April 28, 2003.04.28.03. - look at me [rune][noje]
(rune)
The warehouse has been long-neglected. Could be, Erik's the only one who lives there, sometimes, and he certainly doesn't seem the type to require creature comforts. The pack and its assorted extras has chosen, instead, to hang around her place and fill it - constantly - with fucking noise.Rune never minded noise before, but it was her noise, wasn't it? Not Luc's German death-metal noise, not Dire and Decker brawling in her fucking living room, shattering her goddamn table. With just Decker and James as constant tenants, it never seemed a crowded place. Both know how to make themselves absent, somehow, and are perfectly capable of giving her space.
The first day she opened the closet door and found Dire sleeping inside (no full moon, anymore, no fucking excuse) standing up in a sleeping bag in homid, she left the straight-away and headed to the warehouse. Every day since then, she has ignored the closet and headed to the warehouse, when duty didn't drag her elsewhere.
Last night, after the fight: the warehouse. Again, the warehouse, because she couldn't face the stuffy, crowded rooms, the incessant noise, the thrumming hum of her pack's generous rage, frustrated in their quest for the bastards who killed a kinfolk on their territory.
And so: the warehouse. In the several weeks, she has made significant progress. The first floor is still as it was: an abandoned wreck, shipping bay doors offering access to the floor, a make-shift garage. One corner has been swept up and fixed up, a pair of punching bags hung from the ceiling. There's a weight bench there, too, but no other exercise equipment, and only a battered CD-boom box for entertainment. A small scattering of CDs in multicolored jewel spills over beside them.
The second floor, however, has been transformed. Or, half the second floor has been transformed. The second floor offices remain empty - when she's done, they can turn them into rooms if they want to - but the main floor of the storage area is in the process of being redone into a dormitory-style residence. Carpet has been laid, and the brick walls have been scrubbed clean. The old plaster has been repaired and repainted, and track lighting installed on the high ceiling. On one side of the room, the beginnings of a makeshift kitchen. Some cheap cabinets, a microwave, a refridgerator, a kitchen sink on the floor waiting to be installed where the old janitor's sink was.
There's a television, a couch, a few easy chairs, a stereo, all scattered around near the kitchen. Across the wide, high-ceilinged room, a stack of mattresses and box springs, several bunk bed frames waiting to be put together.
Beer. That's the only thing in the fridge, and one of those beers is sitting on the makeshift worktable Rune set up: a sheet of sturdy plywood over a pair of sawhorses, supported by a pair of two by fours. The Glass Walker stands on a tall metal ladder that climbs high to the ceiling, dressed in worn old jeans and a tattered, sleeveless t-shirt. The only sign of last night's battle is the ugly bruise over her shoulder, crawling down her strong arm. Last night, that was a vicious, heavy wound - muscles torn, bone shattered, leaving the limb all but useless. This morning, all that is left is the deep, deep bruise. On the stereo: the Clash, of course. Rune's singing along, tunelessly, growling the words as much as singing them. "Every cheap hood makes a bargain with the wooorld, ends up makin' payments on a sofa or a girl..."
(james)
he knows she heard him come in
he knows she felt him come in - that crawling feeling of pack that suddenly worms its way into her being
he knows she could probably smell him coming, too, but that still doesn't prompt a greeting or a sound
silently letting the pizza box slide from his fingers to rest next to her abandoned beer on the sawhorse supported worktable
deep umber eyes climb the gleaming metal ladder, drifting across her ankles, calves, knees, thighs, liiiiiiingering a bit on the back pockets of those jeans, and then slowly the gaze floats higher
stopping on that bruisehe should have been there
it doesn't matter to him, deep down, that he was taking care of the things he was told to
while that call of duty is enough to make peace on the surface, there's still that gut twisting twinge of reaction buried deep down
he knows she can take care of herself - she could probably kick his ass
and that's one of the many reasons he didn't fight falling in love with her
but when you love someone, you worry
even when they heal at incredible speeds and withstand things that would obliterate the normal person
there's always that underlying wonder (fear) of the day they won't heal as fast as they need to or just aren't strong enoughhe's never banked on tomorrow, ready to accept the day that suddenly won't come anymore - but that's him, not her
but that was yesterday, and today is here
so he lets that gaze climb just a little higher, following the sweeping line of jaw, up towards her ear occasionally shadowed by inky hair swaying with each movement, then back to those tunelessly singing lips
and he can't help but smile"From every dingy basement on every dingy street, I hear every dragging handclap over every dragging beat, that's just the beat of time-the beat that must go on....... if you been trying for years-then we already heard your song."
nothing to send chills up her spine, but he's an Ahroun, not a Galliard
(rune)
The bruise marks her left arm. It's the arm she could afford to lose, should it come to that. It's the arm she could live without, fight without, if it came to that. Her left hand is braced upon the top of the ladder, maintaining balance at the top of that tall ladder. In her right hand, a power screwdriver, zipping the last of the screws in place on another bar of track lighting.She kept working as she felt him enter, and kept working as the feeling, the certain sense of his presence tracked through the lower floor and up the stairs, as his scent imprinted itself on her senses, and the pizza, too. Only when he sings to her does she click the button and turn the screwdriver off, pausing long enough to dust her hands off on the seat of her jeans before turning half-around on her precarious perch. One hand clings to the metal, the second hand clutches her tools, and both feet hold their perch. Her torso is a sinuous twist of flesh, and she looks down at him with a three-quarter profile, dark hair falling forward across her face as she leans forward and down.
"Death or glory, becomes just another story." She's grinning through the words, attempting a more tuneful sort of sound that comes out only as rhythmic spoken word. "Hey stranger."
He may be swallowing guilt over not being there, but there's no reproach in her gaze. Likely, she doesn't realize the track of his thoughts as they pauise on her bruised shoulder. Likely, it wouldn't ever occur to the Glass Walker. Even playing Ms. Fix-It, Rune's made-up, all smoking eyes and crimson mouth, curled now in a smile that comes out only rarely, and only for him. She lifts her chin in the direction of the pizza box. "Bring me dinner?"
(james)
he's swallowing guilt, just a touch, with a bit of garnish and salt for taste
it's not enough to really mean anything to anyone other than him
but it's just the general principle of male ego and love, dammit
though that grin surrounding the words, then that smile that he knows is just for him - sure makes it go down a lot easier
and then that grin that simply shines back up at her, whatever train of thought he had is gone now"Mmmmhmmm" chuckled as he moves over to brace the ladder for her to climb down, he's not reaching a hand up to help her - knowing she doesn't go for that, and definitely doesn't need it - but he will take the drill to make it easier "Meat lover's, stuffed crust, extra cheese sound acceptable?"
(rune)
"Sounds good enough to eat." In the words, a half-edge of something darker and playful, some smirking awareness of the cliché and every possible interpretation that finds echo in the easy curve of her spine as she climbs down, one foot after the other. Five feet from the bottom, she does hand him the drill, and then she takes the last several feet easily enough, with a backward jump from the second-to-last rung, booted feet thudding on the freshly carpeted floor.It smells like sawdust in here, and cigarettes. It smells like carpet glue and freshly applied paint. And it smells like her, of course, after the hours and hours she's spent here fixing the damn place up.
"Didn't know I knew how to use power tools, did you?" She askes as she turns around, slinging her elbow up to rest on one of the lower rungs. One fine, dark brow darts upwards, as the familiar smirk crawls across her face. Chin rising, she indicates the whole of the place, still a work in progress and bare-bones compared to the condo. "Whatcha think?"
(james)
soon as the drill is in his hand, he steps back, giving her room to jump down off the second to last rung
wohoooooo Nelly he found all sorts of interpretations in her cliche phrase
(you dirty, dirty boy)
so moves off instead to shrug out of the patchwork trench and place both it and the drill on the worktable
free hands now open up the pizza box and grab a slice to place on couple of napkins
dark eyes lifting and roaming across the warehouse turned damn well decent place to live
bare bones compared to their usual digs, with only carpet and some paint, it's a far sight better than some of the places he's stayed in, that's for sure"I think it's amazing."
and that's an honest remark, too
he's not just saying it because she made it
and anything she does is perfect and wonderful to him
he's actually rather impressed with the whole thing
especially as she's done it with little to no help as they've all been preoccupied with the frustration of hunting the things (Kooks!) that have been hunting Kin on their turf
by now he's turned back towards her, and the ladder
long strides closing the short distance between
placing the pizza in one of her hands - palm still imprinted with the drill's grip - and her beer in the other
there's a tilt of his head, sending dreadlocks sprawling across scarred skin over his shoulder revealed by the black wifebeater
leeaaaaaning in real close, to just murmur, croon, and quite possibly: chortle"Babe I found some of your toys, remember?" winked "Well aware you can use power tools."
note he filled her hands with precious food and beer.... first
note how the Gnawer moves quickly back across to the worktable to take refuge behind the pizza
(he's gonna pay for that'n)(rune)
"Bastard." Snapped close to the vulnerable curve of his ear, the single word ricochets, a little silver bullet of sound following by a flaring snort. Tipping her sleek head back (dark locks spills away from the sharp planes of her arrogant features), she takes a long drink of her beer, coming up for air half-way through. Thirsty work, this. "I meant the real fucking kind."The Walker fixes the Gnawer with an arrogant little look: risen chin, set jaw, half-hooded dark eyes narrowed, the color of the irises lost to mere shadow. (I'll get you back. Later. You can't run from me.) "If you're trying to make me fucking blush, it's not going to work. I don't blush," narrow-eyed as she is, the sharp upslant of one dark brow can be nothing more than raw challenge, though the look is fickle and disappears as quickly as it came.
Rune takes a bite from her pizza, pulling the wedge back and swallowing the long threads of cheese that stretch and stretch from away from the slice. Chews. Swallows, and takes another draught from the beer and lifts her pizza-filled hand in toast toward the echoing warehouse. "Thought I'd fix it up before I kick 'em out. Fucking tired of finding Dire in my goddamned closet."
(james)
at some point during her retort, and his gleaming looks over ash-marked shoulder, he made it to the fridge
relieving it of two more beers, one's opened, and the other set on the worktable for her for later
(he'll just walk back again to get his own)"Yes you do." open mouth of the bottle tipped towards her, challenge accepted "I've seen it."
or at least... flush... but it's the same thing to him
though all this really seems to be doing is digging his own hole much deeper. fast.
his own slice finally plucked from the large pie and disappearing just as quickly in four inhaling bites
(does he chew?)
he takes a little more time with the next slice
this one may disappear in six because he's talking after bite two"Noticed that." he could sense her irritation, the underlying tension which was slowly festering and growing while nothing was yet said, doubling with the appearence of Eva, but he didn't say anything, especially as he was sleeping in Imogen's couch every other night and doing his best to stay out of the way and still be useful "Been wondering how long it would take you to physically move him to a tent outside on the lawn....."
(james)
"Oh I do not." Her outrage is settled somewhere between the real and the oh-so-deilberately mocking. The scales must be tipped toward the latter since the remark is accompanied by a wide, salacious grin that splits her mouth wide, curls upward into the sharp curve of her cheek bones. He crosses the wide, echoing room to rummage through the fridge for another beer, and she, for her part, just leans back with one elbow against upon one of the cool rungs of the tall metal ladder, watching him.And she makes sure he knows she's fucking watching him.
When he turns back, dark eyes are cast low and crawling slowly upward, a scorchingly deliberate study, utterly arrogant in its thoroughness. It begins at his feet and crawls up his muscled legs, lingers on his torso, the strong line of his arm to the jointure of shoulder. Her gaze sprawls hot across his mouth, dark eyes opaque but smoldering, like a seem of coal burning deep below the crust of the earth, before finally flickering up to meet his eyes. "You, on the other hand..."
Her voice melts away to a low thrum of smirking laughter. Self-assurance - raw, bodily self-assurance - is not the least of her virtues, and for the moment she is in her element.
Her attention is momentarily diverted as he eats. She takes several bites of her pizza - one quarter slice consumed in contrast to his whole one during the period of silence - then snorts, nostrils flaring with remnant irritation as it sizzles up her spine like static electricity. "Who the fuck sleeps in the fucking closet? It's a rhetorical question. It must be. There's no reading Dire, and the Glass Walker isn't sure she wants to read him. "And Luc and his fucking music, and his fucking ma-ing me. And fucking Livingston and the fucking kitchen... Be one thing if it was occasional, but christ. They're like fucking guppies. Guppies that have learned how to walk and developed primitive prehensile thumbs."
(james)
she's watching him, with that locked-on radar smouldering gaze of a predator lurking just this side of seditious
he can feel it, the way it crawls up his legs and torso, stopping at is mouth
it's a mouth that's dropping to open, words forming on the exhale of warm air
(you... do... t....)
and snapping shut again when their eyes meet
the skin just beneath his lower lip pulled between teeth in somewhat.... nervous... nibble
lungful of breath just sighing away into nothingnessyes, he does
and beneath the heat of that gaze
he would be beginning to, now
(you make my fucking knees weak, you know that?)
even if it's touched by a shy smile, those umber eyes finding something else to look at for a moment
her self-assurance suddenly met by his self-awareness
he has confidence in spades, it's a background thing, it's just that he tends to forget to bring himself back into the picture and she's so damned good at re-drawing what he unconsciously erases
there's a glance back to those dark eyes, furtive.... when he can normally so easily fall and drown in the mahogany pools
he's a Gnawer, just a Cliath Omega for the pack, he's back-up, not the center of attention
dammit."But Luc's ma'ing you is kinda cute. Not a bad thing where I come from."
that's right James, just go with the subject change and keep on going, atta boy
(rune)
"Where you come from, it's respect for someone with a helluva lot more responsibility that I have, let alone fucking want." She hasn't moved, has Rune. She's just lounging there, one elbow hooked over a ladder rung, a bottle of beer (a fresh bottle of beer) dangling from the delicate grip of thumb and forefinger. She's just... lounging there, feet crossed at the ankles. The jeans that are molded to the strong curve of her muscled thighs and cling easily to her hips are old and worn at the seams, spattered with paint and smeared with oil, dust. Even her manicure is a bit off, what with all the manual labor: flecks and chips of paint have been scored away, leaving swatches of raw, clean nail here and here and there.The sleeveless tee is too big for her frame, but it clings where sweat has pooled on her torso, to certain advantage. Likely, she stole it from one of the boys in her pack. Possibly, she stole it from him. Her hair spills back from her face, the roots damp from sweat and glistening, darker, as dusk falls and the last broad sweeping rays of the dusky spring sun dance through the wavy glass of the old windows, highlight the clouds of dust still dancing in the air.
She finished her slice, and didn't reach for a second. And she's just lounging there, watching him with dark and certain eyes. It's the way he fades from the picture and erases himself, so necessary for a Hood and a Gnawer and a Cliath and Omega in a pack. It's the way she draws him back in.
"Why do you do that?" She's not particularly eloquent, is Rune. Her social skills generally end with the misdirection and subterfuge urrah necessarily develop to protect the veil, the subtle tides of strength and intimidation, the sureties required of a leader when the mantle is thrust on her shoulders. She's not eloquent, but she makes up for that in directness. Chin rising in his direction, the scorching darkness of her gaze settles into something approximating a slow burn. Erase yourself, from me, she means, though he could take it as anything, anything at all. "I want to know why you do that."
(james)
there's a slow nod, she's got that part right - it's a term of respect
and those dark eyes, deep as the earth's crust, lift skyward to peruse the echoing loft"Yeh.... you don't take care of us at alllll...."
chuckled softly, in chide
they both know her doing this is taking care of herself
getting her condo back to where it's simply hers
how strange it is to be selfish and generous at the same time
even if she's kicking them out, she's making sure there's a comfortable place waitingdoes he include himself with "them"?
he might. no matter how comfortable he is in her bed
(still 'hers' after all this time, not 'their')
there's an understanding should she want it all to herself
he may not think about it, hoping that the day never comes that it's something other than duty which would have him sleeping alone, but if it did ever happen.... he would never question itsomewhere in the silence, as she studied and lounged and watched
he begin the consumption of yet another slice of pizza
(no... he.... doesn't chew, does he)
how easily he can be with her, there, in silence, and beneath her thoughtful scrutiny
whatever it is he began thinking fades away again beneath the direction of her voice
brows furrowing in mid-chew, though there's a polite swallow before speech"Do what?"
is it that unconscious that he doesn't even realize it anymore?
it's not that he's trying to avoid her question
she can see it in his eyes he'll tell her anything she wants
but with how open that was.... he wants to make sure he's telling her what she wants to know(rune)
"This is for me." The Glass Walker shrugs, a minute, dismissive gesture, unconsciously echoing his knowledge as she throws away responsibility for it, responsibility that sits ill on her shoulder, prickling at the back of her mind. "Not for them. But it's not like I can kick them out without a fucking place to go. Hell, it's not that I don't even like them around, now and again," another quick draught of her beer, lipstick smearing on the glass. "It's just that that the condo's too fucking small, there are too many fucking neighbors. We're gonna get a visit from the police, some night. It's practically endangering the fucking veil."Her eyes leave him briefly. She turns her head, casting a thoughtless glance toward the series of offices accessed by a pair of doors on the far wall. "Figured those could do for private rooms, anyone who wanted one, until we can get that half fixed up, if we're gonna keep it long. Otherwise, ain't worth it." Her eyes come to rest again on him, brows rising in mirror of her brief shrug. "Good place to stay low, too, if we need to. We can get the cars an shit inside downstairs, someone has those pegged. No neighbors to keep track of us, maybe make deals with a couple of spirits to keep an eye on whether anyone comes snooping when no one's here."
So, maybe it is for them. The condos are exposed, their cars in the driveway, the pack lounging around on the porch, Dire with his fucking Get tattoo on his fucking forehead, Decker with his on his arm. Maybe the hairshirt of responsibility fits her better than she would like, when it comes down to it.
The sleek Walker falls quiet then, for a moment, but her eyes do not drop from him this time. That's a challenge she never concedes: she does not look away. Twilight, and the light is changing rapidly, it's falling from dusk to darkness, separated by a brief spill of silver, and the shadows are changing from natural to artificial as the illumination from the ceiling lights overcomes the remnants of natural light. "When I look at you - " her mouth thins, briefly, and her body shifts, liquid, minutely closer. " - sometimes you look away."
(james)
he can practically see it
the way she sidesteps the responsibility that keeps fluttering up like some little bird only to settle on her shoulders once again the moment she's not paying attention
whether she likes it or not (and definitely does. not.) it's pretty clear that he thinks she's doing a good job
the way he respects her as lover and the way he respects her as Beta aren't always the same thing
though one definitely does help the otherthen she finally narrows what she's looking for
and.... he didn't look away, this time
the way that deep umber focuses on her is utterly raw, so painfully open, because of just how much he'd allow her to do without a single breath of protest, laying himself completely before her without a second thought or even concern for what will become of this - a long time ago (has it really been that long?) he promised her anything; a ring, a pizza, a look, an emotion, his heart on a fucking silver platter, anything she asked, he would do everything within his power to give"Sometimes I don't." and it's true, there are times that Gaia herself couldn't get him to look away, when it's a battle of wills or he's trying to prove his point, there are times he won't back down, even to the point of maintaining the Alpha's mangled glare; but in the sweep of his gaze down to the bottle that's raising to his lips to empty, he knows that answer is verbally looking away from the question, now that the attention is suddenly on him
not on his unshakable faith - but that young man standing far behind the fearless Ahroun shell
he realizes now.... she's the only one he looks away from
and he actually laughs, softly, a low croon of musical sound
retreating to the fridge to get two more beers
hers is held out and offered on passby, his is maintained until reaching the couch
there's a look that hopes she'll come with him
to maybe rest for awhile from her relentless work or just be near him, under the guise of stealing the cigarette he now lights
(even if now, at the pack's place, they're more alone than they are back at the condo)"Submission?" there's a roll of wound rited shoulders that may symbolize a shrug, a slow draw of breath that guides his eyes back up from the carpet with the rise of chest within black cotton, a lazy pull of flat teeth across his lower lip, the shake of head that flips the shorter of dangling dreads - he knows that's not it "I guess...... sometimes I'm just shy around you."
(rune)
"Sometimes you don't." Her body folds to easily at the waist as she deposits her empty on the floor beside the ladder and, rising, takes the bottle he offers her in its place. She's still warm from her work (air conditioning isn't working yet. The windows don't exactly open easily, painted shut, she's no glazer, or spider to scale the brick and chip off the dried paint) so she lifts the cold new bottle to her forehead, drags it across pulsepoints: the curve of her neck, the tender skin inside her wrists. "Sometimes you do."Dark eyes track his progress across the room, and after a moment, she pushes herself away from her easy lounge against the ladder and follows in his wake. Metal scrapes upon the carpet (thhu-thhu-thuu. thhhhu-thhhhhu-thhhu) as the weight of her body is briefly balanced only by elbow and hip. Then she's sauntering across the room, beer bottle riding coolly at the level of her hip, dangling from her thumb and forefinger, curved casually around the neck.
The CD has long since finished, and they are left in silence. Silence, or rather, what passes for silence in the city: the rush of traffic, distant, the constant hum of electricity, of metal birds zooming overhead on their way to Newark International or JFK or LaGuardia, or closer sounds, the squeek squeek squeek of a single wheel on a rusted shopping cart a homeless man pushes down the dark deserted, industrial street.
Silence, then, their urrah version of it. In that silence, the subtle sigh of cushions chuffing beneath the sudden burden of her sleek, muscled weight. Not inconsiderable, no, though hardly a match for his. She settles opposite him on the couch, and after a half-moment's thought kicks off her boots, toes off her socks, and lifts her long legs to fling them across his lap. "Wanna tell me why the hell you're still fucking shy around me?" she asks at last, in a quiet, sardonic voice, accompanied by a sure and forthright gaze.
(james)
there are a thousand sounds outside
this is the urrah version of silence
nothing like the opressive weight of total silence out in the Barrens, where not even the insects dare chitter
this is the cacaphonous silence of the city, so many unidentifiable things melding together to become nothing more than white noise
but he's listening past that - even though he's shy, even though he's looking away - he's still so painfully aware of her
the fuzzy scrape of bootsoles across the carpet
the gentle brush of rough denim between her thighs
the whisper of cushions sinking beneath her weight
the steady beat of her strong heartshe's questioning him with a sure and forthright gaze
he's looking down at the ankles flung across his lap
the beer's wedged between his thigh and the arm of the couch
fingers occupying themselves by plucking and arranging the frayed strings of cotton that dangle from jean's cuff"I'm not sure." his voice is quiet now, soft around the Camel's filter denting between his teeth, soft as the smoke that coils out with each breath, hands suddenly find they're bored with just the strings and wrap warm around her ankles - climbing the ladder must be strenuous work, and he's gotta rub all that ache away, even if it's as much of an excuse to focus on something as it is for her pleasure "Maybe I just let myself be that open around you..... cause it has nothing to do with rank and tribe."
(rune)
Easily, she half-rises in place to steal the cigarette from his mouth. As she falls back into place, she sweeps her hand down for the ashtray at the foot of the couch, settles it on her stomach, then lifts it to balance on the back of the couch. For such creatures as they, movement is a natural, animal, instinctual, poetry that even the most well-trained humans cannot hope to match. Predators must be sure and swift, or else they die, of hunger, to another's claws, some challenge for territory or dominance. Weakness is deadly.Smoke spirals from her mouth as her dark eyes wander over him: the dreadlocks spilling across his shoulders, his shoulders, bared by the black muscle shirt, darkening already from exposure to the warm spring sun, the tracery of ashed scars that disappears beneath the fabric, dark and vicious welts scored well down his back. And more, of course: the line of his jaws, the downward slant of his eyes, his hands on her flesh, her ankles massaged by his strong fingers, her feet flexing from the quiet pleasure of his touch.
"Shy because you're open?" Her gaze has strafed back to his face, now, and she watches the minute movement of muscle and tendon, the twitch of each expression across his face. "Or just open about being shy?"
Tension, a sudden frission through her body. He can feel it beneath his fingers, across his thighs, the flexion of her calves, the minute changes in her shoulders and hips that spread down the long length of her legs, like morse code on a telegraph wire. "You don't - " For once she looks away, to the windows smeared with fluoresced light. " - you don't have to - " And then she's looking back again, the sentence cut off as she takes a long drag on his cigarette, followed by a long draught of her beer. "You don't have to fucking be like that." Some humor, dark, enlivens her voice. "What the hell do you think I'm going to do?"
(james)
it's a strange thing, really, those hands that could break bone now so gentle on her feet
the way that the muscles slowly twist and flex through his arms as she watches, calloused palms and fingers applying specific pressure across bones and lengths of tendon, the firmly soft pad, even carefully flexing those perfectly painted toes
the way his eyes narrow slightly in the concentration on what he's doing, what he's thinking
the way his jaw flexes as words begin to form but don't quite make it into the conversation because they just aren't right
the way his brows lower and draw together in search for just the right way to phrase it"Probably both. I just...."
lips draw together, pursed, silent in the grasp for words
nothing but the steady movement of hands over feet
the scrape of teeth over the swell of lower lip"It's not that I think you'd ridicule me for anything, or that I'm afraid to tell you things. I just...." the breath finishes in soft laughter, and she can see the subtle smile in profile, here she is telling him not to be like that and here he is stumbling over his words like a damned teenager before some silly prom - at least he can laugh at himself "I don't know, Rune, sometimes with the way you make me feel, I just.... get.... shy. I know I don't have to be, and it's not a bad thing, I don't know how to explain it."
that blush they were talking about earlier? it's creeping into tanned flesh right now
even though he chances a (shining) glance slipped sideways at her, breif before it plummets back to the work at... in... hand
that warmth is leaking - just barely - into his skin steady and sure(rune)
"James - " she removes one of her feet from his grasp, and leans forward, offering the cigarette in exchanged for her flesh. Settling back against the arm of the couch, she lifts her beer to take another drink, and then allows the bottle to drift down, bottom rim resting against her flexed abdomen. "James."There's a particular quality to her force, sometimes, a certain aura of command that rises unconsciously. Nine months of Beta'ing a pack of Fenrir, perhaps, or years of tutelage under an Alpha much different from their own. It rises now, finds its way into her voice unconsciously, saturates it. His name: a command, because she wants him to look at her, sometimes she just wants him to look at her the same way she does, when she looks at him.
Her foot curls over his thigh, firmly, and her toes flex to dig into the fabric of his BDUs.
"I'm right here, and we don't have much time. We never have much time, but I'm right here, now, and I want you to look at me." Her voice is quiet now, and intense, but she's speaking plainly again, without the ruff of leadership, rank, responsibility, whatever it is, thickening her voice. "I don't want your life. I don't want your last dollar. I don't want the world on some platter, even if you could offer it to me. I don't want deference, or obedience, or anything like that. I don't want the world on a fucking platter. I don't even want out of the fucking war."
When he looks, if he looks, he will see her pale face, stripped of the artiface of smirk or smile, stripped down to nothing, or everything as the case may be. He will see her eyes, dark, dark as the liner and shadow that highlight them, and her drying hair spilling to graze the sharp line of her jaw. "It's what I was fucking made for, and it's what you were fucking made for, and it's what we do. I just want you, when I can have you, and sometimes I just want you to fucking understand that, and sometimes I just want you to look at me without looking away."
(james)
he looks
so rarely do they actually use each other's names, not even pet names
it's always implied or just skipped over
so attuned to presence they never really need to use them, because attention is already thereand then there are times like this
the rare moments they're alone - completely alone, talking about things they may never have expected to
she's right that time is running out
it may be for them as a whole: he could lean over to kiss her and a great thunderwyrm could rise through the warehouse floor to consume them both
it may be for them in part: the door could open downstairs as the pack finally decides to leave the condo and take shelter here
he's never been one to waste time, because he's never banked on tomorrow being there
so the moment she says his name, the way she says it, even before her feet are pulled from his grasp and replaced with the cigarette, those deep, liquid eyes are lifting towards her face because she wants him to look at her and he does, not having to hide that adoring shine like he has to when the others are around (even if they know, it's better this way, easier), so suddenly his attention narrows and tunnels and focuses completely on her with a magnetic intensity that all but takes his breath away, lips go so far to part in some vain attempt to steal it back - but all it really does is just let that little grin, that grin, crawl over his featureshe knows why he looks away, but sometimes he begins to wonder....
the Camel is burning forgotten in his hand
smoke coiling from the burning paper almost to the filter
one arm stretching in vague attempt to hit the ashtray blind
but it doesn't work - all he lends it a quicksilver glance
and then his eyes are back on her
wicked, wicked red lips barely smeared by the bottle's mouth
the cling of sweatily inked hair to pale, pale skin
that's what he's reaching for, now, to pluck one errant strand from her jawline
his touch so controlled before, it's even softer now
calloused skin barely grazing the spa-induced perfection of hers
(even if smudged with sweat and sawdust and maybe even a little paint)
no tremble, just a light, even touch
as if he were reaching out to some priceless treasure or holy artifact suddenly bestowed by the gods"I know." his voice is even softer than his touch, so close, he only has to breath it for her to hear it, and maybe not even that "I don't mean to look away."
it's not an apology, nor excuse
his other hand isn't quite as gentle
pressing up the line of her calf and thigh in scrape against denim
both drop to her hips as he leans over a little, so easily dragging her weight across the couch and fully into his lap
close enough now that he can't look at anything but her
one arm's snaking it's way around her waist, the other's hand brushes (pausing) across healing bruise before allowing itself to rest behind her neck
impossibly, his voice drops volume another notch"Have I ever told you how much you mean to me?"
(rune)
"You have." He pulls her into his lap, and she settles there easily as the cushions of the couch sink further beneath their combined weight. She glances up, with an expression caught somewhere between the arch and some quiet, knowing satisfaction, the small pleasures of his touch, of his physical presence, which always serves to sooth her when her nerves are jangled bits of electrified wire. "You've told me."You've told me. I've told you. That's all she says in reply, and it seems to be enough for her, for as his arm settles around her waist, she's curving her own around his shoulder. Her fingers find their way beneath the cotton of his wifebeater, dance lightly over the first of the deep, ashen furrows that mark him. Her chin rises, dark gaze drifting from him to glance over his shoulder, across the room, at the door. The rest of the pack may well be off somewhere, and it's doubtful that they would find their way here as they're so comfortably ensconsced in her condo (in her closet, in her bathroom, Decker used her shaver to give himself a buzz cut again) when not out hunting, whoring, drinking, brawling, fighting the fucking Wyrm.
Doubtful, but not outside the realm of possibility, or so says the brief, lifting, cautious glance that one or the other of them must always employ, no matter where they are, no matter when.
Her mouth slides into a thoughtful curl as her attention turns back to him. She remains there, on his lap, in his arms, for a few quiet moments, as the vibe between them changes from charged to charged, and then she's leaning to kiss him, some long, slow burn of a kiss.
Then she's leaning in to kiss him, and then she's rising, some long, uncurling stretch of motion interrupted only long enough to pull him to his feet after her.
"C'mon." The word is tossed over her shoulder, back to him, as she ambles toward the doubledoors leading to the suit of offices on the south wall, still quiet, though now her eyes are hooded, some humor mingling with the darker sparks of possibility that live in her dark eyes. "We can try out those," her chin rises toward the offices, in indication. "See which one I want." She's not looking at him anymore, her gaze has dropped away, though her arm is stretched behind her and her fingers are twined with his. "See which one you want."
Another few sauntering feet, and she laughs, a low rumble of rich sound. Even if he cannot see the smirk on her face, he can hear it in her voice. "Punch a fucking hole in the wall between 'em."
Posted by james at April 28, 2003 12:00 AM
CommentsPost a comment