May 24, 2003.05.24.03. - it's nothing [imogen][north jersey]
(imogen)
After the last week, it must be almost annoying to notice that once again it is raining. No one will comment on nice weather, now, because at the beginning of the week, all the comments made of sarcasm ('nice weather, isn't it?') wore thin and dry. It is, however, still raining. The grass and trees are quite appreciating it, however, and there might be some vague amusement, watching people race through the rain (even after a week of rain, some people still forget umbrellas. Still forget rain jackets), or the funny jackets. Or the funny umbrellas.Today, the rain is intermittant and now in late evening the rain has stopped, but there are still no stars in the skies and the clouds are still heavy. The air breathes water, and smells of worms and wet ground, soaked asphalt.
Walking down the street, she tugs lightly on the edge of her jacket, black rain slicker, with it's own acronym emblazoned, bright yellow against the black (OCME; on front and back). The only thing that is a brighter contrast of the letters against her jacket is the colour of her hair as it brushes against her colour, sliding against slippery fabric, half freed from the braid she'd carelessly wound her hair into. Her hand slides into the pocket of her jeans, careless as her attention dropping to the ground, the scrape of her feet against the pavement. Then up again. Saturday evening, most people are out to drink, out to have fun. The redheaded doctor is likely out on darker missions, tonight.
(james)
the sky is grey
the sand is grey
and the ocean (sky) is grey.... isn't that a song somewhere?
amongst all this grey, it doesn't really seem the Bone Gnawer stands out
with great reluctance the faded patchwork overcoat found its way to his shoulders once again
the BDUs aren't as stark a camoflage contrast as they may once have been
and..... no... the t-shirt beneath it all really is grey
dark brown dreads hang in shaggy jungle-vine mane framing his face
the way his head is tilted, it's sheilding the smoke clenched between his teeth from the drizzle that may just start again without warning
(you never know...)with the way the sky has washed out in the afternoon's lacadaisical rain
it just makes the buildings behind him so much blander
matching the faded colors of his coat
but that's what his Tribe does - they blend
they just fade away into the background to be forgotten or passed over
being overlooked is what they excell atwhich, with the dwindling moon in the sky, may be how he just seems to appear on the sidewalk next to the kin
there was no Rage to preceed him, even that seems dampened by the earlier rain
and the light wind carried the cigarette smoke up and away
yet, suddenly, there's this pack of Camels and zippo held within the line of her downward sight in offer(imogen)
And in this stunning monochrome, Imogen is not the type to blend. Though her jacket is black, her jeans are faded, the colour of her hair is a fire that will not die and the colour of her eyes is the colour of the sky that they would see, if not for the clouds. Dark blue. Unending.Rage is something she is used to, so the near absent perhaps startled her more than his sudden appearance from no where, the whipsnap of her attention toward him, a faint lift of her eyebrow as she glances up. Hardly an inch or two over five feet tall, Imogen looks up at everyone, and does so easily. It is the directness of her gaze that abolishes her petiteness. The power of her personality.
She says nothing, after a beat, and then glances downward to the offer of cigarette and lighter. Pause, and then reaches out to take it, tapping out a cigarette, sliding the slender cylinder between her fingers slowly. Decision, and she raises the cigarette to her mouth, speaking just as the cancer stick reaches her lips, "Ta," and the motion completes, holding the cigarette in her mouth and lighting up.
The breeze is cool and damp, sliding its moisture laden fingers through her hair, catching the stray strands that had escaped her braid, throwing curls back away from her face. As the breeze stills, she reaches up, impatiently, to push the strands back away from her eyes to tuck them behind her ears, cigarette smoke exhaling from the corner of her mouth, pluming in the air.
(james)
at the singular word of thanks, that's when dark gaze finally slides to the Kin
grin flickering across his lips that tugs the tip of the smoke upwards through the leverage around filter
when -if- she hands the pack back, he'll pocket it
but it doesn't seem like he's particularly asking for itit is a strange thing how easily these two can walk in silence
with nothing but the sounds of their steps - her almost two to his one - to accompany them
she was born to the Fianna
he was born to the Bone Gnawers
neither a particularly... non-talkative... tribe
yet here they are, rather comfortable to say nothing
until, of course, he breaks the trend"Looked like you needed it."
(imogen)
She does hand the packet back, smoothly, after a beat, after a moment. She does take two steps to his one, but she moves easily, with an economy of grace that allows for her to keep up with faster paced pedestrians. Rain magnifies all sound. Their steps ring almost hollowly off the buildings, a soft echo. A car drives past them, casting them both in headlights, violet and harsh, before it passes, the wheels audible against the pavement, the wheels audible against the rain. Windshield wipers.Her head turns vaguely to watch the path, before she looks back, and a half smirk traces her mouth. She smirks more easily than grins, a place holder, at times, some expression to form on her mouth. She gestures, fingers reaching up to the cigarette in her mouth, "S'addiction for you. I cannot understand how you voluntarily started this."
Inhale, another drag before her gesture ends, and she takes the cigarette from her mouth, ashing it with a negligent tap, attention flickering to follow the path of the fallen ashes until they're lost against the grey of the concrete beneath her feet.
"Need a drive home?"
(james)
"It wasn't the addiction I was talking about."offhand
absent
after another few silent beats
perhaps, even, another sidelong glance
but that's edged with a grin that comes far easier to his face than hers
but there's something oddly... sedate about it"I needed something to do with my hands, I guess. Snagged one from Rune and just.... never stopped."
perhaps it has become an addiction for him
perhaps it stems from exactly what night he snagged the smoke from her
something that for some strange reason, he just hangs on to
muscular shoulders shrug, adjusting the battered backpack slung over one
within it would be the coiled wraps for his fists
that, then, may explain why he's more mellow than normal"Wouldn't mind one."
(imogen)
The rain that threatens has almost begun again, droplets of rain caught in the wind, a few circular distortions in the puddles along the street, where drops disturb the surface. It's barely enough to be felt. But it begins, nonetheless.It wasn't the addiction I was talking about. A coppery eyebrow arches, smooth, "Oh?" A questioning glance toward him.
The cigarette returns to her mouth, and they've reached the car by now, and she stops now, fingers reaching out to rest on the black metal of the hood, disturbing the droplets that have formed, ovals against the black.
"No smoking in the car," she explains the pause as she takes another hit off the cigarette, inhaling it deeply into her lungs. As she pauses in her breathing pattern, her attention flickers quick and sharp across James, stance and folds of his clothing, position. Rarely, when she's felt the lack of rage, the lack of fury, has the Garou in her presence been uninjured.
(james)
there's a slight drop of his chin
he remembers the no smokage rule about the car
the Ahroun has taken the extra steps to position himself by the headlight
weight shifting in easy lean against the black hood
she's noticed, before, the way he carries himself with injured
adding to the give-away of bandages beneath his clothes
with the way the thick coat rumples about his torso
perhaps now it would be harder to see if anything's beneath the shirt
but the easy sling of flesh and muscle against steel seems.... well.... just relaxed
and if he's hiding any wounds beneath the fabric - it's just something she'd have to ask at this point
he doesn't offer the information
basic pattern between them to ask what it is one wants to know
which may be what leads up to the next collection of words framed in grey smoke
aimed towards the sky that threatens to open upon them once again
dark eyes watching the clouds as if to spot that first torrential drop with Eagle('s) eyes"You've just seemed...... more tense, lately. Like something's on your mind."
gaze tears away and swoops down (like a bird of prey) towards the Kin
shoulders rolling in another long shrug
there was a question, in his statement
but he won't force her to answer it
(but he wouldn't have asked if he didn't notice enough to be concerned)(imogen)
It's movement she watches, more than anything. She is an expert on the rip and tear of human flesh, but with a Garou, more likely it would be seen in the hitch of movements, the imperfection of the fluctuation of muscles. When she finds none she looks away and toward the street, watching the street, and the pattern of the beginning falling rain, leaning half against the hood of the car, hand sliding into her pocket, half searching for the shape of her keys.No smoking in her car, no smoking in her condominium. The rules are similar for her as for Rune, though Rune broke them at times of stress. At times of the full moon. Imogen having less visitors, the easier freedom of being able to simply step out of the condo, to smoke, has it easier that way.
His statement results in a turn of her attention back to him, the direct gaze of his eyes met by the direct gaze of her own. And she answers the question within, or at least provides some appropriate response, regardless of truth.
"Tired," she answers simply, taking the cigarette from her mouth and dropping it, the cancer stick falling end over end until it hits the ground, the ember scattering, the butt ground out beneath the heel of her boot.
Her hand leaves her jean pocket, the key ring caught on her index finger, the keys jangling softly together as her other hand reaches up, combing through some of the loosed burnished strands of hair, tucking them behind her ear once more.
(james)
".... of?"dreads tickle over his shoulders as head tilts
okay, maybe he will push it a little further
she did answer him, in a way, so it's open game
and while his gaze has rotated to continue it's focused study of the kin
he hasn't moved from the throne of the hood of her car"Seems more agitated to me."
passive aggression seems to be the method for the moment
earlier, he was hitting the bag so hard the seams gave in and split
now, he's simply sitting there, watching her
knowing she won't drive off with him as a hood ornamentcourse, she can also tell him to get the fuck off her car and he will
(imogen)
She stares in dead silence, for a beat. Three. Four. She has a dark look to go with her dark eyes, and for all her inexpression and lack of emotion, it's her eyes that would betray her, if anything would. They do not betray her now, but there is a crackle to the look, a burn to colour of her eyes, mostly lost in the darkness. It's the weight that can be felt. It is not something that would have startled him as much as it had the first time. He's seen it since, though often directed at others."You know," she says finally, "I've been psycho-analyzed once this year, already. And he had a degree. I don't particularly care to repeat the experience." There's something to be said about Englishmen (and women) and distance. Cold responses. The crisp framework her accent gives her voice a particular edge that would not be as potent, had it been any other accent. Any other origin.
(james)
yes, he's seen that look several times before
he's even felt it, when directed at others
and while it doesn't startle him as it did the first time
it still garners something of a response
(things are so goddamned raw when you're flesh has been peeled away)"You're my friend. I was concerned." so. very. fucking. softly. "I'm sorry."
his voice is nothing near as sharp as hers
it's quiet the opposite - low and smooth
(he really is sorry, but not because of the reaction one thinks)
he got the hint, and he'll shut up about it
the car shifts on it's leafsprings a little as his weight lifts from the hood
his own smoke flicked to sizzle in the gutter unfinished
quietly walking around her to stand at the passenger door
partially wondering if she'll even unlock it
(and it wouldn't suprise or offend him if she didn't)(imogen)
She watches him, silently as he gets up from the hood of the car and walks to the passenger door. A moment passes, and then she stands up, with decision, walking toward the driver's side. The driver's door clicks as she thumbs the button on the key chain, and then the other doors unlock as well, as she thumbs it again. Permitting him entrance to the Benz.In silence, she opens her own door, and gets inside. The key slides into the ignition, and the engine starts, the well kept purr of an expensive engine. The sound of the radio turning on eclipses the contented rumble, even at it's low, barely heard volume. It's commercials, and she reaches out, changing the station until she finds another with music playing. Generica music, it's Avril Lavigne (I'm standing in the rain...), but it's sound, and perhaps she doesn't care. She buckles up only when he's gotten in, flicking on the mercedes' signal, head turning to check her blind spot, before she pulls out into the nearly deserted street.
(james)
she watches him
he doesn't look at her anymore
watching instead the curl of strong fingers around the door's handle
the way backpack is carefully settled so not to drip too much on the floormats
the sure and decisive snikt! of the belt buckle safely protecting him within fine German engineering
the slow pull of the sidewalk across the diagonal of his window
then the steady parade of sights on the side of the roadhe's not sure if this is an uneasy silence
he sure as hell isn't searching for something to say
but it's not exactly something they both just settled comfortably into
it just sorta.... happened
it's just sorta filled with the words of a pop-punk princess he wouldn't recognize if he fell over
the hiss of grippy tires on the slick asphalt
the content purr of the engine rumbling across the milesif he had anymore questions, concerns, or curiosites
the Bone Gnawer is definitely not voicing them(imogen)
Silence but for the music, generica music, some pop princess he's never heard, and someone she's heard because she listens to all sorts of music at all sorts of times. She has music in her condo, music in her car, all of it low enough to catch only impressions. It's a sort of mindset.Down the rain slicked streets to the rain slicked highway, connecting cities and states, with it's drivers coming home on a late night, mostly from a night on the town. Some are, for sure, going to work, or like her, coming home. She's a fast driver, though the weather has resulted in her showing some restraint as she changes lanes, holding back behind some driver in a chevy who is talking on a cell phone and unable to remain in their lane.
It's half way home before she speaks, barely a mutter, "Sorry." Annoyance, herself, him, the road, the damned driver she's caught behind, the one she would have expect to see crash into one of the sidings.
(james)
he's driven with her before
and is used to the assertive aggression the kin holds behind the wheel
he's driven with Rune and Decker - he can survive just about anything, really
and even give the slickened conditions on the streets, he's relaxed back into the seat
lumbar spine curving against the expensive upholstry
feet planted wide and easy on the floor
simply because he knows she'd rather examin the victims than be one"Why?" finally - he looks at her, and the response is just as quiet as his earlier apology, rather than the snapped retribution for the look she gave him, it's an honest question, he's actually curious as to why she'd feel the need to say it "It's not my business."
shrugged away, it doesn't matter, really
he's learning more and more that he shouldn't be too concerned about the Fenrir
(or their mates)
and even though he has accepted them all as pack
he needs to remember they're not Family"I shouldn't have pushed."
poor Gnawers, always taking the blame
(always putting it on themselves)(imogen)
One would think that after the intense knowledge she has of death, she would show more restraint in some things. Smoking. Drinking. Driving. that she knows intimately how smoking can blacken lungs, how drinking can change the liver. How a car crash can turn someone's insides to liquid.But, then again everything is relative, and the damage a car can do is nothing compared to what a Garou has done.
"Yes, well, I shouldn't 'ave--" and she cuts off, there, an impatient movement of her hand, an exhalation of her breath that is nearly laughter, but only without any of the humour associated with that sound, "It has nothin' to do with business. Or pushing."
Now it's his turn to look at her as she looks away, eyes on the road, though she does make a gesture, some quick short movement of her hand, meaningless. Even as she doesn't answer his question.
(james)
no kidding it didn't answer his question
and the Garou looks a bit baffled as she suddenly stops
though, well, a part of him expected it
and his gaze holds her profile a moment longer"Then what did it have to do with?"
unlike those she's used to (not) talking to
the quick movement of her hand either doesn't explain enough
or simply isn't enough to satisfy once she's started
here he goes pushing again
perhaps taking advantage of the road keeping her attention off of gracing him with another look(imogen)
Brief pause. The rain has picked up, and her hand reaches down, absently to click the wind shield wipers, turning up the speed. The faint wish of wipers against the windshield. The whisper of the wheels against the concrete. The sound of rain. They fill the silence until she speaks again, "Common decency."(james)
"Fair enough."seems he appreciates that
at least, one part of it
it also seems there is more"What was it that overstepped the bounds."
if that isn't an open ended question....
(imogen)
She finally tires of the swerving chevy in front of them, and changes lanes. And changes again, providing them with a wide berth between the cell phone-addict and themselves as she speeds up, passing the american made car.She breathes in, as one would before speech, but in the end, the breath is exhaled, unused. Pop queen has been replaced by System of a Down (...my self righteous suicide...), playing low, the sounds barely disturbing the air.
It's a very long time before she answers, to the point he may have thought she'd forgotten the question, or chosen not to answer at all. It's not uncommon, and the best way to avoid communication is to not speak. The silence does break, finally, "It's nothing." Which doesn't answer the question. She does not speak often, not with the skill of her (former) tribe, but she can twist words with the best of them. "Thank you for your concern, but it's nothing."
(james)
"You wouldn't have given me that look if it was nothing, Imogen."shot back just as smoothly as she guided them around the Chevy
shot back just as smoothly as a dark brow lifts towards heavy dreads
but there's no righteousness in his words
it's simply a statementshe may have taken a long time to answer the question
to the point he thought she had forgotten (was intentionally ignoring) it
but his retort doesn't even miss a beat
completely finished even before she completes the turn into the condo's parking lot
though just like before - he takes the hint
dark gaze drains away, and looks out towards the buildings
the Ahroun firmly keeping his molars pressed together
simply reaching to gather the backpack off the floorboards(imogen)
She curses under her breath, near silently, on the heels of his retort, but in the end says nothing more to him directly. She had, perhaps, sensed that he was taking the hint, and had absolutely no desire whatsoever to risk reopening it. The car slides into it's parking spot, beside an empty one where Rohl will eventually park his Tacoma when he decides to come back. The engine cuts off, and James reaches down to gather the backpack off the floor, and Imogen unbuckles her seatbelt, starting to get out of the car.(james)
the engine cuts
the seatbelts release their charges
the backpack makes it from floor to lap
all in dead (ha!) silence
he's even lifted the handle of the door so it doesn't have to close quiet as hardthe rain's coming down steady now
in that sort of way that even when you first step out of the car
you're already feeling drenched to the bone
it doesn't seem to bother him one bit
there's a partial glance up at the sky
as if asking the clouds themselves just what was in store
and whatever answer he got seems enough
because soon enough he's looking over the roof of the Benz at Imogen"Thanks for the ride."
still so very softly
she had absolutely no desire whatsoever to reopen the topic of conversation
she had made it clear that his concern was noted
.... and really had no place
so was set to the sidebut that's what his tribe does, isn't it?
fade into the background
blend away to be forgottenthere's a rock in the level of his shoulders
right one dipping to lead the left away
home now. might as well head in out of the rain(imogen)
She glances across the roof of the car and inclines her head slightly in an abstract nod, vague and slight before she speaks, some response, though indirect. "Thanks f'r the cigarette."Rain has begun to dampen her hair, soaking it to her skull and to her cheekbones, tendrils clinging to her neck. The door is shut, and as he walks away, the doors of the car click, and several beats pass, before Imogen too begins to cross the parking lot toward the the walkway and the condominium buildings, her hands sliding into the pockets of her jacket. For all the rain, like him, she does not appear to care all that much. The hood of her jacket remains down and the rain drips down her face, from her hair, from the sky as she crosses toward home.
Posted by james at May 24, 2003 12:00 AM
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