October 10, 2003.10.10.03. - ain't that weak [imogen-lennox][forrest hill, condos]
(imogen)
Sitting on the steps instead of a chair, night is falling and the sky is grey. Her right shoulder rests against the railing column, she's reading a slender book in one hand, and smoking a cigarette in the other.The sun is setting as mentioned before. Soon, the street lights would come on. Soon, she would have to put down the book or stop smoking and go in.
It's a completely innocuous thing to be doing. Sitting outside and reading. Normal and expected of anyone.
She slides the cigarette into her mouth, holding it between her lips to free up her right hand; first to turn the page of Andromeda's Strain. Her fingers push back strands of brightly hued hair from her bruised cheekbone, pushing them behind her ear, before falling away to scratch absently at her left arm. An action that is quickly arrested, falling away from the curve of her deltoid, and reaching for her cigarette again.
(james)
somewhere, somehow, as the stripes of the blinds lengthened across the carpet when the sun arced into the exceedingly late afternoon sky - the Ahroun returned to what some may call reality
he, however, defines it by an earthquake of a hangover and a monumental case of cotton mouth
so severe is this waking experience he's actually untangled himself from the waterbed and made it into the bathroom before even realizing exactly where he isand last night hits him like a freight train
you hurt him, James
accusations flung at the scruffy reflection in the wall to wall mirror
judgement held in the deep umber glare cast back at him
for a moment, he can ignore the Beta's room behind him
more satisfied with the staredown happening with this raggedyman challenging him from the depths of the glass
if he could only focus long enough to swim through the pounding fog... he'd go over there and kick his asshowever it seems to take far less effort to make it to the medicine cabinet
some excuse of a painkiller downed with four glasses of water
.... make that five
and before he attempts making it into the shower
there's one final look at the haggard and tangled reflection
I'll deal with you later
then the memories (and guilt) are steamed away in the fine construction of Rolling Hills pipes and the endless water heater they reach out tothe sun's setting, now, by the time he makes it into a pair of clean (clean!) clothes and downstairs
damn well forgot he had this pair of jeans
black levis barely edging towards grey from the few washes they've ever needed
that's topped with a white.... white, not grey.... wifebeater that eventually accepts the placement of limbs through the armholes
socks and Cochrans are an adventure all their own
but he made it, sure enough
bypassing the call of the fridge (so faint it's nearly unheard)
heading straight out to the balcony and the cigarettes he.... thinks.... he left there last night(imogen)
The sound of the door opening drifts her attention that way, an eyebrow lifting slightly at the damp rather bedraggled look of the Gnawer as she taps ash into the ashtray. The cigarette lifts back to her mouth as she folds the book closed with the other hand, letting it drop beside the ashtray.It's a habitual glance toward the sky, even though there is no moon; the proximity to being full is known even to kin. Some sort of instinctual knowledge, the way animals are restless when the moon is full; or perhaps something not so instinctual that must be thought of, because simply, if one does not consider it, one might die at the hands of a stranger, friend, lover.
It's not hard to guess what he's looking for, and if she's smoking, she may as well share. She stands, one hand on the railing, picking up the cigarette package with the other. To walk across to the edge of the balcony and offer the Bone Gnawer the cigarette package across the divide.
(james)
even if the sun is quickly dimming on the horizon
it's still bright as hell to the hungover Gnawer
his head ducks away for the precious time it takes to squint and sheild
carefully looking back up from beneath brows and the curtain of wet dreads
... there... was.... movement out here
and a grin creeps - slowly - in a greetingin the time it takes her to stand
his gaze has swung to the far side of the sky
the moon isn't out yet, but he can feel it beginning to stir
squinted eyes narrow a little more
oh... so you are still around...
the true full moon tonight
Hunter's Moonpack. incoming!
and that's all it takes to draw him back to the task at hand
carefully stretching to retrieve the offer like Adam a touch from a far more visually appealing God
some things are sacred, in their own respect"Th'nks."
(imogen)
"You're welcome," she answers mildly. "Looks like whatever yeh drank last night," ahh, to be Fianna and to be intimately familiar with a hangover. Or better, to be Fianna and to have drunk enough to have the capacity to drink most of a pack of Garou under the table and not suffer the hang over, "Was gettin' in th'way o' findin' yer own," she finishes with a brief, if muted amused glance.The sun is guttering toward the horizon, a watery red sphere hidden by smog and cloud. The fading rays catch in the nearby windows, and light the air in a pale orange glow, the colours of twilight.
(james)
once the cancer stick is propped between his teeth
he dares enough movement to cast a glance back over his shoulder
returning only once Zippo is opened and cupped protectively between hands for a light
thus, the first puff shoots back out on the half-harted (careful now) chuckle"Have..... no idea th' hell I lef' 'm." another stretch to return the pack "n' dunno how much I fuckin' drank'r smoked, either."
must be a helluva situation for the normally mild-metaphored Gnawer to cuss without thinking
other than the fact it's common knowledge he's one of the Garou Imogen can easily drink under the table
he veritably looks like he's been run over by a truck instead of freshly showered and steamed clean
one can only dry heavy dreadlocks to a certain degree, after all, and the freshly tussled look never quite disappears
coupled with the dark circles beneath his eyes.....
he's had better days
(he's had better months)
and suddenly something seems to dawn on him"shit." gaze lifts, looking fairly sheepish, if that's believable "N'ver made it ov'r wi' th' stuff.... did I..."
no James, there's no question you drank yourself into a train wreck intead
(imogen)
"They're over there," a lift of her chin, "by th'steps. Yeh drank enough, in either case." Her voice has a tendancy toward quiet, but never fades from eloquent, if only in tone. She portrays more with less words, imbuing tone and inflection with what she wants to say. Her tone now is ironic.She takes another drag from her own cigarette, moving to perch on the end of the armrest of the nearby chair. One of two mismatched on her balcony. "No," she shakes her head and a brief curve of a smirk, "but don't worry about it. I probably wouldn't 'ave answered th'door." the smirk twists further. "Sleepin'."
(james)
dark gaze follows the line directed by her lift of chin
there's a soft snort of amusement
well, so there they are
mental note made for later
because he sets the just started cigarette carefully on the railing
finger held up in that 'one moment' sort of way
and the raggedyman disappears back inside the condo
better do it now, before he forgets yet againthe time inside is spent raiding both the bathrooms
given the healing prowess that Garou reputedly have
it's amazing to take stock of the amount of first aide supplies laying about the residence
various rolls of gauze and tape, butterfly strips, disinfectant, antibacterial soap, triple action ointment, bandage scissors, suture kits that he won't even begin to ponder where they were procured - but he grabs an assortment and settles on a pillowcase as a bag, pausing in the upstairs bathroom to toss in a few bottles of pills ranging from painkillers to antibiotics because Gaia only knows what injuries she hassoon enough the door liberates him into the chilling air of approaching fall
the smoke rescued since it hasn't rolled away yet and he's not about to give it a second chance
the case is offered across the empty air between the balconies
there's a questioning glance.... but he's not far enough out of the repercussions of last night to chance an offer quite this early(imogen)
She gives the pillow case an almost incredulous glance, "What, did yeh take out a hospital when I wasn't looking?" she inquires voice outlining her amusement.There's a pause, then, as she regards, not the offer, but the pillow case and it's weight, her right hand reaching up to rub absently at her neck.
Exhale, forced and on the edge of annoyance, "Bring it over would you?" she says finally, "I'm doing a bloody horrible job of this one handed." It's not a request for help, phrased like this; it's nearly a confrontation, the way she treats it, a sharp glance in his direction, dark eyes half shadowed because the sun is now gone and she hasn't turned on the porch light.
(james)
"Yeh." shot back with an amused glance that matches the still carefully monitored tones "Nev'r tol' me what y'need, s' brought it all."though strangely enough
given the moon slowly creeping pregnant into the sky
he shies from the sharpness of her glance
treating it as if it were a snapped remark instead
he feels horrible about last night
so, just nodding gently in exchange for any answer
the expectant response to the near confrontation would be a growl and flare
blistering into some retort of how dare she look at him in such a way
but.... he feels horrible about last night
and sometimes there are things that do keep the Rage in check for just a few moments moreas he steps onto the plateau of her balcony
lungs fill and lips part as the words begin to string together faster than thought can keep up
but he manages to catch himself
teeth close back together with a soft tick of his jaw
gaze shifts from her and towards the door
he'll take it inside, if she wantsdamn he's walking on eggshells for some reason
(imogen)
A beat where she regards him, an eyebrow lifted, before she grinds out the cigarette on the railing of the balcony and shakes her head briefly at the glance toward the door. "Miriam's home," she explains, if that is considered an explanation at all."May I see?" clearly she doesn't intend to take everything he has. When the pillow case is given to her, she places it on the ground and sits back on the deck chair, starting to go through the contents. She probably isn't keeping the pillow case, the way she takes out the gauze, bandage tape and after a brief glance at her cut hand, the bandaids as well.
The sutures are glanced at and considered before being put back in the pillow case, as are a few of the antibiotic pills, glanced at, a brief frown crossing her features before it fades. Antibacterial soap, painful though it could be, joins the gauze and other accoutrements.
"Ta," she says finally, having gone through the contents of the bag, straightening slowly.
(james)
there's a bit of a nod at the explanation
even if he's yet to meet this mysterious Miriam
that's enough to satisfy reason and halt foreward motion
or at least direct it to bring the case within arm's reachas she sinks to go through the contents
he steps decidedly and deliberately away
hip pitched against the railing
seeming a casual lean to finish his cigarette
at least... to any onlookers
but his gaze is mostly studying his feet
save the occasional glance flicked as items are set aside
discerning what he can from what she keeps what she happens to need it forthe moon is steadily creeping higher into the sky
most likely, he keeps his distance to avoid adding anything to what she's dealing with
last thing she really needs is his internal detonator making her skin crawl
though by the way he chews on his lower lip between drags
there's something else
some unnamed thing adding to the frustration and worry already crackling invisably around the Ahroun
either way, he keeps his mouth firmly shut
smoke crushed out in the tray, still he keeps his distance"An'time..."
(imogen)
James has never met Miriam, and Imogen likely meant to keep it that way. It would appear her isolationism extends to those of her blood relation, as well.She regards James briefly, a shrewd glance that ends as she rubs her hand across her face, a movement that begins and ends quickly. "Are yeh goin' t'drink again tonight?"
(james)
he doesn't see her shrewd regard
he's back to weighing just how badly his secondhand boots need a polish
the weight of drying dreads half-hiding the thoughtfullness of his profile
not that it's easy to see the furrowed brow or firmly set jaw on the non-lit porch anyway"Pro'ly shou'n't." almost as an afterthought, and when he finally looks up the wry rake of a grin is illuminated by light slashing in from one of the lawn's lampposts "Got me in'a trouble las' night."
(imogen)
"Good," an eyebrow arched still, as she leans back into the chair, drawing her legs up to sit indian style, shifting slightly to accomodate the arm rests.She rubs absently at her arm, a soft crinkle of bandage beneath the touch of her hand before it falls away; likely because she recognizes the movement. "I doubt gettin' in trouble two nights in a row is good f'r yer health."
(james)
still facing her, this time she can see the wry expression turn into a laugh
just as he can see that she rubs at the bandage on her arm
mocking and bitter as the normally congenial sound may seem"Nuh." head shakes, and dreads wiggle over shoulders bare but the thin cotton straps and the dark scars that creep from beneath "Think'm guil'y, worry, upset, 'n' fuck-up 'nuff as it is."
(imogen)
The eyebrow resettles and she smirks, "And feeling none to sorry f'r yerself," a phrase that clearly means the opposite of what she just said.Her hair's fallen free of it's hold once more, and she reaches up to push back the strands, the motion ending when the same hand picks up her cigarette package and taps out a long slender nicotine stick.
"Seem better when the moon is smaller, will it?" the question is clearly rhetorical, the energy placed in this line of questioning is half at best.
(james)
unlike the sharp glance of before - her smirk is met in dead challenge"Should'a seen las' nigh'.... was worse." hey, if you can't laugh at yourself, what can you laugh at, right? somehow provoked, the bitterness seems to grow in his own little corner or her balcony, head shaking as for some reason he sees or feels a need to answer the rhetorical question "Nuh. You still be bellig'rent. Tris'll still be hurt. 'n she, mos' likely, 'll still be gone."
(imogen)
"I don't think I've ever been called belligerent, before." She notes, mildly. It's a frustrating thing that she can keep that tone, on the full moon, as if the conversation were nothing, as if his temper wasn't hanging by a thread, and the moon wasn't full, and she wasn't still carrying the mark of a Garou (or several?) on her skin beneath the fold of clothing and carefully applied bandages."I'll be however I chose to be, an' there's nothin' yeh can do on that score." She holds up her finger signifying the first. "Tristan, whatever has happened to him, will most likely get better." Her second finger. "And she," respecting that it wasn't the name that James used, or simply artistic knowledge on how to keep a conversation flowing, "May be gone or not, but .. whatever." She cuts off the conversation, and shakes her head sharply, ending whatever she might have been about to say. "You'll do what you want, however yeh want to do it." she finishes, starting to get up, cigarette still caught between her fingers.
(james)
"Lotta thing I c'n call yeh.... that was easies' t' say."his temper may be hanging by a thread, but well enough that was volleyed with a smile
crooked and incomplete as it will forever be
it isn't her tone that's frustrating him
in fact, it's not a thing she has or hasn't done tonight
she could dance a jig on the table and the moon above would still have the tidal swell on his Rage
and for a handful of moments
he allows the icy silence to linger between them
his head tipping in rather canid expression of study
oddly, the practically cavalier grin remains"Th' hell that come fr'm?" the words might even be slightly laughed "Dunno wh't reason y' think I'd 'ave t' wanna change you. Ya walls five mile thick'n Worl' War Three won' even bring'm down. Otherwi'e..... yeh righ'. Tris'll get better. She may c'me back 'r I may nev'r see'r 'gain. Th' fuck you care what I do 'bout it? You would'nl bat'n eye if I put a silver slug'n my head save tha' you'd 'ave t'clean it up 'n deal wi' th' pap'rs."
(lennox steel)
Lennox Steel (a plain girl) spills down and up the stairs to her condominium apartment like a tumble of milk spilled down a ridged scale, captured on film, then rewound and doomed to do it over and over again. Her short, boyish hair is unruly, a smear of cloud's blood against the gathering shadows as day dims to evening. The rising moon skims across the clustering clouds, scattering where pollution waits like a net, a filter. Lennox, breathing heavily, sweat gleaming on bare arms that are chilled, leans against the wall to wince at a stitch in her side. Then she bends over and picks up a coffee cup, Star Bucks, paper, and drink the hot brown liquid, sloshing some on her shirt in the process, punctuating the mistake with a violent, foul-mouthed curse.(imogen)
"Then I misunderstood." About his words and her own. Her words are slowly measured evenly spaced and clipped as she takes the cigarette that was still unlit and slides it back into the package.She's walking to the balcony stairs to retrieve her book when he continues and she turns to look at him; even if he's slouched against the railing, he towers over her, this slender woman whose height is surpassed even by children in elementary school.
Her eyes narrow. "Self-pity doesn't suit you, James. You're better than that."
She stoops to pick up the book from it's darkened hollow on the stairs, her head turning to look in the direction of the curse, glancing at the girl for a brief moment.
(james)
his skull rotates to watch her as she passes
it's a smooth, liquid movement
every single cell in his body screams predator
and now it's ampliphied beneath the Hunter's Moon
(the deer are fat from summer and the pack hunts easily tonight)
dark gaze locked on the slender kin
the curse is heard by sharp animal ears
but beyond noting where the good Doctor's attention diverts
the girl is veritably ignoredmost kin, and certainly all humans, wouldn't be able to bear the weight of an Ahroun's steady gaze
he figures she, however, can handle it without breaking a sweat"How's callin' th' truth self-pity?" dark brow lifts towards the frame of dreads "Tell me wh't y'r gettin' at, Im'gen, 'cause I don' see it."
(lennox)
The broken cycle starts up again almost as soon as Lennox has gulped down enough sustenance, and with an instant's ungratified reluctance she peels herself from the wall, leaving the half-empty cup by the stairs, and starts trudging up the stairs backwards again. Her heart thuds a quiet thunder of sound in her ears, which makes her long for the discman she left behind on the metro, just underneath a discarded newspaper stuck together with grayish gum. Lennox can see the seat if she thinks about it, and how someone had scratched "damn the man" right onto the shady glass. This goes on for the measure of another spoken sentence of three, and then Lennox flops down on the lowest step. The direction of her eyes carries her gaze over to Imogen, who she remembers, and to James, who she can speculate about. She resembles nothing so much as a bedraggled vulture.(imogen)
And she does bear the weight of his gaze, glancing up at him (locked) from her half crouch. It's hard to say sometimes, what she was more: predator or prey. Certainly, she had (nearly) the same blood as he, but none of the natural weapons or instincts that made him so dangerous.Her weight shifts slightly, the fingers of her left hand flexing slowly, the digits stiff from the stillness her injury enforced and the actual injury itching beneath bandages because she healed faster than humans though no where near as fast a Garou and no where near fast enough.
"No," she says quietly, a brief upturn of her mouth, a curious movement that is no where near a smile, "I'm sure you don't. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and yeh might see it after the moon isn't so full. As it is, I haven't the energy." And with that, she straightens, the movement hitching briefly when the straightening is brought to her back, and then smooths out once more.
"And don't you dare ever put your body on my autopsy table. Worst fucking thing."
(james)
one thing the Ahroun has never doubted is that she had the will to be one of them
even if her body and soul didn't cooperate
the woman's sheer guts has always been something he's respected
right now, however, it's dangling a steak before the beast"Hidin' behin' ya walls 'gain?" smirked as a brow lifts, fairly well aware he's mostly between her and the door back inside, even if his lean is oh so (deceptively) casual, and his tones oh so (dangerously) soft "Not like you. Star' s'methin' 'n not finish it. Wha's th're to avoi'?"
the full moon
another's feelings
the very sanctity of her being
none of these has stopped the firey kin from speaking her mind before
James can hardly swallow a few injuries - no matter the severity - would be enough to do so now
it's her body that's hurting, her tongue seems perfectly fine"What keepin' you fr'm enligh'nin' me wi' wh't seem so fuckin' obvi'us."
there was a time - in fact, any time other than now - in which there'd be a wisdom card played
the lesson learned last time the Gnawer decided there was a need to push her
judgement clouded by the luminous moon above and the hangover's lingering fog
and the fact she's just baiting him
for once, for whatever reason, James doesn't back down(imogen)
Her hand rests deceptively light on the railing, her fingers curled on the balustrade as a centre for support. The cold damp fake stone bites into cuts already embedded in her hand a central point. It's for her balance as much as anything else. "There are a lot of things to avoid at this particular time. Would you like the list?" Mind her temper. Fianna pride and Fianna guts, Fianna fury and a Fianna's silver tongue. She knew enough to get away once, and not enough to avoid it the second time around.Her gaze flicks toward Lennox and then back toward James. "I don't finish things I don't think I can win. And I don't finish things that I don't think I should have started."
But because he asked: "You're wallowin' in feelin' sorry f'r yerself. And f'r myself, I don't care t'watch. So you'll either have to step back from th'things that are makin' it hard, and work through 'em, or get the hell off my balcony."
(lennox)
...it probably isn't a good time to interrupt. But Lennox Steel sometimes has shitty timing. Her legs carried her up the stairs, and into her apartment, and she reemerged with a ratty jean jacket (though she still gleamed with sweat, the air was cold) and a pair of keys, jingling, jangling in her hand. Lennox would wait until James had left, but some perverse inner-devil pushes her forward, crossing the geography of between to stop at the bottom of Imogen's balcony. "'Oi!" The accent is french, though you don't realize it until the next sentence. "Ze mechanics came and left me your keys. Zey are not very good."(james)
pride, guts, fury and silver tongue
they both have it in their own particular ways
his, perhaps, isn't quite as refined or elegant as hers
though right now there's a fury backing it just begging to be let looseall he does, though, is take a step forward
his hand settles on the ballustrade just infront of hers
it's quite the contrast
her smaller fingers slender, though nicked by the days past and nipped by the stucco
his hands larger, knuckles broad from boxing, musician's callouses giving the stone a run for it's money
it draws him close... uncomfortably so, now within inches instead of feet
that sphere he tried so hard to keep her out of now sucking her in
that inner fire making her skin want to turn itself inside out much less crawl away
dark eyes locked on hers because for damn sure she won't turn away"Th' fuck you think I do ev'ry day." there's a dark storm in those eyes, and his voice, however low, seeths "But unli'e you, I feel. S'metime... I ev'n let it show. 'n jus' 'cause I hurt, 'r feel guil'y, 'r sad, 'r any other numb'r a thing, dun' mean I give up 'n' wallowin'. Ju's mean I ain' dead inside yet. If I pity mysel' much a' you think? I'd a been on ya slab long ago. Fuck you, Im'gen, I ain' tha' weak."
just as easily as the Ahroun invited himself into her personal space
he removes himself from it
getting the hell off her balcony as she requested
Lennox given little more than a passing glance as the dreadlocked Gnawer moves past(imogen)
She might have said something, except that she held her tongue, as perhaps she should have, ten, fifteen minutes ago, turning and watching him stalk off. A moment passes, and her attention flicks, belatedly to Lennox. "I'm sorry, what was that?"As if the moments before hadn't even occured.
(lennox)
Posted by james at October 10, 2003 12:00 AM
Lennox doesn't particularly want more than a passing glance from the dreadlocked fury. Her muscles go rigid, and her brow lowers, and she shifts from foot to foot, before stepping onto the stairs after the static electricity that is James passes by. She gulps, and then gestures with one hand, the moonlight catching on the keys -- "Ze mechanic."
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