July 11, 2004
.07.11.04. - ....apology?! [imogen-decker]

[downtown]

(imogen)
Thunderstorm warnings. The sky is proof that not all weather predictions are wrong, deep dark and unforgiving. It isn't raining yet, but the air smells like it might. It isn't thundering yet. But that's because the lightning is too far on the horizon, just bare flickers of its existance to truly allow its retort to be heard.

Some time, last night, out on the roof of her building, looking at the sky the colour of sunrise, her pager had gone off. Hours later, hopefully with sleep in between, she is crossing the road, jaywalking down a barren street, reaffirming her grip on the small drug store bag that was why she was even here.

Crossing toward the cool pristinely shaped lines of the mercedes benz parked on the street curb near a parking metre that shows a red flag indicating her time was up. If she'd put in coins at all.

(james)
if she bothered putting coins in at all - the red flag would be signalling that many wasn't enough
if she bothered even glancing at the meter in passing - the red flag isn't making an appearence at all
in fact, the good doctor has 25 minutes left on her tab
.... odd, that

probably not so odd when the lungful of smoke drifts across the sidewalk
followed by the ever-familiar feeling of an urban predator's lingering presence
resonant electricity confined in a space all-too-frighteningly limited
at least when put in comparison to the distant storms swimming along horizon's sky
up there resides an ephemeral definition of freedom rolling at deluge edge
a certain liberty bought by explosive clash of thunder hounding lightning's tails
strange cleansing in the torrential downpour of which right now the city can only hope
a gift of earth and sky to soak away Chicago's never-ending stains

by the way he watches - maybe James can pick up the faint echoes of retort
uncanny abilities of animal senses functioning behind human mask
gazing out from the niche created at the base of this unnamed building
tucked comfortably in the angle formed by brick wall and cement sidewalk slabs

legs crossed, head resting against the pillow of dreads, Camel absently clenched between his teeth, little round sunglasses perched at a point almost considering slipping down his nose...... the guttermutt looks downright meditative, no surprise to find deep umber eyes closed behind the curtain of dark lenses, lazing the night away in wait for the coming storm

if one didn't know better
and Imogen surely does


(imogen)
She does glance toward the metre, and it might well be the lack of the flag that had drawn her attention. Imogen is a woman of perception and ability. She notices the smallest of details as if it were normal to do so.

She would know if she had been out of time, or had not bothered at all. She would recognize that the time left did not match with the time she had began. She regards it briefly, and it is natural that her attention would slide away, briefly, to look about the area. He's not hiding. In fact, almost in plain view it takes barely a second for her to find the Gnawer where he is, smoking as he is. A moment of glancing eye contact, which is a trademark of Dr. Imogen M. Slaughter, MD Forensics Pathologist, as much as her red hair and dark dark eyes are.

And then she turns away, opening the trunk of the mercedes to drop her package in, the plastic crinkling in protest as it hits the trunk's floor. The lid clicks shut as she closes it, too finely made to slam, before she walks toward the building and the ahroun it houses, a hand reaching into her jacket pocket to retrieve her cigarette.

"I owe you a beer," another woman, another situation, and this might sound almost like a joke, and there might be a smark. But the follow-up of a voice mail as this is, it is not humourous, but quietly serious as she pulls out her cigarette package. "'r ten."

(james)
another woman, another time, the entire situation would seem a joke
most people offer some sort of salutation upon noting each other's presence
words exchanged in a symbiosis of polite conversation and genuine concern
but for the better part of the first few minutes, it doesn't even seem as if the doctor and Ahroun even know each other
nothing more than shopping woman and dreadlocked vagrant on the same corner at the same time
she goes about her process of depositing package in Benz trunk
he goes about finishing his smoke and pondering the storm's approach

it's only after she joins him in the little alcove that James' attention actually swings
dark eyes peering out of the window created between lens top and brow bottom

"'sa grow'n tren', these daysss."

observation's clarification left wholly up in the air
arm stretched to offer his Zippo in leui of explanation
yellow streetlamps catching dull reflection on inks adorning the inside of his forarm


(imogen)
"Beer?" an eyebrow quirks, and now it might be a half joke, or at least some form of sarcasm.

She takes the zippo from him as he offers, moving to sit on the lower step. It's in that motion that healing injury makes itself known. The stiffness of motion that might have almost been ignored while she walking or standing.

"I could offer tequila, instead, if yeh'd prefer." Draw in smoke, inhale it deep and extend her hand to offer the zippo back.

(james)
the Ahroun nods with a chuckle
deep sound miniature thunder rolling out of his chest
attention following Imogen's path to sit beside him
motion dragging heavy ropes across muscular shoulder
if he notices the stiffness (oh, he does) it isn't mentioned
nothing more than the minimal pause in his glance
soon enough ushered on by the production of his own pack of Camel 99s
Zippo CLACKfwp-ing the cancerous stick to embrous life

"Yuh... sorta." chin lifts to exhale smoke in rings towards the distant thunderheads, a mockery of teeny fog curling infront of the massive storm-system just outside of affecting town filling the pause in thought which organizes the return of pack and lighter to BDU cargo pocket with one hand, and the absent wave of scissor-held cig with the other "Ha' this chick buyin' me beers a th' 'xcal'bur, oth'r nigh', outta th' blue."

not all that often someone's providing for the Hood, after all
needless to say it did rather surprise him
that, too, quickly ushered away in a sideways glance and strafing, crooked grin

"'quila'd be cheap'r..... jus' need coupla shots a ge'me was'ed."


(imogen)
A brief sound of muted amusement as she rests her back against the opposing edge of the alcove, knees drawn close and her wrists resting upon them. "Popular, are yeh?"

Smoke exhales slowly, and there's a brief smirk about Tequila. The Gnawers in the pack all suffered from permanent 'light weight' syndrome. One must wonder if Imogen had, back in Jersey, taking pleasure in drinking them beneath the table without much in the way of effort.

She glances up toward the sky, darkening, and then the ground below where the concrete is beginning to show a few faint drops of rain, large darkened circlets in the grey.

Another drag from the cigarette,
"In either case," words come in smoke, "I'm sorry f'r leadin' yeh on a chase. Last week."

(james)
"Seemzit."

the Gnawers of Eagle's pack do have a reputation for being lightweights
James the fierce Garou, laughably, the lightest of them all
he can face down minions of the Wyrm without a second thought, oh yes
but he can't hold his weight in liquor worth a shit
no amount of beer binges with the pack (they ever drink water?) will change it
no matter how many brews he can put away, hard liquor will always have the upper hand
he wouldn't be surprised if it amused the good Doctor in some way never seen by the public eye
wee little kinswoman can drink lanky Ahroun under the table - repeatedly

and then she..... apologizes?
bless all that is holy James has more presence of mind than to turn and simply stare at the woman
beer? he expected
this? he most certainly did not
it shows in the way brows faintly lift above the rims of small, circular glasses
and the moment taken for a few blinks and another half drag
his answer first forming a nod, then subtle shake of his skull
response composed behind exhaled plume rather than riding it as hers

"'ccept'd." it's quiet, tempered, almost lost in the pittering sound of randomly beginning rain, the raggedy guttermutt realizing, perhaps, what exactly involved itself in producing such words from the firey woman's mouth "Dun' worry 'bout it.... 'd rath'r go through th' ghetto tour twi'e th'n not be 'roun'....."

words drift off but the sentence lingers in the realm of unspoken understanding - when you need me
the way those eyes watch her profile covering the rest of things that just won't get said
he's learned, she avoids, or sometimes it's just better (... safer?) to not bring it up and put to physical form
she knows the lengths to which he will unquestioningly go if she but asks

James never has voiced a definitive reason backing his fierce protection of the kinswoman
no abstract concept hovering just out of earshot that associates her importance and value on par with those of his packmates
no devoutly righteous mission that departs some meaning on his existance outside the Wyrm's War
no fanatically zealous agent assuring the life and safety of Cook County's most stubborn Forensic Pathologist
the Gnawer is not, after all, her mate or private security team or law-appointed warden or even expecting any form of recompense other than the occasional beer between friends
he just.... seems to do it, as if it always was, and without doubt always will be

(imogen)
When he stares, he meets the cool dark eyes of the kinfolk's staring back, though her own gaze would be a fair bit less startled than his. If anything, one might consider Imogen's gaze half a challenge.

Make this more uncomfortable than it already is. I dare you.

For Imogen, and it's not something that comes across clear, but know her long enough and eventually it does come across, it is always about war. About a fight, about who is weakest and who is dominated. About when she gives in and on who's terms it is.

And he speaks, and the challenge fades a bit, maybe, some inner part of her uncoiling, the gaze that she returns not quite so harsh anymore. And eventually, she looks away, a glance out down the street, taking another drag off the cigarette, taking it from her mouth when her lungs are filled, arm extending to ash it toward the dampening concrete.

"Well," a placeholder word as she exhales grey smoke and inhales air that smells of rain, "It had t'be said, anyway."

(decker)
Turning the corner, head down, cupping a match to a joint. Toss the spent match aside. Take a hit. Jeans are baggy, the cuffs trailing on the pavement. Wifebeater's rumpled and wrinkled, stretched across powerful torso, broad shoulders and trim waist. Thug's swaying gait takes him up to pack and mate; if there's tension in the air, he's either oblivious or, more likely, ignoring it.

A thump on James' shoulder's as close to pack affection as anyone'll see. Joint passed. Nod up to Imogen. He parks himself against the wall, slouched down, feet braced.

(james)
Make this more uncomfortable than it already is, I dare you.
it can get worse?

maybe, James simply knows better, and it's what cultures the exact dictation of his reply
madd skillz in the careful acceptance and guarded parlance that shines least amount of light possible
doing his best to acknowledge in a very.... diplomatic... way
maybe, then, that rationalizes James' understanding of what's beyond the words
challenge.... accepted, even if the criteria changed somewhere in translation
that admitting fault and offering amends is something far more complicated than winning or losing
especially knowing how much she loathes assistance of any kind

"Respec' tha'."

placeholder
acknowledgement
offset discomfort with esteem
or... just something to float in the moistening void of silence
allowing her a moment..... well, he's not exactly sure why
it could be pawned off as time to straighten the ruffles out of her dignity and pride
it could be pawned off as he still hasn't totally believed she fucking apologized for something
it could be for nothing other than a pause to stretch his legs
camoflage patterns extending down the steps until blocked by crossed ankles and black Corcoran's

"So." thump shifts a shoulder down, weight leaning to the side as dreads tumble towards gravity's call, blindly reaching up for the joint that's held out towards Imogen witha lifted brow post-hit "Where ya takin' me?"

exhaling through a rather unrepetant - if crooked - grin

(imogen)
The slight kinfolk glances up at the Fenrir as he approaches, and the resting of her eyes upon him might be a linger, before it deviates. Might be, though it's slight to catch.

Dark eyes flare amusement as she glances at the joint, shaking her head to refuse it and lifting her cigarette on its way to her mouth as indication for her reason. "'Random chicks'," you can almost hear James's accent, minus the slur, or at least his intonation, in the kinwoman's low voice, "buyin' yeh drinks appears t'have spoiled yeh. Yer bein' taken somewhere, now, is it?"

(decker)
Joint meanders back to him and Decker takes a second hit. On a potsmoked voice he chuckles (coughs) low under his breath, flickering a glance at Imogen. "Well ain't you tha proper english lady now."

(james)
first, an apology
now, a flare amusement!
guttermutt's on a roll, tonight
and somewhere beyond the rumbling growl of a chuckle
there really is honest attempt at pouting sulk at the offense

"See how y'are." grumbled during the made show of snatching the joint very carefully away from the Modi for his own seconds in rotation, held lungful huffed on exhale, street showman quickly picking up on the Modi's snipe and running with it "Fig'red a prop'r english lady'd pay a man back wi' prop'r drinkssssinna prop'r 'stabl'shm'n'. Guessin's jus' basemen' pisswat'r cum real'ty."

lopsided grin speaks of teasing
until he realizes he's direct block between Imogen and his packmate
(not so brilliant a move, Jamey-boy)

(imogen)
It's a moment for Imogen to decipher what he says. Some sentences she's better at it. Others she's not. The carefully crafted look of inexpression fades after a moment or two, however, and she smirks.

And an eyebrow arches. "A proper english lady," it had taken years of tutoring to alter her accent as far as it did, which is still not quite the queen's english, either through the fault of her tutor or her own stubbornness, "would not be caught dead in any establishment that yeh might think of."

Silver Fianna tongues. The subtlety of an insult.

"But if you insist," a glance flickers toward the Fenrir, quick and brief, "and are intent on drawin' in back up t'gang up on me. I suppose it'll be your own choice."

(decker)
She shoots, she scores. Decker grunts at the insult(s) and then, smirking, deflects it over on poor James. "Hell James." Backup. "Thought you was fightin' a Crawler. Cain'tcha handle 'er yerself?"

...the turncoat. But Decker calls 'em survival skeelz. And it must be a small moon again. Around Decker, there's more than one way to gauge the moon phase. Looking up's the most troublesome. His rage is another. His sense of humor, or rather, lack thereof, is a third. Joint passes automatically toward Imogen and, rejected again, heads toward James.

(james)
silver Fianna tongues and their subtle insults
it's enough to get James to raise a brow above the small sunglasses
head tipping enough to shift his dreads across shoulders yet again

"Good, c'z I'd hate a drag 'roun' s'me dead prop'r english lady barhoppin'." casual reach for the joint, streetlights once more reflecting dully off the inks covering his inner right forarm, fingers tangled to turn his hands into a makeshift bong and the guttermutt takes his time for one. long. ripping hit. "Fig'r'd you' be more fun a hang 'roun' with, Im'gen, giv'n th' choice b'tween ya. Got 'nuff 'splainin' a do 'bout his stench w'thou' s'me corpse hangin' roun' nex' barstool ov'r no matt'r th' place I think've."

crooked smile. slow exhale. pass back to the Modi.
she's not the only one with a glib tongue under a waning crescent
Gnawer can hold his own

(decker)
Lines in the sand.
Never know where they are.
Never know when you're stepping over.

Decker takes the joint back. And this time, there's not a hint of smirk, nothing even close to a crooked grin. Just a long look, distinctly annoyed, his brow faintly wrinkled.

"Shut up, James."

Oops. What'd James say? Joke's now dead, nonetheless. Decker takes a last hit and then puts the joint out, dropping what's left into his pocket. One of these days, he was gonna burn a hole in himself where the burning ain't good.

(imogen)
She might very well have still been trying to decipher what James had been saying when Decker speaks up. Then again, Decker likely never gave her a chance to respond, the kinfolk's gaze flicking instead toward the Modi.

Inexpression is a mask she finds easy. It slides over so quickly and completely that the moments where she smirks or is amused almost seem like fantasy. Flashes that aren't there. That this is what she normally is and shows.

The cigarette caught between her fingers is pitched away into the outside to be extinguished in the rain that is starting to begin in earnest.

(james)
James can hold his own
however, it seems sometimes holding things blocks one's vision
distinctly annoyed comment (command?) pegging the line he apparently tripped over
so, too, do deep umber eyes draw towards the Modi
Imogen masks herself in inexpression
James instead lets one brow. cock.
dark arch between black-glassed spheres and chaotic tangle of dreads

there's a wealth of responses conceiving behind crooked grin currently paused
something about she started it!
something about what turncoats get and deserve....
something about Modi's not being able to hold their own?
something..... that gets washed away by the increasing rainfall

daring as he may be to verbally spar with Imogen's rapier tongue - guttermutt is not stupid

(decker)
Whoops. There went the conversation: nosedove into the water, glubglub, dead.

A moment goes by, each minding his (her) own damn business: a small collection of wolfblooded ones, two fullblooded, their rage marking them for what they are; one kinblooded, her purity of breeding marking her all the more potently. They're a unit, even when disagreeing. The two Garou, at least.

Then Decker straightens up. Conversation dead. Mission accomplished. With a grunt that just mighta been some sort of excuse/goodbye ("Goin' back." "Fact'ry." "Docks." etc.), he continues the way he was headed originally.

(imogen)
She watches the Fenrir's back a moment or two before exhaling quietly through her nose, glancing at the rain, and the fenrir who walks through it.

"I'll come by some time I'm not on call," said absently, before she starts to stand, lips thinning briefly before the expression clears. "Yeh want a drive?" Beyond the first glance, the second, she does not look over her shoulder again, the scald of the Fenrir's rage burning at her shoulder as he walks away.

(james)
well, maybe not all possible retorts gets washed away
there's the more than obvious ".....asshole." expression following departing Fenrir
luckily the Ahroun can look past trivial irritations to the crux of the matter
given fact he and Decker simply cannot hold a conversation regardless of the subject
can't expect it from two fullbloods, really, they're lucky to talk as much as they do
but at least they were sharing weed instead of squaring off to brawl it out

"Yeh."

nod up of acceptance as the raggedyman stretches to stand
slow lean working the stiffness vying for residency in his lower back
a swipe gathers the backpack that was serving as cushion
fingers lifting to scratch through dreads getting heavier with each raining moment

(imogen)
The glance dictating James's reaction might well not have been by the Fenrir, but just as likely seen by the Fianna as she glances at James, a momentary stillness in her glance before he answers her question and she nods.

"Com'on then." Her head tilts toward the car, and she pulls the car keys free and the mercedes at the curb clicks as the doors unlock. It's without much hesitation that she steps out into the rain, hair starting to darken with dampness as she walks, not quite hurried to the driver's side.


Posted by james at July 11, 2004 12:00 AM