May 19, 2005
.05.19.05. - sidekick employment agency [imogen]

[riverfront - back home in chicago!]

(james)
a 12 mph wind isn't enough to truly disturb the growing fog
it's rolling in off moist pastures surrounding the city in seige
snaking through the open airway maze between the concrete spires
fondly blanketing the streets and alleys in constantly thickening layer
settling comfortably around the low density places not yet occupied by moving being

the being, however, is just enough of an addition to make a difference
hazy smoke swirling away in ghostly wake that slowly fades
playing tricks with shadows from yellowing streetlamps
makes the moisture-laden air seem to sentiently wipe away evidence of his passage

moments after his path culminates to perch on convenient railing
the slate's been wiped clean as if he'd been sitting there all along
vaguely translucent mists returning to a state only disturbed by the wind

it's like he'd never been gone at all

dreadlocks swaying in the swelling tides breezing by
shortened lengths playing far more freely with the light temptation
makes it a bit more difficult to light up that Camel
ropey threads keep clambering over his knuckles to reach for flame
and it's only after the third angle found by head and shoulders that the Ahroun succeeds

exhale disappears into the fog
smoke curling away then just... lost... in the night air
deep umber eyes roaming just as negligently about the scene before him
a moment taken to refamiliarize himself with those aspects of home

(imogen)
Sun is setting. It ignites the sky like flames, and catches across the river, giving life to a city that is all cold glass and grey concrete. Cold city set on fire, give it a moment, squint just right...

...and it's almost beautiful.

Imogen does a rare thing when she sees James - known as Jukebox - sitting up on that railing, and having his smoke. She smiles at the sight of his dread-locked raggedy back of his head, his back and his tattered coat. It's a quick smile, a moment of a curving of her mouth, and it fades quickly. His back is turned, and he doesn't even see it. But she smiles, nonetheless.

Smile gone, she comes up behind him, her foot scraping against the concrete sidewalk. Imogen is not clumsy - such things are done on purpose. Garou are dangerous, when caught unawares.

She comes up beside him on the railing, glancing up at him, before taking out her own package of cigarettes, tapping one out into her palm. When the cigarette is lit, and she's taking her first exhale, she finally speaks.

"Welcome back."

(james)
his back is turned, so he cannot see her endangered smile
there's no revelation of the setting sun's fog-filtered sheen on firey hair
or the way petite form cuts through thickening blanket as a scythe
delineations of strength writ in the subtle phrase of heiritage and persona
or a dozen other conceivably romantic things dreamed up within the growing haze

no - not a single means of connection exists between the two save a steadily decreasing amount of feet separating their worlds

"'sure sigh' f'r sore eye'."

he still hasn't turned around
scuffed heel merely etiquette announcing her arrival
he recognized her approach long before
just as she can recognize the lopsided grin that formed in salutation
shown by the gentle swell of muscle barely revealed along the back of rugged jawline
betrayed by the warming tones clashing with temperate chill
or something else only she would be astute enough to notice giving true meaning to flippant phrase

(imogen)
There are a few people - Garou - in this world with whom Imogen is comfortable. And fewer still that she would be pleased to see again.

He says that it's a sight for sore eyes, and perhaps he means her, or perhaps he means the river, or the sunset. As it is, she makes a soft sound that is mostly mirth.

She takes another drag off her cigarette, and silence falls, spilling between them. Cigarette smoke spills from her mouth as she exhales, her hand reaching up to push back strands from her face, tucking them behind her ears. Her hair is pulled back, as it always is. Her hair falls into her eyes, as it always does.

There isn't too much she has to say after that. Not 'Where have you been?' or 'How are you?' or 'Back for good?'

Just silence and a cigarette smoke and the setting sun.

(james)
she makes a sound that's mostly mirth
a strange harmony that lingers no further than the hollow between her tonsils
a tone never meant to reach for chilling air as was his
a private comment forming only enough to create a presence in silent conversation

curiosity in what little suggestion grows to complex interaction between them

there are others the raggedyman could, reasonably, be sitting beside on this very street
the moments filled with peppering questions which demand the litany for absence past
explanation and excuses gaining favor so glorious stories would be heard
a riotious homecoming to celebrate the reconnection of friendship shared
..... and with Dr. Slaughter, it's the silence James prefers they share

"So...." serenity of approaching night broken at long length somewhere around the halfway point of his Camel, expression guided by the barring force of arm's lift to scruff fingers through somewhat ill-behaved shortened dreads, lifting to a weightless grin crookedly shaping a lazy murmur ".... anyone ap'ly f'r tha' si'ekick p'zition 'r th' job st'll op'n?"

a glance of deep umber eyes past the bunched fabric armoring shoulder
millisecond connection of sight that reveals the morse-code playful glitter cavorting beneath earthen hue
it's almost silly the way he turns back to the water just before it's wholly recognized
defeats the purpose of beginning the contact in the first place, it would seem

unless..... one was to consider the lack of logical convention present in any such past encounter

(imogen)
Silence, then. Imogen, herself, prefers it, as well. One might think this is fair play. That were Imogen to leave for months on end, and then were to return, she would prefer to be met with silence and a lack of questions, than a barrage of them.

Silence, then.

Until James breaks it, his cigarette half done, hers half-way finished as well. So.. he begins and she turns her head briefly to look up at him. Sometimes after being far from the kin, it's easy to forget things about her. How slight she is, how small (the memory of her indomitable personality leaves a memory much larger than life). How fiery her hair, and how pure her breeding. How dark her eyes when the sun has gone down.

The question brings forth a smirk, one corner of her mouth lifting. The darkness of her eyes swallows any light that amusement might bring, but her smirk speaks it instead.

"Well," another drag of her cigarette, "No one ever seemed t'measure up."

(james)
"Izzat so...."

brows lift in tandem towards the ropes of hair in a constant state of rearrangement
freeze-frame second at their arrival that's just enough to pause the dreads in constant wind-driven motion
while it's likely just a result of this new tip of skull into the never-ending winds
the street theater in James is surely not quite yet dead
miniature performance continuing to the thoughtful half-frown around a thoughtful drag
lungful dispelled to the night as if some fortune was told within those spiraling patterns
dark eyes meet some figure with cloak-and-dagger secrecy on that far off corner down the road
ashes tapped free in concert with the slightest tip of his chin in sage-like nod

"Jus' migh' give't a whirl m'sel'..... provi'e th' term' seem reas'able 'nuff." a thoughtful pause for heart's single beat "Hear'f th' payz goo'?"

(imogen)
That so.
"Mm." It's a sound of ascent, and little more.

Her smirk remains playing across her mouth as she leans her forearms on the railing again, looking out past them both to the black river. The wind plays with her hair, sending strands whipping away from her face, freeing a few more from her clip. She taps ashes from her cigarette, and turns back to look at James once more.

"Payment is rendered," to many, she might well sound serious. It takes someone who knows Imogen to hear the wry tone in her low voice, "in pizza and beer."

Maybe at some point in this evening, or afterward, James may notice that the kinfolk is without her pager. She wears jeans, and the number of times the raggedyman has seen her with it clipped to her pocket is uncountable.

Her cigarette finished, she flicks it away from her, turning back, arching an eyebrow in the Bone Gnawer's direction. "Acceptable?"

(james)
attention narrows as the serious explanation pulls together
James doing his part to lean in close enough that no detail will be missed
nodding grimly to each item listed as compensation for a sidekick's folley
then a moment spent in silence to consider the breadth of such an opportunity of wealth and fame
properly assessing the situation - nothing less would, of course, do

it's the longest he's studied her since each put flame to paper
dark eyes meeting the equally dark shadows in night-painted blue
of all he's noticed through past glances of the kinfolk dishing the deal to his future employment
rare has been the occassion his eyes wandered away from her gaze
and only then it's nothing more than observation provoked by injury's clue
he won't notice her pager's gone until enough time passes without it's hailing beep

"Thing I c'n live'ih tha'."

it's spoken to the riverwaters previously attracting her weighty gaze
some grand declaration to the unseen forces which play invisable audience to their skit
he would do best with a dramatic gesture to punctuate the decision's essence of finality
but dignity adheres to the casual flick of smoked down filter to the black rippling waves

"Where I sign uh?"

(imogen)
The smirk twitches a fingersbreadth from a smile as she straightens from the railing to look up at the Ahroun.

"Yer participation has always been assumed."

(james)
the twitching smirk is met with a sidelong glance
and raised a low, throated chuckle

"Well... tha' cu's out hav'n a make a good'n'pression a'thuh inn'rview."

(imogen)
A smirk, "That cuts out havin' t'run the interview," she replies, flipping perspective effortlessly.

"Hungry?"

(james)
laughter barks across the river's black waters
chasing away echoes of that low chuckle
shifting the mood as easily as she flipped perspective
weight rotating to return boots to sidewalk

"Chris' wom'n... though' you'd nev'r as'."

invitation's sweeping arm offering an half-bow escort that will never be taken seriously
attempting to revive the swiftly failing evidence of formality with obvious afterthough
for appearances sake, and all that other shit a business venture is supposed to entail
(... it's good to be home, Jamey-boy)

[end]

Posted by james at May 19, 2005 12:00 AM