June 27, 2003.06.27.03. - home again [decker-imogen-uaghaihg][12th street diner]
(imogen)
Such things like this, twenty four hours, are rather convenient for quite a few people. Those people who do not fit the mould of eight to five, monday to friday for which most places are designed. So these places that serve coffee or food twenty four hours a day can be havens for some. Truck drivers on a stop over, night crew workers coming in before work.It's not quite so late, only edging toward eight pm when she stops in, so she likely chose this place out of habit. Everything she uses is twenty four hours. If she had to wait for the convenience of more conventional places she'd never eat, buy groceries or do anything else.
She tugs the medical examiner's shield from her belt, shoving it into her pocket as the door swings close behind her as she walks toward the counter. She may very well have gotten used to the startled glance over the dark bruising across her face, enough so to time her cold look to halt any questions while she makes an order.
(james)
there's a lanky body safely tucked away into the corner of the diner
almost out of sight and edging towards out of mind of the other evening patrons
both Cochran's are pulled up onto the vinyl slab bench
one knee propped up to support an outflung arm
the other still remaining in it's place below the tabletop
that in itself supports the other elbow, connected to a hand rolling toothpick between his teeth
dreads - filthy, even more tangled that usual - act as some sort of pillow against the wall
the boy is in fair need of a shower
he's tiredbut more importantly
he's hungryhe ate at the Port Authority terminal before hopping the 'Hound
there's an empty plate sitting next to the half-full coke (no ice) on the table
more than likely, before he leaves, something else will sacrifice itself to the endless hunger of the Gnawerdark eyes slit open, gazing through the fringed curtain of darker lashes
that lilted accent tends to stand out amongst the nasal Jersey twang
it draws his attention towards the sunset halo of fire red
the almost profile her attendance at the counter affords
but he doesn't get up, doesn't move, doesn't even call outnot like they don't live next door to each other if he misses her here
(decker)
"James."The Modi claps his packmate on the shoulder before sliding into the booth across from him, burger-and-fry-laden plate clonking down a beat before he drops as well. These feet have been beating the pavement lately because lo and behold, when you drive over twenty miles of deer trails through gullies and streams, something or other tends to break.
Car's in the shop.
He's in here.And, after a moment, follows James' glance over to the roan and red near the counter. A shade falls over his eyes. He turns back.
"Good trip?" He lifts the burger and starts in on it.
(imogen)
A flick of her attention over her shoulder, the feeling she'd had at the back of her neck (it's easy to ignore, until its justified; like a toothache you never knew was there until its pointed out) solidified before she looks back at the cashier at the register, "'Ow much?" she asks finally, reaching into her jacket for her wallet, her free hand sliding through the flames of her red hair.(james)
his chin draws up in a decisive nod
there's even something of a fond grin when his packmate slides into the booth
it's enough to tear his gaze away from the redhead kin
he catches that shading sheild
though doesn't say anything of ithe caught the distressed signal even if he couldn't respond
he knows his concern is appreciated and not warranted"Yeh."
(decker)
Nod up. New moon. Subdued. Somewhat.
"Stayin' long?"(imogen)
Money handed back and she waits as he fumbles. He's new, he apologizes, though absently, as if this was an excuse to use for his inaccuracies. A brief crook of her mouth, unmeant and meaningless acknowledges and would stand for some motion of sympathy or understanding in most people as she waits for him to finally get her change.It'll just be a moment. At eight o'clock, really, the cooks aren't as fast. This isn't a rush, it's not as important. She nods slightly, her attention flicking behind the worker to the no smoking sign, and is left with little else to do, but wait.
(james)
the new moon in the sky helps
even if it's covered by the endless clouds of storm
which may somewhat be reflected in his packmate's eyes
but the Gnawer is just as mellow as can be
(fuckin. tired)"Been upstate enough past few weeks." it shows even in the renewed clip to his words, the refurbished accent that unerringly emerges yet again "Not planning on going back for a long time."
(uaghaihg)
Door opens. Bells ring. Enter Uaghaigh, dressed as befits his station in life in scruffy jeans and a scruffier shirt. Tan trench thrown over. Not leather. Tan. Usual accessories remain: the glint where light touches on a torc around his neck, a chord from which hangs a fang, a crucifix. One eye is puffy, blackened and half-closed. His fiery red hair is still tousled -- and he's wet. Sodden. Absolutely damp.The guy's alone, and he's a presence on any day. Working-class-tough with a dash of magnetism.
Yeah. And something more primal.
(...Poor diner.)(decker)
"Levelin' up, right?" Oh, Decker. Too many video games. A glance for the newcomer; hold a minute. Hm. Maybe...? Nah, fuckit. Let James deal with it. "Git it yet?"(imogen)
Feel pity for the diner. Feel pity for the dining room staff. The amount of rage in this room is enough to make Imogen's skin crawl and she can only imagine how someone unaccustomed, or at least unwitting of such things could feel. No fucking wonder the cashier fumbled with her money, and it's about to get a sight worse now.The worker at the register can barely stay where he is to look at Uaghaigh to take his order. The customary meet'n'greet? yeah, forgotten. Just hope he remembers how to order the food.
She turns her head to glance in the direction of the gaze, a frown flickering across her features at the sight of the hulking Irishman. A scrape of a glance that takes in the dishevelled appearance of the latest occupant of the diner, her eyes flickering beyond to the pair in the corner.
The patrons are leaving faster now. Places to be, people to see, you know.
Someone might notice some irony in that Uaghaihg's eyes swollen shut, the wrong end of a fight, where Imogen may be bruised, too. The flare of a dark mottle across her cheekbones, greening where it's begun to heal and darker black and blue toward the centre of it, made more obvious because of the half healed gash that still aches red.
"how much longer?" she inquires suddenly of the cashier who hasn't quite gotten to the point of asking the newcomer for his order. He doesn't know...he's got... he's got to... And finally some memory kicks in and he asks of the Ahroun exactly how can he help him?
(james)
once more, his skull speaks the words that the full moon Gnawer does not
it drops and lifts into a semblance of a syntaxically structured nod"Yeh."
sufficing as an answer to both
once his packmate's attention had wandered
safe to say James' dark eyes were soon alighting on the battered Irishman
(love in an elevator...)
and they hold for a few moments longer than the Modi's
the diner's clearing, slowly but surely
the Gnawer's straightening in the booth - very slowly, very surely
but it's all in the name of comfortably chatting with his packmate
right?(oogie)
Uaghaihg drags his fingers through wet-wild hair -- and let's just say he's the portrait of disrepute. "Yih, y'can fookin' 'elp me -- I'd like sommat th' french onion soup, if y'please." Beat. He's looking at the menu on the wall, but beer is not served here, because this is an American diner -- and American diners suck. He sighs, quietly. "...n' a pint o' sprite. Wait." Spotting something more to his liking. "Cider."Then he hunkers down to wait, already taking out his wallet -- half-glance slidingslipping sideways to.
"Brit." Terse nod.
(decker)
Decker smirks. Tosses his burger down and reaches for his coke. "Shit. All grown up." Somehow it doesn't come off as condescending. He's weary, if anything, and James is bone-tired. "Hell you wanna do now? Be an astronaut?"And at the slow but steady change in his packmate's posture, the Modi casts a glance over his shoulder. Misinterprets James' motion. Exhales through his nose, a brief compression of nostrils.
Y' see her face?
(imogen)
There's a brief snort as he orders a 'pint' of sprite, finding some latent amusement in his words. It was nothing compared to the absolutely blank look the cashier gave the Fianna until it he switched to cider, and the look cleared because at least he had direction now.Everything is rung up, and written up and paid for, and the cashier places the order on the counter between the front and the kitchen. And... promptly finds something for him to do in the back, and walks away.
She is, at the very least ironic toward his terse greeting. "Noticed, did you?" that she was british, an exhale of her breath as her attention flickers impatiently toward the kitchen as her hands slide into her jean pockets, one hand shifting to avoid the shape of the pager at her waist.
(oogie)
"Brit's squeak louder, comes o' havin' a stick jammed 'tween their buttocks," he replies, quiet flare of the usual heat when accompanying discussion of the hated oppressors. Gathering his food, he eyes (...and it looks sinister, considering the state of his rough/fine features) her bruises. Jerk of head, towards -- James."Yer vikin' lover d' that t'ye?"
(james)
to that, the Ahroun actually quirks a grin
another may find the comment from one nearly three years his junior condescending
but James is about as offended by is as likely as he is to go bragging about what he did"Thought about it. Considered a night at the Ritz, too."
the idea dismissed with a wave of his hand over the glass of Coke
it's the long sip of that which covers the partial frown
facing the Modi, yes, but his attention hasn't completely diverted
No. he hadn't looked, she's been facing mostly away. But I heard you.(decker)
"Fuck." Edge of mouth twitches as he picks his burger up again to polish it off. "'M down fer that."...and smirk fades. He tosses a glance at James - penetrating, harsh - like he was probing for insincerity or mockery. A moment passes. Then he shrugs his shoulders and leans back, head against the padded booth-top. He doesn't seem to have anything to say about it. A fat blob of ketchup lands on his white jersey. He wipes it up with a curse, wads the napkin into his fist. Open fingers: he tosses it out on the tabletop and finishes his burger.
Yeah. Well. Another shrug.
Pushes the plate of fries forward, porcelain grating over formica. Aloud, "Help yerself."
(imogen)
Ironically, he's served first. It's one of those things that happens from time to time. It's not some sort of odd courtesy thing. They want him to leave sooner. The slender woman doesn't appear to be that much of a threat in comparison. She hardly comes off as a threat at the best of times.Her eyebrow lifts in a slow arch, staring at him briefly (brazen) before her attention flickers toward the finality of getting the sandwich and coffee she'd asked for. "Take that attitude to Northern Ireland, go help the revolution or somethin'. You're wastin' it 'ere."
Her gaze darkens and narrows at the question, her free hand sliding through her hair once more, pushing it back away from her face, as she glances toward James and then back to the Irishman, "Does he look viking to you?" Certainly with dreads in worse disarray than usual and looking tired as hell, James probably doesn't look the part for which Uaghaihg has pegged him.
(james)
no insincerity, no mockery, no judgement
nothing but the open honesty he's always offered
he meant nothing more than what he saidWhat'd you expect me to say about it?
the Modi doesn't have to offer the fries twice
(decker)
That it's all right.
That it ain't all right.
That he's a fuckin monster.
That he's just (say it with him now) misunderstood.Fuck if I know. Nursing his coke like Erik nursed his Jack Daniels, the Modi slouched in the booth watches his packmate devour his fries out of the bottom of his eyes. The coke level bottoms out and he slurps up the last of it loudly before setting the empty glass down with a clank. Free refills, supposedly, but damned if he's ever gotten one.
There a reason you keep glancin' over my shoulder?
(oogie)
Snort. Uaghaihg takes a sip of his cider (let's it burn...) dark gaze drifts to the windows, and the rain. (In the rain, in the rain, in the rain...) "Home o' th'free, there's plenty o' intolerance t'go 'round." He eyes James sommore -- tilts his head (bone pops, cracks) to get a look at the other guy. "Y'never know with vikings," is his sole concession to just-maybe James doesn't look that viking. "But 'twas your viking that 'it yeh, no?" Snort, again. The snort says it all: what a big f'ing surprise, a Get went beatin' on his woman. Worse then racism -- tribism. "'Ave a lovely day, ma'am." Polite, another nod of his head. Boots carrying him to a booth.(james)
there's a bit of soft - wry - laughter
somewhere interspersed between the sheer inhalation of the fries
the Modi gave them up, fair fuckin' game
(does.... he even chew?)
it's like the fries hit his tongue, liquify instantly, and are simply swallowed
oddly, he doesn't look like a half-starved pig doing it, eitherYou ever hear Jenna's story? muscular shoulders, scarred deep, roll in a shrug Doesn't give me much room to say anything
strange, how they had it out over Decker giving a child nightmares
but James doesn't say a thing about this one
least the Modi's mate is still breathing
Garou with her..... not a favorite.(imogen)
She snorts and doesn't bother answering him, flickering her narrowed glance to his back before walking to a table (a random one) and pouring sugar into her coffee to drown out the taste. It's not a particularly good diner, this one. Maybe it's the later hour or the miasma of rage, but the coffee tastes particularly harsh, like it was cut with vitriole.(oogie)
He bears the weight of dislike rather well, in that he doesn't seem conscious of it. So what if he's rude? She's just a traitor. Uaghaihg stomps over to his seat, shaking last lingering vestiges of rain from his coat -- then he starts in on the soup.Yeah. He can eat without making a pig of himself. He can.
(decker)
Shake of his head. Decker had a way of moving about him. Loosejointed. Lazyish. And conserved, somehow. From the walk to the shrug to the smirk to the shake of his head: like there was a plasma space between his bones, crackling with energy compressed to liquid, waiting for that pressure seal to pop.He reaches forward and snags a fry. Snags his packmate's eyes with a glance that might mean something, and might mean nothing at all. Don't think I wanna know. He's probably right about that.
Grey eyes flicker up, then. He glances at the dim reflection in the window, superimposed with the OPEN ALL NIGHT sign. He studies Uaghaihg's image for a second. Then he rises to his feet, tugging the tousled wifebeater back into shape: up in the back, down in the front. It's ribbed, thin cotton - probably an undershirt and strictly not ok for service in here, but who's gonna bitch about that?
Imogen kin take care o' herself. He grabs a few more fries. But why don'tcha see what he's doin' here anyway.
(james)
there's the slow scrape of the final fry through the slag of ketchup
(can't. waste. one. bit.)
easily holding that glance
I don't think you do either.
James had his reasons
he did what he needed to
he did what was right
but that still doesn't mean it doesn't kill him everytime he thinks about it
and maybe the story of her (his pack's) fall sums up into an impression that slips through the cracks and against his packmate's mind before it's all shoved away againchin jerks in a nod
(aye aye, cap'n)
soon enough he's untangling himself from the booth
even if he knows he wont' be following his packmate out the door(imogen)
It must be odd how nine times out of ten Imogen and Decker both can go entire periods of time with only a glance. It's not a forced thing, but somehow chosen or decided. Even so, the first time she actually glances at him is as the door shuts behind him, and he went without looking at her at all.James's movement catches her attention more securely, the belated departure of the Bone Gnawer who doesn't head for the door, but instead the Fianna (does she still think, before she catches herself, of him as her tribesmate?)
(oogie)
One fiery brow hikes up when the--whateverthehellheis--makes his way towrads Uaghaigh instead of Imogen, but he doesn't say a word. Jerk of chin, that's all. The Fianna isn't all charm, at least not right now -- and what charisma there is (..as always..) is a force-field.(james)
three full moons caught in a diner
luckily, one makes the swaggering, plasmatic exit
so that leaves two in a suddenly quite confined space
but rather than react to that forcefield of .....charm that's always seeming to surround the Fianna
the Gnawer simply offers an easy smile
framed delightfully in that filthy tangle of dreads draped across low set shoulders
bless that black moon overhead"Gotta minute?"
with just sitting down to his meal
any excuse for going anywhere soon won't exactly fly(oogie)
"...Surely." If he ain't cordial, he ain't Uaghaihg. The question remains: where the fuck is the REAL Uaghaigh? The beat-up twenty-somethin' nods to seat opposite.
(imogen)
And with the taste of her coffee effectively killed by the sugar and the door closed for a few moments behind the third Ahroun, the no smoking signs placed in very obvious places throughout the coffee shop, she picks up the sandwich, still wrapped in its paper to go foil, and her coffee and heads toward the door to clean rain soaked air and the ability to smoke without breaking various by-laws.
(james)
"You've got me curious" slipsliding past that grin, punctuated with a nod of thanks at the offer - the Bone Gnawer is wary, he remembers that wash of Rage last time they met, but it doesn't show even a smidge past that mellow demeanor "I keep seeing you around my digs.... yet you never call, never write, never ask how the kids are doing."no exactly the 'you're tresspassing' throwdown
but it could be taken that way"Makes me wonder why you hang around...."
(oogie)
Uaghaigh rips (savage, baby) open a pack of saltine crackers and starts crumbling them bit by bit into the remainder of his soup. He's definately not mellow, and through his good eye he eyes James; he smirks, faintly, easily amused. "Y'know," glance flickers after the british bitch, as she exits, then return to James, "I like t'play 'ard t'get."(imogen)
Outside and beneath the overhang, she lights a cigarette, her eyes narrowing against the fall of the rain watching a car cut through the downpour as she inhales deeply on the filter, shifting the cigarette slightly to one corner of her mouth. She steps slightly to the side away from the door, and smoke spills past her lips as her hand slides through her hair.(james)
and now would be the highlight of just why the Gnawer tends to be the PR guy for the pack
a response like that to the just-present Modi would.... well.... RAR
dark eyes strafe after the exiting Kin, sorta, then focus right back on the Fianna proper"I've noticed." still - he just.... smiles. "Remember you from AC. Though since you're in the middle of my stomping grounds maybe you should consider being a little more forthcoming."
he'll hint nicely
once(oogie)
...which is a pity. Uaghaigh likes ...well... RAR. "I remember you too," he acknowledges. "J'st where are yer stompin' grounds, mate? AC or 'ere?" S'friendly enough. "'Cause I don't exactly remember gettin' a name from ye."(imogen)
The coffee cup is balanced on the ledge of the window, and after a moment, the sandwich is balanced on top of it, abandoned in favour of nicotine.She breathes cigarette smoke like air and perhaps prefers this punch to her lung to the more tranquil inhale exhale of true night air, tasting of rain and city, car exhaust fumes and something cleaner, found beneath, if you just looked. If you actually wanted to search for the purity beneath.
Her freed hand brushes slightly against her temples, the motion of an impending headache, or perhaps an existing one. The side she touches is unbruised, and after a moment, her hand falls away.
Rather than taking a dash through the rain slicked night to her car while trying to finish her cigarette she opts for a slightly drier occupation beneath the overhang.
(james)
fingers tap on the formica tabletop
then hands spread evenly"Hit Trenton, walk a line East, and look North til you hit stateline. You're right in the middle of Eagle's ground." a little more clear now, since the last patron lingering in the section has suddenly decided it's time to get to the movies - and it's a fact that states clearly who's expected to give an introduction first "And you didn't hang around long enough last time to get friendly. But since we're sittin' awhile, why not tell me a little bit about yourself, mate."
that would be a request of name, rank, and serial number if there's ever been one
(ugh)
"So ye'd be with th' bird, then?" Uaghaihg says, though the question seems, for the most part, rhetorical. He leans back, fingers cupping the hot paper-cup cider's been poured into, leaving his soup behind."Last time, figured y'd want t'be with yer girl." Who he doesn't like. Uaghaihg wears his emotions on his sleeve -- there's his heart, right there, red and passionate and fiercely devoted to his own cause. Lips twitch goodnaturedly--almost tugging into an amused grin, but not quite there yet, the solemn weight of past broods weighing him down.
"I am Uaghaihg son o' Aghbh son o' Aillil son o' Bodduewen (distant kin t' the Dryn a drowd yn flaidd, ye ken), daughter o' Caoiseach on me father's side n' son o' Uiseach great grand daughter o' Tchearlach who traces 'is 'eritage all th' way ta Cuchulain 'imself. Ahroun of th' mighty tribe o' th' Fianna, fra th' Isle o' Innisfree by th' county o' Siobhaibhon which, as ye should ken, 'twas once fair Connaicht ruled by th' wolf-king Hiaoumhnoubn Mac Cumhail, and member o' the Grandchildren o' Fionn."
Beat. "N' me pack, t'wanders. We're in this smog-for-cursed state huntin' down th' en'a personal matter. N' you?"
[Twinkle of eyes.
...likable.](james)
there's a slow, thoughtful nod
it's absolutely true that he wanted to be with his girl that night
which Uaghaihg doesn't even know
though probably wouldn't like
if the Fianna feels this openly about Imogen.....
course James is also wondering just how he's going to repeat this to his packmates"James Branson, otherwise known as Jukebox, Drums-on-Skulls, BeeGee Fostern son of Griselle, outta Albany, daughter of Shakes-the-Bricks, daughter of Momma Ruggs, full moon of Eagle's own in Jersey."
not quite as.... lengthy (or unpronouncable) as the Fianna's
the low words pass just between them, below the range of prying ears
fair enough, they're introduced all politely"Boss is wanting to know what's your business here, specifically, not to mention." thumb hooks towards the window and Imogen just outside "why it makes you keep appearing around the kin."
(imogen)
She's smoking her second cigarette now, as the rain begins to pour harder, the beginning rumblings of the promised thunderstorm crackling across the sky.A flicker of her attention toward the shop, catching the gesture of the Gnawer out of the corner of her eye, the bruise and distortion over her cheekbone caught briefly in profile, before she turns away. If there'd been doubt that she'd been a part of the subject of conversation before, there was none, now. Smoke exhales through her nose as she ashes the cigarette, attention dropping down to her feet, watching the white of ash disappearing against the sea of grey of the concrete beneath her feet.
(oogie)
"Nice t'meet'cha official-like, James Branson," Uaghaigh says with a grin as easy as his brogue. His glance flickers back out the window. Imogen just outside. He shrugs with athletic ease. "I'm 'ungry, n' wanted t'get out o' th' rain, n' this place was open. Didnae know tha' woman'd be 'ere. Besides," a sudden frown, "I don't mess with Fenrir kin."(james)
another slow nod seems to say fair 'nuff
now James may be fairly naieve in some of the finer and deeper aspects of life
he is still a young man, after all
barely on his journey into his twenties
and Gaia knows if he'll ever see thirty
he doesn't even worry about it
instead, he's focusing on Mr. Fianna here"Good." accompanied with a wide. smile. "Doubt Fenrir kin, or their counterparts, like to be messed with. You know how touchy they can be."
(oogie)
Uaghaigh shrugs, again, at this. "Looks like some one touched 'er, alright."
(james)
"Oh?" slipslide of glance towards the window "Hadn't seen. Been gone awhile and only heard about it. Her boy isn't pleased."fingers drum on the table
figure the multiple meanings in that one out
though the Gnawer does little more than smile"Enjoy the rest of your meal, mate" he's not attempting that name "You know where to howl next time ya come through, and make sure you do."
with that, the lanky Gnawer moves again
this time reaching over the back of the benchseat to grab his pack
and move on out towards the door(oogie)
He chuckles, Uaghaihg does. "Yeh, well... seems opinionated. Most red'eads are."...and, with that, Uaghaigh will finish his cider, and torment the kitchen-staff for a raw slab of meat for his eye.
They'll be gone before he leaves.
(imogen)
The door opens and he steps out as she exhales smoke, dropping the cigarette, to the asphalt, grinding it beneath her booted foot, "D'yeh need a drive?" she inquires as her fingers flick through her hair, her other hand reaching for her coffee, balancing the sandwich until her hand frees up from the strands of hair, and she lifts the sandwich free and sips the bitter coffee, made only marginally sweeter by the sugar. And made somewhat worse by the time it had had to settle.The shadows smooth out the bruises and keep them from easy view. It's dark enough now it would be harder to see them as anything but a shadow across her cheekbone and the outline formed by swelling.
"I can drop yer off before going back t'work."
(james)
there's another sidelong glance
this time deep umber finds and studies the kin
the Fianna inside is stored away to memory
and little other attention paid
so the lanky Gnawer pausesthen reaches out
lifting a heavy gathering of firey hair away from her cheek
revealing the healing bruise beneath
those eyes linger on the damage
barely a second
and he lets go"'Preciate that."
one bone weary Bone Gnawer, comin' right up
(imogen)
Imogen does not like to be touched. Particularly not when she does not expect it, and particularly not when her skin is bruised still dark enough that a touch hurts and the swelling hasn't quite gone down. She'll be touched on her own terms (and there are almost no terms), or not at all.Her own terms: as she catches his wrist, deviating the motion and letting go. It's impossible not to catch the intention behind the action, and after a moment, she pushes back to the thick titian hair herself, a brief smirk, brittle edged that does not particularly extinguish the tightened clench of her jaw. Her own terms, this.
Silence, until he speaks, and she lets the hair fall. Imogen's hair is often held back by anything that might be appropriate, from pencils to rubber bands to the appropriate covered elastic bands. Loose, it falls over her shoulders and is easily falling into her face, a chaos that will not be tamed at the best of times and worse in the rain and freed as it is.
"Com'on, then," as she steps away from the overhang and into the rain, which has actually slowed some, in spite of the thunder that mutters overhead. "I'm not parked too far away."
(james)
she catches his wrist
and the movement stops
his hand opening in a way that signifies backing off
just as easily drawing away
he wouldn't have grazed the skin
he may be Garou - but bruises are bruises, and bruises hurt
he's harboring a few of his own beneath the clothing
there's a bit of a nod as she shows him
(... her terms, he can dig that ...)she and her mate aren't the only ones that can exist with the minimal amount of communication
hands slide into his pockets, pack readjusts over his shoulder
and he's following the kin out into the drawing rain(imogen)
She'd said it wasn't far and it wasn't really, down the same city block to where the fine german machinery was parked. If she was out to work, apparently this was not a bad enough area of town to warrant a switch to the behemouth that is considered a state vehicle. Or she was out for other reasons, as she unlocks the doors from a button on the keychain, the alarm chirping as it disarms and steps around to the driver's side, a glance over her shoulder before she pulls the driver's side open, and getting inside.As he gets in himself, she's putting the key in the ignition, as the car interior light begins to dim as his door shuts.
The radio always seems to be on for her, a dim mutter of sound as one of the many overplayed songs (...bid my blood to rise, sings Evanescence, a song played over and over again until many want to scream), and the fading interior light grants a glance of smoother skin because its her left side that's bruised.
The car started, the Gnawer inside and she half turns to toss the wrapped sandwich in the back, as her other hand puts the coffee in the cupholder, before throwing the car into gear and starting to pull out into minimal traffic, the windshield wipers hissing against the glass.
(james)
not that far at all
it's a strange cadence they create
her shorter stature and stride putting almost two steps to his one
something of a counterbeat to the lanky stroll
all of it harmonized by the steady patter of rain
a new aria begins with each roll of thunderhe doesn't waste much time getting into the fine German machinery
not that he minds the rain, of course, but those are leather seats
and with as much dirt and grime that have clung to him on interstate-import from New York
he'll probably leave something of an imprint behindthe windsheild wipers hiss to compliment the sear of expensive tires on slick asphalt
cutting the water to the sides and away to afford the best grip
the ensuing darkness would provide a glimpse of cleaner, smoother, lighter skin
the perfection of pale ivory across porceline curve of cheekbone
a reminder that maybe it's not as bad as it seemsit would be if he looked at her
but his eyes strayed outside the car
and, for once, he's taking a liberty
fiddling with the side handle until the seat leans back just a little more
letting him stretch out the bruises and cracks and splits
dark pupils are hidden when lids slide to half-mast
he learned not to speak or ask
so he lets the music fill in the muttered conversation(imogen)
It's humid out, too, and after a moment, she turns on the air conditioning fiddling with the temperature until it isn't quite frigid air of a hot summer. The thunderstorm will break some of the heat. She wants to keep the windows from fogging.Her head turns slightly a gesture of slight attention at perhaps the slight hitch in movements as the bruises pull at his own skin before she turns back to the road.
To the freeway, now, the mercedes benz picking up speed as it hits the on-ramp and faster still as she changes lanes heading somewhat farther south on the interstate, heading toward the small township of Hibernia.
A few more minutes of another generic song, the words and meaning lost, only remember its a song heard a dozen times before, she reaches out, starting to fiddle with the radio, the static hissing as she goes from station to station in aimless search for something else.
(james)
the slabs of concrete forming the freeway create their own rhythm
intensifying when crossing an overpass bridge
mellowing once again in the long miles of asphalt smoothed roadway
the concrete scab, stifling and cracking Gaia's natural growth
most would cringe to think of such horrors they endure to navigate home
but he's too tired to careanother generic song fiddled from the radio
three later and they're veering to an offramp
one more and it's a familiar stoplight
the gentle list and bank into a left turn
four more wet blocks and it's a right
the slow, snaking patrol towards the condos they call homestill there's not a spoken word
even the radio announcer seems to mumble to himself instead of break the silence
it's not an uneasy one, at least to him
it may have been a week ago
but now he's gotten used to it
and only breaks it when he's flicking the automatic lock
(all for safety, clampdown above fifteen mph)
and unlatching the seatbelt to set himself free(imogen)
Down to the condominiums, and whatever the silence is, she has no desire to break it as she unbuckles her own seatbelt. James leaves faster. She has to reach into the back to grab the sandwich, pick up the coffee (cold by now), before stepping out into the rain, shutting the door behind her and starting to walk in James's wake, though in the end breaking off to the split in the paths. Her own condominium, hand reaching into her pocket for her keys, head ducking with the motion as she awkwardly holds both packaged sandwich and coffee in one hand.
(james)
he leaves faster
by the time she's shut the door and hit the key fob to lock it he's halfway down the sidewalk
his walk isn't as fast though
this is just an easy stroll
letting nature's shower remove most of the grime before he gets indoors and tracks on Rune's carpet
jaw tilts towards one shoulder, looking back"Thanks for the ride."
(decker)
Rising up from his comfortable sprawl on the balcony chair as James tromps his way up, Decker fishes his half-finished Heineken off the ground before getting to his feet. One finger around the green neck of the bottle, the other hand hitching his ultrabaggies up an inch at the waist, he watches Imogen from the safety of his own balcony for a second or three. They seem longer; not long enough. You know the cliche. His attention rends away and he nods up at the Gnawer.Sip of beer. It's sweating. The night's wet, but warm. Thunder rumbles ominous in the distance.
"Well?" He doesn't offer the beer. They're packmates and he'll share his joint, but beerbottle lips are another matter entirely.
(imogen)
She raises her hand in vague acknowledgement of the thanks, mostly dismission of the words as unnecessary.Steps up the balcony, a second or three when Decker looks at her, but she doesn't look back, as she finds the key by rote, opening the door and stepping inside.
Throw out the coffee. Drop off the sandwich.
(james)
"I think the most amusing part...."started as he first reaches for the joint
wouldn't ask for the beer anyway
long slow drag finds itself ending in a grin
....now.... he'll believe he's home
Jansport is literally dumped onto the terracotta tiling
joint handed back in hold. hold. hold. hold. exhale
nod up of thanks in the plume of gray that only adds to the heavy air
glance straying to the kin that simply. passes. them. by.
(.... ooooouch)".... is that he thought she was mine. Uaghaihg" mangled "with a mile long introduction I couldn't stumble through with a keg in me. Old World. Wandering with his pack through this smog-infested country for personal shit he did not care to expound upon. Told him he was in our turf and shouldn't play so hard to get next time cause the locals were itchy." a pause. just how to phrase this. "'Nother Fianna none too pleased about Fenrir kin."
(decker)
"Ooaa-what?" muttered around the lip of the bottle as his gaze strays again, just in time to catch the woman slipping inside without a word.Uh-huh.
(...least the door didn't slam.)Swinging back around, leaning back against the balustrade, the Modi balances the edge of the bottle on the edge of his belt buckle. Lowslung, of course, cinched around his loins rather than his waist. Plain buckle, too, a rectangle of brushed steel, just thick enough to hook into the textured bottom of the beer bottle.
"'Nother Fianna?" he repeats, a wrinkle in brow turning into a frown. Then a scowl as black as the thunderheads lining the sky. "Wait 'til he hears 'bout Noah."
Swig of beer. Lower it. He looks down, angling the bottle to peer into it, one eye gently shut. Then he snorts out a breath and straightens up. "Whatever."
(james)
to that, the Gnawer smirks"Not something I brought up in conversation."
in fact, if anything concerning the Skald never came up again
count him a happy Garou
though perhaps said topic may also include the neighboring kin
the Modi moves to sling himself against the railing
the Gnawer all but literally flops into one of the abused patio chairs
(bit of a wince, forgot about those bruises and cracks and splits and..... oh yea... bleeds)
digging into the ample spaces of BDU cargo pockets for his pack of smokesthe pack is easily found
but his lighter is soaked
the few sparkless flicks slightly sour his expression for but a moment
...... allright then
so the pack is winged onto the table
at this point, he doesn't care(imogen)
The door wasn't slammed and wasn't even quite closed, left open a crack to allow the night air to seep in, heat and humidty the air shuddering with lightning.Which flickers on the horizon, followed be a mutter of thunder moments later.
It's because chances are, she had planned to come out again anyway, having disposed of the coffee and dropped the sandwich in the fridge for Miriam, or herself. An elastic is found in the medicine cabinet, the charge in the hair, the dampness of the mane making it that much worse as she starts to the hair back, charged strands clinging to her hands she pushes her hair back, clinging to her cheekbones, both bruised and not, before finally being pulled back into a half resemblance of something between a pony tail and a bun at the base of her neck. The brief glance in the mirror is certainly not for vanity, as she steps out of the bathroom and walks back down the hallway to the still half open front door, pulling her shoes on once more, and stepping back outside.
(decker)
One bare shoulder drops: wifebeater. The shirt, that is. He digs around in his pockets. Finds his matches. Tosses the box at James."Find out soon 'nough anyway." A last sip before he twists around he chuck the empty bottle in the vague direction of the dumpsters. They're about three hundred feet away. Decker ain't no football star, and the bottle isn't aerodynamic on its best day.
CRASH.
"Shit gits 'round." He straightens up. Winds his fingers together, palms inverted out, and pushes to pop the knuckles all at once. Shakes 'em out. Sinks back.
The change in him is hard to pinpoint. Imogen steps back out and a cord draws tighter inside him. The definition of musculature from shoulder to the other, one palm to each shoulder, tightens just a notch. He circles one wrist with the opposite fingers, head down, and reaches into his pocket.
James'll feel it. The tingle of silver. The unpleasant chill, like being too near a vat of liquid nitrogen that could spill over any second. The Modi jingles around in his pockets a second. Straightens up again.
"Rune missed ya." Look, he's learning subtlety. Sort of.
(james)
matchbox rattles when it's snatched out of the air
he doesn't even flinch to the bottles shattering crash
calm as can be gathering his pack once again and lighting on up
black moon in the sky = no smoking in the condoDidn't like him when I met him, like him less now.
the change int he Modi is hard to pinpoint
but it's the animal in James that reacts
the predator that suddenly alerts itself when another draws taught
the Garou that will always have his packmate's back
that decidedly gets a glance up
(and over, when the door reopens)
but it's covered in the toss of matches back
he'll dutifully ignore that chill the silver's sending up his spine, too
... sorta. by the way he shifts in his seat the reaction is clear as day
he's good at this covering shit... mostly
the slight level of surprise helps
not exactly the news he expected to get from Decker
so he can't help the warm smile that wanders over deadbeat tired features"Missed her too."
(imogen)
She comes out at approximately the same time as the bottle crashes, her dark eyed attention flickering where the shattered glass has scattered over the pavement, several feet from the dumpster. Being Gaia's warrior never meant being able to hit a target from 300 feet. The ability to play football would never help you against the wyrm.Her attention flickers only now toward the two Garou, as she draws the jacket over her shoulders, shrugging properly inside it, as her other hand reaches into her pocket.
As mentioned, she was dropping off James, and going back to work, regardless of time. Evidently, she was going to smoke a cigarette before she did so.
(decker)
Kchh. The rattling box caught back, slipped into his pocket. When his hand emerges, he's got a bracelet in hand - a cheap, flimsy thing, probably easy enough to pull apart to shreds if he felt like it.Except it's silver.
It doesn't burn his hand in this form, but it still sapped his spirit. His wrist beneath starts chafing immediately. Last night, when he took them off, he felt sunburnt, his skin red with silver-allergy. He lays it around his wrist casually, hands held low so his body blocked almost all of it. But when he snaps the flimsy clasp shut, a shudder steals up his back.
Like snapping manacles on when the other end's attached to a nuke.
Same procedure goes for the other wrist. Then he pushes his hands into his pockets, nods toward the door. "So why don'tcha go visit her."
Not a question. And so much for subtlety.
(james)
dark eyes drift away when the silver all but screams into the night
Decker's body may block most of it
but that's something James doesn't need eyes to see
he's studying the puddling of rain out in the parking lot yonder
lungs fill slowly with the coils of brownblack smoke
and then the not so subtle suggestion from his packmate
and that draws earthen gaze back over
calm as can bebrow lifts
he could protest that he just lit up the fucking cigarette, thank you for the matches
he could protest the Beemer ain't in the lot and Rune ain't in and Decker knows it and could have come up with something better
he could.....
but he doesn't
it's not worth it
instead there's the slow unfolding of one lanky Gnawer from the chair
watching the Modi carefully through what is apparently now his last drag
as seems to be the running theme in all conversations tonight
not a word passes his lips
but this time it's all in his eyes
something lurking behind the dark umber
(he can't say anything about what's done)
the deepest brown - just like the earth at the bottom of a grave(...... don't earn the stories I have, just because our reasons differed at base, blood is still on our hands, stop it before it stains)
the Camel - not even one-third smoked - is deliberately flicked away
lost in the thunderstorm night beyond the balcony
just a bit of a nod up
backpack gathered
and the door sighs closed behind him(imogen)
The door shuts, and Imogen's eyes shift, flickering toward Decker and his silver manacles. Many people build chains of their own making and Charles Dickenson isn't the only author to have incorporated something like that into a story. She doesn't particularly have much of a reason to find anything poetic in this at all.She had lifted a cigarette to her mouth to light up, but stops mid-motion instead, her chin lifting in his direction, "Exactly 'ow long d'yeh intend t'wear those?"
(decker)
He watches James go. When she speaks to him he doesn't turn for a minute. A snort, though, eventually, and then he does. Hands pocketed. Slouch hip-centered, shoulders back. A long, frank stare. New-mooned, and as far as she is, his rage is almost undetectable. Almost.Still, though, the sheer confidence of strength. The animal quality of assurance about him. And the tension twisting his spine taut.
He shrugs. "'Til ya leave."
(imogen)
Sometimes, with so many Garou around, in so many different situations, she feels almost like she's been hardwired to sense the rage and catch it with every nuance, every shift that goes with the moon and every mood.His rage is almost undetectable, but it still prickles across her skin. She sometimes feels rage like he feels silver, something that coils deep in her bones, jarring them out of synch with the rest of her, and setting everything awry.
The tension that twists his spine taut is the same sort of tension that tightens into her jaw and muscles, causing her attention to flick downward, the unlit cigarette sliding between her fingers, the porch light shining across the paleness of her long hands and all the intracies of them. The fine length of bone, the equisiteness of artistry made into flesh, hands made for delicate motions. The slash of a scar across her index finger. The nearly healed indentations of her palm.
"I meant in general. Not just tonight," she answers finally, her attention flicking back up toward him. The lighting here, refracted by rain casts her half in shadow, leaving the profiles, stark outlines and deeper shadows. Lack of light, of course, softens the bruises, mutes the colour. Obscures it.
(decker)
He looks at her, unsmiling. It's dark. It's raining. The sound of water rushing down the raingutters, pouring out the drainpipes, nearly obscures his voice. His nod is only visible as the slightest inclination of his chin up, and in the shifting of shadows and lights across his cheek and jaw."Know that."
(imogen)
The play of shadows, the dimness that rain casts (always rains in Jersey. She said before it rains more in England, she likes the rain. In all the reasons she chose Jersey, she never once considered the rain and docks and harbours, the ocean and all the things that were similar to her home), all of it makes reaction almost impossible to gauge in either. As if it were easier to do in the first place."Well, I'm going to work. So it's not so long, tonight," she says finally, stiffly, frustration finding its way around the edges as she pulls out the cigarette packet again, and does the reverse of moments again, shoving the cigarette back inside, returning it and the lighter into her pocket.
(decker)
"Yeah. Alright." Eyes like a blank wall. Sometimes he walls up like this. Shuts off. It's impossible to tell wtf he's thinking. It's his only defense, because he's an shit-rotten liar.She's stiff, he's stiff, she's frustrated, he watches her moving off. She turns away and his hand steals up thoughtlessly, thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. A moment passes; he realizes it and he drops it, or perhaps he doesn't, because his attention's caught elsewhere.
"Imogen." A quiet, strange stress on the name.
She knows damn well where.[and the rest of the scene would be in decker's journal]
Posted by james at June 27, 2003 12:00 AM
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