled suggestion of her smile appears once more. "I was going to ask the same of you. You - " She knows what he must have faced, in the long dark walk alone through the madman's mind. She knows what he must have faced, and perhaps he can begin to project what she might have faced, though she shows no signs of it. Perhaps he will think her callow for that, cheap and crass, without the depth of feeling ( - ache - ) that wounds him yet, years later. " - you don't look so good. I was worried."

(james)
"That's because I'm not doing good."

strangely
that's said with a grin
even using the bottle to punctuate it
two and two makes four, right? logical enough to him
that's about when he drops his gaze away from her and down to the papered glass in his hand
and arm slowly extends, handing the bottle over to he
he had enough a long time ago
they both know it

she's a good idea what he faced, in that tunnel
and he... thinks he may know something of what she did
while she has never given him the specific tale
just by what she dances around he can begin to vaguely fill in the blanks
just like then, he doesn't ask now
and if she hurts - however invisably - as much as he does?
he knew he was right to remove himself as she healed
the last thing she'd need were his issues lingering in the background of hers
he's enough respect to let her pull herself back together without his mothering or pacing
so he let her
even as he continued to fall apart

or at least drown
(release the bottle, Jamey-boy.... thaaaat's it)
dark gaze drops, then slowly crawls up form
he knows what wound should still remain

"Want me to stitch that? It'll still itch like hell... but... won't pull open everytime you reach for something... just to make the next couple days more bearable..."

just blundering on, aren'cha, boy?

(rune)
Long, pale fingers curl about the bottle, crimson nails digging into the rough brown bag as her hand completes the circle. She shifts it to her other hand - the one farthest away from him - with only a brief glance at the contents. The shadow of distaste (what precisely were you drinking?) is dissolves into another unreadable, unusual expression - concern, or something like it.

"I know you're not doing well. That's why I - " The echo of her heels in time with his footsteps, staccato and syncopated the rhythm. " - came looking." Leatherclad hips sway with her gait, the movement exaggerated as she bumps her hip against his. "It wasn't the fucking scenery."

The bottle bumps against her thigh with each step, swinging in her free hand. She'll toss it into the garbage at the next trash can they come across. They both know he doesn't need anymore, and anyway, if he's going to get morosely drunk, she'll make sure he's drinking something a little less rotgut. "Wouldn't mind if you wanted to stitch it up," amused, the curl of her half-grin, as her footsteps slow. "...but, I think I'd like you a little more sober for that, and me a little less. Maybe in the morning, hmmm?"

Unspoken, unbidden ( - dangerous - ), she finds his hand again. She won't ask him to talk about the past (he has already), and she can't take it away. They can only go forward, damnit, and now is all she can offer him. "You ready to come home yet?"

(james)
he answers her visual query with a shrug
even though he doesn't particularly see it
he seems to just know what the crackle of paper and the tilt of her head at his periphery meant
shoulders move in summation of a non-chalant reason
(who knows, bought it off another guy)
balance thrown by the gentle hipcheck
and he returns it with a gentle (watch the wounds, boy) nudge of shoulder

"What? You mean you aren't enamoured by the romantic decay of urban society as modeled by the crumbling, retrospective designs of the nevah riche?"

a brow lifting, studiously
there's some grand gesture with his free hand
waving in that all-encompassing way
he doesn't have any physical wounds to heal
what does bodily harm matter?
then there's a bit of a nod

"In the morning then.... probably a good idea if you want them straight." gesturing hand reaches to rustle through heavy dreads "And I don't mind, woulda offered sooner but...."

it drifts off
segueing perfectly into her final question
long breath draws into his lungs
positively. not. sure.

"You want me there?"

like this?

(rune)
"I had enough for the crumbling, retrospective designs of the nevah riche when I was a kid." The Glass Walker smirks back a him, an amused glint in her dark eyes. "I've moved up to the pseudo riche and hope, someday, to make the ranks of the nouveau riche. Every girl needs a hobby."

By now, they're within five feet of a trash can, part of some city-beautification project gone terribly, terribly wrong. Or perhaps begun and never finished, budget overruns, disputes over politics and territory, racism, fear of crime and drugs, spiritual malaise, whatever. There's probably more trash piled around it than inside it. No doubt this bottle, too, if it survives the toss (sudden movement of her arm, finding expression throughout the tall, lean body), and fall into the empty bin, will be salvaged as well. There are hungry (maddened, bloodshot, desperate) eyes all around and a drink's a drink, after all. Even if it's rotgut, it's better than rubbing alcohol.

"Yeah." The toss, the easy movement of even her wounded body, continues as she turns around the pivot point of their clasped hands until she's standing in front of him. He can keep walking and run right into her, or he can come to a weaving stop. Either way, she lifts her hand and settles soft fingerpads gently on his jaw, curving her thumb to fall heavy on the corner of his mouth. There it lingers, following the lowering line of his bottom lip.

The wind rises, cold again, cold now, but from the east, bearing upon it - perhaps - the salt tinge of the distant sea. It sends the dark strands of her hair whipping across her pale cheeks, the ends curling across her nose and mouth, tangling with the lowering slant of her eyelashes, perhaps even enough to obscured the unsettled quality of her expression, which sits ill upon her sharp, arrogant features. "I want you there, James." Her voice is quiet, barely rising over the whip and roar of the tunneled wind. "You know I do.

"I want you there, however you are."

(james)
suddenly, she's blocking his path
it takes another step for the message to go from brain to feet
(uh, stop James)
he almost runs right into her before back pedaling enough to halt
weaving, allright
it takes the soft touch of her hand to steady him
else he'd just fall, right, on, oooooover

his head tilts, listening to her
some canid expression of trying to catch those words whipped by the wind
watching the way it flurries inky strands across pale face
knowing it has to be tugging at his dreads but he's ignoring that
simply watching her for a few long silent seconds after she speaks
maybe it's hearing her for the first time
maybe it's seeing her for the first time
there's just.... something.... that strikes him
whether or not she can read it in those haunted eyes is yet to be decided
but it's there, somewhere, swimming in the puddle of booze that's his belly
finally a hand lifts, reaching to drag away some dark stripe blown across her face
gently and neatly and oh so deliberately tucking it behind an ear

tongue reaches out, smoothing over his lips
some long freight train of thoughs rumbling on through his brain
all in the time he studies her face through his haze
absorbing her through his eyes
that expression sitting uncomfortably in her features

"I know. I....." the rest of it washes out in a tidal sigh, the rest is soft "I'm sorry I took off the way I did."

(rune)
"You don't have to apologize." She's still, now. He's weaving, and she's steadying and still. Her head tilts as he catches the a lock of her head and settles it behind her ear, prolonging the gesture into a gentle caress, the back of his hand across the high arch of her pale, cold cheek. "James, you needn't apologize. Everyone needs space, sometimes. Their own space, free of everyone else, but - "

God. This is hard. If she weren't so damned earnest, if it didn't mean so damn much that she somehow get this across to him, she'd be laughing at herself for the afternoon-talk-show-self-help-whatever-Oprah-stuff she's spouting, and some of that wicked sense of irony crawls into the self-mocking curl of her red lips. " - don't do it because you think you're not wanted, or needed. Or... whatever it is, hmmm?"

"C'mere." Her thumb hovers over his mouth, as lean fingers slide back, pushing through the tangled dreadlocks to weave their way behind his neck. She draws him forward with the faint pressure of her fingers and the slow backward pull of their clasp hands, draws him forward until she can kiss him, with a slow, devouring attention that bleeds into some smoldering burn. "I've missed you."

(james)
"I've missed you, too."

sooooo softly
the words sling together, edges fuzzy
it's murmured into the space lingering after the kiss
he used to think sleeping on the couch was far enough away
last night on the street was almost unbearable
but what gnawed at his insides seemed so much worse

he stays there, in this close contact
letting his brow drop to rest against hers
some far-off amusement at the way dreads fall to chase her whisping strands
(yes, my dear, seems even my hair missed yours)
he reeks of cheap liquor and exhaust and dirt and grime
a night spent in the alley in some cardboard palace
curled into a lupus ball to stave off the cold
letting that simplistic primal thought dumb down his pain
but now he's the man again
thoroughly intoxicated, but the man
and those thoughts have regained their complexity

"I...." an absent smile, he can still taste her on his lips "I did it because I can't stop seeing it or thinking about it or reliving it in endless repeat loop. It's just... eating at me." some drunken explanation, some drunk gushing admission "And I didn't want to bother you with it. You had your own healing to do." a trace of fingers at her waist, watching fingers as they trace the edge of the bandage beneath clothing "Still do."

(rune)
He reaks of cheap liquor and exhaust and dirt and grime. She reaks of expensive shampoo and bodywash and lotion and mere expense, all of it, the money poured into her clothes, the money lavished upon her body. His night was spent curled in a lupus ball in the middle of a cardboard box, to stave off the bitter cold. Her night was spent in Glabro, drugged into near-oblivion, wrapped in silken sheets with the thermostat set so very high to accommodate her SoCal blood. But they stay there. She breathes in his scent - all of them - and he breathes in hers, and their hair - his rough, hers fine - tangles together in a sure, slow dance aided by the winter wind.

Her hand slides from his hair, the cool tips of her fingers gliding across his cheek until they come to rest on the strong line of his jaw. Four cool, faint points of contact, and the longer line of her thumb curled beneath trailing across the hollow beneath his ear.

"I know." Of course she knows. She knows him well enough to know, and perhaps she could even sense it - the vague, numbed haze of his pain, the primal thoughts out there, somewhere, in the cold dark night - much as he could feel the impact of the bullet shredding her shoulder, the score of the frenzied Get's claws across her chest. "I know."

She repeats herself. The words themselves are close to a caress, half-breathed, some warm rush of air encompassing the drunken confession, absolving, translating, changing it into something else altogether.

"Come home. We can heal together." The whisper of her smile across his mouth, faint and ghostly, felt rather than seen. His fingers trail across her waist, and her body turns instinctively into the caress ( - wounds be damned - ). Her hand falls from his jaw to curl atop his, smoothing it across the curve of leatherclad hip. "I know you'll be careful with me."

Posted by james at January 28, 2003 12:00 AM

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