February 21, 2003.02.21.03. - fingerfoods [imogen][noje]
(imogen)
She hasn't been home very long, with the weather like it is, the world like it is. She had been called out to Atlantic City again. The drive was made longer by the rain that melts snow, slicks streets and makes the world just that much less safe to drive in. It means slowing her speed to something resembling the speed limit.Still, she has always enjoyed the rain. This rain is not as familiar as some other downpours, this cold drizzle, but it is preferrable to the twenty inches of snow dropped on the world only a few days ago.
That might be the root of the reason she's outside. Not because she's smoking, though she is, at that, but because it was raining and she liked to watch the way the street lights refracted the rain drops, were mirrored in the slick parking lot pavement. Liked the whispering sound of wheels hissing against a road a few blocks away, a faraway car driving to far away places.
She leans against the balustrade, her elbows on the railing, cold seeping through the thin waterresistant fabric of her rainslicker. Her hair has been pulled back into a braid and the dampness from outside has actually kept it for the most part contained, tightly forced into the weave. Only a few strands fall before her eyes, as she fits the cigarette back into her lips, inhaling slowly. The ember flares as dull orange eats away at the paper and tabacco, poisons drawn slowly into her lungs as she watches the outside world. It's a few moments of quiet, half peace, perhaps. Either watching the way rain changes the world, or simply lost in her own thoughts, with the rain slicked streets just a place to rest her eyes.
(james)
it's the sound of the rain that woke him
by the coolness of the sheets next to him
she had been gone for hours
by the lack of lingering steam on the bathroom's mirrors
she had definitely been gone for hours
deft twist and control of the shower's faucet quickly fixed thathis showers aren't as long as hers
it's only a handful of minutes later that the door is opening again
thick fog of white steam following him back out into the room
even though the condo is warm enough for the Walker's SoCal blood
the layers are slowly pulled on
muscles loosened by the hot water loosening more in the ritualistic movements
the strolling steps that take him from bedroom to stairs to living room
soon enough the balcony doors slide openone wet Gnawer approaching the equally wet world
but as the rain washes the roads clean and melts the snow
he's already clean, scrubbed and fresh
how.... strange..... for a guttermutt
fingers reach and rake through waterlogged dreads
ruffling them up across sweatshirt covered shoulders
boots navigate their way around the gathering shallow puddles
and then his bicep lengthens in the press against the wall
zippo clacks open and closed
sighing breath adds nicotein fog to the mist of breath
and that's about when he catches scent of the Camel from one balcony over
and slooooooowly, he's leaning forward, peeking around the dividing walla brow lifts, and a little grin forms across his lips, chin jerking slightly up
that would be a silent 'lo(imogen)
Her head moves slowly, toward the sound of the door closing and she's watching him before he quite notices her, dark eyes steady. She does not bother dispensing a greeting, giving him time to light his cigarette, take that first nicotine laced hit. Give him time to notice her.He gives her an upward nod, which is common fodder for this pack. She has something similar, but it's something her own, that she probably had long before she'd met them. A lift of her chin, bare acknowledgement. It's not as obvious, it's a slight alteration of the tilt of her jawline. Barely visible. Sometimes that's all there is, that movement, other times there's questions, a comment, some prelude to converation.
Tonight, she exhales cigarette smoke into the wet and misting night, her breath coloured a blue grey before she speaks, tapping ash into the ashtray, resting on the railing beside her left hand.
"How's it been?"
(james)
she barely gives the acknowledgement
just that tiny, miniscule movement of her chin
which he has been able to to translate into an entire salutational repetoire
while it's well known that animals communicate in body language - humans and kin are just as capable of it
one of his cheeks creases a bit as lips quirk into a lopsided grin
a grin that's destroyed by the drop of chin and hollowing cheeks signaling inhale"Good." on something of a nod and the resultant exhale "Quiet." which, amongst this pack, and even her, speaks volumes as compared to the last few weeks, then a thumb hooks back over right shoulder "Thinking of whipping up some breakfast." at this time of night? "Have you eaten yet?"
he doesn't know how long she's been home
he doesn't really need to
knowing her schedule's as erratic as their own(imogen)
The quietness has been welcome for her, especially with the return to work. It means moments to slide back into a routine, find her rhythm once more, hit her stride as she continued to do as she has done. That Decker is gone over these last few days has only made that easier.Her expressions are often slight; sometimes so much so that there is nothing to gauge what the feeling behind it is, only that she has felt something. The Garou have an easier time reading such expressions as that. Their world is coloured by body language. It's no wonder that so many humans would think her cold.
A faint smirk curls her mouth, a slow upturning one corner of her mouth as she lifts her hand to replace the cigarette between her lips, the motion obscuring the movement of her mouth. As it falls away, her wrist turns, and a flicker of her hand causes the cuff of her jacket to fall away. A glance at her watch confirms her impression of the time, and the corner of her mouth tugs up further, "It's a weird fuckin' time for breakfast," she notes around the filter of her cigarette, as her hand falls away, brushing lightly against the curve of her jean clad thigh. "But, I haven't. What are you offering?" An eyebrow lifts, slightly as she turns to face him now, completing the turn that the diversion of her attention, the turn of her head had started. A few steps brings her to the edge of the balustrade closest to Rune's condo.
(james)
many humans think her cold
many Garou even think so
but the Gnawer, for some reason, knows better
he seems to know and understand those miniscule movements
he's found the language she speaks - and a comfort in that
not pushing her for more, and accepting all she gives
his own shoulders roll in a muscular shrug
offering a bit of that easy smile in response to the bare tug across hers"It's breaking my fast, isn't it?"
his free hand extends across the railing
an offering to steady her climb over the slick divide
it's not an insult, by any means
he also knows she's more than capable of doing it herself
no Kin to be mothered and coddled, Miss Imogen Slaughter
but he's not about to chance being blamed for her breaking her neck in random fall, either
not if he can help it"Well, unless the contents of the fridge have been altered since I last checked" and they may have well been "Eggs, sausage, peppers, onions.... anything else I can find to throw in."
(imogen)
The ember of her cigarette hisses as she extinguishes the butt on the slick wet sandstone of the railing, before tossing the butt into the divide between them, sending it tumbling into the half melted snow below.A hand grabs the supporting column of the balcony, finding herself leverage to get up, her other hand moving forward, for balancing, hovering a few inches above James's offered hand. It's there if she needs it, and it appears she'll be more than willing to take it, should it be necessary. She'd rather not break her neck, either, no more than he'd like to be faulted for it.
It's quite a few feet across to the other balcony, and as her booted foot hits the opposite railing, her hand catches his wrist, a point of balance as she completes the process to the other side. Once down on somewhat more solid ground, she glances at him, "Sounds like breakfast to me. D'you cook much?"
(james)
her hand lands against his wrist
and even in the sudden movement of balance lost
his arm doesn't move an inch beneath slight weight
strong fingers wrap lightly around her forarm
just enough to guide and support, providing that balance she seemingly needs
her question causes him to pause a moment
brow furrowing as something... rather amusing... seems to dawn on him"More often now than I used to."
he doesn't add he really means the past two years, since.... well.
there's a soft laugh as he, too, extinguishes his cigarette on one side
the other involved in a stretch to slide open the door"Made a full steak dinner the other night.... bread, veggies, whole nine yards. Another dirty habit I seem to be picking up."
(imogen)
"Well," she begins as both hands slide into the pockets of her jacket, waiting for him to go in before following. If he cannot see the half smirk that touches her mouth, he can surely hear the dryness in her voice, "this is a better habit than y'r most recent ones. At least y'can't get fat."(james)
he's not a stickler for ladies first
she waits for him to go in first, and he damn well does
she may not go six ways furry when the mood is right
but he treats her as an equal in anycase
even if he swings around to close and latch the door afterwards
the smooth slide of oiled tracks shutting out the sound of pattering rain outside"I thought so, too.... but don't tell anyone, else I'll turn into a short order cook for the pack."
he heard the dryness, allright
it's answered with one of his usual grins
weaving through the livingroom
beer first, two bottles clanking onto the breakfast bar
then he's rummaging to pull out what he can from the still-open fridge
eggs, sausage, peppers, butter, oooh, cheeeeeeese, too
the pan is set onto the stove, butter melting onto the warming face
he's found a plate and begins.... uh..... dicing? the peppers
by the look on his face, this is something of an experiment
he knows how it's supposed to go
but he hasn't done this a whole bunch of times for it to be routine(imogen)
She disposes of her jacket, her boots, putting them aside to be picked up later, before following him into the kitchen. "Your secret is safe with me."She finds a bottle opener as James rummages, in the third drawer from the top, and opens both beers as he cuts butter into the frying pan. He's begun to ... err... dice... the green peppers when she puts the open bottle, still hissing softly from the release of pressure beside him on the counter.
While he's occupied with the cutting board, she finds a cheese grater, a bowl. Firm strokes begins to shred the cheese into fine grated slices, and for a moment there's silence.
Dark blue eyes flicker toward James and his look of concentration, a faint sound in the back of her throat, suppressed amusement, "Don't cut off any fingers..." she warns him.
(james)
"What?" he sounds hurt "You don't like fingers in your breakfast?"that's when he actually stops
it wasn't the beer, it wasn't her beginning to help
it was the fact she didn't want fingers in her breakfast that offended him
he even goes so far to let the muscles in his jaw relax
lips parting gently in sheer, unadulterated.... shock.
"You go to work, and I stay at home all day simply waiting for you to get back, so I can surprise you with a lovely meal.... and you think you have some right to tell me not to put fingers in your breakfast as if it's some sort of mistake rather the excellence of gourmet effort that I have slaved over just. for. you. Well.... I see how you are, Dr. Slaughter." done with the dicing, pointing at her with a finger rather than the knife. "No fingers for you."by now the butter has melted
he's turned away from the counter
(with beer)
and cracks several eggs into the pan
the.... uh.... spatula? used to swish them around and break up the yolks
a little salt, a little pepper, a little garlic sprinkled on for taste
then he's dicing up the meat, throwing that and the peppers in
and as those begin to set, he's pulling down two plates
there's an appropriate stir and flip here and there
then soon enough he's scooping the concoction onto the plates
(neatly in half)
and setting those on the counter for her to cheese while he's rinsing off the pan(imogen)
She clucks her tongue with a soft tsk sound, as he waxes melodrama and points the knife in her direction. "Alright. No fingers." A shake of her head, the movement causing a few strands of hair to fall in front of her eyes, only to be pushed back with an automatic movement. "However shall I survive?"Cheese is liberally sprinkled, though sprinkled is the wrong word, it's too minor for the amount of cheese she provides both. She's seen the appreciation the gnawer gives to that particular dairy product, and doesn't skimp.
The plates are taken to the table, and the Bone Gnawer and the ex-Fianna kinfolk get to enjoy a particularly nutritious breakfast of a sausage/greenpepper/cheese omlet and beer. At four in the morning.
Conversation is sparse, as James shovels his food in his usual fashion, and Imogen really hasn't eaten since Friday afternoon, so she isn't particularly into conversation either, even if she would have been otherwise. Good food, warmth from the dreary cold outside, and silence.
Between the two of them, they wash the rest of the dishes and at the very least get it to the point of tidied, before Imogen's eyes flicker once more to her watch.
"And on that note, I should p'raps get myself off to sleep." Half turning to glance at the dreadlocked gnawer, a faint lift of her chin that substitutes her nod, a curl of her mouth that substitutes her smile, "Thanks for breakfast." Stepping around him, she begins toward the front door. "I'll see you around."
(james)
he inhales the food
it's a wonder he really bothers with seasoning and flavors
because it surely can't rest on his tongue long enough for him to taste
though it seems she's giving a valiant effort to keep up with him
four in the morning and they're both happily dining on breakfast concoction and beer
he doesn't need the conversation, particularly
enjoying the company, and the knowledge the food is appreciated
by the time she's heading to the door, he's offering another of those trademark grins"Anytime."
he means that and she knows it
four am, six am, five pm or midnight
she heads for the exit and he's heading towards the couch
weight sinking into the deep leather
long stretch of lean body to add the remote to the hand that's not holding the second beer
settling in to just relax and enjoy this quiet lull in their week"Night Imogen."
Posted by james at February 21, 2003 12:00 AM
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