February 08, 2003
.02.08.03. - just because [rune]

[noje]

(james)
the condo is quiet, near empty
the only light downstairs is above the breakfast bar
three little halos of dimmed brightness shining down onto the tiled counter
rims of the plates gleaming in that low luminescence

just two

the rest of the pack has been gone all day
no word on whether or not they'll be coming back
so he only got two plates out of the cabinet
set them quietly against the tiles
maybe only a glance towards the stairs
that half reflection of bedroom light coming out from beneath her door
she's up there, been up there, doing whatever it is she needed to do
so he's been down here, doing whatever it is he has to to keep out of her way
(phone calls, business, such things that he wouldn't even understand)

that was 20 minutes ago
since then he's moved out onto the balcony
snugged right up next to the grill - it's cold out here
leeching the heat it inadvertantly leaks
scented, savory smoke blasting up when he opened the lid
flipping the steaks grilling cage bar scars into darkening flesh
there's bread to be added in a few minutes (if he read the instructions correctly)
there's a pot of vegetables covered and warm on the stove (that was accomplished easily enough)
it's a careful negotiation of balance that lights Camel from the licking flames (and not dreads)
and even though the lid is closed, he doesn't step away
basking in the invisable glow of grill's warmth

(rune)
Business. Phone calls. Email - interesting. Finally a response about Cole the last-name-less from someone in Miami by way of New Orleans. These are the small, necessary little housekeeping tasks that she ignored for a year after she fled (her tribe assumed she had dropped off the face of the earth) and resumed when it became necessary, for the pack, to protect the veil, to keep them informed and in the digital loop, to maintain good relations with her relations in New York City and Philadelphia, the closest urban centers, both boasting sizeable populations of urrah.

It's a neverending loop, these little obligations, and she is frustrated by the necessity, frustrated by the doubletalk and ass-kissing, frustrated by the obligations and debts incurred, frustrated, even, by favors owed her. There's a reason she packed up with a bunch of Fenrir and only a few other urrah. There's a reason, as different as the Fenrir are, that she will continue to tolerate their differences above and beyond the comfort of pack. Even when incomprehensible, they're simple enough ('cept for the Rotagar), and there's something satisfying in that, too.

Seeping frustration: her booted feet echo on the floor with more force than necessary, half-way down the steps.

Inhale.

She tiptoes down the second half of the flight and peeks around, glancing at the breakfast bar. The faint curl of her smile appears, then fades again, as she turns back around and marches back up the stairs. Ten minutes later, she's sauntering back down the steps. Boots and leather have been abandoned in favor of silk and strappy little heels. It's a good thing that she never neglects her pedicure, because the teeny little black sandal-things reveal all her toes, painted the same red as her nails, which is just a shade darker than her wicked little dress.

The back door swings half-open, enough that she can see him. Enough that she can light a cigarette and count on most of the smoke filtering out into the night beyond, but only just, in an effort to conserve some measure of heat and body heat, since the dress does precisely nothing to keep her warm.

"Hey soldier," the first words, accompanied by an exhaled breath of smoke. She's leaning against the wall just inside, one foot perched against the opposite baseboard, in a slouch worthy of some red light district in Paris or Lisbon or London - somewhere far away and exotic. "...you got some of that for me?"

(james)
he can feel her frustration and irritation
maybe it's through the pack understanding that they share
maybe it's from something far deeper that only they share
whether it's the pattern of heavy boots pacing the floor
or the angry stab of fingers against the laptop's keyboard
.... he knew

the sliding door opens, and he glances up with a warm smile
just a quick hello before going back to maintaining this diligent guard over the steaks
cigarette clenched between his teeth, some strange slash across that smile
then it's back to continuing this little experiment
because he's..... never grilled steaks before
but since they had everything, and he found it all while poking around in the fridge
well, he thought he'd give it a go

..... hello?

that double take is a little slower
dark gaze sliiiiiiiding right on up the scandalous slouch and brows... lift
from the strappy heels perched against the baseboard
that.... little.... silky.... red deep rich wicked red..... dress...
(oh. golly.)
the bare muscle of shoulder pressed against the wall
finally finding his way to her eyes
this? it is not what she was wearing before!
the surprise at is revelation quite clear on his face
and so is the all but visable mental slap! and shake
(pull yourself together man!)

"I think so." murmured with a thoughtful nod, opening the grill to flip the steaks again "I was hoping to have some company for dinner." another slow. deliberate. look. back. "Someone like you."

that's when his rather intently studying look turns into that silly little grin
slipping the bread out of the package and laying it out next to the meat
easing the heavy lid back down so not to blast her with smoke

"I...... think? they're starting to cross over to medium.... is that allright? "

(rune)
"Company, hmm?" Dark eyes half-lashed, a sly, knowing sort of look, smolder above the coy curve of her red mouth. He flashes her a slow, deliberate look, and beneath the drift of his gaze, her body moves - a ripple of suggestion - as responsively as if he had touched her. "...I think I can supply the company."

This is not what she was wearing before. This is merely what she has changed into, for him. He looks - and then he looks - and she remains in her easy, languid post - shoulders against the wall, feet against the baseboard, hips outcurved and somehow bearing the balance of the whole lean line of her body. Dark hair falls across the curve of her cheek, spilling lower as she bends and reaches to ash the cigarette through the half-open doors before resuming her pose.

"...just about medium's perfect. I like just a little pink in the middle." The coy half-curve of her mouth deepens in response to that little grin. It's infectious. She's infected. "I'm not a big fan of the still-mooing variety."

(james)
he's.... still not quite able to get over that dress
and it takes a minute for him to look away
(steaks James, you're cooking steaks)
because he knows she changed just. for. him.
there's a fold of body to reach under the grill and turn off the propane
there's a lift and lean of body to snub out the Camel
plate grabbed off the table and he's maneuvering the steaks onto it
then comes the balance of the (hot!) bread on the side

glass door slowly slides open, only as much as it needs to be
he's edging past her and back into the warm confines of the condo
returning the door to it's almost closed state so she can finish her smoke
lower lip pulled between his teeth with that grin that still won't quit
he's barely inches from her, now
drowning in that coy half-curve deepening across her mouth
just a pause to absorb all of it

he's been in a relationship before
he's been damn mated before
but now? it's as if this is all new for him
he never forgot how to love, or how to care for someone
but he's still stumbling through it, with her
sometimes so very aggressively confident
sometimes so very painfully shy
a breath fills his lungs, drawing in her scent
probably about to make some comment on his ineptitude at cooking
or perhaps a remark about the dress
but it's lost in his indecision, and he only finds that grin widening

then he's moving towards the kitchen
steaks on plates, joined by bread and veggies
each set before one of the stools waiting beneath the counter
then he's turning to pull open the fridge and find some beers

(rune)
He's been in a relationship before. He's been mated before. Although one could say she's been in the former (hardly like this. Serious, perhaps, even deadly serious, but nothing so painfully raw. Never so painfully real.) she's never even been close to the latter. The raw confidence with which she carries herself lasts as he moves the food from grill to plate, lasts as he reaches to turn off the propane, lasts as he snuffs his cigarette, lasts as he slides open the sliding doors just enough to enter, lasts, even, as he pauses in front of her...

...and fades, and fades, as he lingers. She uncurls from her slouch, feet sliding back beneath her to give him room to walk, body rising porportionally against the wall until she's (almost as) tall (as he) again. Still, though, she lounges there, the way women do, when they have some sort of inborn, animal grace, when they are comfortable in their own skin. Her eyes find his and watch the shift from intent to indecision. Though the coy little smile lingers, turning wry, her eyes are widening, and her pulse grows more rapid, and she takes in a sudden, quick breath, cigarette hanging loosely from her hand, wrist against her hip, forgotten. The exhale is slower and more deliberate, full and rounded, an act of will more than anything else.

She should say something. She should, really, say something, anything. She should prolong the moment, the keen awareness of something more than their bodies so close in the narrow hall. She should say something, but she says nothing. Her eyes will have to speak for her, and the brief graze of the fingers of her free hand along his elbow as he at last turns and heads into the kitchen.

She can hear the clatter of the plates set upon the breakfast bar, the sigh of the fridge as he opens it, and the clink of bottles together as he grabs them. The last is the signal, and she tosses her cigarette outside, into the sand-filled (snow covered) urn that serves as ashtray on the back balcony. The glass doors slide closed with a rattle along the track that drowns out the hiss of the smoldering tobacco as it falls into the dirty mixture of snow and sand.

Perhaps that moment lingers between them as they eat. The conversation is quiet, all about nothing, really. No confidences are exchanged, no painful memories plundered, no plans for war or redemption, no mention of the earth, dying beneath their feet. The conversation is quiet, accompanied by the arhythmic music of forks and knives clinking upon plates, bottles lifted and put down again. Quiet, quiet. She compliments his cooking - and, really, how long since she had anything but take-out? - and he, no doubt, waves away her praise with a gesture of his fork.

Sometimes, it's the little things that matter.

(james)
it's the little things that matter
especially when you never have enough to give the great things
all you can manage are the litte things and phrases that make up the overwhelming whole
so it's the little turns of words to create communication here, the absent wave of fork there
the sheepish half-acknowledgement he didn't turn the steaks into hockey pucks
the simple fact that around her, and only her, there is conversation as he eats
the way, as their plates slowly clear, he watches the earlier frustration melt out of her shoulders and frame
the final swallow to empty beer and reach for her plate
everything settled in the sink to take care of later

much later

now?
he's pulling another two beers from the fridge's arctic interior
sides clanking as long necks are pinned between his fingers
even before he's completely around the bar
his hand lifts in offering, no words, invitation only spoken in that silly little grin
rough fingertips sliding over baby smooth and pampered skin
tugging her towards the softness of the leather couch
he sinks (collapses, that dress makes his knees weak) into the deep pillows
and even though they're connected, he doesn't pull her down quite yet
allowing those umber eyes to lift and crawl across her silk clad form
(daaaaaamn)
but he gives in to himself
pressure along her arm gently increasing until she gives in as well

(rune)
It's the little things that matter, and so she remains standing above him for a moment or three, scalloped edge of the hem of her dress drifting somewhere midthigh, heels lifting her three inches higher than her usual height, the shape of the shoes (not the shape, mind you, human feet were meant to keep or hold for hours at a time) lengthening her legs, calves flexed, muscles taut with the strain necessary to merely stand in them.

One moment, three, she resists the growing pressure on her arm, just watching him with a bemused half-smile, before giving in to his tug and the force of gravity. Deliberately kicking off her wicked little shoes, she steps down (three. inches.) and pivots (like a runway model. Secretly, it seems, she watches the Style channel when no one else is home.) around, and sinks - not onto the cushions beside him - but into his lap, back leaning against the arm of the couch, legs curled forward along the couch.

Her arm falls behind his neck in a natural drift, settling around his shoulders. The bottle, cool in her hand, is used to push back his dreadlocks, then - playfully, gently - brushed along the nape of his neck.

"Thank you." For dinner, presumably, murmured as she leans to rest her brow upon his cheek. She said it before, as they ate. Now, inanely, she repeats herself. "...it was delicious."

(james)
there's a soft growl
playful, in it's threat, as she resists
but he knows she won't for long
half expecting her to sit beside him
but readily welcoming her into his lap

one arm adds itself to the support lent by the couch's
sliding down to slouch against the pillows
deliberately rotating her weight to fall against his in the measure of gravity
the other hand finds a comfortable spot along the length of her thigh
half of his wrist on the redly scalloped edge of that little dress
half on the warm flesh barely clad beneath
beer held out at angle so it doesn't touch her leg

that's about when a shiver runs through him
playful growl a little louder as she ruins the sanctity of his pleasently full and cuddly (?!?) warmth
favor returned in the bend of wrist which slowly - playfully, gently - traces his bottle up the back of her thigh

"You're welcome." for dinner, presumeably, since he's no fork to wave it away with "Thought you'd be hungry after spending all afternoon on the phone."

there was no other reason to his cooking attempt other than just because
he could have easily borrowed the Beemer, or used the land line to order in
but, just because, he didn't want to

(rune)
"Turn about is never fair play." Hiss-whispered half-against his ear, half-against the side of his jaw, voice rising to a gasp as the shudder that unfurls up her body from the sudden assault of cold! finds its way into her tone. The soft pressure of her mouth, the warm rush of her breath, the cooler kiss of the flat enamel of her teeth as they graze the underside of his jaw. "Didn't they teach you that in kindergarten? You're supposed to turn the other cheek."

Her free hand skims along the line of the dress to shoo his hand - and that damned bottle - away from the bare flesh of her thigh, then she uncurls her arm from around him long enough to take a long, long pull from her own beer.

Pleasantly full, oddly cuddly, and she's not. thinking. about. it. That she just climbed into his lap voluntarily, that she's nuzzling him like a - like a - well, like a teenager or something, and again, just because. Because he's there and warm, because she l---s him, because she came down from a frustrating afternoon of emails and voice mails to find dinner (for two! and two only) ready and waiting for her.

(james)
he cannot help the laughter
even if he knows he's going to pay for it
because turnabout is never fair
he should, by all rights and purposes, be ducking away from her teeth - not leaning into that heated hissing whisper
then he pulls the perfectly curved body closer as if to warm away that shudder
(because she voluntarily sat in his lap, and he wants her to stay there)
strong arm curving tightly around waist and belly

"At least."

hand shoos away
quickly moving around to plant the bottle against her inner thigh
then slipslide it aaaalllll. the way. up.
not stopping until the very apex where long legs meet
and he holds it there, through savage grin

"I didn't do that."

even if he just did
winking as the bottle is pulled away
(that jailing arm still around her so very tightly, there was a method to that cuddly (!!) madness)
and he moves right on into taking a long gulp or six from it
because as long as he's doing that?
she will not make him pay for it
Gaia forbid they waste a beer
but as soon as he has to come up from swallowing for air....
... he figures he's one throttled Gnawer

(rune)
"You. did. do. that."

The words are half-breathed through clenched teeth, breathless, long after the fact. After he has swallowed the remainder of his beer (if he's taking a swallow or six, might as well finish it. Soon as it's gone...), and after she has recovered enough of her breath to speak. After, of course, he made her arch and wiggle and wriggle and and fight against the iron trap of his arm, lean body straining upward in a futile effort to get away from that bottle there. After he has made her fucking squeal - "...you fuckin' bastard..." - in between gulps for air - "I'm going to fucking kill you." - words more felt than heard, for her jaw clenched and tightened and she bit (hard)the curve of his jaw.

So, after she has finished the rest of her beer, she tosses back the rest of her arm, throat working furiously to swallow (it's a wonder she doesn't chock) the rest of the amber liquid. Then she allows her bottle to fall gracelessly to the floor (the maid can get it, or they'll get to it in the morning) and removes his empty bottle from his hand (ditto, there) and de. li. ber. ate. ly. removes his imprisoning arm from around her waist, balancing against the arm of the couch with an outflung hand to rise to her knees.

It's her turn to trap him. Shifting again - leather sighing and depressing beneath her weight, focused now on two primary points of contact - to trap his hips between her knees, his thighs between her calves, his body beneath the full measure of her weight. Her hands on his shoulders, her fists tucking into the fabric of his shirt, lifting him and pushing him to the side, and down. It's a careful dance - awkward on the narrow couch despite their grace - but even the laughter that rises in her when their limbs become hopelessly entangled does nothing to ease the savage edge of her vengeful little grin.

"You did do that." Spoken again, once they're somehow rearranged and he is stretched out on the couch (vulnerable) and she is crouched, thighs straddling his waist, hands firmly curled over his strong shoulders, holding him in place. Hair spills across the curve of her cheek, a momentary curtain across her eyes, shaken away with some easy, natural motion, to fall forward again. The inky strands catch against her mouth as she speaks, but are shaken away once more before she finds the curve of his lower lip, bites and pulls. Hard. "And I'm going to fucking kill you."

(james)
she fights
she wiggles
she wriggles
she outright squeals
in that little red dress
on. his. lap.
(hoooo golly)

"Yes I....hey...."

it should be a protest, but it sounds more like laughter
carrying all the way into some helpless sprawl across the couch
as much as she deliberately removed his arm from about her waist
he deliberately keeps shifting to help propagate that tangle of limbs on the narrow, deep couch
as much pushing his luck as he's pulling her towards him
the slim length of her hands across strong shoulders
her lean weight holding down his heavier bulk
slick and sleek Walker (in that red red dress) pinning the raggedy Gnawer

of all the vulnerabilities - and there are many between them - none are physical
there's a slow stretch of tendons through his neck
chin lifting (throated) if only to rise into the bite (kiss)
there's a small sound that rises from his chest, soft and full and raw, one he's trusted to her sole possession
tongue slipping out to smear away the welling blood from indentions left
smiling against her hissing threat of a whisper
chasing after her own lips with challenging snap of teeth

"Gotta work off dinner somehow....."

calloused palms slide up long thighs, beneath the skirt of that wicked dress
such a stark - and welcome - change from the bottle
settling rather comfortably on her hips

(..... that's what he.... thought)

then the grin deepens seditious (chalk up another reason for his adoration) and weight shifts
just as easily as she placed him there he's sitting up again
iron grip around her form returns when he stands, carting her with him
she let him cook her dinner and then voluntarily crawled into his lap
she'll just have to deal with the consequences
now he's all determined to take her back upstairs for something other than frustration from the phone calls and emails and countless other things entwined with her Nation duties
and if it involves his death, at least it will be a good death

Posted by james at February 08, 2003 12:00 AM
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