April 27, 2004
.04.27.04. - favor [imogen] *pd

[riverfront]

(imogen)
The temperature has dropped drastically again. Spring comes and falters, sliding toward winter again, shocking by its suddenness. More accurately, perhaps, it slides toward fall. Because hovering somewhere around 40 degrees, fall is what it feels like, right down to the smell of the air, cold and damp.

Her hand flicks down the collar of her jacket, suede and holding only the most minimal of warmth, the turtleneck beneath probably doing only a step or so better (not cotton, but made of some mixture, fine fabric that probably feels nice on the skin, smooth beneath the hands) at keeping the more less temperate weather at bay.

And just think. Two months ago, this would have felt warm.

Collar smoothed, she walks up the cracked pavement that leads toward the disenchanted factory, a stray bit of glass cracking beneath her foot as she walks. People like Imogen can be recognized from miles away. It's not even her hair and height, the flaming untamed-almost-tamed mass visible for ages, her height diminuitive enough to make her recognizeable. It's also in her step, the way she moves with an assurance that is not quite a dancer's grace, or a warrior's gait, but hovering somewhere in between, caught in economy and the sheer beauty of movement.

(james)
there are those particular sights which, irrevocably, warrant attention

one: Imogen walking down the street
two: James standing on a corner about a block and a half past the intended factory

well, he's not exactly standing, per say
he's bent at the waist and half-leaning into a car window
and without noting the "Pizza Hut" sign tilting on the four-banger's roof
it may be aaaaallllll too easy to get the wrong idea

but soon enough he's straightening
two large boxes balanced in one hand
a pack of beer in the other
boots beating a rather hasty retreat back towards the current home
it was only supposed to be a quick run out to grab the delivery
so he didn't bother with more than his trench thrown on over stained BDUs

not the normal amount of forethought the Ahroun normally shows, is it

(imogen)
Hell. Even with the Pizza hut sign tilting on the roof, it could be easy to get the wrong idea. After all, Imogen doubts that employees of Pizza Hut are exempt from the touch of the wyrm, and equally so, she doubts that James would be against killing a pizza boy, simply for the fact he was a pizza boy.

She does, however, smirk slightly, if slowly, to see the Ahroun beating foot back to the factory, trench coat flapping in the wind. She pauses where she stands, a hand absently rubbing briefly at the back of her neck, before the gesture falls away, hand dropping to her side, as she arches an eyebrow at the Bone Gnawer, "Cold, is it?" she inquires, entirely without sympathy.

(james)
"Jus' peachy."

warmed with an equal amount of compassion
shot back with a mirroring lift of brow towards untamed dreads

anything further is lost as chin tucks closer to shoulder
making sure the delivery car has made its way on around the corner
(damn skippy pizza boys may not be excempt from the Wyrm)
and only then does he hand the pack of beer over to her and dig keys from some pocket
releasing them from the weather's winter-remniscent chill
and to the clutches of the rite-heated factory interior

(imogen)
Her gaze follows his, over her shoulder to watch the Pizza Hut boy disappear around the corner (and the knowledge that not all encounters end as politely, this way, is something that is not purely theoretical for her), only turning back as James's motion catches her attention, and the sound of the engine is disappearing into the distance.

She catches the pack of beer with a finger, holding it by the plastic handle in an action that is almost reflexive, attention glancing downward to read the label upon the cans, an action which might just as well be reflexive.

It's windy, as it is always windy, and even in the moments between waiting for James to open the door and stepping inside, strands of hair escape from her braid to spill across her eyes, catching in coppery lashes. As he opens the door, her hand is lifting, reaching up to catch the strands and draw them backward, wound in the barrier of her fingers and held back as she follows him into the factory.

Tristan has cleaned, which deals with the clutter, but does little with the general ambience of the factory, which is that it was worn, ill-used and generally not designed for living. The concrete floors are cold even in shoes, and the pipes have an annoying tendancy to drip, leaving unpleasant dampness to be found in the early morning hours. The walls are no longer perfectly sealed and the wind howls through them, lending itself to unpleasant and sudden drafts, a fact that is not assisted by the fact that it appears that none of the windows have been sealed in years and some of them are lacking in whole window panes, anyway, so any sealant done by the inhabitants would be useless. The drafts do not last long, thankfully. James's rite sees to that, swallowing them nearly as quickly as they appear, giving only the most frigid hint of cool air.

Her shoulders roll beneath her jacket as she shuts the door behind them, pressing a bit to insure that the door actually shuts, the solid metal protesting as it is forced to conform against the door jamb (or more accurately, the door jamb is forced to conform with it) and click shut.

"At least," says the redhead, smoothing her flaming hair behind her ears, "in Jersey, it knew when it was time f'r spring."

(james)
there's a soft bit of laughter echoing in the cavernous building
chucked huff catching somewhere in his throat at the notion of amusement
.... can't really argue that, can he

it wasn't made for inhabitance, no
and further efforts of the pack haven't made it any more inviting to a normal soul
lowest windows boarded or painted black, higher ones forsaken completely
and nobody took the time to weather-proof them
mostly because it wasn't necessary as compared to uneconomical
James' rite keeping the interior downright summery if you ignore the random chilling reminders

and amongst the abandoned machinery, old generator, and various make-shift, thrown-together periphernalia the Garou use to call this "home" sits one blessed reminder they do, in fact, understand wtf civility is and may not live in an unredeemable spiral of total urban barbarianism: the couch and coffeetable from Jersey

pizza boxes parked on the table
Bone Gnawer parked on the couch
trench shucked away before he begins to melt in it
he knows she doesn't need an invitation to make herself comfortable, grab food, or speak what's on her mind
so his attention goes to the top box
one large Philly Cheesesteak - and you can be he'll probably finish it himself

(imogen)
It says something about Imogen that when she comes by, it is assumed that it must be for some reason or another, that she comes not for conversation (not that she has much of that) or companionship, but to pass on some information or to say what is necessary, ask what is necessary before moving on. Not prone to social visits, is Imogen, though there are a few with whom she'll allow that indulgence of something resembling companionship. James is one of them, know he it, or not.

But that's not why she's here.

She reaches out to take one of the beers, the plastic cracking as she frees the can from the rings, eyeing the pizza, briefly, before her gaze flicks back toward the Gnawer. On subject, then. She never was the type to beat around the bush, even when it was a natural inclination to do so.

"I have a favour t'ask yeh," she broaches, her head tilting briefly, as she puts the yet-unopened beer can back on the table, and slowly removes her jacket, pulling her arms free of the suede. The movement of her shoulders and arms causing a tug across her torso in the fabric of her underlying sweater, allowing for a brief glimpse of a smooth slender neck, and the purplish bruises that fade too slowly in a Garou's eyes.

Her choice of clothing was not likely for his benefit. Throtte-marks are more likely the type of thing she might disguise from her work than from the Gnawer. Like the black tattoo that graces her sleek arm revealed by the sleeveless shirt; things accepted by the Garou Nation. Maybe.

She lays the jacket on the table, an eyebrow lifting as she reaches out to pick up the beer again. She remains standing, as the can hisses with the release of carbonation as she opens it, "If it won't be too much trouble."

(james)
one slice disappears in a series of five bites - maybe less
depends on whether or not you count catching sliding toppings a bite in itself
hands were involved, after all
half of a second slice follows en route before he remembers there's beer
it's truly amazing how quickly the Ahroun can eat

she begins to speak - always business, it is
while he's aware of the rare instances of just "hanging out"
rarer yet are his expectations of enjoying such an evening
dark eyes lift in symbolism of attention
.... then narrow to catch glimpse of bruises
all James does is swallow
he knows better than to ask

the fact she's still breathing and capable of speech would have to suffice until she, if at all, chose to explain

one hand balances now quarter slice of pizza
the other occupied by dextrous trick which pops open the can
chin jerking up in acknowledgement

"Go'n."

how many times has the Gnawer actually turned her requests down
no matter what it was they asked

(imogen)
A frown births, quick and fast across her brow, catching the angle of his gaze toward her neck, but for a moment, she'll let that go unexplained. It's a moment that might go on forever, knowing her. Her explanations are rare in coming, and only when asked (and of course, he doesn't do that anymore. She's seen to that).

Outside, the sun flickers beneath the clouds, bringing its golden glow out from behind an accumulating of moisture that in days and miles might become rain. The light alters the shadows within the factory, and Imogen's dark eyes straife at the change in shadowing, attention drifting for a minute toward a shattered window closer to the ceiling. If only because she bought herself a breath of time.

"Teach me to fight? With my hands." Only the barest lilt to her accented voice indicates that this is a question rather than a demand as her gaze returns to the Gnawer, arching an eyebrow lightly in query.

(james)
she lightly arches one brow in query
he, on the other hand, makes the effort to raise both
it's almost enough to get him to stop chewing and stare
save the fact he probably doesn't chew before swallowing anyway

she bought time with a wandering look appraising their expertise at interior decoration
he, on the other hand, buys his own instance of collection without turning away
momentarily caught breath expells in yet another chucked laugh
too short for relieved sigh it simply acts in stead of a lack of anything to say
it's not mocking her request, not by a long shot
it's just that her favor was a hell of a lot more inviting than expected
at least in comparison with past "favors" he's granted

"Do I get a know why?" there's a twist of humor crooked on his lips - the question is empty, he doesn't expect to, nor would he need a reason to justify acceptance of any part behind her choices ""r ya jus' g'nna lemme know wh'n y' wanna star'."

(imogen)
That he considered this more than sneaking into a building to destroy a sample (don't breath, she told him) without knowing what it is, and be warned that he was on his own while she did something else, and only to get a call later to help an injured and dead quiet Imogen clean bodies, including more than one war-formed metis garou, and the bodies of what must have been kinfolk fighting them, that he considered this more than all that? Might have actually drawn a smile from her.

He didn't really expect an answer, and perhaps having been surprised by her once today, he might not have expected her to surprise him again. But when he speaks, humour or not, her gaze narrows on him for a moment, and the silence spirals out as the kinfolk coldly and ruthlessly controls her temper.

"I hope," she says after a moment, "that I am not quite that bad." This is half said to herself. The beer is yet untouched in her hand, but she puts it back down on the table, half leaning to place it there, a gesture that is not quite smooth in the straightening, the muscles of her flat, smooth stomach (...bruised) protesting such careless usage.

This had not been an easy conclusion to come to, nor an easy request to make. It must have been an interesting experience, to bring Imogen Slaughter to the idea that she must learn to fight without her trusted weapons, knife or gun, and what's more, decide that she needed to be taught by a Garou and not a human, where she might learn this without the questioning. There is an inherent restlessness in her, singing in tension in her muscles and bones that slip-slides through every gesture, including the one where she reaches up and almost casually pushes down the collar of her sleeveless sweater. Imogen's skin has always bruised easily. Blackblue marks show clearly the mark of a hand on her skin.

He might not have expected an explanation, or a justification. But he asked for it, and she feels she must give it, so he must be prepared to be surprised by her yet again. "I couldn't reach my gun," she says quietly, letting go of the neck of the sweater and smoothing it again, "Not fast enough to be of any use, anyway." After all, how does one reach for a gun, free it from one's holster, remove the safety, point it and pull the trigger when a hand (a good sized hand, from the look of it) is intent on squeezing the life out of one? "And I was against a wall, so I couldn't reach out to grab something." Her smirk is caustic, made more so by the fact her jaw is tight. Were she not wearing a high collared shirt, he might see her swallow, reflexively, "And while I don't think kinfolk are particularly the best to be going hand-to-hand, I'll be damned if I help the wyrm by being so inept again." If it weren't for the pronouns she uses, she might be talking of someone else, for the control she keeps on her sentences. Until the last one. I'll be damned.

Pause. "As for starting," she has controlled it again, "I would say, 'as soon as possible'. If," she adds, "you agree."

(james)
indeed, she surprises him twice in one evening
twice in five minutes or less
twice. in. a. row.
the effect of her explanation on the Ahroun is rather obvious
regardless of whether or not he jestingly asked for it
so his silence through her explanation is not merely sign of respect

and at the end, he nods
needing little else in terms of clarification
not even needing to reason out why she picked him of all the others

"Dun' think ya be tha' bad." laughed softly "Leas' I un'rstan' where a star'." a beat. "One term." The crust of current slice held up in leiu of a finger "Y' hel' keep Deck'r off my ass should 'e getta notion a be 'ffended if any more bruises 'ppear 'n he fine out I'm th' cause've'm."

while mostly aware of things guaranteed to snap the Modi's temper
he knows how easily her pale skin bruises
she knows, now, that if he teaches her - he won't hold back

"G'nna give th'm aches time a heal....." he didn't miss her hitch in rising "... 'r wan' me a fine s'methin' more apt f'r ya t' move'n?"

how serious does it seem he takes the matter..... that he - tried and true Gnawer - would forsake the remaining slices of his dinner in order to grant her favor


(imogen)
A long silence upon his term. Ah, the shade of Decker Rohl. "It's a deal." She quite possibly has absolutely no intentions of telling him in the first place.

In all of this, he is more amused than she is. Then again, James's temperment is better than Imogen's, his humour swifter. Imogen has a tendancy toward smirks and caustic, dry remarks, punctuated by almost ambush humour, where it takes knowing her very well to know if she is joking, or serious. But she does smirk, after a minute, tilting her head briefly, slowly, tendrils of hair snaking across her cheekbone, "It's not so desperate as to skip out on dinner for. But if you're willing to start tonight, I am."

(james)
the silence lengthens
it doesn't seem like the most stringent or demanding of terms
until one realizes the exact Garou with which their concern lays
that's one battle he doesn't want to fight
(but he's willing to risk it.... for her sake)
so in light of it all, James still bears that decency of humor
(he's a Gnawer, learned to deal with a lot still wearing a smile)
even if well aware of more than the obvious consequences

"It'll rehea'."

shoulders, bare skin reflecting haphazard lights seeping in broken windows, hitch in shrug
the notion brushed off with the addition of lopsided grin

after a collection of movement that results in standing
the Gnawer disappears - with his beer - into the darker reaches of the factory
some corner or side-office now converted into a space mainly his
from it, he returns with a balled up t-shirt and pair of black, cut-off fatigues
not the height of fashion, assuredly, but easier and cooler to move in than what she's got on
even if what are long shorts on him will be full pants on her

clothes tossed across the coffeetable
she knows where the bathroom is
and can make the choice of how much she's willing to change into
he, on the other hand, is making use of the time to finish at least another slice or three of pizza

(imogen)
The clothing hits the table, and for a moment, she looks at him rather than the clothing, before inclining her head briefly. "Thank you," ever notice that when Imogen says 'thank you', not 'ta' but an actual thank you, it sounds like it's truly meant? Simple words, thank you.

This hardly sounded like it was a difficult request, nor that his term was so hard, but ... when you consider the circumstances. Even her request on its own. Let me fight for myself, not so that I will live, but so that I do not assist my end.

Heavy stuff, that.

She reaches out, cautious of the open beer on the table to pick up the clothing in a slender hand and turn to walk toward the bathroom.

Simple matter to change her clothing. "Next time," she says as she walks out, a hand rubbing absently at the side of her bruised and damaged neck, "I bring my own clothing."

Because being five feet and some odd inches tall and weighing perhaps 100 pounds does make one feel a trifle foolish, to be wearing a six foot one inch tall man's clothing. The smirk she offers at her comment is lack luster. Most of them have been. She's tired, that much is stamped across her features. it might even be enough to explain the lack of energy she offers to her humour.

(james)
"Good 'dea."

nodding to her choice of coming prepared next time
on top of the weight of all the other possible issues
neither needs to explain why she smells like him

in the time it took her to change
there remains but two slices of the pizza on the table
now, the box lid swings shut to preserve the heat
beer can settles on the surface heralding emptily hollow clang
one lanky Gnawer rising to meet her return halfway

scattered lights from broken windows slashing 'cross the scars on his back
checkering the vicious pattern of ashed clawmarks
oblique reflection highlighting the brand on his chest
going so far as to touch the strange, inkymarks on the inside of right forearm
before striking the concrete floor beyond

the Fostern's perceptive enough to know she's tired
(perhaps by the dull edge of rapier wit?)
and he won't push her beyond necessary
but he also isn't going to waste any more time than necessary, either
(especially with those bruises in plain sight)

"C'mon." arms spread loosely at his sides, fingers waggling invitation "Show me what I got a wor' wi'h."

(imogen)
Physical fatigue, psychological fatigue. Both are deadly combinations. Both in her career and in the solution she suggests to solve one, or both (if she can stop thinking about this, she can sleep...) as well as in the dangers she seeks to protect herself from.

The smirk twitches again, self deprecating as she stands before him, balance easily run between both feet, shoulder width apart. This, at least, was not something he would have to teach her.

Self deprecating that smirk, perhaps this feels slightly foolish to her. And then the smirk fades and he can almost see her hesitation, a flickering of tension that is controlled and stamped down. Just as ruthless as her temper, so too does she control moments of irrational fear. And maybe she controls that more by starting toward him, than the swallow and deep breath inhaled. Controls it more by doing as he asks, than any other skills she might possess.

Imogen's first experience with a fight, beyond childish brawls was fencing.
That's the first thing he needs to break, a habit of hers. She treats it like a duel, and while she probably wouldn't, were she attacked, it does not bode well for teaching.
When she's not treating it like a duel, she treats it like she has a blade in her hand.
Second habit.
And from there, it's the ground up. She wasn't kidding when she asked to be taught. Her major benefits: a clear litheness and an astonishing grace are almost eclipsed by the fact that at the moment, she cannot move as well. It's something that can easily be frustrating.

but Imogen is patient.
And she has a benefit that most do not, her knowledge of the human body.
And she is certainly willing to show James what he has to work with.

Posted by james at April 27, 2004 12:00 AM