March 02, 2003.03.02.03. - whenever you're ready [rune][north jersey]
(rune)
Ten or fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty minutes after leaving the condominium complex, Rune found James sprawled - bleeding and unconscious - in the service alley behind a shopping center less than a mile away. He could not have gone far, of course, in the brief span of time between his retreat and the hard snap of his conscious mind from the baseline sense of totemic communication. Five minutes later (half the time spent trying, somehow, to hold down her gorge, the acid sting of bile rising harsh in her throat at the sight: collapsed on his back, both now-human hands close to his eviscerated throat, the wounds raw and ragged and so fucking deep that for a split second before the slow, agonized rise of his chest caught her attention, the wheezing sigh of breath not through his mouth but through the bubbling mess of flesh and muscle and tissue asserted otherwise, she thought him dead, and dead by his own traitorous hand) she had him maneuvered into the passenger's seat of the Beemer, her stripped t-shirt around his throat as a make-shift bandage. Nevermind the fine leather upholstery, it was the upright position that worried herNote to self: next time, take the truck.
He will wake up, hours later, in Decker's room rather than her own. The bed is more stable, she kicked the Modi out for the night and sent him to the couch, or upstairs to sleep in the big black bed with its rolling mattress and slippery sheets after sending him to bag up the bodies Dire had so helpfully hosed down the sidewalk in front of the building to one of the neighbors' stoops.
Dirty work, that.
Hours later, the Gnawer will wake up in Decker's bed. Livingston is out back, getting high, recharging his spirit battery and ready for the next task, on theory that the arm might have to go. He can feel her presence in the room, should he think about it, sprawling in Decker's ratty old lazy-boy, and hear the low hum of the Modi's little 13" black and white television. She hasn't changed clothes again, and is wearing only her dedicated leather pants and a bra, having tossed her t-shirt into the wash with liberal amounts of bleach in hopes of getting the stain of (his) blood from the white cotton. She did not leave the room until Livingston arrived, and only then did she trudge outside to help the Modi finish the clean-up in the last hour of pre-dawn light. They were lucky that is was a Sunday, and none of the go-get-'em types were up (as usual) before dawn for the long commute to their cubicles in the city, or on the ring of development just outside.
Elbow crooked on the arm, chin rsting in the crescent curve of her cradling hand, she stares at the wall above the bed rather than the screen, where some cheap old Godzilla movie crawls across the screen, dialogue moving at a different pace than the mouths of the frightened residents of Tokyo, lightning shooting from the monster's beady eyes as he lumbers among the skyscrapers, tearing off chunks of the soaking buildings as if he were a drunken guest at a wedding, taking handfuls from the towering wedding cake and smearing them across his mouth. Half-lidded eyes flicker, now and again, from the blank wall, the patterns made by the mix of shadow and light, to her lover's body, stretched prone and quiet (but breathing, at least) on the bed, and then back to the television, before returning to the safety of the blank, bleak wall.
(rune rolling healing for James:
to Rune: 6D10 Dice Roll: 8; 9; 8; 5; 7; 6
to Rune: 6D10 Dice Roll: 1; 3; 6; 3; 6; 2
six levels, yay!)(james)
he remembers running
for the first time in his 21 year life-span
he actually ran
a part of him kept telling himself it wasn't out of fear
that he was doing it for the safety of his pack
(clear as the burn of alcohol on a fresh wound that killing strike at Rune)
but he knows he left them to the rodent rain
but he knows he abandoned them in the middle of battle
even if he tries to think it was just for saving their lives
the only answer he had to the question of whether he'd continue to turn on themby ending his own?
he didn't fight when the talons went for his throat
guilty enough for attacking and mauling one mate
he doesn't think he could bear the memory of it happening again
even if it wasn't in his control
perhaps there was a part of him that wished it to happenever wonder what it feels like to rip out your own jugular?
(now you know)hours ago, the world went black
in some nameless alley less than a smile away
and now, as the world keeps turning and Godzilla deccimates Tokyo (again)
the world is beginning to regain some color in the rotation...................ouch
first it's the throbbing in his shoulder and arm
that strange sensation of actually having the arm back under his control
a wriggle or two of fingers that happen by his own design, rather than sudden spasm
a twitching scratch against the sheets
that's when he realizes it's time to take a slow breath
second it's the searing burn of affirming, yes indeed, his throat is still intact, too (whee!)
...... this must be what strep feels like
that's what causes lips to pull back in minor grimace
teeth bared to.... erm.... wherever he is, eyes refuse to open yet
air hissed past his teeth as if sadistic aid to sorting his neck back out
(sorting his head out will be a whole other, painful process)(rune)
"Ay-yi! Ay-yi!" Someone's screaming as another building topples. With a faint, lifting shrug, the dull-eyed Glass Walker skims back toward the screen. Under other circumstances, the sheer fakery of the old-style special affects might bring a smirk of appreciation to the curve of her full mouth, but now the sight receives only a flicker of a gaze. Weariness drags her her eyeslids down over dark orbs, and she stifles a sigh as her eyes shift back to the wall. Dark head tiltling to the side, eyes narrowing to play with the shape of shadows creeping up the wall as the morning crawls onward, when -
what was that?- the scritching sound of voluntary movement against the sheets, the twitch of his (possessed) arm against the woven cotton. Awareness lances through her body, and she half-rises in the lazy-boy, shifting from languid sprawl to rise to one knee. One hand curves over the armrest, gripping both to stabilize, and as pivot point for a possible vault. The other rises to shift the fine strands of her inky hair away from her sharp-featured face, pushing them up from brow and back across the crown of her head, until they filter and fall behind her ears.
"James?" There's more to that one-worded question than most could know.
(james)
there's the slow, thick, clicking sound of (voluntary!!) swallow
movement bringing yet another grimace
he may be Garou, but things like that hurt
and the next breath actually brings scents washing over his senses
weed, sweat, Decker, Livingston.... (bless Gaia).... Rune
(James?)"Hmmph."
it's a sound half moaned half groaned and one hundred percent aching from his battered throat
not quite at the point of forming words yet
the world is still soupy fog
he wouldn't quite be able to pinpoint where she was just yet anyway
there's a lightning storm of flickering lights
there's thunder of the great beast roaring over Japan
there's the apocalyptic fire of the sun cutting through the blinds
and when eyes finally dare to slit open
(the fuck am I?)
he can see the dark shadow of her movement
the way she rises to the readied perch
brows furrowing in focusing frown"Hey....."
trying again
this times words fumble through
raw and husky, from the still-healing damage
by now he's struggling to sit up
one elbow sinking into the mattress
once-(still?)-possessed hand reaching to drag through still bloodcrusted dreads
before it's dropped infront of his face
fingers flexing fist and open once more
something that seems to surprise him, really
(I.... meant to do that....)(rune)
Her grip on the arm of the recliner does indeed become a pivot point, though with less urgency (thankfully) than she had earlier anticipated. Whether she thought she would need to stop him from attacking her, or attacking himself, (or both) is not entirely clear, but the ratcheting down of tension in her taut spine, the easing of tensed muscles in her shoulders as she swings herself over the arm of the unstable lazyboy is welcome response to the welcome sight of him, pushing his hand through his blood-encrusted dreadlocks rather than tearing away at his own throat.Long legs sweep over the arm of the recliner as she unfolds herself from its embrace, a hand resting on the back of the chair as ward against the inevitable recoil and balance point as well. The last step is a stumbling one, as she midjudged the balance of the unstable chair and it slipped beneath her shifting weight as she extracted a second long leatherclad leg, sending her forward more quickly than she intended. The impact of her collision with the edge of Decker's bed is softened by the forward sweep of her arm, and then she's beside him, weight dipping the mattress toward the edge, though not so violently as the waterbed.
"Welcome back." Her voice is subdued and quiet, and her dark eyes roam across his features, lingering on the vicious necklace of bruising encircling his throat. Her wounds healed in minutes, but they were inflicted by ratlings and then deepened by stainless steel blade. His, gouged by the Crinos claws of his rebellious arm, are not so easily closed. "How are you - " caution in the tone, some shadow of concern swallowed hard in the middle of the otherwise flat statement (war hardens all hearts) " - feeling?"
Her fingers brush lightly over his shoulder, a ghost touch across the the sharp line of his collar bone, the warm pads of her fingers tipped by tickling brush of sharp red nails.
(james)
she's rising from the recliner
and it seems the epiphany of control over his hand is forgotten
dark, bloodshot eyes swing back up to her form
following the haphazard misbalanced fall of grace
watching the tension bleed from her frame
enamoured with the way she's drawn closer and into focus
weight slinking and sinking the mattresshow he aches to reach for her
wrap her in strong arms and pull her close
reacquaint himself with the fact she's in one piece and alive
the wound deepened with the memory of reaching for her in blood
unable to stop the attempt to physically divorce her from her spinethe thoughts temper his actions
hands planting themselves against the sheets and firm mattress
weight rotating around lifting shoulders in sloooooooow drag upright
moving his hips beneath center of gravity
the breif moment allowing a glance around the foreign room
(must be Decker's, by the scent.... so this is where the Troll King sleeps....)
drowning in the light touch across his shoulder
that's when he reaches backit's not the strong assertion that he, too, is alive
it's tentative, and full of regret
this absent (memorizing) trace along the stretched leather gloving thigh
not his dominant right arm, oh no
the entire upright move was to free up the other
so he wouldn't reach for her with that arm again just yet
fingers along his left hand wandering some invisable trail"Like you should have left me in the alley."
somehow, he knows she was the one that brought him back
the words rolling unevenly across his tongue
he can't meet her eyes
instead attempting to make sense of some formless pile of.... stuff... on the shadowed floor
he doesn't know if the taint is gone
he doesn't know what he risked by running
he doesn't know if the next time he reaches for her it will be craving blood
all he has are his (horrifying, haunting) memories(rune)
Her features are cast in slats of shadow and light, as the rising sun streams through the shuttered blinds in thin but blazing bands. One strip of sunfire blazes across her dark eyes, blinding her momentarily. She dips her head and shifts positions - dragging herself another half-inch toward the headboard - until the light no longer blinds her, dark gaze flickering up and over the blinds in a brief frisson of irritation, before falling once more to his hand, as it traces its invisible path along the smooth leather encasing her strong thigh.Like you should have left me in that alley.
At his words, her eyes narrow and her chin rises sharply as she finds his gaze and stares hard at the downward slant of his evasive gaze. Beneath his trailing fingers, beneath the smooth second-skin of leather, the muscles in her thigh bunch and tense. "Fuck that, James." Her mouth twists into a stark, flat line, lips thinned with irritation. "Don't fucking say things like that."
Nostrils flare. The pads of her fingers close around his shoulder in a tightening grip, released suddenly when her nails graze against the deep bruise circling his neck like a high, mottled collar: purple and sullen yellow and bilious green and gray and black, all the colors of a gothic rainbow. Her right hand hovers over his shoulder, then shifts back to grip the headboard, hard, while the left finds some twisted purchase among the bloodied sheets.
"Don't say a fucking thing like that."
(james)
he doesn't recoil from the pressure that creeps and burns through his throat from the near-insult of nails' graze
it's not the dull ache flaring to life again through the gothic rainbow bruise
(those injuries are so much more than skin deep)
and perhaps it's not from the sharpness in her voice; the flare in her eyes; the irritation lining her lips
maybe, for once, for the first time in months, the barrier of Rank has risen between them again
she grips the headboard, nails digging into the wood which he leans slowly back against
the tender touch removing itself from her thigh as shoulders press on cool grain
(the Omega remembers his place)"Why not."
those words are so incredibly soft
not just from the injuries this time
but from the ache it has left behind"Do you have any idea what I almost did to you last night?"
it doesn't seem to matter that he tore out his own throat
it doesn't seem to matter that he may end up losing the arm
it's the fact he couldn't control going after her that pains him most(rune)
"I know."She removes her touch, he removes his. Nails scrape along the battered headboard, which groans beneath the sudden press of her balanced weight as she rises in a furious arc of motion. Better to bleed the riot of whatever strange mixture of emotion now runs in incindiery current with remnant rage and the long smoldering fuse of exhaustion and worry in motion, in movement, than to remain seated, stiffening, as the barrier rises again between them.
"I know what you almost did. And I fucking know that you stopped yourself before it happened. I know that it was beyond your control, and there was no fucking way we could have anticipated it, and I know what you did rather than turn on us, on me." She has stalked the length of the bed, pivoted to define an elongated L along the base, kicking the discarded comforter (unsuccessfully) out of her way.
Leather creaks at odd intervals from the movement, interrupted the rhythm swish of her long strides, which are again interrupted as she bends to disentangle the bulk of the comforter from her long legs and toss it aside. "And if Dire had been bitten first, or Imogen, or me, or fucking anybody else, the same fucking thing would've happened. And, fucking hell, if you hadn't been bitten first then we wouldn't've fucking known and the three of us would've gone apeshit with Imogen there and who fucking knows what would've happened. If you think that - if you fucking think that - "
She stops short, lifting her hands to run them through her hair, pushing the fine strands away from her face, away and back more than once, for lack of anything else do to with her hands, for lack of anyone in the immediate vicinity to throttle (the last thing he needs right now). " - that's just, that's just a stupid fucking thing to think."
(james)
their touches pull away
then she removes herself completely
perhaps it's the respect of rank that keeps his eyes on her stalking form
even if he doesn't look to meet her blazing eyes
rather than offering her the side of his head and neck to watch the floor again
the deeply ingrained canid submission that's coursing beneath his human skinwhen she moves away, his legs pull up
slowly crossing to help balance out the equation of his weight
(the instinctual move to submit yet protect one's belly)
he's uncomfortable enough being in another's den, another's bed
the shame and agitation isn't helping
but he controls it
so instead of just slinking away
he toughs it out and listensbecause she knows
she understands
she's rationalizing what it is that happened so fast in his mind
funneling the possibilities and excuses into an avalanche of irritated words
finding the victory when he's blinded by defeat
at least now he knows they're okay
but his words are still so soft"How do I know it won't happen again."
it's a true fear within him
he's held the tattered remains of his mate before
he's left a bloody trail of footprints from where his pack silently lay in pieces
he feels fine, sure, but how does he know the taint is gone
just because he hasn't lashed out at her this very moment, how does he know the ordeal is over
she can see the thousand questions haunting his eyes(...tell me, bitch-rhya, rune-love, tell me how I can trust myself tomorrow, the next day, and the days that form after, when you're soundly sleeping by my side...)
(rune)
"Look at me, James." The pacing stops, the path shifts. She turns in one smooth movement, shins and knees pressing against the foot of the mattress as she twists at the waist and and hip to settle again on the foot of the mattress. "We were all bitten."Several long, deep breaths to steady the fizzing electric nerves, skipping and shorting livewire beneath her smooth, unblemished skin. How easily they heal all but the worst of wounds. Several long, deep breaths sucked in and exhaled, until calm or the semblance thereof descends once more. Lucky, they are, for the new moon, the blank moon, the trickster's moon riding shrouded through the vault of the night sky.
"We were all bitten. We excised the flesh around the wounds and then cleansed each other." Dark eyes skew from his gaze to his hand, his right hand, his strong arm, the fingers open, the bare flesh unblemished. "I cut around the bite before you were healed, and I know the rite of cleansing." She glances away, before her eyes return to his traitorous arm, mouth thinning against the cold truth. "I don't know if that's enough. Perhaps it will be, the Theurge should know, once it's done, if it's enough." Another breath, to fortify her, and she finds his eyes again. He deserves that much: a direct glance to accompany the hard truth of the possibilities. "If not, we can take the arm."
It will grow back, but such grievous wounds leave scars - shriveled limbs, lessened strength, atrophied muscles, even on their kind, without a Shaman to heal the damage immediately.
(james)
he looks up when she tells him to
out of love, respect, or fear of disobeying... it's unclear
deep, soulful umber eyes reaching for her as he physically won't allow
not yet(We were all bitten)
oh, that helps
he scampers off and they all get bitten
even if she told him to look up, the gaze slides away again
the excuse to study the healed hand (still flexing of his own volition) enough for now
his eyes lift when she takes the breath to fortify herself
saying what it is he already knows
but it still causes his gaze to plummetan animal will chew off it's own foot when in a trap
it is a decision that takes no rationalization, rather a simple deduction of primal logic
better to live free in pieces than to remain staked for the hunter's approaching death
the cripples become legendary, their struggling defeat of adversity spreading far and wide
it's the ones that escape the traps that become wise and old
then tell the man he may lose his arm
tell the drummer he will have to put down his rhythm which, because of scarring, he may never find again
tell the Gnawer that the only thing he's ever possessed that's truly been his may be taken away
tell the Warrior he must sacrifice the weapon he was born with, in order to heal it, yet know if something goes wrong that the weapon will become brittle and weak and ineffective
even among their kind there are some wounds that will not, cannot heal
a singular tone sounds, in the echoing depths of his mind
the smallest clarity of thought rising once more to the murky surfaceperhaps he's hung around the Get too much
(..... you should have left me there)
better to die than to be weakshe took a single breath to fortify herself
he.... takes many, allowing that tone to echo into silence
and she can see the trains of thought barreling down his mental tracks
he's lost the schedule and can't figure out which one is boarding now
so, dammit, he's getting left behind again....
it's a long while later that hands lift to run through bloodtangled dreads
finally lifting his gaze back to hers"We'll let the Theurge finish..... and.... if it's not enough, take it."
(rune)
"Alright then." Her words are clear and quiet, attention shearing away from him to the edges of the room, flickering over the the battered trunk, the old television with its jury-rigged antenna made out of a twisted bit of wire hanger. "Christ." Half-muttered under her breath, as she flickers her gaze away to find something else to look at. "Could hook that up to the cable for him. Fucking hell."Calmer and clearer her voice, some bulwark of steadiness in the noisome storm of doubt and irritation, all the myriad threads that ravel from around the narrow ball of spent rage hard in the pit of her stomach.
"You want something to drink, maybe a shower?" Before anything else, of course. Before cleansing, before the possibility of limb-severing and whatever that entails. Condemned prisoners, after all, get a last meal before their (mostly painless) executions. It was the least she could offer him. Her hands find purchase on her hip and on the sheets. Clean, here, at the foot of the bed, but stained and stiff with blood where she carried him earlier. Dark eyes follow a trail up the bed, over his crossed legs, the defensive posture, and up to settle on his features. Close to his eyes, her gaze, but never quite meeting them, before falling back to his arm. "Nothing strange since you woke up?"
(james)
she strings together some random cursing to make sense of it
turning the thoughts outward to the room around them
the constructive things that could be done to fix and improve
or at least get the Modi into some semblance of living in the condo, instead of only sharing the roof
he.... just quietly thinks about it, stays focused inward
dark eyes studying his hand, the connected arm, down again to the thick layer of blood on the sheets
he's just as much defensive as withdrawnhe's used to the ups and downs of a Warrior's life
but this... is a bit to swallow"Got a cigarette?"
a wry, darkly sharp expression finds its way over his lips
he can't help some amusement at the irony contained in that
maybe he should ask for a blindfold, too
cause he knows she has one
then the caustic smile that lifted the corners of his lips falls
a smooth flow of muscle into thoughtful frown
head shakes, dreads tug at his shirt where they've dried to them"Nah, nothing strange."
he could use a stiff drink
something to numb this strange pain slicing and dicing at him
but why give them one more thing to cleanse?
he could damn well use a shower, too
not exactly sure what he fell into in those moments just before the world went black
these sheets are probably going to get burned rather than bleached and washed
but if worse comes to worse, why end up having to take two showers?(rune)
"Yeah." The bed shifts beneath her weight as she rises, compressed coils and foam in the mattress sighing as the pressure is released and they open again. The nails of her left hand catch on the weave of the cotton, some faint hiss accompanying the subvocal sound of the bed rearraging itself to support only his weight. She pauses at the foot of the bed, smooth the rumpled sheets out in an unconscious gesture, mouth curved in an expression that is neither a smile nor a smirk, nor even a curled, half-birthed attempt to form one or the other. "Good."She spent her verbosity on her rambling speech earlier. Now she can find few enough words to offer him. What, exactly, do you say? (It'll grow back. I've seen worse. We'll both suffer worse, before the end. You're going to be just fine.) Callous approbations to suck it up, or empty phrases of false reassurance, all of which cross her mind in some low hum as she considers and discards them as mere mental noise, none of which sit easily on her tongue.
"Good."
Bare feet on carpet, the symphony of unimpeded movement: a few long sweeping strides that begin at the curve of her hip and unfurl through the long, taut muscles of her legs, outlined by form-fitting leather. She sweeps low, grabs the cigarettes and ashtray from the floor beside Decker's tattered recliner and returns to his side. The pack is offered as she sits again, curving one leg beneath her while the other still sweeps to the floor. The ashtray is pushed across the stiffened sheets toward him, and a lighter produced from her pocket. Two fingers crooked as he receives the pack: she could use a smoke, too.
(james)
there are worse situations to be in
it will grow back, even if it won't be the same
we'll both suffer far worse before we are finally killed
one of us will watch the other diethey fight this war... why... again?
he's at the point he can only laugh, softly
she says good - twice - and it brings a little grin
at least she wasn't going to offer the false comforts
when she sinks down to the mattress, he scoots over a little bit
it's not shrinking away this time
this time, he's making room for her to sit beside himtwo smokes plucked out of her pack
both strippa pink.... just because
gold filters twin between his lips
brow furrows on the inhale
(that... burns)
but sure enough both are lit
and one's handed back to her
ashtray settled between them
pack placed nearby
deeeeep breath, James
long on the exhale, smoke clouding towards the ceiling"How long we got?"
(rune)
He scoots over to make room, and while he's lifting both cigarettes, she's scooting to sit more fully on the bed. Hips twist, and her hands, flat against the stiff crimson on the sheets curl to aid the transition as she shifts her weight and twists her body until her shoulders are against the headboard, her long legs uncurled in front of her, the left one crooked at the knee, bare foot flat against the bed.She accepts the cigarette with relatively good humor, right arm lifting at the awkward angle necessary to accept the transfer when they sit beside each at such close quarters. "I'm not sure." Half-a-glance, sent sidelong through the curling veil of lashes lowered to shade her eyes. "Whenever you're ready. Whenever Livingston's ready. Doesn't seem urgent," some gesture, uncompleted, with the lit cigarette still burning in her hand. " - but it's not something we should put off too long, either."
The reasons remain unspoken. Both of them know, after all. It's been too long already, a few more minutes, an hour or two could hardly hurt. Just like a rat bite: minor wound, something that registers as an annoyance more than real danger. Insidious.
She lifts the smoldering cigarette to her mouth now, and takes a long, deep drag before her hand slides aside and she taps ash into the ashtray between them. Her eyes rise and graze across the opposite wall, some pin-up, black and white, tasteful, really, as such things go. Across the space between them, her elbow brushes against his upper arm.
"I'll be there, James." Some faint shrug, the graze of her bare skin against his. Even the joint of her elbow is smooth, pumiced and polished and exfoliated, daily. "You know that. For whatever it's worth."
(james)
"Well, I won't rush him...."it shouldn't be put off
he can't help wanting to, though
so we'll lay this all on Livingston being ready
cause you can never really be ready for something like this
can you?gold filter dents between dull canines
muscle through his jaw working, silently
then her arm slides against his
so very smooth against skin stretched taught over muscle
silkenly exfoliated outlining the curve of bicep peeking from beneath filthy tee
right hand lifts to pull the smoke from between his lips
and the muscle so recently traced flexes as left arm stretches
reaching to trace blunt nails down her forarm, over wrist, tangling long fingers
still the silence reigns
heavy blanket cast about them like the smoke whorling towards the ceiling"I know."
they'd need half the pack there to hold him down
but it's the thought that counts
calloused thumb works over the side of hers
absently wondering about nothing, really
entertaining himself with the little things
the little touches and half-breaths
the thoughts that never make it to surface
there are a lot of things he just doesn't want to think about(rune)
Though she couldn't find her way to offer any half-assed reassurances earlier, when he takes her hand in hers, she finds a multitude of them bubbling to the surface, like soap bubbles. Soap bubbles: myriad, shimmering with illusory light, the oily reflected rainbow of it all that shifts and slides and glides like the lights in a fucking opal, some precious stone polished beneath bright showroom lights, but explodes with a wet pop into a nothing more than a small, slick mess at the merest contact. Her mouth twists against them, swallowing them one by one as they surface."No need to rush him." The phrase emerges as the first rush of would-be reassurances slows and dies. His thumb rubs absently over the surface of hers, and her fingers curl more tightly into his grip. After a moment, she lifts his hand to her mouth and presses it against her lips. It's a wordless gesture, the remnant sum of the cast-off phrases, the meager fiber threshed from all that chaff.
"No need at all."
(james)
he can feel the pressure of fingerpads between his knuckles
spreading out the cartilege in menial massage
no rub and sway, but the slow, even pressure
just like something clenching into solid, concrete matter
just a hunch that suddenly dawns to light and truth
he returns the pressure
a slow study of her anatomy beneath his hand
one finger at a time pressing between her finer, smaller knuckles
not squared and shaped by brawling
not scarred and knicked by countless things he doesn't even notice anymore
soon there's the touch of her lips against his flesh
her warm breath sighing across the back of his handthat draws his eyes to hers, finally
deep umber color of the richest earth lifting to the gleaming darkness of mahogany
there must be some symbolism here in earth and wood
chinese astrology claims wood types are sociable, creative and positive
then those from the earth are loyal, diplomatic and helpful
personalities destined by stars and mysticism
somehow intertwined into a nourishing dynamic
destined for growth in some cycle everlasting
from the earth grows the strongest trees
and when those trees fall, they slowly piece themselves to retun to the soil's warm embrace
and then the cycle slowly begins again, the strong making the stronger stand tall
but he doesn't think about that
nah.... now? he's just concentrating on looking into those eyes
finding the phrases in them they used to never say except in lookshe doesn't exactly pull his hand away from her lips
but his arm is moving, slow and sure
as if they were in some glitzy ballroom thang
rather than in a bloodsoaked and stained bed that wasn't even theirs
his elbow lifts, careful to avoid her skull, and twists to look around her neck
draping strong arm around her shoulders
there's some navigation to grab the ashtray and move it
just so he can pull her closer
feeling her shoulder snug up against his flank
the soft skin between corner of mouth and sink beneath cheekbone finding place to rest against strands of inky hair
clutch of their fingers tightening softly once again(rune)
She reaches across his torso, handing off the remnants of her smoldering cigarette to him, her left arm curving across both their bodies to find his right hand. The movement twists her body more certainly into his embrace, shoulder digging into his flank, shifting to find a posture comfortable for them both as her hand falls to his thigh, palm-up.She waits while he snuffs out the cigarette, and then catches his wrist with outstretched fingers. Sharp-edged nails, the soft pads of her fingers, the smooth curve of her palm across his skin. Though she does not draw his rebellious arm closer to her, she does not release it either. Together, clasped hands fall to his thigh, a slow dovetailing touch before she releases his hand at last.
There's nothing more to say, and so she says nothing. Instead, she soaks up the slow grace of the quiet moment, some subdued, precious eye in the midst of the circular storm. It will pass, they always do, and then another will come, and another, without fall. This one will pass - in a day, or five - and another will come, relentless, and one day, one of them will fall. And then, days or weeks or years after, the other. Death is the only certain shadow on the warrior's path, death and the faint hope that it will be one day dressed up in some tale, remembered, somehow, as a prettier, surer, more glorious thing than ever it was.
Her eyes are closing, lashes falling to whisper along the curve of her sharp cheek. Her eyes are closing, and she's turning her head just slightly, cheek grazing cheek a moment before she turns back. The weight of his head resting against hers feels as close to grace as she can come, the curve of his encircling arm is as much comfort as she will allow herself, as much comfort as they are allowed at all.
Whenever you're ready.
She does not say the words. She does not think them, but perhaps he can feel them, divine them from the texture of the fine strands of hair shifting beneath his cheek, the whorled ridges of her fingerpads as her hand curls in his grasp. She says nothing, because the moment will end soon enough. She will not hasten its end.
(james)
cigarettes stubbed out
remnant smoke coiling in lazy circles towards the ceiling
taking their time in the wanton float heavenward
as if some final offering in plea for luck and grace and blessing to Luna hiding her face far abovehis breath sighs out warm and moist (alive)
stirring the silken strands of her hair just infront of his lips
dark eyes dropping to track the reach of her hand for his
the one that disobeyed so greivously just hours ago
maybe it's instinct to pull away
punish the offending limb by witholding her touch
but since she's reaching - that would be punishing her, too
and that's the last thing that he'd ever doalready proven he'd take his own life to protect hers
and so they press on
fingers twining and tangling
twisting further together their separate stories
how much more complicated this makes things - a simple touch
but it's trudging on through the desolation
finding the smallest and simplest comforts as confusion and hurt reigns
honing in on the fact that they can press on
through this storm, through this trial, through this pain
one more step towards the horizon which only holds more heartache
but thinking like that is just waxing philosophical
and he's no philosopher, no shaman, and no oracle
no matter how much the spirits may govern his lifehe's a Warrior
he lives in the now
because tomorrow may never comeso slowly, he unlaces those (offending) fingers
breifly disentangling their lives
making everything so. damned. simple.
because slowly, that hand is climbing towards her face
no talons this time, no killing stroke
just the simple, tender touch that finds the undercurve of her jaw
(face your fears, Jamey-boy, never back down.... not from them... not from you)
outlining the fine bone before pressure tilts her head up
lifting those dark eyes to his own for a breif, breif encounter
and that's when he kisses her
once again playing their game of give and take
earlier, he backed away, now he's surging forward for her touch
needing that confirmation that's found in the press of lips
normally it would be so hungry, so animal, so damn consuming
because if they took their time their passion would eat them alive
he tells her things in that kiss that he could never say, even now
even with the education he's gleaned from countless books
sometimes there are no words
and so it lingers, sad and sorrowful, even if she can feel the soft smile
he never knows which will be their last - so he makes every one countfunny, the little things that can remind those that seem immortal of just when their thread may be snipped
it was just a little bite, really, only a niphis weight shifts, and the kiss breaks
Posted by james at March 02, 2003 12:00 AM
body forced into cooperation to move
one thigh presses into the stiff mattress and the other swings to straddle and step over
foot hits the floor and he's pulling her up off the bed with him
left hand crossing over the distance between them as it tugs gently on her right
he doesn't let go of her hand until they're out the door
heading towards the marajuana smoke drifting in from the back porch that's a homing beacon for the Theurge
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