May 05, 2003.05.05.03. - home improvement [rune][noje]
(james)
the entire damned pack is at the condo (Rune's condo... his condo)
the singular Bone Gnawer is at the pack warehouse (their warehouse)
isn't there some sort of wickedy irony here?
it doesn't exactly escape him, sprawled on the couch as he is, arms sloppily flung across the back in some urban crucifixion straight out of the latest Better Homes and Gardens magazine (you, too, can have a Bone Gnawer display right in your living room for just $19.95, a little ingenuity, and these tips from Martha Stewart....), dreadlocks splayed every which way because his skulls leaned back on the framework and those eyes aren't even open, one boot kicked up on the coffeetable the other lost somewhere between knee and carpet in those shadows therein - because he hasn't bothered with more than one light, either, and that's off far to the side somewheremake that one seething Bone Gnawer display right in your very living room
the stereo's landed on some classic rock station, Tom Petty crooning out of the speakers in vague attempt at calm
the moon's nothing but a sliver in the sky
some cheshire cat grin snickering down in silent mockery
and it's just been eating at him, this waiting
normally he's mellow, and can wait, and chill, and just bide his time until the leash is unhooked
normally he's got the patience of a fucking saint
but not with this
it's hitting far too close to homethe weed isn't working anymore, so he's trying distance this time, cause the rest of them are just as agitated
maybe this'll get him to relax(rune)
The shipping bay doors swing up and open and the loud sound clatters throughout the empty first story of the warehouse: echoing, echoing. In the vast space, littered with only a few remnants of machinery or long-unclaimed products (a whole flat of Brazilian Wheaties featuring Pele, the only thing that hasn't been completely and thoroughly looted during the years the place stood vacant), the singular purr of the Beemer's engine sounds like the starting line at the Indy 500: a low, dull roar, though soon extinguished.Even if one doesn't drive, it's almost impossible to get upstairs without making noise. There's an obstacle course of iron beams and bales of chicken wire to navigate before one finds the steps, and a couple of dead ends, just in case. No traps, or anything (watch some visiting kinfolk wander the wrong way and spring one. That'd be lovely) but a lot of ground to cover, and a security system the Glass Walker is in the process of installing with helpful guidance from a kinfolk on the other coast via the miracle of cell phones.
The squeaky door at the bottom of the concrete staircase swings open, and her footsteps clatter on the risers. Then, another squeaky door at the top of the staircase, and the familiar feeling of pack. Maybe he can even scent her across the room: her peculiar scent of high-priced moisturizer, shampoo, leather all undercut by the dull, ashen taste of cigarettes. She walks across the open space (the bunk beds have been assembled, the lighting installed, and the sink as well. The place is pretty much ready for habitation by more than the escaping pair.) and grabs a pair of bottles from the fridge, then sinks to the floor in front of the couch, holding a bottle up for him in a casual, offhand manner.
(james)
lightning crashes - it's just the bay doors
thunder rolls - it's just the beemer
rain pours - it's just the sound of wire bales shuddering against each other
storm enters - it's just the feeling of pack suddenly penetrating that sphere of Rage that's built up around him, his own private little electrical storm setting off little sparks and lightshows
at least, to those with allegorical imaginationhe doesn't even open his eyes when she enters
(he can smell her, he can feel her, he can hear her - it all forms an image in his mind anyway)
waiting quietly in that irate sprawl on the couch even as she sinks to the floor infront of him
that boot lost on the shadows swims from the oceanic depths to the island that is the coffeetable
legs forming a loose embrace around the Walker's sleek form
right arm slithers sleepy python off the back of the couch, and his hand finds her shoulder, fingers lazily melting up her arm like some gravity defying lavalamp to find the bottle he heard her take from the fridgeit's raised in a little toast of thanks
and when it's tipped to take that first, long sip
that's the first time dark eyes actually find her
and still, not a word
he's been strangely quiet lately(rune)
Rune is stretched in a long, easy slouch. Her sleek spine is curved into a deep c-shape, and the nape of her neck rests against the edge of the cushions. Inky strands of fine black hair spread out over the cushions like raw silk threads, scintillating in the dim light. She loops one arm up and over his leg, resting her open hand on his calf, her elbow against his knee and pops open her beer, listening to the distinctive hiss of carbonation filtering over Tom Petty's singular croon.Her body moves, then, shoulders curving this way and that as she shifts to kick off her shoes and plant her bare feet flat upon the freshly laid carpet. Despite the reaching shadows encompassing the room, her dark eyes are half-lidded, almost lazy, when she tips her head and casts him a glance back, lifting her own bottle in toast.
The silence is easy and thoughtless. Thought-less, that's how she remains, as she finds some core of half-peace as bulwark against the enveloping sense of his rage.
(james)
the beer is hal..... mostly gone
and he's stretching forward to hunt down the pack of Camels that were flung onto the coffeetable at some point in time minutes/hours/days ago
there's a smooth arch and stretch in some mirroring alphabet of bodies to place the bottle on the table and free up both hands
but then something..... distracts himboots find their way onto to the ground once again
pushing his weight further towards the back of the couch cushions to pivot the axis of his fold
and, with a tip of his head to pull the weight of dreads off to the side
hands drawing some lazy pattern along her knee, thigh, and settling at hips
twisting to look at the Walker halfway upside down, with a rogue little grin wandering in reverse
he can smell the expensive lotions and shampoo and conditioner and pampering and....."..... enjoy Julio's?"
hey... he is a Gnawer
(rune)
Reversal of fortune: James is guzzling his beer, while Rune is half-way sipping her own. Of course, she started earlier than he did, so maybe he's entitled to some futile attempt to catch up. Caught mid-swig, she tips the bottle away from her (ever-)smirking mouth and casts him a brief, amused glance. "Yeah, wasn't bad."The bottle tips forward in indication, a vague gesture toward the kitchen area and the white bag, darkened here and there with smeared grease, resting on the counter. "Brought you back something. Burritos and tacos, half a fajita, if you want 'em." The smoking edge of a grin, falling away to nothing. "Met with a couple from the Atlantic City pack, and we got a sketch of the tattoo that one fomor had etched into his forehead. We thought you and Luc could keep an ear to the ground, see if you've heard of it anywhere else. I'll do a search, see what I can find on the web."
(james)
there's a sound that begins in his throat, thickening, rolling, tumbling over itself like echoing hoofbeats of some blazing stampede of angry horses .... but it's only laughter
it's the kind of laughter that's backed by the proposition of a sledgehammer about to fall
it's the kind of laugther that suddenly changes and purrs because it's ended with a soft, low, light gasp and far more than the smoking edge of a grin that wanders and spreads elated on his upsidedown and sideways face"Ohoo.... so you do love me."
gotta find the little things to quell the acidburn because everything else seems to be collapsing in on itself
(too. close. to. home.)
and because he's already up and moving towards the blessed food (fooood!), she doesn't see the nasty little grimace that works its way to where that smile was at the mention of the fomor
(he should have been there)
but she can probably feel it in the feather light ripple that washes out from him, butting up against that half-peace bulwark she's comfortably settled in
it's replaced quickly, there are some things that do easily and quickly pacify even the most pissy Gnawers
and she knows him well enough, it seems, to find the things that hit the spot
even if he's always bringing food home for the rest of them, it's the little things that she brought something for himforty-five seconds in the microwave later he's rounding the edge of the couch again
one step to hike a leg over and return to that straddling embrace
he'd settle in and act as a pillow right behind her
but that's gooey cheese from the burrito and half-fajita way too close to inky black hair
(though he wouldn't mind the excuse to drag her into the shower)"What's the tattoo look like?"
(rune)
She watches him cross the room with a faint expression, half-way between a smirk and a grin, then scoots forward as he returns to the couch, long enough for him to settle in, before falling back against the edge. "It's a fucked up swastika thing. Sort of..." Some mild shrug, then, half-dismissive. "Well, I can't really describe it, but it's in there on the napkin."Rune falls to silence, then, a silence punctuated only by the hiss of her beer and his inhalation of the fragrant Mexican food in his hands, for the CD ended at some, unnoticed point some time ago. She didn't notice the absence of music, but rather the presence of other sounds: traffic, the hum of electricity, the fridge, the sound of their breath, breathed in almost-tandem.
Five minutes later: a glance back and up. Her dark eyes have fallen to half-mast, and she watches him for a moment from behind the feathered shadows of her black lashes. Nothing's charged, yet - that'll come later - but something has certainly changed in her regard, something that curves her mouth into an expectant smirk and sparks in the shadowed circles of her irises, dilating her pupils, all hungry darkness.
"You done with that?" Her voice has fallen a minor third: another register altogether, and an intimately familiar one at that. Her arms curl beneath his trapping legs, and just like that she throws them off and rises, tall and lean and confident.
"You ready for some home improvement?" One finely arched brow rises, and the smirk widens, utterly confident. "There's still that fucking wall to deal with."
Posted by james at May 05, 2003 12:00 AM
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