February 25, 2003.02.25.03. - mysteries and machines [tristan][noje]
(tristan)
Amazingly, he’s in his own apartment tonight, as Diego was working and wanted to get some things together before their shopping trip tomorrow, so our favorite prettyboykin is stretched out on his own couch, hand resting on bare belly, fingers curling absently against skin above denim, the other hand tucked under head against pillow against arm of the couch. Eyes and partial attention is directed toward the flickering of the TV on the cartoon channel. Lashes have lowered, and mere he’s contemplating pulling the bed out - or going up to pry Diego from his jewelry making, forcing him to eat something and dragging him off to bed again… of course, the latter would involve movement and he’s quite comfy right here for the moment. Empty beer bottles litter the coffee table (4 or 5) ashtray has been put to good use, and now he lazily drifts in that hazy almost sleep where you don’t quite dream, but aren’t surprised to find yourself dashing off to solve a Scoobie Doo mystery in the mystery van either…(james)
the Mystery Machine is at it again
turquoise and green and orange zooming down the lane
meddling kids rushing in to save the day
one mask pulled off to reveal the perpetrator
scooby snacks for allapparently, the Ahroun seemed to pick up on this
cause he's quietly knocking on the door
(tv's on, someone must be home)
three-quarters a pizza in the box balancing on one arm
(why eat alone when he was so nearby?)
an eighteen pack of Rolling Rock under the other
(they needed to talk, and beer is safe enough)
and he waits, patientlywondering if he should actually hope the door will open
(even if he has a way in to at least leave the food if he's wrong and the apartment is empty)(tristan)
The knock at the door (jinkies!) pulls lashes up from where they’d fallen completely against cheeks and it’s a moment or two (ragghy? Yeah scoob? Rumrunsratruhroor.. You get it scoob.. ruh-uh!) and he’s blinking a moment before.. “coming!” falls in that sleepy hoarse ‘I wasn’t sleeping’ denial kinda way. Muscles crunch and lean, tall form is pulled to sit, bare feet hitting the floor and a scrub of palms against face and he’s awake again and headed to the door.
Bolt turns and voice teases. “Forget you’re key ag…” trailing off as door opens and he realizes what that tingle at the base of his spine and words fall instead into a soft chuckle - almost embarrassed even. (nah. Not quite.) “Hey James… common in..” Door is pulled open farther and free hand scratches through hair and pulls it back from his face before falling to tuck into pocket of his jeans… eyes light up seeing the pizza box.. “ohhhhhh foooooooooooooood…. And beer… you’re a god, man… a god.”
(james)
"Nah, have my key." Tris... never gave him one, but he keeps getting in the security gate without a problem, doesn't he "Just thought I'd be polite and knock."grinned so easily
especially at that not quite embarrassment
just because that's more than any others would get from the unabashed kin
there's a bright shine in those eyes as he hands the pizza box over
heading for the fridge to deposit the beer
just... happy... to be so well recieved"Felt you might be hungry, was just down the block drumming so thought I'd impose a meal on you."
few seconds later he's returning
four beers in hand: two on table, two opened
flopping into the couch to damn well make himself at home
brow lifting a little in teasing afterthought"You don't mind, do ya?"
there's enough there to feed three
just as leery about "interrupting" as the Kin is(tristan)
Ya know, never did give him a key - but he’d meant too so it wouldn’t really matter, but then again? Gnawers adapt. It’s what they do. So he just flashes a boyish grin and grabs that pizza box and heads toward the couch. He’d told James before he was always welcome, he wouldn’t welsh on that no matter how upset he may be. He’s family after all. And the reason he decided to settle down to begin with.
Mind? Hell, he’s already gotten a piece of cheesy goodness and taken a bite before James flops on the couch, and there’s that grin again around second mouthful.. “nottaall. Diego forgot to feed me today.” Ok, not exactly true as he tends to make sure Diego stops working and eats - but the chuckle is there. “make y’self at home.” As fingers grab for opened beer and washes down mouthful with a content grin.
(jame)
his head shakes, chuckling
taking a swig of half that beer even before reaching for the pizza
(what has Eagle's pack done to you boy?!)
it may conclude that he ate a quarter of it even before leaving the pizza joint
so it's quite as ravenous as the kin
but they're Gnawers, they adapt
and they're also bottomless pits
he's inhaling a full slice before coming up to breath"Gotta teach that boy priorities."
gently chided
from the guy who went for beer before pizza
(PIZZA!!)
he really likes the little Garou
not to mention how happy the Walker makes his Kin
(odd, that.... 'nother Walker/Gnawer pair-up... must be something in Jersey water)"How is he, anyway?"
last time he saw Diego
well, things weren't exactly at their least tense
and he didn't even think to ask on the phone the other night
so the question seems easily falling into place, rather than planted
cause it's that tension that solidified his reasoning to come over here(tristan)
He can’t help the answering chuckle, really, already reaching for a second piece (Diego’s slow eating habits sure haven’t worn off on him in the past month or so..) Washing the first down with more beer, setting it between his legs for easy reach as he leans back and concentrates on that hanging bit of cheese and toppings that seems determined to escape, his grin positively wicked (ah - the dawg we all know and love) “Ain’t complaining about his priorities at all…” A brow arches, that bite taken and eaten and there’s a twist of tension somewhere in the kin too, at the question. He knows how things were the last he left - and he ain’t none too happy about it either.
There’s a moment or two (swig and bite or four) before he finally answers the question. “bit pissed, a lot scared, deciding whether we are going make a stand or run if it comes down to it.” Yeah. There’s that “we” word again… goes right along with those three little words that have the pretty boy kin scared outa his normally rougueishly playful mind.
(james)
a brow lifts, glancing over
eyeing the Kin up and down
oh. so. slyly.
(he can be wicked too)"Think you're losing weight, Tristan, need to replace those calories you're burning off."
and he noticed that "we" word
see, he can get away with that, cause he's pack with his lover
it's always "we" when things go down
and even though Gnawer kinfolk are often considered part of a pack
he's not quiet sure that Tris and Diego have done that
so it must be that little three word phrase
cause he's seen how they look at each other
he remembers how the Kin reacted that night the truth came out, too
so maybe there's some fondness in the tease
everybody needs somebody, and all that"You know I"ll stand behind you if you stay.... probaby the pack, too, if I give them my reasoning. And..." there's a slightly wry chuckle here "... since I've brought you chiminage and placed myself on your couch.... what was it you were wanting to say about that?"
strange how the little gesture ended up
he brought food and beer for Family and smoothing feathers
he placed himself within the other's turf to give the Kin... the KIN.... right of say
setting himself up for a proper tongue-lashing, if it's coming
(and he's sure it is)
so very strange, the behavior of this Ahroun
he knows he did something to offend
and while so many others would make any Kin suck it up and deal
he's here trying to work it out
he may not necessarily admit if he was right or wrong
but he's willing to listen, at the very leastFamily is more important than pride
(tristan)
He finishes the second piece, the first beer, and grins, grabbing a third and second respectively as he nods with soft laughter. “whoda thunk a lil guy like that could have so. Much. Energy..” He wiggles his brows and laughs.. positively wicked, indeed.
Everyone needs someone. It’s been a long time since he has felt like this and then it was pushed off as teenage first crush hormones and most ignored it. But now? He’s older, maybe not wiser, but older, and he’s bloody well scared out. Of. His. Mind. Can’t say it enough. Its evident in that softer smile and shake of head every time that we word is used.
He sobers then, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees - third piece of pizza going down a little slower.. and there’s another bite as he listens, and just, contemplates how to put this - and if blowing up would even do any good. Screaming may make him feel better - but this is family. And family? Is more important then frustration. Of course - if you can’t yell at your family who can you yell at?
There’s a deep breath, and a couple swallows of beer, and gaze locked on the crust in his hand. Honest is the best policy, right? Voice low and tight -fully expecting to get screamed in return, actually.
“In short. You should have come to me. You fucking blindsided me, and in public for christsake, let alone in front of Diego. Your boy Decker had some fucking problem that didn’t allow me to finish my conversation with Rune - which she then shared with you, and you brought it up without talking to me first. I had my reasons - reasons that have since been explained and the talk with Rune completed. I may be Kin, but simple respect should have kept you from balling me in front of him like that. I had my reasons for goin to her, and doing it how I did - for all she knew until you took matters into your own hands - it coulda been anyone in the 30 apartments in this damn complex. I didn’t want to go through you to her, because of your promise. But I didn’t promise not to find out where that fucker was and where he’s headed next. I’ve got contacts, but not walker contacts. Rune does. Any fuckin head start we can get - whether to stand our ground or run is needed. But none of that really matters - what fuckin pissed me off was the fact you balled me in public like that. I wouldn’t have done it to you - wouldn’t have done it to anyone. Was fucking low. And I know damn well how lucky I am Diego saw my reasoning afterwards.”
not so short after all…. And the pain in that last statement says the conversation that followed was not light and playful. Nor were the ones for several days afterwards.(james)
in short
in.... short?
as the kin continues, he can't help but wonder what the long version is
but as he indicated, he listens
to the very. last. word.
he listens silently without interrupting
then when Tristan stops
he takes a moment to digest
(and finish off that beer)"I think.... then.... you can see my reasoning for being upset that you went behind my back to Rune - no matter my promise. Though I understand, now, why you did."
the Kin rambles and rants and borders on yelling
and the Ahroun? stays perfectly calm
his voice is low and easy
most would throat a kin for saying the things Tristan did
but he doesn't, doesn't even look like his hackles are coming up
his head tilts, dreads sliding over shoulders
turning to look, fully, at the other man"I know you wouldn't do that to someone - and I know that I shouldn't either. I can't explain to you why, what for, or any of my reasoning behind reacting - overreacting - the way that I did. I can blame it on Rage but I don't know if that's good enough. I should have gone to you first, and I'm sorry I didn't."
Gaia's great full moon Warrior
.... apologizing.
he doesn't ask to be forgiven
he just wants it known he regrets the actions chosen
(the Garou lives, always so full of regret)"I'll say it to Diego, too."
(tristan)
He can see the reasoning, he knows he would be upset - he didn’t expect Rune to run off and tattle first thing in the morning and have it all blown up before he could finish his conversation. Decker and his goddamn dowry - pay it in big blow up dolls and be done with it… but back to this, and the slight nod.
He doesn’t look up, not quite, not yet. Others would throat their kin for daring to spout as much as he did… but James doesn’t, and wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t want to know. Tension bleeds from his shoulders, slowly, and hand slides through corkscrew curls, tightening briefly, before falling again, pizza crust finished - because he is Gnawer after all - beer grabbed again as he leans back into the couch once more. “I know. And I would have gone to you had you not made that promise. When I headed for Runes I wasn’t sure what I was going to ask, or what I’d do with the information. To be honest, I’d already calculated how much it would cost to get me to Miami to kill the fucker so we didn’t have to worry about it anymore.” There’s a sight smirk, he knows how foolhardy that would have been.
Finally those dark eyes lift, and meet the Warriors, and for once he doesn’t hide the emotion under playful banter and flirting gaze - there’s naked pain, fear, fury, and love (oohhhh its that four letter freaky word) all tangled up into one confused and frightened kin. “I could have lost him that night. I’m not ready for that. And.. thanks. That means a lot.” The apology does, and goes a very long way toward relaxing the gnawer…
(james)
she didn't tattle, she had just mentioned it
but it's passed, now, and doesn't matter
and an elbow sneaks out to gently nudge the Kin"If we're gonna protect him.... we need to work together."
and his voice softens
he can smell the man's tension and fear
even before those eyes lift again to sink into deep umber
admissions here, that he had made infront of Tristan, before
knowing that four letter word that just isn't said
"I know you're not ready to lose him Not yet. Not ever."how vulnerable that four letter word makes them
how viciously murderous the backlash can be
simply for giving everthing - body, heart, soul
he's not ready to lose Rune
(he's lost before, can he survive it again?)
but that is the Garou way
nothing lasts forever, especially when both are Warriors
(perhaps now he understand what it is the Kinfolk feel for those they love)
it can be seen in the resignation in his eyes
say it now, cause you may never have the chance again
the Ahroun knows that better than he wants to"I'm doing everything I can to keep you from losing him, because I'll fight for what I believe in."
love? honor? justice? Family?
(tristan)
He nods with something of a lopsided grin, barely there but at least it appeared, however briefly. “Been a lot time since there’s been a ‘together’… I still forget.” Voice soft, and sigh softer still. Been a long time since a lot of things, and he just tips that beer back, and drinks deeply, finishing it off and setting the bottle on the coffee table in front of them… nothing lasts forever…
The second time the smile appears, it’s a little fuller then before, a little longer, and so appreciated… he nods, again.. “I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to you before hand. Rune knows most, but not all now. She’s agreed to let me know if the pack heads this way - but that’s all. More then I expected, to be honest. She doesn’t like that I’m “coddling” him, but I told her it was none of her fuckin business” grin widens a bit - the walker is drop dead (fuck.me.red) gorgeous - and scares him to death, something he admits freely. “But all I wanted was to buy us that time to make some decisions. Diego knows too - knew before I finished talking to Rune, and said it was alright, a bit grudgingly, but knew I was headed back to buy us that time. And since she knows - it’s the reason for the little shopping trip I’d mentioned. Doing an introduction the official way now, I guess.”
Truth, honor, beauty and love - all things to fight for, and family falls in there somewhere too.
(james)
he can't help the laughter
just imagining Tristan telling Rune to veritably fuck off
not something he would say, honestly
but then again the Kin doesn't have dynamics of pack and rank to follow
at least in the same way James must
the Garou-Kin relationship is far different
and the way Garou and Kin look at things is different
and then the light goes on!
.... aaaah.... Christmas in February"Makes sense, now. Couldn't figure out why the hell you were asking the other night. But it would be appreciated"
course, not much he would have rationalized at the time
Tristan was lucky to get as much as he did during the call
but it also goes to show what becomes ingrained
to him, there is nothing more important than pack"I'd expect he'd fight alongside us." he could not think of running, he will not. back. down., not from Spirals, not from Decker, not even from Erik when the time is right - so most definitely not from a pack of strange, abusive Garou who are nothing more than tainted monsters in his book "I'll teach him to brawl, if he wants."
even if they make the choice to run
that will always come in handy"Do you have a plan, for when the time comes?"
(tristan)
“You didn’t sound much capable of figuring out where the phone was the other night, man. Musta been goooooooood.” Teased, and even a nudge of his friend.. family. He does grin unrepentantly - Rune yelled at him a bit, so he yelled back… he’s not one to keep quite though most days its just his normal banter…. Like this.. “Gotta say in boxers and a tshirt she looked good enough to eat…” oh yes, there’s the wicked grin again, flinching playfully from expected (and deserved) swipe.
He nods. He won’t back down either… and hopefully, by the time comes, Diego will have decided to fight as well. “Hell - teach me to brawl, still have nightmares about that big red glove..” mock shudder, before he sobers again. “No plan yet… getting Diego safely through introductions is first order, after that I’m kinda playing it by ear. I don’t want to push him in either direction… fight or flight, but am hoping that he will gain the packs support as well. Acceptance of his gifts and being allowed to stay here with Eagles blessing will go a long way to boosting his moral I think.. I hope. He’s been running so long he’s forgotten how to stand…”
(james)
"It was." that grin just. spreads. smug. "She was."not just anyone he can do this alleged "guy talk" thing with
so he takes advantage of it, of relaxing
even if he also takes advantage of the ability to swipe
lazy and half-aimed, the back of his hand partially smacks into bicep"I'll teach you both, it's something you should know anyway, regardless if you stay or go, and with me there you won't hold back as if you were teaching each other."
now that things seem to have calmed down a bit
he has the time to make the offer
but there's a nod to the explanation so far
finally grabbing that last beer off the table
then settling back comfortably into the second-hand beat up couch"I may get shit for hiding it, but I"ll handle explaining that to Erik. Do that's right, and traditional, and it'll go a long way with the German. He's a no-nonsense kind of guy, so if you explain why you're needing the protection, he shouldn't disagree. Then whatever Erik says goes, no matter how Decker or anyone else may feel about it. Then we can think of what to do from there on." there's a glance over, breifly, to the Kin "Because if you decide to run, I won't. I'll buy you that time, with or without my pack backing me."
(tristan)
He laughs softly, nodding. Somehow - he thinks good doesn’t begin to describe the sleek Walker (and god help james if he finds out about the trapeze.. there will be no end to the teasing…) And he knows that there aren’t any others that James can tease about it with.. and only whimpers a little at lazy swipe.
There’s a chuckle, and he nods. “Damn straight… or something… I won’t hold back. I owe you one still. I’ll talk to Diego about it.. but expect me for lessons for sure.” They’re still figuring out what they’ll get for each of them, and then at the last, that gaze is met, held a moment, before he nods. “I know.. and that means more then you’ll probably ever know. And if it comes down to it - I’d prefer to stand with you. Just so you know, and all. I’ll fight to my last breath to protect him - though I’d sure prefer sharing it with him for many many years to come.” Or as many as they are allowed to be together. He knows the life of Kin, he knows what it is to have to remain home while the war is fought… having James, and now Diego, has gone a long way to making that bare-able again.
(james)
"Yes you do, and I'll heal a lot faster, so no worries on practicing it."because they both know when the time comes that things go down
it won't be a time for holding back
everything is now or never
nobody ever knows what tomorrow will bring"I know you would. You stepped into the ring with me, I know you've got guts, Tris. Just keep using your brains so you can share those breaths." the Ahroun waxing poetic? "'Cause while I"m fighting, and he's running, someone's gotta watch his back." there's that playful grin again, no matter how serious this conversation may be "Then you two can name your first kid after me, sing tales of my glory, or somesuchshit."
(tristan)
There’s a nod.. and seriousness prevails until that last comment and all out laughter breaks free… and with it flees the rest of the tension that may still have been between them. It all flows away and he relaxes back into that couch and that grin is nothing short of that silly little grin as he nods.. “that’d be quite the trick… though if Dire can get himself a pup - Diego and I can find a way to name something after you. A scruffy black lab or something…”(james)
there's a sideways glance
and that easy, easy grin
seems he's accepted and supporting their relationship, eh?
course, he doesn't have much room to speak
at least as far as the traditional Litany goes
letter by letter, they're better off than him
gesturing absently with the bottle
unable to stop the soft laughter"That would most definitely work. Maybe a cute little shepard... was always partial to those."
musing, absently
that would be because he looks like one in lupus
for some reason just really damned amused at that, too
cause it's just got that good feeling about it
Tris and Diego living a happy life, somewhere, for however breif it may be
enough to actually have a "family" of their own, if strays count
even the goddamned white picket fence
it may not be forever, but they've got the chance
that little bit of bliss before the War comes knockin' again
and he'll do his damndest to see it happen
.... just...... because it's something he will never havehe may have, once
but that's lost to him now
he's adapted and moved on
and wouldn't trade Rune for the world
(or... even Jenna)
though he knocks off the rest of the beer
rising to gather the bottles from the table
those are trashed, and he's returned with another cold one for Tris"Glad you were home."
a soft smile wrapping around those words
glad we shared a meal
glad we had this talk
glad we made amends"Don't forget to drag him down for some of that pizza before it gets too cold." winked, he knows what else will happen, and the pizza probably will be cold by the time they get to it "Night Tris."
Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 23, 2003.02.23.03. - christmas? again? [tristan-diego][noje]
(james)
the phone rings
the phone rings
the phone. keeps. ringing.
sex or seven rings and almost at the point the Kinfolk gives up
(whatever happened to the answering machine?)
there's a fumble in the blind slap towards the bedside table
a half-blind fidget to find the right button
(.... talk)
and the phone is wedged between pillow and ear"'Lo?"
it's sleepy and ragged
apparently they made it past the first landing
though the tub is questionable(tristan)
The boy can’t help but laugh.. low and soft as the phone is finally answered and there’s a wink for Diego.. “morning, sunshine… gotta question for you if I’m not interrupting….” Though the sleepiness of that voice, and the not so late hour says that he’s not exactly interrupting anything but rest… and if there’s any tension in the kin, it’s not brought close enough to the surface to register in voice. It’ll be kept buried deep - this is about Diego. (Though so was the other. Leave the meddling to him, dammit.)(james)
there's a soft laugh in return
long and low and husky and outright. fuckered.
his voice doesn't register much louder, either
fairly obvious there's someone sleeping next to him"If you were interrupting I wouldn't have answered the phone" sluggish, but amused "S'up?"
(tristan)
He laughs softly, and leans back, though fingers still remain wrapped in diego’s comfortably - out in public even… “Good point… kept expecting the machine to pick up. Deigo’s question really, but I agreed to relay. Going on a little shopping spree and need to know who else is pack - Rune Decker Dire you.. and Erik right? Those are all know of…” though that fuckered voice makes him wonder if he can manage that simple an answer…. Let alone the next question. Oh yes - he’s amused… terribly so.(james)
oh, he's quite sure the kin is amused
he can hear it, he can mentally see it, too
half wondering if the kin and Walker timed this
simply for their amusement
allright James, not that hard
you can do this mostly asleep
start from the top"Erik, Rune, Decker, Livingston, Luc, me and Dire."
the shopping spree comment hasn't quite computed, yet
(tristan)
A slight nod - and here we go.. can James manage -this- one mostly asleep… “Erik, Livingston, and Luc.. the others I’ve met but those three, gimme a quick hint of what they are like - or would like?” Shopping spree is hard to accomplish when there’s some one doesn’t know at all.. and Diego wants to make sure no one is missed…(james)
there's a pause
and he actually looks at the phone
seriously looks at the phone
the kin can hear the distant chuckle before it's returned to his ear"What they'd like?" oh, too amused. "Livingston's Bob Marley shaman, Walker... Luc's average German girl crazy teen... Erik..... your guess is as good as mine for what to get him. A good weapon probably wouldn't hurt if you have the right resources. Did somebody decide we needed an instant replay on Christmas and didn't tell me?"
(tristan)
He’s taking notes by this time, pen grabbed from passing waitress and paper napkin held with the elbow of the arm that holds phone to ear until Diego takes mercy on him and holds it in place. He can’t help the smile hearing rich amusement and there’s a slight nod… There’s a thousand ways he could answer that, truly. Well, now that you’ve forced my hand before I could arrange things myself, or just yeah, thanks to you asshole… or, yannow. Yes. Just yes. Instead he grins and chuckles… keeping that shit to himself, he is… “Not exactly - but close. It’s one of those making amend things… and we’ll find the resources. I appreciate the help, James.”(james)
"Amends?"the question gets out probably before he realizes it
not exactly paying the most attention to his manners in the half-dead half-exhausted half-fuckered half-dreaming state
(that's... a lot of halves... James)
but somewhere in dulled mind he knows now probably isn't the best time to discuss it"Anytime, Tris."
literally.
look. at. the. time.(tristan)
“Yeah.” That’s the only answer he’d most likely get even in a fully alive, wide-awake, not so recently fuckered state too. But it’s followed by a smile and a glance at the time, and almost sheepish grin. “Well - usually this would be the awake but not busy time… sorry it was so late, really. Get some rest.. sounds like she done exhausted you..” Teased, playfully. “Night, James.”(james)
apparently, he and the kin need to have a talk
because even if Tristan's doing well to hide it
the Ahroun knows his kin, and there's something hidden
but he's too comfortable and too warm and too tired and it's too late to deal with it
though something of a soft smile colors his words at the tease
cause oh yeh, she did"No worries Tris..... you know you can call at anytime. Night."
that's when the phone pulls away
a partially blind fumble to find the right button again
several numbers dailed before talk shuts off the connection
the phone doesn't even make it back to the nightstand
he's curled back around the warm body next to him
sleeping the Warrior's sleep
lights out in 30 seconds or less or your pizza is free(tristan)
Apparently. Maybe, maybe not. Right now? There’s really no telling as he’s quite involved in trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing with Diego.. (those three damn words) and what it means and why he’s trying and all that stuff… of course, James may have insights given his own situation, but that, too, is neither here nor there. There’s a smile, and the phone is clicked off and handed back to Diego… “We got our shopping list… now it’s just to find the perfect items to give. No problem, right?” And he’s got enough money too. Rune paid for the first 3 months, and he’s stashed a four… since he’s two more months to get that fourth again, he’s got cash to spare. “We’ll be ok.” He swore, after all.Posted by james at 12:00 AM.02.23.03. - IthiCA is GOrges [rune][noje]
(james)
one could only stay in the condo for so long
right mind would dictacte that he remain indoors out of the worsening weather
(supposed to be more snow heading in)
obviously, he has entered his left mind and gotten lost somewhere therein
because he's heading out of the Quicki-Mart
right back into the windleft arm has been occupied by the box recieved from Nina
right arm now slings half back over his shoulder
the little netting bags that Rune uses filled with various items
when one is bored and searching for a reason to take a walk
a.... lucrative... reason, other than sheer insanity
random groceries is the key!
there will always be something that the pack needs
or at least something he can conjure up to pick up
.... just because.(seems you're doing that an awful lot lately, Jamey-boy)
the walk home is far less eventful than the walk to the Mart
no half-frenzied lines of mask-wanters
no random clutzy kin
nothing really, but one Bone Gnawer, the wind and the rain
the occasional flickering sodium streetlight
the laden, weeping clouds above that block out the stars
and let's not forget about that rain. lots. and lots. of rain.
so by the time he's taken the shortcut through a yard or three and crossed the complex parking lot
he's now one drenched Gnawer
(guttermutt turned drowned sewer rat)
dreads weighted down by the soak so that even the wind can't play through them anymore
trench clinging slick and dark to the long lines of his lanky frame
boots sloshing through puddles as socks are probably the only dry thing on him
but he doesn't seem to mind it, reallythere's something about being outside when it rains
lungs filling with the scents of the land washed clean
just for a few hours, the comfortable and familiar scent of pollution drug away
filled with that crisply wet ozone smell from the dropping barometric pressure
you can never really take the smell of the city away, never completely
but there seems to have been some sort of balance between scab and wyld created during the storm
something he has, quite literally, soaked up in the stroll through winter's waterpark once known as Hibernia
that's about when the key hits the door of the condo
a pause to wring out as much clothing as he can
creating his own little Ahroun pond on the front porch
then the door clumphs softly closed behind him
and he's paused again - this time to actually remove a majority of the soaked clothing(rune)
It's warm inside. It always is. Rune keeps it seventy-two-fucking-degrees, and not a whit lower. There's a bit of chill in the foyer from his entrance, mingling with the bit of chill that lingers from her return, a half-hour ago. The foyer wasn't ever anyone's priority when it came to heating.Loud music ricochets through the first floor, spilling out of the half-hidden speakers of the surround-sound Bose system. It's all... noise and feedback, mostly, with the melodic line carried through the center of the storm of sound alternately by bass or electric guitar, and a pair of voices - male (droning) and female (close to ethereal) singing every line: yeah, we'll find you and take you home, tonight. The sound itself is reminiscent of the Jesus and Mary Chain - if, of course, they'd added a female singer to the mix.
The music's so loud that he probably can't hear the comparatively subdued sound of the PS:2, as bad guy after bad guy is obliterated by a judiciously aimed grenade launcher. Sure, the rocket launcher may be the more powerful of the weapons, but there's something about the grenade launcher that appeals to her. It's immediacy, perhaps, or the lack of recoil, or...
...what's that? The couch sighs its release from her weight as she rises, bare legs sliding over smooth leather in a fine display. Too bad there are no witnesses. As usual, she's dressed down at home. Either she's not planning to go out again, or she went out in such weather in silk boxers and a t-shirt ("Ithaca is Gorges." Who the hell knows where she got it.) and since she's not one to expose herself to the elements, it must be the former.
Her steps are soft on the plush carpet, a muffled hum of movement overwhelmed by the avalanche of sound even when the volume is suddenly halved. Hand splayed across the doorjam for support, she swings around through the open arch and peers into the foyer - quietly, as if she could actually surprise him - and lifts a sardonic brow at the state of his clothes.
"Raining, hmmm? I know what you need," she murmurs, when he looks up and finds her eyes, reaching out her hand, palm up, for the net shopping bag.
(james)
"Bit, yeh."one hand is pressed against the wall
the other is reaching down towards one boot for unlacing ceremonies
his body is something of a Z curve balancing inbetween
a strange little glyph created by muscle and skeleton and..... water
and now he's looking up, one brow lifted a little
a little grin finding its way across his mouth
a little shine glimmering in deep umber eyes
seems like it's all about the little things, with themboot returns to the floor, and he's hooking up the net shopping bag
bottles clanking against each other, a plastic crinkle here and there
balance precariously held in the long stretch that hands it over
and once that's relinquished, he's back to removing boot"And what's that?"
then the other boot
and the three shirts that are dripping onto the foyer floor
those are balled up for his passage through the living room
straight into the washer for those
weight of them hitting the side with a wet splatter
luckily the camo's don't hold enough water to actually drip
so he can probably deal with staying in those a little while longer
elbows leaning on the breakfast counter while he's watching her"Hm?"
slow appreciation in those eyes
silk boxers? t-shirt? he really can't ask for more
the gooseflesh chill slowly leaves his skin beneath the heater's warmth
capillary flush finally returning to contrast the dark scars running across his back(rune)
She remains there, one hand curled around the door jam, one hip propped casually against the frame, the other dropped casually along the length of flank, hip and thigh, shopping bag swirling curlicues from its suspended weight, orbit interrupted every tenth of a second by the muscled curve of her bare thigh. She remains there, watching him - wet hair falling forward across her cheek, curling up at the ends as it begins to dry, some responsive half-smile tucked cheshire-like across her red, red mouth - as he divests himself of his boots and bends to sweep the soaked shirts from the floor.And she stays there as he sweeps past and through the living room, flattening herself against the doorframe to allow him entry, but not quite enough that he can pass without touching. In this case, the graze of her crooked knee across the damp camos and a faint bump from the shopping bag dangling from her hand against his thigh.
Her turn to follow him through the living room, rounding to the kitchen (beneath her breath, a low wolf-whistle, so quiet it can barely be discerned above even the half-powered stereo.) Should he turn around, he'll find no betraying knowledge of it on her face, though the brief beam of a pseudo-innocent smile coupled with a pair of rising what? who? ...me? brows are enough to establish her guilt.
the cops are on our tail but that's alright
the cops are on our tail but that's alright
we won't pull over and that's it
...fuck you. fuck you.When he returns from his brief trip to the laundry room, she is putting away his bounty and singing along to the music under her breath. Since most of the melodic line is a sort of semi-spoken drone, she can manage it. Otherwise, the whole exercise would be laughable.
"Hmmm?" Slamming the fridge door closed on the bottles, shifting the shopping bag up higher to riffle through the rustling snacks and toss them up, each by each, into the huge wok stored about the fridge, which has never held anything but doritos and cheese-its and other such things.
"Oh, yeah" - understanding, the slow, organic growth of a well-tended smirk - "well. All that rain, and everything, you're bound to catch a cold." He'll never catch a cold. She'll never catch a cold. Their bodies destroy such invaders without so much as a sniffle, let alone a sneeze. "...so, you know. You need a hot toddy, and a warm bath." Amused, she tosses the empty shopping bag on the counter and leans back against the fridge, arms crossing in challenge. "oh, and after that, probably... should wrap you up in a blanket, put your feet in a tub of hot water, and feed you chicken noodle soup by the teaspoonful. You know: pampering."
(james)
she's stretching to toss the bags onto the wok atop the fridge
he's picking his jaw up off the breakfast counter
the rise and pull of thin tee across her waist and lower back
the way silk slithers across the swell of hips
the muscle that plays through her calves at the apex of each... toss...by now she's turned and is leaning back against the fridge
arms crossing her chest in challenge
snap out of it, James"A.... what? Toddy?"
blinking through breif confusion
he's still caught on the stretch and 'fuck you's
obviously having to rewind memory and bit and playback her words
that's when palms flatten on the gridlock tiles
muscles through forarms tensing as weight shifts up
there's a rotation around his shoulders, moving up to crawl and scoot until he's sitting on the opposite ledge
then forward momentum continues
one heel braced against the cabinets below
one hand clinging to the little ledge beneath his thighs
and one finger venturing across the great divide between them
hooking in the elastic waist of those boxers, and pulling, sloooooowly
(and you know the t-shirt hem was covering it, so he had to lift that first)
either she's going to come forward off that cool surface behind her shoulderblades
or he's going to get a helluva view to divulge whether or not she's wearing underwear(rune)
"A ... " the first word is playful, and little more than that - though it's hard to discern from just one syllable. Teasing, with her usual sardonic edge you mean you didn't know this already? sort of thing that has driven lesser men crazy (rich bitch. fucking snob. any of a number of similar epithets, though those are the usual roster) with that strange combination of resentment and envy that can so easily poison the heart. "...toddy."The teasing edge is gone, though, by the time she echoes the second word. Her voice has fallen a precipitous fifth, into the low register that reverberates more in the throat than the mouth or nose. The fall in pitch is mirrored by the downward sweep of her dark challenging dark eyes from his face to his... hand, two fingers tucked into her waistband, the thumb heavy against the lifted hem of her cotton tee. As her gaze fell - before, perhaps it fell (if he were not looking for the answer to one of life's persistent questions: what's she wearing, under that? do boxers count as underwear for girls?) he saw, too, the change - the slightest dilation of pupils as her eyes changed focus, darkening already dark eyes before lowering lashes swept her gaze down and away.
"You know - " inhale, brief and sharp and let him touch her and let him fucking look hmmm? exhale, slow and controlled and vibrant with the sudden change of tension in the room, " - a, uhm," inhale, sharp this time, sharper, as she follows his tugging urge (inhales his scent, inhales her own, sucks in the air as if it were laced with electricity, ozone, dangerous, crackling) and takes a precise half-step forward. "toddy. Hot lemon water and whiskey and - "
The explanation does not so much trail off as much as it is bitten off, sharply, so that she can take another breath of the crackling air. Though she doesn't look up, one dark brow rises as the elastic stretches further and further (arms still crossed, the challenge changed now, charged. The answer: no.) and a slow smirk crawls across her painted mouth.
Another half-step, then, no more. He'll have to drag her the rest of the way.
(james)
oh no, he didn't know
and for some reason right now it seems like he doesn't particularly care
he has quiet successfully distracted himself with the view provided down her... box....ers...
(.... oh my)
the little quirking grin seems to divulge he's quite happy with this discovery
even if he already knew the answer
even if there are a thousand things he knows about her
(and there are)
he still joys in finding the answers as if he had asked for the very first timethat's when his gaze crawls upwards
his body suspended bridge between the breakfast bar and the beautiful island which is the GlassWalker
deep inhalation categorizes and smears the crackling ozone that's dangerously ignited the air
not at all surprised it would seem he brought the impending storm indoors with him
there's lightning held in deep umber
an outright seditious glimmer crawling into his smile
two fingers becomes four
fist wrapping in the thick elastic band
oh so very clear he can challenge just as overtly as she
there are times, even to her, he won't. back. down.he didn't know what a toddy was
he knows precisely what he's doing to herthose tones
those insulting, snobbish, scathing tones
they would drive others to frenzy
they would poison, atrophy, and crush another's heart
and as they slide down that precious fifth
the symphony of chord and tone suddenly re-coloring their world
some vibrant flame within the wash of white tiles and brushed steel
they do nothing but invite the Gnawerhis fist pulls decisively down
dragging the waistband of her boxers with it
just an inch, or... three
then bicep bulges in contraction
and he drags. her. closer.there seems to be some opposing magnetic force between them
as she's drug irrepressably closer
he's straightening to lean back and sit comfortably on the counter
pulling her all the way up between his thighs
the chill of soaked BDUs pressed against her legs as his own wrap round in flesh and muscle cage
(he knows he'll pay for that one)
chin lifting - throat offered even after dominating drag - as sneering smile lifts to mirror challenging smirk"You pampered me last week.... what's with the sudden urge to do so again?"
playful and dark
a bare murmur across wicked red lips
he knows why she does it
she explained it in a hotel room long ago
but that doesn't stop his relentless discovery
some greedy archaeologist with his living, priceless treasure(rune)
"Hmmm - " how she manages to keep her tone half-musing, for all that her voice is still vibrating low in her throat rather than in the ampitheater of mouth and nose is anyone's guess. Still, musing - as if she were considering a new shade of nail polish, as if he had not dragged her - bodily dragged her - the last two steps toward him, as if she were not lifting her arms and settling them around his neck, unmindful of the chill still radiating from rainsoaked dreadlocks, as if her boxers were not hanging precariously low on her hips, elastic distended from the force he employed to get her there, as if those hips weren't moving, sliding and insidious, in some slow circle to test the limits of his (cold! " - hey! - ") caging legs - that veneer of careless disregard tossed over the lower thrum of awareness. "I'll have to think about that."He drags her, and then offers her his throat. He cages her, and she takes what he offers, and devours it. The spill of hot breath over the flesh of his throat, warmer now, but still redolent of the clean cold rain that washed away the exhaust fumes and the smogged miasma of the city night, replacing it with some memory of clean, clear summer (memory only, sense-memory, or perhaps genetic memory, some remnant that lingers in their savage souls, some echo across the centuries, for summer in the city is always worse than winter, except after a cleansing storm). She washes away that remnant summer and replaces it with another of her own: breath, heavy and humid, scorching hot. The slow scrap of teeth across his flesh, never quite snapping closed, for all the promise of such dominant play is vibrant in the flat crawl of dull, hard enamel up the long line of his throat until she finds his mouth, or he finds hers.
"I've thought about it." she maintains enough focus to respond, but only just, holds enough of herself back - in opposition, their usual game. She holds herself rigidly, muscles still tensed to ward off the shivers that want to run rampant through her body. "..and these" one hand untangling itself from the dreadlocks, crawling back across the muscled curve of his shoulder - nails scraping against his flesh - down across his chest and then around his flank, over the webbed network of scars (even now, lingering briefly on these furrowed imperfections in his flesh, the faintest touch, awareness, her hand warm except for the cool circle of gold around her thumb) and lower until she finds the waistband of his wet camos. " - must come off."
Her second hand soon follows the first, and the slide of fingers along the seam of flesh and fabric becomes something else entirely: a grip, tightening and lifting him from his perch, a trick he's used on her often enough. Her breath is exhaled in a soft grunt at the effort. He's heavier, and she lacks his strength. With effort, she can hold him like this, but she's not able to walk while supporting his weight, let alone make it up the stairs.
"I pamper you -- because -- I -- " her voice is strained from the effort, and already she's easing him to the ground. Considering how misshapen the elastic of her boxers has become - considering how precariously low they are on her hips - it's little wonder that they've started the long slip-slide over hips to muscled thigh. " - can."
She's breathing harder now, and faster, full-on breaths that lift and strain against the fabric of her cotten tee (IthiCA is GOrges) and her arms have wound their way around his neck once more. "As for the toddies and the chicken soup, I'm skipping those. Don't have any whiskey." Breath, closer now, spills across his mouth. "And I don't know what the fuck lemon water is, anyway."
She kisses him, then. Once. Suddenly savage. Fucking animal.
"...but the bath - " disengaging, breathless, the words recovered from the haze of want. As she regains her breath, her voice grows arch and wanton, a low growl of sound, sandpaper rough as she shakes herself free and turns to saunter away - toward the stairs and whatever lies beyond. "...that I can do."
It's a tossup as to whether they'll make it past the first landing.
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.02.23.03. - misfits and masks [nina][noje]
(nina matthews)
Yesterday off the coast of New Jersey an oil refinery exploded--
(...dream a little dream.)The grounds trembled [Learn.to.swim.learn.swim.learn.to.swim] the sky blackened and for a moment everyone remembered...
There's a line outside of the local hardware store, and the usually unexcitable natives of this depressed neighborhood wait almost nervously... In thier hands are butcher's tickets but in thier eyes is something else entirely a strange sort of hope.What the hell?!
(james)
everyone trembled
everyone remembered
everyone feared
the speculations rolled like the thunderous boom that washed across the lands
(what if, what about, could it have happened again, what are you going to do now.....)
paranoia fizzled electric through the storm riddled air
weighting and darkening the already cloudy skies
slashes of yellow and sickly green within the black above the pristine (endless) white
as if the impending weather wasn't enough to worry aboutwell, it didn't seem to worry him too much
and while any Garou in their right mind would be staying inside out of this weather
he's..... got things to do
one can only stay in a condo for so long
he was born on the streets and slept under the stars
only when the climate became a little too hostile (like, er, today) would shelter be sought
but no matter how the wind howls and tries to blow away the stars high above
it seems he has this undeniable urge to see themso we find: one Gnawer
strolling down the sidewalk on some errand pulled out of thin air so he had a conventional reason to go wandering out into the miserable blustery night, trench hugged high up around his shoulders, dreads attempting a futile escape from his scalp with each strong gust sending flurries of white up off the frozen ground, dark eyes behind those little sunglasses, because even though it's night and he's apparently one of those strong types? those flurries sting.(nina)
The line is almost oppressive [..lovely bodies in a line - a stitch it time...] as people jostle and stetch look at thier watch, and SOME actually sit on the floor. Coats curled about thier collective forms, papers blowing from wind-bruised fingers.A van turns the corner and pulls up the street, before it fully stops the passenger side of the cab door pops open emitting a (..barely..) coordinated blonde with more energy than common sense - it seems. "It's right'there, that buildin by'th post'box." A thick southern accent drawls froom the open doorwat the driver shouting at the girl to get back inside the cab even as he lurched to a halt...
Her grip shaken free, there is the brief look of shock that registers on her face before she lands (..feet first..) but her velocirty causing her to sink to her knees as well.
Ouch.
The heads from the line perk up at the arrival of the truck -- is this the shipment?
(james)
a brow lifts at the line up ahead
(What the...... oh. Right. That -other- War)
and he can't help but shake his head a little
some people and their priorities
there's a moment of thought consumed by the process of figuring out which way is the best way to get around the lingering line of desperate folk braving the weather to get supplies with the most minimal amount of contact or preaching or questions and to the QuickieMart down the way which has the pack's favorite be..."Shit. 'Scuse me."
he looks as surprised as most in the line
but he's not watching the truck
he's looking at the little southern gal that burst out of the cab only to nearly take him out in her velocity driven fall(nina)
He's assaulted it with it.The smell, the bones [...the blood - predator stirreth] of something unquatifiable and yet distinct. Irish-english.. -something- grey eyes blink at him started and she tried to scramble off his form but only tangling them further.
A real genius this one.
(..exactly.)"Oh s'cuse me." An elbow in his cheek, before she reserves direction. "Cripe, jeez ah'didn't mean--" ahip on his shoulders and the small ish form finally crawls under his arm and on the ground with a shaking sound.
...is she laughing?
"--ah'm sorry ah jus'got the WORST luck."(james)
there's a blink
(good Gaia she's a spidermonkey)
his balance veritably swayed with her slipsidecrawl to right herself
the strong breeze is not helping, either
he makes sure she's quite set before even attempting to move
because that could just start the whole process all over againbones, blood,
predator reacts the deepened thrum boiling so far hidden inside
a quick breath that grunts aggressive
then waxes poetic into an easy smile
dusting snow off of the pathwork quilt trench"No worries" seems that pseudolaughter is infectious "Sidewalk around here has a habit of reaching out to trip people. Y'allright?"
(nina)
Easy-going humor.He can see it on her features before she manages a reply - the driver cuttioing off her line of though with the [tick-tick-tap] motion of pen against clipboard. "Where do you want these Ms. Matthews." And she shrugs briefly a hand reaching up to rub the back of her neck, even as lips press together..
"Ahm sure th'owner would know better'n me." She drawls her nose wrinkling a bit as her eyes snake to the line with growing realization. "Jeezus--" Another glance snakes up to the over-tall image of the raggedy-man with an almost analytical cast. "All these people here for'th masks?"
(james)
the sides of his mouth drawn down into partial frown
the brows climb towards the tangled dreads in partial acclimation
the shoulders, then, roll through a muscular shrug"Dunno, just came up on the line myself. Masks?"
there's an idle curiosity captured in his expression
while he can't quite place the sundermal reaction that's tripfiring beneath his skin
he doesn't have those wicked mojo heebie jeebies to go running (...yet)
so it seems a parcel of casual conversation is the order of the moment
since they've already played Twister on the sidewalk, and all
might as well talk a little(nina)
Blonde lashes flick down against her cheek and as a box [ One of many..] is carried past she manages to swipe a smaller box from within. [Too much energy, and not the common sense god gave corn--her Daddy used to say.] But she manages the feat without any major mishaps to her own credit and breaking the seal with her thumb she tosses the box towards James.."--seems the wentwent to Triad--with the caveat that they'd give out a percentage of th'distribution at reduced rates in area wit'high risk.."
Rights?
(..the rights to what..?)The box in his hand stood [seal broken] waiting to be opened.
(tristan)
Of all the days to run out of *ahem* sugar, it would have to be today, the windy, little pellet slinging, hat snatching, blustery day. You almost expect to see a certain pooh bear chasing after a piglet on a thread - it’s that kind of windy day. Instead, you find a tall, pretty boy kin who’s long strides eat the walk between here and there, and there and here in quickened bundled up movements. Those jeans hide two pairs of long johns underneath, and there’s a warm sweater and two t-shirts under that long warm coat too. One hand adorned with fingerless gloves (lotta good those are doing too) and wrapped around the handle of his violin case. Sure - most people would have left it at home, but Tristan? Not most people.
He never leaves home without the violin, and its not just because of security - hell, he’s still getting used to the fact he has a home where he can leave it every now and again - but for protection as well (oh yes - all hail the mighty violin wielding pretty boy! Be afraid, be very afraid!) and with all that goes on here on the streets, every bit of help is warranted. There’s a grocery bag in one hand, filled with the things needed to fill out the pantries of two apartments. Sugar (heh.), of course, coffee, cocoa, eggs, bread, sandwich meat, cheese and fruit. The basics every growing boy(s) seems to run out of during the coldest days of the year.(james)
one box, tossed through the air
one blond, machinegunning what does not seem like English to him
he blinks
he catches
.... he smiles?"One more time... in English?"
it wasn't the accent
more like the caveat and percentage and Triad and huh?
(.... woooah there, Nelly. Triad?)
fingers pause on the opened top of the box (seal broken) as brows lift awaiting her hopefully slower answer(nina)
"Uhm triad is a pharmacutical agency--well sorta y'know?"She's just a lil' font of information isnt she and steal a few more boxes from the top she tosses them am at the line. With the words, "S'a nasty day go'wan, git'" but unfortunatly those tosses begin to start a small sort of feeding frenzy [ People who have nothing always want more..] that crowds around the girl nearly snatching the last two boxes away from her before some of the line reform while the lucky few go home.
Drops of sleet-rain- drizzle catch on hair and face even as she pulls her raincoat closer zipping it up.
"Since th'splosion n'all."
(james)
"Right.... right."..... sorta.
something of a sage nod could be inserted here
even if he still looks to be a bit confused
with the dreads and ratty clothes and raggedy coat
safe to assume he's not one that watches a lot of news or knows the stocks on wallstreet
he could very well be one of those nothingers that is always craving (fighting, pushing, shoving) more
and even if he's happy actually having nothing, playing innocent sometimes helps"So.... what kind of masks again?"
he seems to be wanting to covet the box he has, now
keep it from those leftover bystanders with hungry, prowling looks
it has nothing to do with the fact the last time he opened a strange box, he got sucked into Wonderland
really.no, seriously.
(nina)
A brow raises, and she gives him a look that might qualify the object of her observance as some sort of alien, or else some other thing of foreign orgin. And shrugging she gestures to [unopened] box in his hands."S'a personal air filter."
I mean, it SOUNDS innocuous. And the, "..it filters out toxins and such regula'stuff fer allergies'nsuch--and then it does MORE stuff too." there that small paper-thin shiver before the delivery man shoves a clipboard at her depanding her scatterbrained attention.
"Oh." And pulling the rubber-band-leashed pen from the board she signs her name.
(james)
"Hu..... oooooh."he even has presence of mind to look positively sheepish
makes sense now, doesn't it
fingers drum a staccato beat on the cardboard to signify that could be quite useful with the impending war of humans
(if nothing else, their fear stinks)
what he doesn't let clue in are those stories he heard
sure, gasmasks filter and protect those with allergies and whatever
but then there's the content that's in the filter itself that you're breathing
the poisons and hallucinagins and addictions and other countless particles of doom and destruction
or so sayeth the warnings of the great Guru Meathook
of course, he was also a Vietnam Vet so who knows how much truth was in his mystical ramblings
better safe than sorry, Jamey-boy(tristan)
There’s a minor feeding frenzy up ahead of some sort, caught only towards the tail end and quick decisions heads steps shift to carry tall frame across the street to the tune of a honked horn a ‘hey watch it buddy’ in the midst of jaywalking jaunt. Not a day to get caught up in any frenzy of any kind really, it would seem. Shoulders roll, slightly, easing the tension and yet another decision is quickly reached - coffee shop ahead fills the street with rain-diffused scents of fresh cinnamon rolls and with an appreciative sniff, lips curve into playful grin and the coffee shop has become his new destination…(nina)
The delivery man, [..in red thread the name 'HANK' is stitched on his Triad service 'Serving the customer one person at a time..' uniform.] persists flipping up the papers to another less common looking contract beneath.She's about to sign the second document as well in fact the upward slope of an 'N' is seen before she stops. Blinking at 'Hank' that cherublike face curls into faint annoyance, "Ah told Mista'Jenkins ah wasn't signing that until he finished with th'preclause.."
(james)
the newest contract isn't really any of his business
in fact, the entirety of those papers on the clipboard really isn't
but it's the annoyance in her voice that gets his attention
one dark brow slipping upwards
that would be a casual glance, there, tooeven if he can't place it.... she is Kin
that purebreed is unmistakable
(gobs and gobs and gobs and gobs of it)
there's a faint tapping noise way off in some umbral distance
notching up slowly and surely
(click. click. boom.)
it's a natural sway of events... isn't it?
Kin gets annoyed, Garou gets annoyed at thing annoying Kin, annoyance flattened
or something like thatnow if he could only place her Tribe.....
(tristan)
The door to the coffee shop is pulled open with a juggling of bags and violin and lean form slips into the shop, pulling that door closed and breathing deeply of the scents of caffeine and yeastyrisinghomemadebaking cinnamon rolls, smile pulling across features as he moves inside. On top of everything else? It’s waaaaarm. Out of the wind and pelting of rain that stings and any number of other things. An empty table chosen, and violin case is set on the seat followed by grocery bag, and then lean form stretches and unbuttons his coat. That too is tossed to the side, and it’s a brief jaunt to the counter that has him ordering two of those cinnamon rolls, one to go, and a coffee. Items gathered, he then folds tall frame to slide into the seat of the booth next to his things.(nina)
'Hank' shrugs taking a half step from the broody raggedy man Ms. Matthews is conversing with. [He hasn't had much interaction with the 'white collar schmucks' but Jenkins had come down from on high to tell him what he needed to do and no ditzy blonde was going to get him fired..] looking the smaller girl in the eye."Look Miss, I've got 15 more deliveries sceduled for tonight, and unless your planning on dragging yout little blonde--" pause keep it cool you got a scedule to keep. "--self with me in the cab till 5 am, though if you're WITH me it'll be more like 3 PM then wait. OTHERWISE you can sign it now--or I can jus' drop it back at distrubution." another barely restained breath. "EITHER WAY," stay calm buddy boy. "..you gotta make a decision."
(james)
this still really isn't his business
and he knows better than to get involved with what's not intitally his business
(lo and behold, lookey here, he's holding a box agian to top it all off)
but it's that irritation that's getting him
sure, the moon's shifting her face in the sky
she's no longer swollen and glaring down at him with all her rage-igniting might
but there's some primal things human nature simply can't overcome
and the raggedy-man fixes "Hank" with the utmost of that suddenly broody attention
(yeh, better keep it cool, boyo)(diego)
He had cheated on his trip to deliver the next load of pendants necklaces and earings to one of the stores on the island tht stocks them for him. you would think he would just fedex them or something but he has this thing about delivering in person. most of the stores finding it so hard to believe he is responsible for the work (but your so young, so small, your nothing but a child) growl and bite. he had returned to his appartment to find it empty.stepping out from his bedroom. a quick jaunt down stairs showed him that he was not there either. so now standing once more on the other side of that invisible wall.it doesnt seem as cold here. probably is but doesnt appear to be. amoung the skuttling forms of the information era the spirits of a concreate jungle he makes his way quickly to the streetcorner. his street corner. a small twisting of the area between here and there lets him peak acorss no not present. growls. prehaps he is out. or playing with the pack. whatever he is doing stomach grumbles. can find him soon get some food, the cuboards are bare afterall. retreating to an alleyway he once more checks the areas clear before sliding across.
cold slap in the face take your breath away. omg should be wearing more. 3 layers and my coat just aint enough. a beanie pulled over hair, tugged lower to cover his ears. scarf wrapped around face so he looks like some poorly dressed ninja. need warm food.
(nina)
She should call her attorney.
(..but its Sunday, and--ugh.)She exhales and finishes her name ["-ina Matthews"] on the second contract and none too soon, because a few seconds later and he might have wet himself avaoiding the freaky vibes the raggedy-man was giving off. And hopping in his truck you can almost see the tire marrks as he runs off...
Nina turns the reddish color of her cheeks not quite fading, "Ah'm sorry ah'don't even know you.." Strange moment. And she breaks the ice by holding out a hand. "Nina, an y'are?"
(james)
vibes
freaky mojo vibes in the air
(gunna rip yo' head off and piss in it vibes)
there's something of an animalistic snort as 'Hank' throws that truck into overdrive
(good riddance)and after a moment, the Ahroun gets a hold of himself
seems he's in such a pleasent mood it was bordering on overly aggressive
whoops.
whatever it is that responds (predator stirreth) primal to her blood
once again it's melting away into an easy grin
one that finds its way all the way into deep umber eyes
gloved hand finding it's way to shaking hers"James. Pleasure."
(nina)
Small hands [ ah'ain't no superhero..] shake his before sliding into her pocket. Large grey eyes blink at him and to the store where the line has dispersed a small neat [OUT OF STOCK ON MASKS] sign set out front. Gaze flickers to the box he's still holding witha faint smile."Enjoy it, James."
And the wind shifts bvriefly, the brush of rage [..like lars..] tingling against her skin, eye flicker up to the strangers, the click of realization in them. "Y- your a friend ah'Lars?"
(james)
Lars?
there's a moment of thought
it sort've overtakes the quiet smile at holding the last box
(did he plan it? just quietly standing by the wayside until the stampede forgot he had it?)
head tilting in canid curiosity and recognition"I know a Lars, mostly in passing.... so maybe?"
(diego)
like soo cold way to fucking cold. from the alleyway he steps, into the cold winds that whip along the streets feet still not used o walking on ice stagger threaten to slip, clutching at wall for balance, finally straightening once more. growl and grumble hate the cold and hate the snow...the ring of a bell and the waves of rage flowing from him. (not that thier big waves but close enough you would know what they are what they mean) poor boi who has to take his order for coffee and a chocolate muffin. poor boy being intimidated by diego he would laugh if he noticed.
(nina)
Her nose wrinkles and she might describe him, but thinks better of it. "Oh.." She shrugs lightly nodding. "Ya'jus seem like it ah'guess.." and tahts all the explanation she's ready and willing to give on that. The rain continues to cover them and she blinks upwards witha short laugh.."'Ave ah'been keepin'ya--ah'tend tah'run on at th'mouth." a faint flush even as she half steps toward the street trying to make out the signs.
(james)
"Somethin' in the wind, huh?"chuckled softly
almost knowingly
he figures he has a pretty good idea of what tipped her off
even if the moon was slimming down to nothing"Thanks for the mask Nina.... take care now."
he doesn't quite add the 'ya hear?' to the end of it
but that easy grin returns
even in the sudden addition of yet more rain to the wind
better get to the store and back before he becomes a living ice sculpture out here
and now that the line has cleared the sidewalk
seems that's going to be a much easier task than anticipated(tristan)
Not at the corner, not in either apartment, and the cupboards are bare. Elementary, dear Watson. He pulls the plate of gooey goodness slathered in butter and icing and hot and steaming fresh out of the oven yumminess toward him, fork peeling away flaky pastry, swiping up some extra butter and popping it into his mouth. For once? He doesn’t inhale.. he savors (ohgaiathat’sGOOOOOD) the bite and grins shows pure boyish delight of delicious treat.
Caught! The bells above the door jangle and in comes the abominable snow latino, and grin spreads to see that boy scared and he slides from his booth and silent steps sees him sliding up next to diego.. “So what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this… Gotcha a cinnamon roll, was gonna grin it home…”
(diego)
He jumps, ok not quite jumps but almost jumps. A smile spreading across his face as those waves well they dissapear, better than any drug its pretty boi kins doing miricles for the temper. "u wernt at ome i got bored" he was there 5 minutes at the most before he started pining and begun his search. only to find you here getting coffee.(nina)
And the rainhood is readjusted over her head before she turns in the other direction, hunting for a payphone.(tristan)
He laughs and leans in to steal a kiss from those cold lips and lead Diego over to his table. “Well, I got bored and someone has to go out and buy some sugar every once in a while” That grin is positively unrepentant as he slides back to his seat and pushes the tago box toward Diego.. “You got here before the roll and coffee got cold though..” A whole five minutes, hm? “How’d your trip go?”Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 21, 2003.02.21.03. - fingerfoods [imogen][noje]
(imogen)
She hasn't been home very long, with the weather like it is, the world like it is. She had been called out to Atlantic City again. The drive was made longer by the rain that melts snow, slicks streets and makes the world just that much less safe to drive in. It means slowing her speed to something resembling the speed limit.Still, she has always enjoyed the rain. This rain is not as familiar as some other downpours, this cold drizzle, but it is preferrable to the twenty inches of snow dropped on the world only a few days ago.
That might be the root of the reason she's outside. Not because she's smoking, though she is, at that, but because it was raining and she liked to watch the way the street lights refracted the rain drops, were mirrored in the slick parking lot pavement. Liked the whispering sound of wheels hissing against a road a few blocks away, a faraway car driving to far away places.
She leans against the balustrade, her elbows on the railing, cold seeping through the thin waterresistant fabric of her rainslicker. Her hair has been pulled back into a braid and the dampness from outside has actually kept it for the most part contained, tightly forced into the weave. Only a few strands fall before her eyes, as she fits the cigarette back into her lips, inhaling slowly. The ember flares as dull orange eats away at the paper and tabacco, poisons drawn slowly into her lungs as she watches the outside world. It's a few moments of quiet, half peace, perhaps. Either watching the way rain changes the world, or simply lost in her own thoughts, with the rain slicked streets just a place to rest her eyes.
(james)
it's the sound of the rain that woke him
by the coolness of the sheets next to him
she had been gone for hours
by the lack of lingering steam on the bathroom's mirrors
she had definitely been gone for hours
deft twist and control of the shower's faucet quickly fixed thathis showers aren't as long as hers
it's only a handful of minutes later that the door is opening again
thick fog of white steam following him back out into the room
even though the condo is warm enough for the Walker's SoCal blood
the layers are slowly pulled on
muscles loosened by the hot water loosening more in the ritualistic movements
the strolling steps that take him from bedroom to stairs to living room
soon enough the balcony doors slide openone wet Gnawer approaching the equally wet world
but as the rain washes the roads clean and melts the snow
he's already clean, scrubbed and fresh
how.... strange..... for a guttermutt
fingers reach and rake through waterlogged dreads
ruffling them up across sweatshirt covered shoulders
boots navigate their way around the gathering shallow puddles
and then his bicep lengthens in the press against the wall
zippo clacks open and closed
sighing breath adds nicotein fog to the mist of breath
and that's about when he catches scent of the Camel from one balcony over
and slooooooowly, he's leaning forward, peeking around the dividing walla brow lifts, and a little grin forms across his lips, chin jerking slightly up
that would be a silent 'lo(imogen)
Her head moves slowly, toward the sound of the door closing and she's watching him before he quite notices her, dark eyes steady. She does not bother dispensing a greeting, giving him time to light his cigarette, take that first nicotine laced hit. Give him time to notice her.He gives her an upward nod, which is common fodder for this pack. She has something similar, but it's something her own, that she probably had long before she'd met them. A lift of her chin, bare acknowledgement. It's not as obvious, it's a slight alteration of the tilt of her jawline. Barely visible. Sometimes that's all there is, that movement, other times there's questions, a comment, some prelude to converation.
Tonight, she exhales cigarette smoke into the wet and misting night, her breath coloured a blue grey before she speaks, tapping ash into the ashtray, resting on the railing beside her left hand.
"How's it been?"
(james)
she barely gives the acknowledgement
just that tiny, miniscule movement of her chin
which he has been able to to translate into an entire salutational repetoire
while it's well known that animals communicate in body language - humans and kin are just as capable of it
one of his cheeks creases a bit as lips quirk into a lopsided grin
a grin that's destroyed by the drop of chin and hollowing cheeks signaling inhale"Good." on something of a nod and the resultant exhale "Quiet." which, amongst this pack, and even her, speaks volumes as compared to the last few weeks, then a thumb hooks back over right shoulder "Thinking of whipping up some breakfast." at this time of night? "Have you eaten yet?"
he doesn't know how long she's been home
he doesn't really need to
knowing her schedule's as erratic as their own(imogen)
The quietness has been welcome for her, especially with the return to work. It means moments to slide back into a routine, find her rhythm once more, hit her stride as she continued to do as she has done. That Decker is gone over these last few days has only made that easier.Her expressions are often slight; sometimes so much so that there is nothing to gauge what the feeling behind it is, only that she has felt something. The Garou have an easier time reading such expressions as that. Their world is coloured by body language. It's no wonder that so many humans would think her cold.
A faint smirk curls her mouth, a slow upturning one corner of her mouth as she lifts her hand to replace the cigarette between her lips, the motion obscuring the movement of her mouth. As it falls away, her wrist turns, and a flicker of her hand causes the cuff of her jacket to fall away. A glance at her watch confirms her impression of the time, and the corner of her mouth tugs up further, "It's a weird fuckin' time for breakfast," she notes around the filter of her cigarette, as her hand falls away, brushing lightly against the curve of her jean clad thigh. "But, I haven't. What are you offering?" An eyebrow lifts, slightly as she turns to face him now, completing the turn that the diversion of her attention, the turn of her head had started. A few steps brings her to the edge of the balustrade closest to Rune's condo.
(james)
many humans think her cold
many Garou even think so
but the Gnawer, for some reason, knows better
he seems to know and understand those miniscule movements
he's found the language she speaks - and a comfort in that
not pushing her for more, and accepting all she gives
his own shoulders roll in a muscular shrug
offering a bit of that easy smile in response to the bare tug across hers"It's breaking my fast, isn't it?"
his free hand extends across the railing
an offering to steady her climb over the slick divide
it's not an insult, by any means
he also knows she's more than capable of doing it herself
no Kin to be mothered and coddled, Miss Imogen Slaughter
but he's not about to chance being blamed for her breaking her neck in random fall, either
not if he can help it"Well, unless the contents of the fridge have been altered since I last checked" and they may have well been "Eggs, sausage, peppers, onions.... anything else I can find to throw in."
(imogen)
The ember of her cigarette hisses as she extinguishes the butt on the slick wet sandstone of the railing, before tossing the butt into the divide between them, sending it tumbling into the half melted snow below.A hand grabs the supporting column of the balcony, finding herself leverage to get up, her other hand moving forward, for balancing, hovering a few inches above James's offered hand. It's there if she needs it, and it appears she'll be more than willing to take it, should it be necessary. She'd rather not break her neck, either, no more than he'd like to be faulted for it.
It's quite a few feet across to the other balcony, and as her booted foot hits the opposite railing, her hand catches his wrist, a point of balance as she completes the process to the other side. Once down on somewhat more solid ground, she glances at him, "Sounds like breakfast to me. D'you cook much?"
(james)
her hand lands against his wrist
and even in the sudden movement of balance lost
his arm doesn't move an inch beneath slight weight
strong fingers wrap lightly around her forarm
just enough to guide and support, providing that balance she seemingly needs
her question causes him to pause a moment
brow furrowing as something... rather amusing... seems to dawn on him"More often now than I used to."
he doesn't add he really means the past two years, since.... well.
there's a soft laugh as he, too, extinguishes his cigarette on one side
the other involved in a stretch to slide open the door"Made a full steak dinner the other night.... bread, veggies, whole nine yards. Another dirty habit I seem to be picking up."
(imogen)
"Well," she begins as both hands slide into the pockets of her jacket, waiting for him to go in before following. If he cannot see the half smirk that touches her mouth, he can surely hear the dryness in her voice, "this is a better habit than y'r most recent ones. At least y'can't get fat."(james)
he's not a stickler for ladies first
she waits for him to go in first, and he damn well does
she may not go six ways furry when the mood is right
but he treats her as an equal in anycase
even if he swings around to close and latch the door afterwards
the smooth slide of oiled tracks shutting out the sound of pattering rain outside"I thought so, too.... but don't tell anyone, else I'll turn into a short order cook for the pack."
he heard the dryness, allright
it's answered with one of his usual grins
weaving through the livingroom
beer first, two bottles clanking onto the breakfast bar
then he's rummaging to pull out what he can from the still-open fridge
eggs, sausage, peppers, butter, oooh, cheeeeeeese, too
the pan is set onto the stove, butter melting onto the warming face
he's found a plate and begins.... uh..... dicing? the peppers
by the look on his face, this is something of an experiment
he knows how it's supposed to go
but he hasn't done this a whole bunch of times for it to be routine(imogen)
She disposes of her jacket, her boots, putting them aside to be picked up later, before following him into the kitchen. "Your secret is safe with me."She finds a bottle opener as James rummages, in the third drawer from the top, and opens both beers as he cuts butter into the frying pan. He's begun to ... err... dice... the green peppers when she puts the open bottle, still hissing softly from the release of pressure beside him on the counter.
While he's occupied with the cutting board, she finds a cheese grater, a bowl. Firm strokes begins to shred the cheese into fine grated slices, and for a moment there's silence.
Dark blue eyes flicker toward James and his look of concentration, a faint sound in the back of her throat, suppressed amusement, "Don't cut off any fingers..." she warns him.
(james)
"What?" he sounds hurt "You don't like fingers in your breakfast?"that's when he actually stops
it wasn't the beer, it wasn't her beginning to help
it was the fact she didn't want fingers in her breakfast that offended him
he even goes so far to let the muscles in his jaw relax
lips parting gently in sheer, unadulterated.... shock.
"You go to work, and I stay at home all day simply waiting for you to get back, so I can surprise you with a lovely meal.... and you think you have some right to tell me not to put fingers in your breakfast as if it's some sort of mistake rather the excellence of gourmet effort that I have slaved over just. for. you. Well.... I see how you are, Dr. Slaughter." done with the dicing, pointing at her with a finger rather than the knife. "No fingers for you."by now the butter has melted
he's turned away from the counter
(with beer)
and cracks several eggs into the pan
the.... uh.... spatula? used to swish them around and break up the yolks
a little salt, a little pepper, a little garlic sprinkled on for taste
then he's dicing up the meat, throwing that and the peppers in
and as those begin to set, he's pulling down two plates
there's an appropriate stir and flip here and there
then soon enough he's scooping the concoction onto the plates
(neatly in half)
and setting those on the counter for her to cheese while he's rinsing off the pan(imogen)
She clucks her tongue with a soft tsk sound, as he waxes melodrama and points the knife in her direction. "Alright. No fingers." A shake of her head, the movement causing a few strands of hair to fall in front of her eyes, only to be pushed back with an automatic movement. "However shall I survive?"Cheese is liberally sprinkled, though sprinkled is the wrong word, it's too minor for the amount of cheese she provides both. She's seen the appreciation the gnawer gives to that particular dairy product, and doesn't skimp.
The plates are taken to the table, and the Bone Gnawer and the ex-Fianna kinfolk get to enjoy a particularly nutritious breakfast of a sausage/greenpepper/cheese omlet and beer. At four in the morning.
Conversation is sparse, as James shovels his food in his usual fashion, and Imogen really hasn't eaten since Friday afternoon, so she isn't particularly into conversation either, even if she would have been otherwise. Good food, warmth from the dreary cold outside, and silence.
Between the two of them, they wash the rest of the dishes and at the very least get it to the point of tidied, before Imogen's eyes flicker once more to her watch.
"And on that note, I should p'raps get myself off to sleep." Half turning to glance at the dreadlocked gnawer, a faint lift of her chin that substitutes her nod, a curl of her mouth that substitutes her smile, "Thanks for breakfast." Stepping around him, she begins toward the front door. "I'll see you around."
(james)
he inhales the food
it's a wonder he really bothers with seasoning and flavors
because it surely can't rest on his tongue long enough for him to taste
though it seems she's giving a valiant effort to keep up with him
four in the morning and they're both happily dining on breakfast concoction and beer
he doesn't need the conversation, particularly
enjoying the company, and the knowledge the food is appreciated
by the time she's heading to the door, he's offering another of those trademark grins"Anytime."
he means that and she knows it
four am, six am, five pm or midnight
she heads for the exit and he's heading towards the couch
weight sinking into the deep leather
long stretch of lean body to add the remote to the hand that's not holding the second beer
settling in to just relax and enjoy this quiet lull in their week"Night Imogen."
Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 14, 2003.02.14.03. - valentine's [rune]Valentine’s Day.
[email]
Dinner was some steakhouse, the sort of place that
doesn’t have prices on the menu, because if you have
to ask you cannot afford it. Dinner was filet mignon
and crusty potatoes and asparagus out of season and
ca. vi. ar. and wine that flowed like water. She had
asked for a private room, and the maître d'hôtel was
prepared to screw them out of it in favor of some
second-hand table by the kitchen until he got a whiff
of their rage and saw how unsettled some of the other
patrons were and decided to seat them in the private
room as she had requested.She wore a dress - for him, a dress - black, this one,
some flimsy, clinging thing and silky black stockings
(garters. He saw the flash of the bands high on her
muscular thighs as she rose from the car) and another
pair of her favorite sort of strappy high heels. They
push the toes forward, emphasize the line of the leg,
and lift her, of course, almost to his height. Some
women cannot pull them off, or at least, can only
stand and totter. Others mince their way about in
such shoes, as if they had been hobbled. She
saunters, she prowls, she sways: serpentwolf. Animal.She had made reservations. Reservations, as in
plural, not merely the one. She made reservations,
and she told him to pack a bag for the night, but
would not tell him where they were going. After
dinner - after an after dinner smoke, as they made
their leisurely way back to the Z3 - as he slid into
the passenger’s seat, she told him to close his eyes
and handed him something satin.Not lingerie. A blindfold.
“Put it on,” she says, twenty minutes into the thirty
minute drive. Because she made reservations, and it’s
going to be a surprise. “We’re almost there. I want
it to be a surprise.”Ten minutes later, the Z3 is pulling into a parking
lot, somewhere. The engine dies, she sets the parking
break, and her door swings open and closed, then his.
She curves one arm around his waist and takes him by
the hand. The parking lot becomes a sidewalks, and
the sidewalk leads to the door, and the door leads
down some hallway, where their footsteps are muffled
by some plush, sound-absorbing carpet. There is, of
course, another door (the sound of a keycard, a small
beep), which she throws upon, through which she guides
him. The sound of running water - somewhere, nearby -
and her nails against the wall, flipping a switch.
Lights. Camera......all that, yeah. She’s laughing - some low coil of
sound - and presses a kiss beneath the hollow of his
jaw as her fingers dance to lift the blindfold from
his eyes, and suddenly it’s 1001 Arabian Nights, or
the modern equivalent thereof. Less tale-telling,
more sex, the usual. It’s one of those places, and
likely he thought they were an urban myth too. The
decor is luxurious, and just this side of tacky, or
perhaps it has crossed over, but does that really
matter?No, wait. It has definitely crossed over, and the
rather enormous heartshaped bed is that seems - at
first - to dominate the room is the least of it. What
- on earth - is that above it? (Looks like a trapeze,
James.) And the sound of running water? (That would be
from the small pool, of course, complete with
waterfall, just through those glass doors.) There’s
more, of course, there’s always more: a private little
patio surrounded by snow, with a steaming hottub, a
sauna beyond the pool, and - god, that really is a
trapeze - plenty of mirrors and, well, Rune, of
course, fingers crawling into his hair, turning him to
her, mouth sliding along his jaw like fire, because
she has a scorched earth policy when it comes to such
things.“We have it for the weekend.” Scorched, fucking
earth. “...that should give us enough time to play.”(james)
a dress
she wore some flimsy little clinging dress
she wore some strappy little high heels
she wore some hinting, peeking, tanting bands slid aaaallll the way high up
in the middle of February
in fifty feet of snow around her So-Cal blood
just. for. him.he had returned the favor as best he could
(We're going out tonight, James, at six.... sharp)
shaved and scrubbed clean - even under his fingernails
tips of some of the raggedier dreads trimmed to neaten up their disarray
the black jeans and some dark, dark blood-red/black button up he doesn't say where it came from
tank boots polished to some rich, lacquered shine(and yes, Wolf flaked and has to finish typing this post reply)
Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 12, 2003.02.12.03. - aftermath [rune][condo - after conversation with erik]
(rune)
The Glass Walker watches their Alpha leave, silently. Dark eyes track his path through the living room, until he disappears around the corner into the foyer. She remains silent - and, now, still - until the retort of the door echoes back to them - open, shut - and waits as the feeling of pack recedes.They can both feel Erik leaving, down the steps (where they first fell) and across the small strip of frozen grass (because the sidewalk meanders in what is thought by the landscape architect to be a bit of pleasing whimsy, which someone as efficient as the Rotagar would ignore in favor of the most direct route) onto the icy blacktop. And more, and away.
Only then does she lift her most recently aquired bottle and drain it in three long gulps, barely pausing to breath. Traceries of lipstick remain on the mouth of the bottle, which she wipes off absently before tossing it into the recycling bin on her way to the fridge for another pair.
"That went - " Clink. Clank. Both bottles are placed on the breakfast bar, the sound ringing quietly in the still room. " - fuck." She does not (usually?) smoke in the condo, but she slips another smoke from its pack and lights up, long fingers curled in a lazy fashion around the filter. The ghost of a bemused but still faintly irritated little smirk lingers around the corners of her mouth. "I don't fucking know how that went."
(james)
it's when the Rotagar finally leaves that everything really sinks in
yes James, you just grabbed your Alpa
yes James, you survived itmellow as the Gnawer pack had been, years ago
and with so much shit they they got away with for the sake of camraderie and play
that's something Cooper would have laid him out onto the concrete for
and here he is pulling the same thing with a Fenrir
granted, a black-moon with a helluva sense of humor
but a Fenrir nonethelesswhen he reaches for the next bottle proffered
it rattles a bit against the tiles because he's shaking
it's from Rage, it's from fear, it's from adrenaline, it's from a lot of things
he wouldn't dare back down in the Get's face
but he's ready to go crawl beneath the coffee table now
cap twists off with a hiss of escaping carbonation
it's a strange harmony to the heavy sigh escaping him"Well." faint gesture towards the door, brows lifting a little "He left with a smile."
shoulders are bars of steel beneath the long sleeved shirt
it's a tension that winds and coils itself uncomfortably down his spine
quietly creeping up through his neck to pulse right at skull base
the attempt to wash it away with half that new beer at one shot is futile(rune)
Odd, this, that she is the calmer of the two. He is still shaking; she is still as a corpse, but for the minute, necessary movements of breathing and smoking. Her arm drifts, lifting cigarette to her red mouth, then falls back to rest against her hip in arthymic movements - whenever the mood strikes her, whenever she needs another spike of nicotine in her feral blood."Who knows what the fuck kind of smile it was." Slim shoulders rise and fall beneath the sleek fabric of her slinky turtleneck. Perhaps she is not the calmer of the two, after all, for tension is expression in the rigid lines of lean muscle stark and flexed beneath the fabric, invisible until she moves. "Least no heads were separated from shoulders."
Her mouth twists into a hard, flat line. Bitter humor - gallows humor - as rigid and frangible as sheeted glass.
"You gonna be okay?"
(james)
there's a moment of stillness
then the beer rattles down against the tiles
then one arm snatches out to steal her pack
(screw attempting to coordinate finding his)
one Carribbean Blue and Gold stick pilferedthere's a pause, in another moment of silence
brow lifting to finally look at the smoke he's chosen
(this will not do)
a moment of humorous rearranging as this time he looks into the pack
replacing the blue and shaking them around until he finds the strippa pink
.... just becauseher lighter used to set flame to the finely crafted end
a long inhale held, feeling the smoke roil around in his lungs
it's exhaled up and out through sinuses and nostrils
painting his senses with nicoteine and tar to blacken out what else he smells
that tinge of fear and adrenaline and a thousand other things seeping out from his own flesh"I.... dunno." it's thoughtful, slowly constructed "I do still have my head.... even if I'm about to piss myself realizing what I did. It just."
jaw skews in thought
lower lip sliding somewhat left in thought
indenting as flesh is sucked and nibbled between teeth
that silky smooth part just inside
dark gaze drops to study the smoke and beer in his hands"I just lost it hearing him say that."
(rune)
She tracks his movement with a lazy, half-lidded gaze, withdrawn and subdued, watching the flex and coil of muscles in his forearm as he puts down his beer and reaches to steal her cigarettes, watching, still, as he pulls out the Caribbean blue cancer stick, calloused fingers against the gold-papered filter, such a strange contrast. He puts it back, and she lifts a fine, arched brow in mirror to his own, the only expression that graces her features until he settles on strippa pink. Then, the corner of her mouth curls upward in a private little smirk - an odd little expression, almost a smile - and he can read the drift of amusement in her dark eyes.Her unsettled gaze remains on him, watching minute shift of muscles beneath flesh as he lights the cigarette and inhales, the relaxation - a physical change - in the exhale, and the slow movement of his mouth to form the words as he speaks.
"I know."
Quietly spoken. She says no more than that. She says only that, and it speaks such quiet volumes. She knows he lost it. She knows why he lost it. She knows - indeed - how much farther it could have gone. She knows the hollow space beneath the cage of his chest as well as she knows the weight of his body, the shape of his shoulder beneath her hands, the rough texture of his hair beneath her impossible soft (pampered, spoiled rotten) hands that have never known a day of honest work.
"I know, James."
(james)
even if he doesn't look up, he knows the twinge of amusement is there
that tiny little spark of amusement that glimmers in the depths of dark mahogany
and beneath her knowing hand, that shoulder still trembles
the constant rush and course of energy flooding through muscles
he can't help it, now, even as he chokes it all back and down
and of all the things to get his attention
the way she moves, speaks, touches him
it's a singular word that fnially gets him to look up
how strange, what startles him the most is the name he's heard since birth
for how rarely he is called it from somehis attention snaps to look up at her
(I know, James)
there is understanding in deep umber
because she knows how close he came to losing it completely
to let the rational thinking man be replaced by the hurting hating animal
the animal that only shows now in the canid tilt of head into her hand
his own releases the beer, reaching to draw and crawl about her hipsnot very often, does he demand
few and far between are the times he takes in need
but this is one of them
the grip tightens across iliac crest
slow contract of muscle to gather her closer
begging for just that single step that brings her next to him
then his head curls brow into the hollow of her shouldershe knows... how deeply respect and rank has ingrained itself into the Gnawer
and to break that, no matter how slightly, shakes him(rune)
Leather is soft beneath his hands, a second skin fitted to the generous curve of her hips, and silk is soft above them, the slippery fabric of her untucked turtleneck. The weave of the fabric is fine, and the threads are finer, and they catch against the rough texture of his knuckles as his hands move. There's a sound attached to that catch and release, and the condominium is quiet enough that both can hear it in the gathered stillness, little more than a soft rustle, so faint that it is drowned by even the quiet draw of their breath.So, too, his dreadlocks, spilling in a thick, viney curtain across her shoulder, down her back, over the curve of her breast, catch and shift against the fine-woven fabric whereever the weave is broken by minute imperfection, invisible to even the keen human eye. Here a thread ends, there another begins, in the loop and whorl silk threads woven to form the delicate fabric. The immediate sensation is the cool grace of silk, against his forehead, upon his cheek, but the silk is thin and he can feel her bodyheat radiating right through.
She steps into him, and lifts her arms. Once, they fall back to her sides - helpless - but then they rise again and settle around his hunched shoulders. What space remained between them after he drew her to him evaporates, as her body folds into the shape of his own. Her hand slides from his shoulders until her elbows - the curved muscles of her upper arms - settle there, and her hands crawl into the thick mane of his dreadlocks, plunging through the rough tangle to hold him to her, and hold him close.
This comfort she can offer him: the warmth of her body against his, the lullaby of breath as it fills her lungs, expands the cage of her ribs, as it leaves her body, the underlying bassbeat of heartbeat, this meager, meager music. Otherwise, she is helpless.
Helpless.
(james)
those dark umber eyes close
some flesh shell drawn protective over the earth's rich tones
feeling the silk against his cheek
how smooth it is, this barrier between their skin
through it, the heat radiates from her
pulsing in time with the healthy thump of heart
he can hear the faint sounds of blood pumping through veins
the slow draw of breaths that fill her chest
perhaps, even, the distant sound of his hands across her clothingthe cigarette is abandoned
some half-blind movement to settle it into the ashtray
and that's when he can fully turn towards her
where at first he drew her to his side
now? he's twisting on the stool as her arms drift across his shoulders
drawing impossibly tall and lean form between his legs and close
her fingers crawl into dreads, and his hands encircle her back
rough palms catching on the imperceptible imperfections in silk
dragging the fabric against her warm skin beneath
until his arms crisscross her back to tighten and lock that embraceshe feels helpless
but this is all he asks
these singular passing moments of silence
where through a strange osmosis he leeches the comfort she offers
it's drawn like the heat that radiates from her core
slowly filtering through the ache of unused muscles so ready for battle
what seem like countless nights they have lain together upstairs, in such a silence
so this should not be any different, any more fulfilling
but it is - for in this silence he finds the little he dares need
soaking all that she gives himminutes on the clock have strolled by
one, three.... perhaps five
that's when he finally draws away
the strong embrace loosening to gentle slide of hands down the slope of back
the lift of brow from her shoulder, to finally allow some breath of the condo's air to enter him
instead of what seemed like he was breathing directly through her
but even now, he doesn't look up
even if she is the only one he would ever show such weakness before
- he doesn't look up to those eyes(rune)
Minutes have on strolled by, molasses slow and lazy as a sunning snake. Little things already passing, already gone, endless little things, and no more than that, for all it seems a slow lifetime.She does not move until he lifts his brow from her shoulder, and takes a breath not drawn through her clothing, not suffused in the distinctive scent of her flesh, which he would know, which he could sense, even with the fog of carcinogenic smoke clouding his senses of smell and taste. Even now - fainter - the scent lingers in his mouth, flavoring every breath he takes, much as his scent wreathes through her senses, some animal knowledge, that, buried beneath the layers of civilization, the endless age of men, buried, but far from dead.
It is the same animal instinct that guides her movements now. Her chin falls as his rises, and when his eyes do not find and meet hers, her own close. Flesh against flesh: the brush of her cheek against his in light caress, the slow drift of gentle lips against his flesh. It is a different sort of hunger, this, but no less animal. The craving for warmth, the comfort of skin, the blind little movements of her mouth up the hard line of his cheekbone, over the throb of pulse at his temple. The rising movement is mirrored in the arch of her spine against his gliding hands, inviting the strange grace of his touch to linger on her body. To linger, and not to consume.
Only this is taken - these few quickened moments, this strange knowledge that shifts and glides between them, ephemeral, grasped but never quite known, this liminal comfort, this passing gentleness, and no more. And perhaps - though she would never admit it - perhaps she needs it too.
Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 09, 2003.02.09.03. - down at julio's [diego-imogen-decker-tristan][north jersey]
(james)
there's a little dive down on 42nd street in Hibernia
you can smell it before you can even see it
just some little hole in the wall that nobody really notices
so that would be why there's only a few customers inside
and the outer patio area? there's only oneone raggedy man braving the cold evening weather
dreads layering up over shoulders to keep in the warmth
patchwork trenchcoat tucked all tight around him
the chairs are probably less than stable
and the table is in need of a good cleaning
there's a Camel sparked up in one hand
the other manages a fork over the piled high plate
quite the coy feline smile from where the steam drifts up from the foodJulio's serves the best fucking Mexican food for a ten mile radius
(diego)
and so of course he knows about it. Mrs rodriquez down the hall had told him about ir. of course her food was better and he was more than welcome to come over whenever he needed a meal, a nice young boi like him. is sure there would be a lot of neices and grand daughters present when he gets invited over.anyway if it was good enough for her to actually say it was good, then it must be the best in the city so after rugging up (how do you people stand the cold ) he looks like a moving ball of fluff he tramps his way along the paving and towards the resteraunt.
(james)
tortillas flash heated in oil
meat so tender it fell apart on your fork
cheeeeeeeeeeese in all it's melty gooey goodness
piled high with guacamole and salsa and sour cream and even. more. cheese.
by now, the Camel has been snubbed out in the tray
and he's digging into the pile of (what exactly is that) with flourish
outright inhaling the mountain of foodit's during one of those times he just has to come up for air
or just wash what he's chewing down with a slug of Corona
he looks up and around the street
brow lifting bit to see the semi-familiar ball of bundled warmth
still too far away to call out, though, so he waits(deigo)
hes been spotted as well. i mean you inhale a meal that quickly and people are going to notice, again he wonders if gnawrers actually chew. .. step falters for a moment floundering in the snow he almost falls as he comes to an aburpt stop on that icy surface. for a moment he stares just watching for now. torn between conflicting instincts. finally he steels himself an finnishes his walks towards the hole in the wall resteraunt. "juuu mind if i sit here?" shy nervous reluctant hoping. standing oposite james he is an empty doll just waiting for the answer.(james)
he notices that slip and steel
even if there's nothing that overtly betrays that
deep umber eyes climbing upwards to hear the small, soft voice
and his lips move into a warm, easy (read: welcoming) smile"Not at all." a thumb hooks back over his shoulder towards the resturaunt "I haven't paid my tab yet, if you're hungry or anything.... just tell Esperanza that you're with me."
(diego)
"gracias" he nods slightly his own face flickering into a sort of almost smile. so maybe you dont bite. he drifts inside to place an order. nodding that yes he is outside and thankyou could they please bring it out when its ready, yes he will take the cola now. and yes he will cover the bill for both their meals..glass in hand he moves back to the table pulling out that other (most rickety chair) he sits in it slowly almost leaping right out again (oh so cold) before settling back down. .
(james)
by the time the little Walker disappears and comes back out again
the Gnawer is using the last bits of tortilla to pile the remnants of his meal into a mini-mountain
the last two taquitos used to clean that up
dark eyes lift as he's stretching out
the chair tilted back to what must be more precarious than comfortable
it's amazing the chair hasn't broken yet
(maybe that's why he chose this table)"They give you any grief about it?"
he knows they wouldn't
but it's a conversation starter if anything(diego)
"que? why would they give me grief?" who would be giving him grief, he just looks lost. as he waits for his food. sipping at that coke, should of got something warm(imogen)
It's bloody cold, so the two outside draw her attention, even from a block away as she carefully slides a guitar case into the trunk of her black mercedes. Eyes narrow faintly as if the movement will ease the blur of distance peering at what might be a familiar form.Okay, yeah, it is a familiar form.
A gloved hand presses the trunk lid down, before she completes the turn that her gaze over her shoulder had begun. A casual glance both ways over the street before crossing toward the small hole, with all it's goodness and treasures hidden by dingy apparel, and other small business trappings.
As she reaches the fenced in area of the patio, she does not enter, but stops across from James's and Diego's table, her hand curling over the wrought iron fence that encloses the area. Her other hand pushes back strands of hair, escaped from her braid, tucking the recalcitrant locks behind her ear, as a smirk slips across her lips, a half greeting nod to both, though her words are tossed toward James (she knows him, this is easier), "You and Tristan seem obsessed with catching pneumonia outside," It's fucking cold, the wind has caused a faint flush to rise over pale white skin, like the delicate colouring of a poppy. "A family trait, per'aps?" Soft accent, lilting, creating a near song of her words.
(james)
the laughter is soft
not condescending, but amused"They shouldn't have, which is why I asked." smiled "So what's got you out in the cold?"
there's many a reason why he comes here
the food is cheap, and it's quickly made
not even ten minutes later Espi's shuffling outside
talking in some Spanglish the Gnawer only half understands
probably scolding about why they're choosing to sit outside rather than inside where it's warm
but she lays Diego's plate infront of him
and James trades her an empty bottle and plate for another Corona
(she knows him so well)
lighting up yet another Camel
smoke added to the moist fog of his breath in the air
the purse of lips sliding into a quirked grin as head tilts
dreads stumbling down over his shoulders due to gravity
winking at the chilled Kinfolk"Probably.... we have this habit of sleeping outside in weather colder than this. Wanna join us?"
lifting the beer to gesture towards the food
both an offer, pneumonia probably included, too(diego)
he just grins at the woman complimenting her in spanish on the food and appologising for making her come out into the cold to bring it to him. something about Mizzzz rodriquez being right this is the best place for food in the entire city. she contines to mutter altohugh its more along the lines of such a polite young man now.eyes watch imogen even as he takes the first bite of his meal (a slightly smaller version of the monstrosity james was eating and appears to be chicken). he might not be Gnawer but hes still a growing boi so he can eat it almost as quickly. "hola"
(imogen)
"Hola," she answers Diego absently, "¿Como stas?" more a momentary question, not actually expecting an answer from him, though mexican spanish must sound odd when wielded by a british tongue."Yes, but," as she takes a few steps to reach the gate, entering, and grabbing one of the chairs from a nearby table (it's not as if anyone else would want to come sit outside), "You're two of the only people I know that actually do it when you've got a choice f'r th'otherwise.
"I'll skip the food, though." Amusement flickers though not quite as telling, because she doesn't actually smile.
(james)
if she smiled he'd probably have a heart attack
and the lift of his brow shows it
leaning over to wipe a bit of snow off the table before where she sits
food or not she shouldn't have to rest her elbows in slush
his pack tossed out between them in offer
something of a nod towards the smaller Garou"Bah.... it's for the food. Even Diego would agree it's worth the chill."
(diego)
blinks in surprise hadnt expected her to speak spanish, "bueno" single word muttered around a forkfull of food. it seems hes relaxing a bit around james "it is definatly worth braving the cold for the food."(imogen)
A brief glance toward Diego as he speaks around a mouthful of food, a faint nod acknowledging the answer, before her eyes flicker toward James, "I'll take y'r word for it, then," as she removes her gloves, shoving them into the pocket of her jacket."s'not as if you're in that much danger o' cold, anyway."
(james)
he's got a belly full of incredible food
he's surrounded by pleasent company
he's got a beer, and a smoke
all sortsa relaaaaaxed
and hopefully it's spread out towards the smaller Garou
unless it's the full moon he figures not much gets to the Kin
at least... that she lets show anyway
it's as much of a mystery as her humor
a boot snakes out to drag yet another chair over
then his rickety one rights itself with a creak beneath weight
both feet propping themselves on the newest arrival of chairs
brow lifting to slip a glance back at Imogen"I'm fucking freezing woman."
just because he's not actually going to get pneumonia
doesn't mean he's not turning into a popsicle beneath those multple layers(imogen)
And the full moon does not bother her as much as it should. She reaches out to pick up the packet of cigarettes, tapping out one of the camels. They seem to share smokes freely, at least between the two Gnawers and the redhaired kin. Imogen lends hers, James lends his, Tristan lends his. It all works out in the end.Half to lighting the cigarette, she looks up at James, amusement flaring in dark blue eyes as an eyebrow arches. "You, James, get zero sympathy. There's a perfectly good restaurant right there." Cigarette, still unlit, leaving her mouth as she uses her left hand to point toward the actual restaurant, before glancing at Diego, shaking her head, "No, thanks. I'm good."
The cigarette is replaced between her lips as her hand reaches into her jacket pocket, likely probing for her lighter.
(decker)
So the cold snap has taken over the land again. Damn groundhog must've seen his shadow after all. Decker's following the homing beacon of James' satisfaction (fooooood.) from half a mile away, driving and then parking, parking and then walking the rest of the way out to Julio's.Snow's piled high atop the corrugated metal roof of the little hole. Decker eyes the metal roof, the shingle walls, and figures it's probably not much warmer inside unless they had space heaters going full blast. Air probably wasn't so fresh (er. fresh? try searing cold.) inside, either, so maybe James had it right after all.
Mounting the crooked steps up to the patio area, the Modi nods up at his packmate, gives Diego a curious-careless stare (gnawer kin right? scared-shitless one? practically the only type he ever meets.), and smirks quietly at the sight of Imogen looking for matches. Doesn't make any comment this time 'round, though.
"Ain't y'all saved nothin' fer me?" he asks, cool-quiet-southern low and rough at the edges as he pulls up another chair, assfreezingly cold after having sat out in this weather so long.
(tristan)
The nachos hit the spot last night, but it barely touched his appetite for some decent Mexican food, and its in that frame of mind that after saying goodbye to the last of tonight’s brave listeners, he packs up beloved instrument, and starts walking. James had mentioned a decent (read: cheap and still good) place to grab some grub down the way so he may as well check it out. Grab some for Diego too if its as good as James claims.
Bundled up as he was last night - he’s added an extra layer tonight, its bloody well cold out here. Not only are there the warmers in his violin case, but he’s got one in his coat pocket too in order to keep fingers limber as well, switching hands often. Quick ground eating strides round the corner and head toward Julios.(james)
there's probably a bare handful of things he would not share freely
cigarettes are not included in that handful
it's one of the many things he will share, or even give up his last of, without a second thought"The smoke bothers Esperanza even if she doesn't say anything about it." said so matter of factly "And besides, if I wanted your sympathy? I'd crawl up on my hands and knees... and still get nothing."
oh so blatantly teased
that's about when the Modi walks up
there's a nod up, and a careful watch of that stare
(Kin.... right)
and here he goes hooking his thumb over a shoulder again
back towards the little dive that, well, probably isn't much warmer"Yes, and your being here means I won't have to cart it home. It would be special number three in the stack of 'to go' boxes on the back counter."
(diego)
if hes bone gnawrer then hes got himself a sugar daddy cause hes dressed way to well. that coat has come from somwhere much more expensive than the local thrift shop. and the layers underneath it. he doesnt go fleeing for his life this time although eyes cut to james ever so quickly. before that blank porcalin mask falls into place. there is a slight nod for decker as he rises slowly heading into the resteraunt. the closes he will probably get to an achnoledgement although its almost a bow " i'll get it for you i needed another drink anway"(decker)
James gets a long stare that could mean anything. Most would mistake it for a i'm-about-to-pound-yer-ass-into-the-dirt-fer-no-apparent-reason stare. Fortunately, James is Decker's packmate, and at least somewhat used to the crackling ragefield he carries in his wake like a Concorde trails sonic booms. There's some measure of bemusement there."Think o' everythin', don'tcha?" he comments, getting up outta the chair again, only to sit his ass down when Diego goes instead. "Yeah, alright," tossed carelessly toward the 'kin' as he turns his attention back on James. "'Nother one o' yers runnin' around the city. Randal. Owns that videoshop down in AC? Bringin' 'im to see ya yesterday night but he got his ass lost."
Had nothing to do with Decker going 80 on the dark icy freeway. Nothing at all.
And Imogen: "Need a light?"
(imogen)
A sound in the back of her throat that is nearly a chuckle to James, smirking in his direction, "Well, good, I wouldn't want y'to waste y'r breath on somethin' like that."Decker's smirk receives an arched eyebrow in return as the fire-haired kinfolk watches the Fenrir draw up a place at the rapidly filling table. Conversation drifts about feeding Decker, and she did not bring her lighter with her today. The cigarette is pulled from her mouth, held lightly between loose fingers, as her attention sharpens once more on the Modi, tilting a slight nod in his direction, "It would seem so, yeah."
(tristan)
Ahhhhh, a deep inhale pulls scents out of frozen air… foooooooood… something near and dear to the pretty boy kin’s heart. The little dive in the wall with the gathering on the patio brings boyish grin (better ease up on that good natured take shit as it comes stuff - or he’s gonna take it out on pretty boys face) plays around lips.
Decker, James and Imogen - good company. Well. 2 out of three isn’t bad. He Heads up to the little patio area and pauses next to the table. “Room for another?” Grinned as he goes about switching hands - exchanging violin for warmer before the latter is tucked with his hand into coat pocket with only one pause - to make sure his hat is still over his ear and taming the curls.(diego)
he steps out from the resteraunt one of the 2 go boxes in his hands order number three 2 beers and a coke balanced on top.and to think he just wanted a nice quiet meal. good food and maybe a nice conversation with someone. instead he feels like hes been set up once more. he almost wants to growl. (although its definatly at deckers back and out of site) a flash of a smile for tristan, hey you. before that empty mask falls back into place. the food and one of the beers for decker the other for james and the coke for him. he claims his chair again moving it that bit closer to james (and that bit further away from decker)
(decker)
Right. So he leans back in his chair, front legs coming off the ground. He takes his time pushing his hands into one pocket after before finally feeling the telltale shape of the little cardboard box. One carton Ace strike-anywhere matches produced from his left thigh pocket. Less than a half-dozen left by the lightness and the way the matches rattle inside. Oughta buy new ones soon. The chair legs bang back down on patio deck and he sets elbows on the table, tapping the box on the table while he cocks a skeptical eyebrow at her."Suppose ya want me to light yer smoke too?"
If he notes Diego's annoyance, he doesn't show it. Like so many other things, it fell into his 'who the fuck cares?' category. Convenient, that. Lets him concentrate on more interesting things.
(james)
yeh, one can say he's damn well used to it
anyone else would probably cringe or slink away from that ragefilled stare
but this Gnawer? takes it all in stride
slow grin widening rather unrepetantly
because yes, he does think of everything
or at least tries to where pack is concerned"What Rune was mentioning this morning, halfway ran into him one time, but was sort've busy.... think Tristan knows him. Any particular reason he's looking for me?"
a nod up (yes) for Tristan
and he doesn't move away as Diego moves closer
letting the smaller Ga...er... Kin sneak into his shadow
a bit of a level stare returned to the Modi
(there better be a 'thank you' instead of a grunt)
then it slides away to the Walker
yes, another beer, in freezing weather"Thanks."
(imogen)
Decker takes his sweet time finding matches, and Imogen watches him for a beat or three, before her attention flickers toward Tristan, half greeting.And then attention returns to Decker, sliding the cigarette lightly between her slender fingers. His skeptical eyebrow arches and her own raises to match his, as one elbow leans on the table, half moving her chair further over, because this table's starting to get crowded, somewhat, and there'll need to be some shifting to get Tristan in.
"Just give me the damned matches, Rohl," she replies, a curve of her lips dispelling any thought of annoyance that her tone might denote as her hand reaches across the table, palm upturned. "I'll try and find the independance to light it myself."
(decker)
"Naw," drawled as he takes the beer from Diego, sets it down, and reaches up to take the food too. Onehanded, 'cause he still got matches in the other hand. And - yeah, there's a grunt instead of a thanks. Continuing, "Think he jus' wanted to check in. Yer the only damn Gnawer 'round these parts 'r somethin'. Cept fer that Coyote pack."Odd, when you consider Jersey seems the kinda thing Gnawers would dig. Julio's looks like it mighta been run by one of their kin. Shoddy exterior, good hearty food. How much more Gnawer can you get?
Snorting at Imogen, "Well shit, independence 'n Imogen." The box of matches is flipped underhand toward her. "Whodathunk."
A easy twist of his hand gets the cap right off, dropped on the tabletop with a clink. He pops the styrofoam box open, hunts around for a fork, digs in.
(Tristan)
He grins and sets his violin case down under Diego’s chair with a wink (and slide of hand in hello over his knee, unseen) before hands tuck into pockets and he sees that everyone has something - cept Imogen, and you know, really beginning to wonder if she ever eats. So! Hands come back out of pockets, and he points to the door. “Yeah, I know Randal.. seems to be a good enough kid.” A payse, a nod and “Food - back momentarily” And he heads inside the paperthinwalled shack that is just as cold as it is outside, to the counter to order…(diego)
grunt is more than enough acknowledgement for him and the more attention he pays to anyone but him the better. another smile for tristan before he dissapears inside. for now content to watch (cower)(James)
"'Yote left on tour a bit ago, hitting some cities out of state before they'll be back."tossed out absently
that would be why his cash flow has begun to lessen
not doing the odd job or three for the band since they're not around
soon enough, he'll be back on the street corners again
whodathunk
he is the one folks are reporting to
now if that doesn't beat all.....
because yes, Jersey seems a place Gnawers would sort've flourish in
odd indeed
brows furrowing thoughtfully through the next long swig of Corona
his boots pull off the extra chair, making room for Tristan upon the momentary return"You get enough to eat, Diego?"
quietly, glancing to the (cowering) boy
he said he'd watch over the younger Garou, and he meant it(imogen)
He tosses the matches at her, and she has to fumble to catch them, previously outstretched hand jerking backward to make up for the underhanded arc of his throw. "Thanks..." Dry.Her cigarette is replaced in her mouth and the matches tapped out, one pulled from the box, and then once again the box is tapped shut. Decker favours strike anywhere matches, struck across his boot, a wall, anything. She just strikes across the side of the box, one hand cupping the flame as she brings the match to the tip of cigarette. Inhale, light up. A flick of her wrist extinguishes the burning match as her other hand pushes the matches back toward the Fenrir.
It's habitual as she turns her head away to blow toxic smoke from her lungs, a blue grey exodus, familiar smell.
(decker)
Decker's scarfing down food again. He doesn't get so totally lost in the goodness of down-home Mexican as James, though, and doesn't quite miss Diego's cowering. Or James' concern over someone who was dressed just a little bit too well to really be Gnawer kin. But whatever, it ain't his concern, and he didn't really feel like asking. Not yet, at least.Doesn't quite miss that Imogen's the only one not eating, either. If he hadn't personally watched her eat on a few occasions, he'd be wondering if the woman ate at all, either. Maybe she subsisted on cigarette smoke. Well hell, at least she looked good smoking, and if he was gonna find out how she tasted later, he's rarely in the state of mind to make any sort of critique by that point.
It's all good.
Pausing midbite, fork held in his mouth, he takes the matches back and leans his weight to one side. Pushes the box back into his pocket. Sits again, hunkered over his food, and pauses - chewing - to question, "Ain't hungry?"
(diego)
is that an almost grateful smile "more than enough" soft low voice flowing in that south of the border accent.is almost glad Imogen is there makes him feel less short. plus she seems to posess some strange power that calms the big bad wolf. or prehaps thats the food either way. he doesnt care
(tristan)
He’s not long, returning in the promised minute, eyes twinkling merrily as Esperenza continues to mutter about his joining the rest of the crazies out in the cold. He takes the seat recently vacated by James’ boots, hands still in his pocket as he waits for his meal, one sliding out to take out the hand warmer, and offer it to Deigo, knowing the well dressed boy is from far warmer climates “Should last a few more minutes…” tease laced in his voice, before he relaxes back in the frigid cold. Relatively quiet - tempers that good natured teasing shit way down for Decker most days, not that he’d ever believe it - and with the moon waxing it’s time to do so again. Ankles cross, and long legs tuck under his chair as he listens… watches the oh so independent Imogen, but is also good - and does not ask about that dowry crap either. Instead? Yup, boy stays quiet.
(james)
he has concern for someone dressed entirely too well to be Gnawer Kin
of course, he's a Gnawer that can be found living in an enormous condo
but since he's shown himself to appear utterly heartless in some situations
(banaman)
shows that the boy has to be at least Kin, or somethin
but as long as it isn't asked about
he doesn't say a damned word"Good."
okay, maybe one word
there's that easy grin again
pleased that the almost grateful smile eeked its way to the surface
when the Gnawer kin sits down
he's up, heading back inside
must need another beer or something(imogen)
It's easy to dwaf Imogen, so even Diego is taller than she is, with only a few inches (if that) over five feet to make her slender frame seem that much more petite. Put her near thick muscled Decker, or lanky lean James, and that makes the impression even worse.The dowry would certainly be an interesting conversation right about now, yep.
The ember brightens as she inhales on the filter of the cigarette again, attention turned toward the Fenrir, shaking her head, "I already ate," she explains as smoke mixes with her words.
And so, conversation isn't that much of an issue, here. Eating food, smoking, drinking coronas, whatever it is they're up to, breath misting because of the cold. The lights of the patio are dingy, casting pale orange reflections, muting brightness.
(diego)
he frowns at the hand warmer, then grin hunting around in his own pockets. "you keep it i have something work just as well" pulling out breifly what looks like a glowstick (you know the type you snap) .snap. oooh look at that it burns so bright glowing already tucks it deep into the layers of his clothing nestled against his brest bone with only one layer of clothing seperating it from skin.(tristan)
Even he drawf’s Imogen - but then again he’s even taller then James, so it’s not too surprising. Long and lanky, and naturally lean. He laughs at the glowstick Diego pulls free “no fair - yours is prettier” oh that grin isn’t wicked at all, is it, as he slides his back into his pocket, and smiles a thanks up a the lady muttering in spanglish about them out in the cold. A soft thanks as he takes his food, and digs in, quickly and efficiently (can we say inhale?) which is the gnawer way, forearm on the table, somewhat around his food, fork making steady trips from plate to mouth and back again.(decker)
At some point Decker finishes up, tossing his fork down in the empty box and slapping it closed atop it. Was a race against time to see whether he finished the food before it cooled in this weather or not. Leaning back, he looks at Diego's glowstick, then at Tristan as the violinist pops off with his not so subtle innuendo. Is he sayin...aw, that's sick.Decker? Not tolerant. There's a grunt as he grabs his empty box up, flattens it, and frisbees it toward the trash can in the corner of the patio. That finished, he gets to his feet and pushes his chair in, hooking his beer up with his free hand. A swig, and then he bumps Imogen's shoulder lightly with the butt of the beer. Through her thick clothing, it's probably barely felt.
"You pick yer car up yet? From last night."
(diego)
diego just ignores that not so subtle inuendo or at least trys to the fact that he was sipping coke at the time. and the fact that it tried to exit his body via his nose doesnt help.smiles at him huddling around the growing warmth radiating from the glow stick (there not supposed to be warm are they?) watching decker. wary watching imogen watching tristan even hes just a bundle of nerves.
(imogen)
A faint blink toward Tristan and his innuendo before smirking faintly, her attention turning away to watch as the Fenrir makes his intolerance known with a grunt and gets up from the table.A slight shake of her head, as she taps ash toward the concrete beneath the chair and her feet. "No, I haven't gotten the huge desire to take a taxi cab 'cross the state to pick up work's car."
She tugs lightly at the bottle that had so recently nudged her shoulder an eyebrow lifting in query as she raises the cigarette back to her mouth.
(decker)
Misunderstanding, Decker frowns down at the barely-touched bottle. "Ain't drunk that much." Wait, or did she want... "Oh." He lets go of the bottle, ceding it over to her. "C'mon." His hand falls on the back of her chair, ready to push it back in after she got up. "Give ya a ride."(tristan)
Decker is intolerant. Oh. The. Shock. But he just lifts a brow at Decker, before chuckling. Everyone knows he meant the glow stick - it is, after all, prettier then his own hand warmer and they’re a bunch of dirty minded Garou for thinking anything different. The epitome of innocence is he, after all.
though he can’t help but laugh at the coke out the nose trick, murmuring a “sorry man.” Though it is, at best, half-hearted, behind that boyish grin. He glances up at Decker as he stands and gets ready to go, Imogen in tow, and simply goes about finishing his meal between sips of his beer. “Later guys” offered their way.(imogen)
The corner of her mouth lifts slightly, be it because he misunderstood, or because she was getting some of the beer. "Alright," standing up and pinching her cigarette out between her fingers, extinguishing the ember, rather than grinding it between her heel. A swallow of the beer as her other hand deposits the cigarette into her pocket, "I drove 'ere usin' m'own car," she explains, moving away from the chair, and if she doesn't do what she thinks he might, she pushes it in herself, "Meet me back 'ome an' go from there?"It has to be a different mindset, to have two cars at your disposal, one for work only, and the other for her own use. Admittedly, if she didn't, she would find herself victim to getting a replacement car more often than she does (death is a messy job), but still...
A sideways glanmce at Tristan for his farewell, "'Night," she offers his way, as she offers the beer back to Decker, holding it loosely by the neck.
(diego)
a death glare for tristan. with all the force he can muster ruined only by the smile. "adiós"another glowstick from the same pocket as the first this one also snapped again that almost to bright light before he physically shoves it down the front of tristans shirt "there now yours can be as pretty as mine"
(decker)
"Yeah, okay." He feels around his jacket pockets for his keys. Tristan, James and Diego get a collective standard-issue nod up. Then he glances down at the beer offered, eyes briefly shaded, and takes it back for another (large) gulp before holding it back out, a little less than half-full. "You kin have the rest." Always stay less drunk. Either that, or he figures a pretty woman with police connections will get off lighter for having opened alcohol in her car than a 18-25 white male with a chip the size of Texas on his shoulder.It's a few steps back down the steps to the street, and then he heads down toward his truck, parked under a streetlight half a block away. Getting in, the engine roars to life, the headlights blink on, and then he's pulling into a U-turn headed back for the condo.
(james)
bag rustles as he walks back out, the several take out boxes left rustling around in the plastic
there's that pack-patented nod up to the Fenrir and Kin heading out
standing just behind Diego and Tristan, he nudges the Walker's shoulder
deep umber eyes looking down with a smile"Thanks."
(imogen)
She wasn't about to go driving with an open beer, whether she was more likely to get away with it, or not. She takes the offered bottle, and takes another full draining to the last quarter, before taking a few steps toward the open trash can, dropping it in.It's back down the street, now, crossing the street to her car. Decker's already on his way, and it's not long before she follows the same suit, the alarm of the mercedes disarming and the locks clicking open. She slides in, and slips the keys into the ignition, starting the engine. Headlights flick on, and then her turn signal, before she pulls out into traffic, heading off in a similar direction.
(tristan)
“HEY!” Sputtered as he’s physically assaulted with a glowstick (ohhhhhh waaaaaaaaaaarm) before he all but outright purrs in delight as he shifts that stick around till more comfortably resting against his belly. “Thank ya…” He finishes his meal and pushes the container aside, leaning back with a grin and patting full (and waaaaaarm) belly with a content grin. A glance up at James, smile remains, though brow cocks slightly, curious, but just says in way of thanks for the info on the location of Julio’s “Every bit as good as ya said..”(decker)
So they each make their own way. Everyone has their own favorite roads. Some like the shortest trajectory possible. Others like the ones with the fewest stoplights, or the ones that circle farthest from civilization so that for a moment they can look up and see the stars. And some just take whatever comes to mind easiest.Any which way, they end up in the parking lot at about the same time. She parks and he pulls to a stop outside her space, throwing the emergency brakes on and clipping the radio off on the return-stroke of his hand. The lights stay on and the engine stays on, one shining bright, one chuffing in a lower key than the smooth purr of the Benz. He isn't buckled in again, as usual, and he's got one wrist atop the wheel, the other in his lap, as he waits for her to get in.
When she does, he glances over at her briefly to make sure she buckles herself in. Then it's off, southbound, street to freeway.
(diego)
head leans slowly backwards until he can look up at those eyes of the one standing behind him "no problem"(imogen)
The benz slides into it's parking spot, and the engine cuts off, the lights die, and she steps out. The keys are pocketed and rounds her car to the truck idling perpendicular to her parking spot, pulling open the door, and stepping up into the truck by way of the runner boards. She does buckle up, as usual (either aware of her own impending mortality, or the memories of some recent car crash victim, autopsied and laid to pieces before her), drawing the belt over her frame and sliding it into the clasp with a muted click.Strands of hair are tucked behind her ears as she glances briefly at him, for a moment before glancing away and watching as the streets pass them by, eventually becoming the long freeway southbound to Atlantic City.
Her jacketed forearm rests on the curve of the door, against the car window's frame, and after a while her other hand lifts to unbutton her jacket, as the truck's heater begins to seep through, and it's just a little too warm to be wearing the jacket done up to her throat.
They have enough silences and quiets that they may as well have names or meanings for all of them. Some are easy to read, others are not so easy to read, their meanings opaque (either because he won't show it, or she won't see it, or some other variation of it all), but in this one, he might be able to almost hear the mulling within her mind, the gathering of thoughts to say something, perhaps. Or not to say something. Let it rest, let it lie This thought is solidified by a look at him, sidelong, and away again, punctuated by the slow intake of her breath, and then speech. "Rune tol' me 'bout th'whole dowry thing."
(james)
that easy grin remains in response to the curious look
but he doesn't say anything about it
Diego knows what he's thanking him for, so that's good enough"Would I steer you wrong where food is concerned?"
hands dig around for his zippo
leaning between them to retrieve his pack from the table
there's that trademark clack! when it snaps open
the fwp of flame sparked to life
then the long, slow inhale to get that cherry stoked nice and bright
lid snapping closed with flick of wrist"Another thing Rune mentioned when I woke up this morning." almost drawled on the drawn out exhale "Is that she found out there was more of her family around... that wasn't quite ready to meet her." a brow lifts, looking down at the two again "Should I keep playing innocent or let her know."
because he knows Diego doesn't want to be found
and so far it seems his pack thinks the Walker is kin
Tristan, above all, should know how hard it is for him to keep something from the Beta(tristan)
“Never thought you would” Grinned, easily enough, and the curious look was just that, nothing more nothing less and not knowing is perfectly fine with him. Hands dig around in pockets, lean form stretching to toss the disposable warmer into the trashcan, that glow against his belly warming him through and through.
Ohhhhh, waking up in the morning… how novel… and what he says then filters through. Christ on a fucking candlestick - guess he should have grabbed Diego before he left this afternoon but he was working and it hadn’t come up. He slides his hand into his pocket in the ever present search for his lighter and pack, lighting a cigarette before tucking it all away again, and letting Diego field that one.(decker)
It's late night. The freeway is open, shared by a few other insane denizens of the state who counted driving long distance among their Sunday night activities. He drives much the way he'd waited for her: the left hand wrapped around the top of the wheel, the right loose in his lap, or on the divider armrest. Silence suits him just fine: silence punctuated by the rush of distance passing, the huff of the heating system, the bump of lane dividers under the tires as he slides into the fast lane, the unsnapping of her jacket. This last draws his attention to her for a curious moment, his eyes flickering between her hand on her buttons to her face to her hand, and finally back to the road. He bumps the heater down a notch, and all the while he can almost hear her preoccupation, the steady run of thoughts through her head, unknown.He's about to turn to her and ask her what the hell she's thinking when she speaks first. And when she does he stiffens, minutely but perceptibly, his hand tightening on the wheel before it relaxes. Goddammit, Rune...
An exhale, nearly a sigh, and he pushes himself back against his seat for a moment, getting comfortable for what might be an uncomfortable discussion.
And the road keeps rushing by. And the road keeps rushing on.
He's got a straightaway up ahead, a stretch of freeway that follows the sea (there, just past that exit, is where he stopped to help her with a flat tire that fateful morning...) unwaveringly, where they could stand and watch the sunrise if they so chose. He doesn't watch the east, though. He watches her, and the way the few lights that lit the freeway slid over her skin and clothes, dipping and moving and finally fading behind them.
He looks, and he looks away. At long last, a prompt, "And?"
(deigo)
he was smiling still at the thanks, and then the new sets of words set in. what who which one of your two? that smile slips very quickly into that nuetral dolls face. he has lots of practice hiding behind that generic expressionless mask. "i guess its to late, they know now"(imogen)
And?The universal answer without giving an answer. She had done that, not too long ago, to force the weight of the conversation on him, and make him speak, because she had flatout refused to speak her mind. Sometimes it's safer that way for one, or the other (though he's inately selfish, and she can be that way, too, so it's more likely easier for him than it is for her, this time. And it was sure harder for him the last.). As he watches her, she watches him, a slow steady stare that meets his eyes unerring even as the alternating light and shadow sometimes makes his irises lost in pools of dark. He looks away, and still, he can feel her eyes on him for a beat, for more.
And?
Her lips move in a half smile that isn't so much a smile as a caustic grimace dressed up as pleasantry. She looks away, her attention turning toward the freeway before them, the lanes beside her. Little dashes painted on black road. "And I doubt you were going to tell me." It's a comment based on neutrality. Impossible to read.
Beat, but she's not expecting an answer to that, because perhaps she can understand why. There are things she doesn't tell him, either. Their relationship, if it can be called as such, may very well be held together on what is not said rather than what is. It certainly requires less emotional attachement than this, does silence.
"What the hell do they care about it?" she asks, and once again, there's little to be gleaned from it, except perhaps reading emotion into the curse.
(james)
that reaction causes him to sit back down in his chair
dark brow lifting as he looks at the little Walker"No. They don't." there's a hard, even glance to Tristan, then back at Diego... goddammit he just got the kid smiling, in public even, and now he's all behind the mask again "She's no idea who you are, or even why you're running - she doesn't even care that you are, figuring you have your reasons. We've all had our reasons for disappearing for awhile."
Rune disappeared
Tristan disappeared
Diego disappeared
James, too, disappeared
they've all got their own personal horror stories that caused such a violent withdrawal from the Nation
smoke coils out from his lungs, a gesture to flick ashes towards the tray
the Ahroun isn't exactly pleased"Why I brought it up is that if, for some reason, you do need her help, or want to meet her - you'll still be safe. Until then, she probably won't even give you another thought. I just didn't like having to skirt around the truth of knowing who that family member in question was."
(decker)
"Yer right," cutting in, and she can read the irritation from his tone, "I wasn't."More silence. More miles. Distances are foreshortened by speed and night. The dashes on the road are six feet long apiece, but rarely do they seem that. It's only when you wait by the roadside for the eighteen-wheelers to clatter and roar on by that you notice these things. Why this should occur to him escapes him.
One eye on the road, he leans across her and fumbles through the glove compartment, looking for a map, a tape, cigarettes, a joint, anything. Something to pass the time with. He finds a pack of gum, which is as good as anything, and strips a stick out onehanded, drags it out with his teeth.
He offers the gum to her and finally answers, "Fuck if I know." There's latent fury there - an amorphous, almost helpless kind. "Fuckin' assholes got a bone to pick with me 'r mine 'n I don't even know shit about it. But..."
There's another pause as he reaches behind him to adjust the tilt of the headrest. There's a safety in silence; what's not said can never be the wrong thing to say. There's a safety in distance. Don't get too close and things can't get more complicated than they already are. Don't get too close and he won't ever be in a position where he might try to (want to) hurt her someday.
His jaw works as he chews without tasting. Spearmint, doublemint. Cinnamon, fruit. His eyes skim the rearview mirror automatically, return to the road, and then there's a few more words. "Don't worry 'bout it. This don't concern you."
(diego)
he frowns slightly thinking "i dont want you to have to lie"conflicting interests. he watches you both. studying lost nursing that drink wishing he had a tequila "no... it ok you can tell her, i guess this means they all get to know"
(tristan)
Yeah - he knows.
He knows all too well - can’t keep anything from her and sooner or later he would have told her anyway. Momma Grace had a saying - damned if he can remember it just now, but seems he’s picked up more of her meddling mannerisms since he’s been away then he’d figured. However, he meets that hard even glare dead on, and every bit as even. Cigarette moves to his lips, deep inhale, and then back to tap in the ashtray again. The Ahroun isn’t pleased. And the kin? Not saying a damn word.(imogen)
She takes the gum from him, pulling it sharply from his fingers, taking a stick and shoves the package back into the glove compartment, pushing it shut with a muted click. She unwraps the stick as he speaks, and is half way to popping it into her mouth when he finishes speaking. "Right." Sarcasm is fairly safe, too, though it's a more dangerous weapon for her to play with.Particularly when he's driving a goddamned truck.
"It just has to do with you, the Fianna, and who is claiming whom. No, it doesn't concern me at all. That is such--" and the consideration (he's driving a car, he is a Garou, she is a kinfolk, and he could kill her) that would occur to most about... two minutes ago, occurs to her now, and she cuts off the phrase sharply, placing the stick of gum in her mouth instead, and she barely tastes the stick as she works it between her teeth either, her eyes leaving him and returning to the road.
(james)
"I didn't lie, I just changed the subject before she would think to ask if I knew anything about it. It was just mentioned in a rundown of what I slept through last night."inhale, exhale, reaching over to squish the filter into the tray and kill the cherry
he hasn't kept anything from her so far, but he also keeps his fucking promises"Are you sure? Even if I tell her, it doesn't mean she's going to tell the others. But I won't tell her if you don't want me to."
(decker)
Long before she cuts off, he's cutting her off. "That's right, this don't concern you at all." Heatedly, he shifts in his seat, sitting up, clamping both hands on the wheel while he spits words at the windshield. "I remember damn well what the fuck happened last time ya thought you'd go traipsin' yer ass out to settle this shit yerself. This the fuckin' exit?" - pointing at the sign flying overhead.Then he continues without missing a beat, "This is bullshit, they know it's bullshit, Noah knows it's bullshit. You just stay outta it 'n I'll settle it."
(diego)
he hates this, at the moment all he wants to do is crawl under the table and hide or stalk away. prehaps both. refuses to look at Tristan you and your medling i am sure your behind this somehow. and to think i gave you a glowstick. "tell her, tell them all, i dont care anymore" angry and defeted in the same breath should of just moved when he had the chance. he folds arms across the table resting head upon it.(Imogen)
And as soon as he's speaking again, she's looking at him, her words clipping off the edge of his, barely letting him get the sentences out. "Yes, it's the fuckin' exit," she retorts with just as much heat as their actual conversation. Poor exit never did anyone harm, and it's already been referred to as 'fuckin' in the space of five seconds. And they sound like they mean it, too."I did not go 'traipsin'' to 'settle' anything. Christ, you were the one who told him to talk with me." Voice controls, abruptly, as she looks away, as if the lack of visual connection made it easier somehow.
"Of course it's bullshit," she says to the window, her leaving the frame to brush across her face and tender back hair from her eyes, "Christ, we didn't even have that in Britain."
(tristan)
He wasn’t doubting the kept promises, he wasn’t doubting a damn thing, and there are reasons behind everything he does as well. But he simply keeps smoking that cigarette, and listening. Then there’s the last. And eyes close - briefly then open again. Smoke stamped out and he bends to grab his violin case (…growlingsnappingaffection…) and he pauses, and since he’s so close and all being the instrument case is under Diego’s seat he just lays his forehead against shoulder and murmurs. “’splain later.” Which was something he’da done anyway, until this has forced his hand quite a bit sooner then he’d planned - should have at least been saved for the afterglow conversation. Somehow in his figuring - he’d forgotten that Rune wouldn’t keep anything from James either. Goddamn Warriors. No patience whatsoever. But he? Had promises to keep too. Just. Now it will be a lot sooner.(decker)
"Well, I made a fuckin' mistake," he snaps, bulldozing right over the abrupt control in her voice while he takes the fuckin' exit to the fuckin' offramp, and down to the fuckin' street. "I made a fuckin' mistake, and--"(and he could've killed her)
"--it ain't gonna happen again." Still seething, he stops at a red light and drums his fingers on the wheel, on the gearshift until she speaks again, and he looks at her - sharply but puzzlingly, his grey eyes giving away little in the red bathe of the traffic signal.
And he looks away again. "Don't worry 'bout it," repeated. "Deal with it myself."
(imogen)
She stares at him, the red glow bathing his skin, the fuzz of his short cropped hair, altering, however slightly the colour of his eyes. The stop light is a wash of warmth against her pale skin, and causes the normal bright vibrancy of her hair to be almost -almost- lost in the redwash.He looks away, and she looks away, a breath that hinges on a mirthless chuckle escaping from her lips, "It's much easier to say 'don't worry about it' when you're the one wandering off to 'deal with it'," as all she says, as the fine fingers of her hand press lightly against her temple. There's something of her voice that speaks of impotent frustration, for all the near neutrality of it.
Property. The core of it all was property and who belonged to whom, and who had paid the proper dues. Who was claimed (Are you mine?) and who had the most right to her pure blood, her fine breeding. Or, at least it was when you looked at it from a kinfolk's perspective. Dowry was buying someone. Or selling them.
But it didn't concern her. He'd deal with it himself.
(james)
the moon's not even full yet
it's only been slowly growing
it's only halfway there and already he's bristling"Yes you do. Which is why I'm not telling her."
which is why he's not telling his ma..... Beta... something
there's an unchecked glare that begins, the words were half snapped
but sure enough he reins it in
now isn't the time to point fingers or place accusations
(swallow it down, Jamey-boy, just choke it back down)
reaching to pluck the sack from the table
plastic rattling it's protest to the abuse
long, lean Gnawer slowly standing"Told you I'd keep you safe, Diego."
much softer now
but he's got dinner to take home to his pack
so that's what he turns and does
offhand wave, even if they're both not looking at him"Night."
(diego)
he looks up before he can get to far those whispered words not in his ear but in his mind =thankyou James, i trust you will. You can tell her if you want= soft exhale head tilts slightly to look at the face pressed to his shoulder. "you i think should explain now"(decker)
She says one thing, but her tone speaks for itself, and damned if he's not more attuned to the underlying timbre and rhythms of her voice than he is to words - those abstract things he never could wield quite right. And he leans back, hissing a breath out, staring at the baleful red of the stoplight while he went over things in his own head."Dammit, Imogen."
She's frustrated? So's he. He turns his head to look at her, hand still on the wheel, foot still on the brake. "Let's just pertend. Just fer one minute. That you went to 'deal with this' yerself. The hell you gonna do? Huh?" His hand lifts from the wheel and falls again, striking it with a dull thud. Bluntly, "They want me. To pay him. So I kin fuck you. Hell makes you think they's gonna give two shits what you think?"
(tristan)
“Not here.” He shakes his head, and grabs violin case, standing, and looking over at the retreating form of pissed off Gnawer.. why is it every… (stop that train of thought right. There. Pretty boy). He hefts the violin case and looks back at Diego. “If you’re gonna hurt me - do it at home where crawling to my couch is a much shorter distance. Common..” Dark eyes are somewhat unreadable, somewhat conflicting in the emotion, but the hand that’s held out for Diego’s warm, and hopeful. He did have his reasons. But it’s up to Diego to take that hand and find out if he wants to know - either way.. guess he’ll leave the protecting for Gaia’s chosen for now on. (Forgot the hell it is to care again, didn’t you? Much easier when they’re all nameless fucks in the back of some car, in the darkness of some alley.)Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 08, 2003.02.08.03. - just because [rune][noje]
(james)
the condo is quiet, near empty
the only light downstairs is above the breakfast bar
three little halos of dimmed brightness shining down onto the tiled counter
rims of the plates gleaming in that low luminescencejust two
the rest of the pack has been gone all day
no word on whether or not they'll be coming back
so he only got two plates out of the cabinet
set them quietly against the tiles
maybe only a glance towards the stairs
that half reflection of bedroom light coming out from beneath her door
she's up there, been up there, doing whatever it is she needed to do
so he's been down here, doing whatever it is he has to to keep out of her way
(phone calls, business, such things that he wouldn't even understand)that was 20 minutes ago
since then he's moved out onto the balcony
snugged right up next to the grill - it's cold out here
leeching the heat it inadvertantly leaks
scented, savory smoke blasting up when he opened the lid
flipping the steaks grilling cage bar scars into darkening flesh
there's bread to be added in a few minutes (if he read the instructions correctly)
there's a pot of vegetables covered and warm on the stove (that was accomplished easily enough)
it's a careful negotiation of balance that lights Camel from the licking flames (and not dreads)
and even though the lid is closed, he doesn't step away
basking in the invisable glow of grill's warmth(rune)
Business. Phone calls. Email - interesting. Finally a response about Cole the last-name-less from someone in Miami by way of New Orleans. These are the small, necessary little housekeeping tasks that she ignored for a year after she fled (her tribe assumed she had dropped off the face of the earth) and resumed when it became necessary, for the pack, to protect the veil, to keep them informed and in the digital loop, to maintain good relations with her relations in New York City and Philadelphia, the closest urban centers, both boasting sizeable populations of urrah.It's a neverending loop, these little obligations, and she is frustrated by the necessity, frustrated by the doubletalk and ass-kissing, frustrated by the obligations and debts incurred, frustrated, even, by favors owed her. There's a reason she packed up with a bunch of Fenrir and only a few other urrah. There's a reason, as different as the Fenrir are, that she will continue to tolerate their differences above and beyond the comfort of pack. Even when incomprehensible, they're simple enough ('cept for the Rotagar), and there's something satisfying in that, too.
Seeping frustration: her booted feet echo on the floor with more force than necessary, half-way down the steps.
Inhale.
She tiptoes down the second half of the flight and peeks around, glancing at the breakfast bar. The faint curl of her smile appears, then fades again, as she turns back around and marches back up the stairs. Ten minutes later, she's sauntering back down the steps. Boots and leather have been abandoned in favor of silk and strappy little heels. It's a good thing that she never neglects her pedicure, because the teeny little black sandal-things reveal all her toes, painted the same red as her nails, which is just a shade darker than her wicked little dress.
The back door swings half-open, enough that she can see him. Enough that she can light a cigarette and count on most of the smoke filtering out into the night beyond, but only just, in an effort to conserve some measure of heat and body heat, since the dress does precisely nothing to keep her warm.
"Hey soldier," the first words, accompanied by an exhaled breath of smoke. She's leaning against the wall just inside, one foot perched against the opposite baseboard, in a slouch worthy of some red light district in Paris or Lisbon or London - somewhere far away and exotic. "...you got some of that for me?"
(james)
he can feel her frustration and irritation
maybe it's through the pack understanding that they share
maybe it's from something far deeper that only they share
whether it's the pattern of heavy boots pacing the floor
or the angry stab of fingers against the laptop's keyboard
.... he knewthe sliding door opens, and he glances up with a warm smile
just a quick hello before going back to maintaining this diligent guard over the steaks
cigarette clenched between his teeth, some strange slash across that smile
then it's back to continuing this little experiment
because he's..... never grilled steaks before
but since they had everything, and he found it all while poking around in the fridge
well, he thought he'd give it a go..... hello?
that double take is a little slower
dark gaze sliiiiiiiding right on up the scandalous slouch and brows... lift
from the strappy heels perched against the baseboard
that.... little.... silky.... red deep rich wicked red..... dress...
(oh. golly.)
the bare muscle of shoulder pressed against the wall
finally finding his way to her eyes
this? it is not what she was wearing before!
the surprise at is revelation quite clear on his face
and so is the all but visable mental slap! and shake
(pull yourself together man!)"I think so." murmured with a thoughtful nod, opening the grill to flip the steaks again "I was hoping to have some company for dinner." another slow. deliberate. look. back. "Someone like you."
that's when his rather intently studying look turns into that silly little grin
slipping the bread out of the package and laying it out next to the meat
easing the heavy lid back down so not to blast her with smoke"I...... think? they're starting to cross over to medium.... is that allright? "
(rune)
"Company, hmm?" Dark eyes half-lashed, a sly, knowing sort of look, smolder above the coy curve of her red mouth. He flashes her a slow, deliberate look, and beneath the drift of his gaze, her body moves - a ripple of suggestion - as responsively as if he had touched her. "...I think I can supply the company."This is not what she was wearing before. This is merely what she has changed into, for him. He looks - and then he looks - and she remains in her easy, languid post - shoulders against the wall, feet against the baseboard, hips outcurved and somehow bearing the balance of the whole lean line of her body. Dark hair falls across the curve of her cheek, spilling lower as she bends and reaches to ash the cigarette through the half-open doors before resuming her pose.
"...just about medium's perfect. I like just a little pink in the middle." The coy half-curve of her mouth deepens in response to that little grin. It's infectious. She's infected. "I'm not a big fan of the still-mooing variety."
(james)
he's.... still not quite able to get over that dress
and it takes a minute for him to look away
(steaks James, you're cooking steaks)
because he knows she changed just. for. him.
there's a fold of body to reach under the grill and turn off the propane
there's a lift and lean of body to snub out the Camel
plate grabbed off the table and he's maneuvering the steaks onto it
then comes the balance of the (hot!) bread on the sideglass door slowly slides open, only as much as it needs to be
he's edging past her and back into the warm confines of the condo
returning the door to it's almost closed state so she can finish her smoke
lower lip pulled between his teeth with that grin that still won't quit
he's barely inches from her, now
drowning in that coy half-curve deepening across her mouth
just a pause to absorb all of ithe's been in a relationship before
he's been damn mated before
but now? it's as if this is all new for him
he never forgot how to love, or how to care for someone
but he's still stumbling through it, with her
sometimes so very aggressively confident
sometimes so very painfully shy
a breath fills his lungs, drawing in her scent
probably about to make some comment on his ineptitude at cooking
or perhaps a remark about the dress
but it's lost in his indecision, and he only finds that grin wideningthen he's moving towards the kitchen
steaks on plates, joined by bread and veggies
each set before one of the stools waiting beneath the counter
then he's turning to pull open the fridge and find some beers(rune)
He's been in a relationship before. He's been mated before. Although one could say she's been in the former (hardly like this. Serious, perhaps, even deadly serious, but nothing so painfully raw. Never so painfully real.) she's never even been close to the latter. The raw confidence with which she carries herself lasts as he moves the food from grill to plate, lasts as he reaches to turn off the propane, lasts as he snuffs his cigarette, lasts as he slides open the sliding doors just enough to enter, lasts, even, as he pauses in front of her......and fades, and fades, as he lingers. She uncurls from her slouch, feet sliding back beneath her to give him room to walk, body rising porportionally against the wall until she's (almost as) tall (as he) again. Still, though, she lounges there, the way women do, when they have some sort of inborn, animal grace, when they are comfortable in their own skin. Her eyes find his and watch the shift from intent to indecision. Though the coy little smile lingers, turning wry, her eyes are widening, and her pulse grows more rapid, and she takes in a sudden, quick breath, cigarette hanging loosely from her hand, wrist against her hip, forgotten. The exhale is slower and more deliberate, full and rounded, an act of will more than anything else.
She should say something. She should, really, say something, anything. She should prolong the moment, the keen awareness of something more than their bodies so close in the narrow hall. She should say something, but she says nothing. Her eyes will have to speak for her, and the brief graze of the fingers of her free hand along his elbow as he at last turns and heads into the kitchen.
She can hear the clatter of the plates set upon the breakfast bar, the sigh of the fridge as he opens it, and the clink of bottles together as he grabs them. The last is the signal, and she tosses her cigarette outside, into the sand-filled (snow covered) urn that serves as ashtray on the back balcony. The glass doors slide closed with a rattle along the track that drowns out the hiss of the smoldering tobacco as it falls into the dirty mixture of snow and sand.
Perhaps that moment lingers between them as they eat. The conversation is quiet, all about nothing, really. No confidences are exchanged, no painful memories plundered, no plans for war or redemption, no mention of the earth, dying beneath their feet. The conversation is quiet, accompanied by the arhythmic music of forks and knives clinking upon plates, bottles lifted and put down again. Quiet, quiet. She compliments his cooking - and, really, how long since she had anything but take-out? - and he, no doubt, waves away her praise with a gesture of his fork.
Sometimes, it's the little things that matter.
(james)
it's the little things that matter
especially when you never have enough to give the great things
all you can manage are the litte things and phrases that make up the overwhelming whole
so it's the little turns of words to create communication here, the absent wave of fork there
the sheepish half-acknowledgement he didn't turn the steaks into hockey pucks
the simple fact that around her, and only her, there is conversation as he eats
the way, as their plates slowly clear, he watches the earlier frustration melt out of her shoulders and frame
the final swallow to empty beer and reach for her plate
everything settled in the sink to take care of latermuch later
now?
he's pulling another two beers from the fridge's arctic interior
sides clanking as long necks are pinned between his fingers
even before he's completely around the bar
his hand lifts in offering, no words, invitation only spoken in that silly little grin
rough fingertips sliding over baby smooth and pampered skin
tugging her towards the softness of the leather couch
he sinks (collapses, that dress makes his knees weak) into the deep pillows
and even though they're connected, he doesn't pull her down quite yet
allowing those umber eyes to lift and crawl across her silk clad form
(daaaaaamn)
but he gives in to himself
pressure along her arm gently increasing until she gives in as well(rune)
It's the little things that matter, and so she remains standing above him for a moment or three, scalloped edge of the hem of her dress drifting somewhere midthigh, heels lifting her three inches higher than her usual height, the shape of the shoes (not the shape, mind you, human feet were meant to keep or hold for hours at a time) lengthening her legs, calves flexed, muscles taut with the strain necessary to merely stand in them.One moment, three, she resists the growing pressure on her arm, just watching him with a bemused half-smile, before giving in to his tug and the force of gravity. Deliberately kicking off her wicked little shoes, she steps down (three. inches.) and pivots (like a runway model. Secretly, it seems, she watches the Style channel when no one else is home.) around, and sinks - not onto the cushions beside him - but into his lap, back leaning against the arm of the couch, legs curled forward along the couch.
Her arm falls behind his neck in a natural drift, settling around his shoulders. The bottle, cool in her hand, is used to push back his dreadlocks, then - playfully, gently - brushed along the nape of his neck.
"Thank you." For dinner, presumably, murmured as she leans to rest her brow upon his cheek. She said it before, as they ate. Now, inanely, she repeats herself. "...it was delicious."
(james)
there's a soft growl
playful, in it's threat, as she resists
but he knows she won't for long
half expecting her to sit beside him
but readily welcoming her into his lapone arm adds itself to the support lent by the couch's
sliding down to slouch against the pillows
deliberately rotating her weight to fall against his in the measure of gravity
the other hand finds a comfortable spot along the length of her thigh
half of his wrist on the redly scalloped edge of that little dress
half on the warm flesh barely clad beneath
beer held out at angle so it doesn't touch her legthat's about when a shiver runs through him
playful growl a little louder as she ruins the sanctity of his pleasently full and cuddly (?!?) warmth
favor returned in the bend of wrist which slowly - playfully, gently - traces his bottle up the back of her thigh"You're welcome." for dinner, presumeably, since he's no fork to wave it away with "Thought you'd be hungry after spending all afternoon on the phone."
there was no other reason to his cooking attempt other than just because
he could have easily borrowed the Beemer, or used the land line to order in
but, just because, he didn't want to(rune)
"Turn about is never fair play." Hiss-whispered half-against his ear, half-against the side of his jaw, voice rising to a gasp as the shudder that unfurls up her body from the sudden assault of cold! finds its way into her tone. The soft pressure of her mouth, the warm rush of her breath, the cooler kiss of the flat enamel of her teeth as they graze the underside of his jaw. "Didn't they teach you that in kindergarten? You're supposed to turn the other cheek."Her free hand skims along the line of the dress to shoo his hand - and that damned bottle - away from the bare flesh of her thigh, then she uncurls her arm from around him long enough to take a long, long pull from her own beer.
Pleasantly full, oddly cuddly, and she's not. thinking. about. it. That she just climbed into his lap voluntarily, that she's nuzzling him like a - like a - well, like a teenager or something, and again, just because. Because he's there and warm, because she l---s him, because she came down from a frustrating afternoon of emails and voice mails to find dinner (for two! and two only) ready and waiting for her.
(james)
he cannot help the laughter
even if he knows he's going to pay for it
because turnabout is never fair
he should, by all rights and purposes, be ducking away from her teeth - not leaning into that heated hissing whisper
then he pulls the perfectly curved body closer as if to warm away that shudder
(because she voluntarily sat in his lap, and he wants her to stay there)
strong arm curving tightly around waist and belly"At least."
hand shoos away
quickly moving around to plant the bottle against her inner thigh
then slipslide it aaaalllll. the way. up.
not stopping until the very apex where long legs meet
and he holds it there, through savage grin"I didn't do that."
even if he just did
winking as the bottle is pulled away
(that jailing arm still around her so very tightly, there was a method to that cuddly (!!) madness)
and he moves right on into taking a long gulp or six from it
because as long as he's doing that?
she will not make him pay for it
Gaia forbid they waste a beer
but as soon as he has to come up from swallowing for air....
... he figures he's one throttled Gnawer(rune)
"You. did. do. that."The words are half-breathed through clenched teeth, breathless, long after the fact. After he has swallowed the remainder of his beer (if he's taking a swallow or six, might as well finish it. Soon as it's gone...), and after she has recovered enough of her breath to speak. After, of course, he made her arch and wiggle and wriggle and and fight against the iron trap of his arm, lean body straining upward in a futile effort to get away from that bottle there. After he has made her fucking squeal - "...you fuckin' bastard..." - in between gulps for air - "I'm going to fucking kill you." - words more felt than heard, for her jaw clenched and tightened and she bit (hard)the curve of his jaw.
So, after she has finished the rest of her beer, she tosses back the rest of her arm, throat working furiously to swallow (it's a wonder she doesn't chock) the rest of the amber liquid. Then she allows her bottle to fall gracelessly to the floor (the maid can get it, or they'll get to it in the morning) and removes his empty bottle from his hand (ditto, there) and de. li. ber. ate. ly. removes his imprisoning arm from around her waist, balancing against the arm of the couch with an outflung hand to rise to her knees.
It's her turn to trap him. Shifting again - leather sighing and depressing beneath her weight, focused now on two primary points of contact - to trap his hips between her knees, his thighs between her calves, his body beneath the full measure of her weight. Her hands on his shoulders, her fists tucking into the fabric of his shirt, lifting him and pushing him to the side, and down. It's a careful dance - awkward on the narrow couch despite their grace - but even the laughter that rises in her when their limbs become hopelessly entangled does nothing to ease the savage edge of her vengeful little grin.
"You did do that." Spoken again, once they're somehow rearranged and he is stretched out on the couch (vulnerable) and she is crouched, thighs straddling his waist, hands firmly curled over his strong shoulders, holding him in place. Hair spills across the curve of her cheek, a momentary curtain across her eyes, shaken away with some easy, natural motion, to fall forward again. The inky strands catch against her mouth as she speaks, but are shaken away once more before she finds the curve of his lower lip, bites and pulls. Hard. "And I'm going to fucking kill you."
(james)
she fights
she wiggles
she wriggles
she outright squeals
in that little red dress
on. his. lap.
(hoooo golly)"Yes I....hey...."
it should be a protest, but it sounds more like laughter
carrying all the way into some helpless sprawl across the couch
as much as she deliberately removed his arm from about her waist
he deliberately keeps shifting to help propagate that tangle of limbs on the narrow, deep couch
as much pushing his luck as he's pulling her towards him
the slim length of her hands across strong shoulders
her lean weight holding down his heavier bulk
slick and sleek Walker (in that red red dress) pinning the raggedy Gnawerof all the vulnerabilities - and there are many between them - none are physical
there's a slow stretch of tendons through his neck
chin lifting (throated) if only to rise into the bite (kiss)
there's a small sound that rises from his chest, soft and full and raw, one he's trusted to her sole possession
tongue slipping out to smear away the welling blood from indentions left
smiling against her hissing threat of a whisper
chasing after her own lips with challenging snap of teeth"Gotta work off dinner somehow....."
calloused palms slide up long thighs, beneath the skirt of that wicked dress
such a stark - and welcome - change from the bottle
settling rather comfortably on her hips(..... that's what he.... thought)
then the grin deepens seditious (chalk up another reason for his adoration) and weight shifts
just as easily as she placed him there he's sitting up again
iron grip around her form returns when he stands, carting her with him
she let him cook her dinner and then voluntarily crawled into his lap
she'll just have to deal with the consequences
now he's all determined to take her back upstairs for something other than frustration from the phone calls and emails and countless other things entwined with her Nation duties
and if it involves his death, at least it will be a good deathPosted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 06, 2003.02.06.03. - fleshtones [rune][jesey city]
(rune)
He woke not to the sound of the shower (though it was in the back of his mind, it permeated the last levels of dreaming sleep, the rush of close water, the groan of pipes in the walls, the faint threading certainty of steam seeping beneath the door to the bathroom) but to her weight settled easily, casually - never entirely casually - across above him. The waterbed dipped and sighed beneath her knees, settled on either side of his waist, and then once more as she leaned forward, balancing on an outflung hand, two bearing points become three.She was fully dressed. He had only the twisted remnants of sheets for (bare) modesty, and at first it seemed it would be one of those nights were waking becomes play, and play becomes - eventually, a long eventually - sleep, without anything more productive getting done. "Wake up, sleepyhead." Her mouth brushed - a faint, hot little caress - from the corner of his lips along his cheek, until it settled next to his ear. "...waaaaaake, up." She lingered there, in suspended animation, her body curved like a lowercase e, until he peeled his eyes open and settled his gaze on her. "I want - "
The sudden, sure presence of her weight. The tickle of still-warm, wet strands of her hair across his cheek, the foreshortened plane of her face, sharpened features, lush red mouth curved into an incomprehensibly wicked little smile, the sharp sensation of her teeth catching the lobe of his ear.
" - to fucking. go. shopping."
By then, it probably wasn't what he had in mind. She was off him in a jiffy, though, the bed roiling beneath her shifting weight, enough movement to make him seasick. Twenty minutes later - showered, dressed - they were consuming the only dish the Glass Walker will deign to (read: can) make with any skill. Appropriately enough: breakfast. Potatoes pan-fried with peppers, onions and sausage, topped with shredded cheese, all washed down with (breakfast of champions) Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. An hour later, they were pulling into the parking garage beneath Neiman Marcus in the central city mall in downtown Jersey City. The sun was just setting - long slanting light spilling through the marching ranks of skyscrappers, professionals wandering out of their offices in search of a drink, or three, or a negligée for the evening's fun. The Glass Walker climbed from the car and beeped the car alarm on, lighting a cigarette to consume on the brief walk through the chill concrete garage, still smiling that wicked little smile.
Hell, sometimes shopping (when the moon is still a sliver of light in the sky, when the dark surety of rage that comes with Luna's full light has not yet carved itself on their warrior's souls) was almost as good as sex.
(james)
the bed dipped and swayed some pleasent sea rolling beneath his dreams
the sound of waves whispering up against the sandy shore
the heat of a body pressing close (showered, clean, moist) like the sun's rays warming
even before he wakes fully hands being to reach and crawl up her thighs
(wake up, sleepyhead)
sliiiiiding over smooth.... leather?
hm, apparently this was not a crawl back into bed morning? er... afternoon
(waaaaaaake up)
a smile forms beneath the faint, hot little caressing pressure of her lips
whatever distance he had put between himself and sleep somewhat visited again
a rather content waking sigh as eyes fall closed, head instinctively tilting against her breath
fingers splaying over length of thigh muscle to grasp her hips
well, he'll just make it a crawl back into bed mor...afternoon
(i want)
oh. yes. I want, too.
let me do something about these pants
(to fucking. go. shopping)arooo?
dark brow lifts
she's pulling from his clutches, he's sitting up to playfully grab after her
the bed rocking and rolling hard enough to all but toss him out
all that's probably still holding him there other than gravity is the modestly (barely) covering sheet"Shopping, huh?" laughed "Guess today's war is at the mall."
nope, no crawling back into bed for the Gnawer
twenty minutes later they're at the breakfast bar
sixty minutes later they're parking the Beemer
little motor purring itself into echoes within the concrete garage
the yellow arming flash bouncing off the walls and countless other carsone arm extends to steal her cigarette
strippa pink cancer stick twirled between fingers with drummer's grace
gold filter dents between teeth, sly glance above the teasing smile
hands freed to pull the rubber band "borrowed" from her out of the pocket of black Levi's
yeh.... Levi's
figuring his normal faire would stand out
(the way she was beaming and bouncing this was no mere outlet mall trip)
he fit himself into the nice and new jeans, and the dark charcoal sweater
completing the ensemble with tying dreads into a loose ponytail
and only then does he hand the smoke backwell hot damn, he can clean up
(rune)
He can clean up. Of course, she already knew that - in a manner of speaking - after countless hours spent with him beneath the scalding jets of the fancy-schmancy shower, with its multiple showerheads and sauna feature. (Okay: few of those hours were spent in actual, actively cleaning mode, but the principle remains.) She already knew that, but that doesn't stop the slow crawl of her appreciative glance - beginning at the crown of his head, where thick dreads create long rough furrows, pulled back as they are into the make-shift, down over his features (lingering on his warm dark eyes) and then lower: the charcoal sweater draped across muscled shoulders, half-revealing, half-concealing the strong physique beneath. Flat abdomen, slim hips, muscled thighs - yeah, baby. She'll get as many envious, sharp, catty little glances as he will (what's he got that I don't have? what's she got that I don't have?) and the approval lingers in her eyes, in the shape of her lascivious little smile.You look good. She doesn't say it. She doesn't even think it, but it's there all the same, plain enough for him to read even in the shifting glare of harsh incadescent light from the bare bulbs lighting the way up the steps into the posh downtown mall.
Booted feet clatter on the concrete steps leading to the faux-marble foyer, with its wealth of green plants bioengineered to withstand the constant assault of exhaust fumes from the parking garage and gleaming glass double-doors. The Glass Walker isn't just walking, she's prowling. If she were a lion, this would be her serengetti.
"Spring's been out for a while - " she comments, offhandedly tossing the remnants of her strippa pink cigarette into the convenient recepticle before the doors. " - but summer..." It's hard to imagine what she's going to buy. It's hard to imagine why she's so damn excited, anyway. She wears close to the same damn uniform every night: leather pants supple as a dream, and some sort of turtleneck, blouse or sweater atop that. "I'm so tired of fucking boots. I want some new shoes. Strappy little... sandal things. And, hell - " the flash of amused glance, as she swings open the doors and strides into the overstuffed overpriced overhyped department store. " - maybe you can help me pick out a new bikini."
(james)
it's a sideways glance that catches her look
the little three word long phrase that lingers (burns) in it
his smile may have been worthy of a Ragabash, earlier
but now it waxes a little shy
it's not as sharp around the edges
there's a change in the way skin wrinkles around warm eyes
chin tucking down a little towards collarbones
dark dark gaze lifting to glance back, then slash awaysure, he looks at her that way all the time
when she's all excited about going shopping for frivolous, expensive things which she doesn't need much less could fit into her closet but that she wants it and there's that warm glow of anticipatory satisfaction
when she's dressed to the nines in leather and cashmere, crisp and clean and unforgettably stylishly lethal
when she's first crawling out of bed in the morning (afternoon, evening) with the pattern of twisted sheets pressed into her skin, make-up smeared by passion and hair tangled by sweat, stretching out sore muscles through swaying walk into the bathroom and he steals that little quarter-conscious glance before passing back out again
when she's been gone for four days without word, dressed in some cheap t-shirt and boxers, not a shred of make-up or style or normalcy
she always looks good to him
just because she's her
.... but to have that returned....just grab the door James
hold it open like a good boy
even if she's independant enough to open it herself"Strappy little.... sandle things....." hands settle firmly on her shoulders, playfully turning her left instead of right as she had originally directed, not like he knows which department that heads them to ".... can wait."
that grin is back
so strange to see on a Hood in a ridiculously posh and overpriced store
fifty dollars can clothe him for a year, all seasons included, if not longer
and he knows that won't even buy half of a single thing she's interested in
most would think he would be uncomfortable here, out of place
he is - there's no doubt of that - out of place, at least
he's never even been in a place with price tags this high
most would think he'd disapprove, of the way she carelessly spends money
but.... he doesn't
others need, and a Hood provides
and this, she needs
whether it's the clothing, the shoes, the Stuff, or just his company - it results in her happiness
she needs it, and so he willingly provides
for as much as he knows she spoils herself
he is well aware of her generosity where it counts(rune)
"Oh?" her smile is arched, matched by the singular rise of a sharp dark brow, cast half across her shoulder at him as she moves at his direction. Shoulder sliding beneath his hand, turning and moving but never breaking that point of contact - warm and strong and sure - because, hell, right now even that playful little gesture, sedate and chaste as it is, makes her grin like a fucking a loon. "Strappy sandals can wait, but - " the flicker of an amused glance, ahead of them, hands spreading, arms lifting in a grandiouse gesture. "...but you just turned us toward the make-up section."Past several overstuffed racks of lower-priced (meaning, in a place like this, $50-$100) spring fashions, about to head toward the clearance rack even though they're not even through with the worst of winter yet), around the faux-market-pushcart brimming with Godiva chocolates, into the vast, lab-coated land dotted with little pseudo-scientific plantations of make-up counters. Estee Lauder. Clinique. Elizabeth Taylor. Whatever. Each an island of gleaming glass and metal and infinite colors, staffed by men and women whose skin has not breathed through anything less than three layers of "product" in six years (minimum. It's part of the job requirement.)
She stops, abruptly enough that he has to all but run into her (and that was the point, really), hand stealing to settle atop his atop her shoulder, pulling it down to curve around her waist and just - well - enjoy the warmth of his strong presence.
"Were you hoping to find a lipstick that looks a little better on your - " tossed across her shoulder, the flash of wicked suggestion, the bare curve of a smile that flashes only the hint of white teeth behind lush red mouth. Hmm-hmm. She clears her throat and smiles, wide and blatantly innocent of any possible suggestion that he might ever take from those words. " - collar?"
Even though they're blocking the aisle (maybe because they're blocking the aisle) and other shoppers must turn and retrace their steps to circle the Godiva stand, she lingers there another moment or three. Safe. They're fucking safe, here. It's not like they're going to find Decker or Erik consulting the starched, stretched woman (another face-lift and you'll be able to see her brain through her nostrils) at the Clinique counter over the proper skin care regimen.
"I don't think that's necessary. I like the way the one I have now looks - ah - there." The faint nod of her head, forward and to the right. "...but I think the beach fashions are through there. Shall we dare them?"
(james)
make-up
right
well, of course
that, uhm.... er....
at least she's grandly gesturing at the sea of island counters
rather than looking at his expression
she stops right smack in the middle of the aisle
and run into her does
arms sliding, one around her waist, the other trapping her shoulders
chin resting comfortably against sleek, inky hair"Well, of course." leaning a little to the side to catch her wickedly suggestive (no, wait, wide and innocent) look, his one of pure innocense "You said summer fashions are coming up.... don't I need to accessorize?"
they're safe here, indeed
which is why he takes that moment she provides to simply indulge
chest filling with breath against her back
let out in slow, thoughtful murmur"Maybe we can find something that matches your bikini.... then we can find a fitting room and compare shades, hm?"
oh no, he did not forget about wanting to drag her back into bed, did he
slyly looking at her through their close quarters as a brow lifts
then the arm around her shoulders drops
the one around her waist snugging her up to his side
beach fashions.... thattaway(rune)
"Everyone needs to accessorize." The words are pronounced with the haughtiness of a retail queen. Like that one, spraying perfume on anyone not quick enough to dodge, who has forgotten her latest victim and chosen instead to watch them with an odd combination of imperiousness and wistfulness, and only a hint of apprehension. He holds her snug by his side, as their positions shift and they fall in tandem step, and she snakes her own arm around his waist as well, hand settled comfortably on the the slim line of hip, thumb hooked into the belt loop of his black Levi's. "...and I think that includes you."Their path takes them right by the perfume-purveyor. As she holds up her little bottle to spritz them with the latest scent from the latest famous person to decide the masses need to have a chance at wearing her (or his) personal sort of favorite cologne, the Glass Walker hipchecks her lover (an easy, swaying curve of her body that barely breaks her stride) to the side and ducks, enough that the worst of the smelly, humid cloud of perfume falls harmlessly beside them. They have to navigate past another market-y display of overpriced Valentine candies, and suddenly - (though winter howls at the door, though another storm is expected tonight) - it's summer.
Rack upon rack of bathing suits - bikinis, tankinis, swimdresses for the matron-minded, one pieces for the subtle, with bust-enhancing lines and hip-hiding ruffles and more pseudo-science (our powernet! [tm] is made of space-age fibers developed to knit together the space station! now it can be yours. flattening panels keep your tummy tucked! no one will know its there!) and outrageous claims - spread out before them, the sudden heat of sunlamps shining down on their dark heads, beach balls suspended in the air and barely dressed mannequins striking langorous little poses, chin up, arms out, fingers archly splayed.
Rune navigates through the close-packed racks until they come to a particular display - even more expensive, incomprehensible designer names - that suits her taste and budget (unlimited, when it comes to pampering herself) and shoots a watchful glance around before rising on her tip-toes.
"You pick - " the flash of a familiar grin, razor sharp against his ear. It seemed only fitting. He was the only intended audience for a bikini, anyway. With that pale, pale skin, she couldn't be - could never have been - a sunworshipper, and after the beaches of Southern California, she was unlikely to ever settle for the Jersey shore. " - something that you'd like. We can find that fitting room and I'll model."
(james)
being a denizen of Salvation Army or Uncle Sam's
maybe Wal*Mart or Target on a particularly splurging day
he does not have the wherewithall to see through the parfum missionary's guerilla tactics
not like he'd be able to scent it, already the store is near overwhelming
even for his city-bred and abused senses
so perhaps the hipcheck is a blessingeven arm in arm
she maintains her consumerist prowl
the predatory queen escorted by... whatever he is, here
he maintains that easy stroll
and even though they're two such different gaits
still their steps fall in syncopated tandem
his eyes wander
not at the mannequins
not at the other female shoppers
he's actually looking at the merchandise
not out of interest, mere curiosity
many of these expensive expensive expensive things he's only heard aboutand that's why summer surprises him
bikinis and tankinis and alla.... that.... stuff
one pieces and two pieces he could gather from logic
but the rest of it is a sheer mystery
he had spent the entirety of his life until now up in New York state
and not in the places that had private pools or even lakes
you really didn't want to swim in the rivers that ran through the slums
even with an immune system like his
swimming for him consisted of a wrench and fire hydrant
and even then it was iffy or short lived
bodies bathing on beaches were only postcards and calendarsit takes a moment for her whisper to filter in ear exposed by pony-tailed dreads
and he actually tilts his head to look at her
(arooo?)
appearing, for yet another moment, rather lost
(me? pick what? huh?)
brows slowly lift, dark gaze sliiiiiiding back over to the rack
designers names he definitely can't comprehend, much less probably pronouncea very thoughtful "Mm....hm." charging into a Wyrm tunnel is no problem, but a swimsuit rack is something from a whole other reality, a deep breath taken to accept this royal challenge "Ooookay."
swimsuits, they're just... swimsuits
incredibly small, tiny, little, defenseless swimsuits
(good Gaia do these even cover anything?)
but.... what the hell, huh?
he finds something black - slick and savage, like the Ahroun they all know
he finds something white - crocheted and soft, because he knows he'll be the only one to see it
he finds something red - with wicked, wicked lines, just so they don't have to go lipstick shopping
he finds something silver - gleaming metallic, out of sheer irony
he finds something.... strippa... pink - just because of that playfully dark grin on his lips and in his eyes
the last held out to her as his chin tilts up
seems the playfully dark expression has filtered into his humor"So since you're modeling, I guess this'll end up my Valentine's gift?"
like he could. ever. forget his Christmas. Gift.
(rune)
...and she, stands back, arms crossed, body slung in a long, lean slouch, dark eyes just fastened on him as he stands there stunned for one long moment, and then watching him as the light slowly dawns ( - so, these aren't for swimming, are they? - ) and then watching him - amused, darkly amused, wicked light growing in her eyes as he fiddles with straps and cups and plastic hangers and figures out what goes where, what they'll cover, what will be revealed, how quickly, really, he'll be able to get her out of them, how long (not long. never long) they'll last - watching him as he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders and, at last, dives right on in, pawing through the racks and makes his selections.She glances at the size on the first one - wicked and sleek and savage and black, for her, because she is all these things - and both dark brows lift in amused surprise. "Mmm. You got my size right." Should she have expected anything less? By know, he knows her body - the sleek weight, the curving length of it - better than she knows her own. Even if the numbers mean little to him, the shape and breadth of flimsy garment is enough. Bikinis accumulate in her arms, hangers rattling as another, and then another, is added to the pile.
When he makes his last selection, she laughs out loud, some low purr of sound that seems lodged in the back of her throat, rooted somewhere low in her body, near the easy, hipslung center of balance, and smirks knowingly right back at him.
"...and no, it's not your Valentine's present. It's your February 6, 2003 present. I'm going to - " she's circling by him, lean body brushing against his (to avoid bumping into one of the crowding racks, of course, and not to invite further... humor. Not at all.) "surprise you for Valentine's day."
She's already made the reservations.
And then she's past him, leading him back through the narrow-gauge maze, past the women standing in front of mirrors holding suits up to the winter-clad bodies, gauging with narrowed eyes whether - at this time of year, with their New Year's diet only a month old - they dare actually try on something so revealing. Past the clatch of high school girls with their daddies' respective credit cards, picking out their summer suits so they can tan in them now, past the saleswoman drowning in suits and hangers, standing guard over the fitting rooms. She gives James a brief, narrow-eyed glance, then catches sight of the tags on the suits in Rune's arms. Those are the sort of sales that can make or break one's commission for the month, so she waves them back into the luxurious labyrinth of fitting rooms, some of which are large enough to house an entire Gnawer family, with room for random houseguests, particularly on the weekends.
Rune takes her time, ambling through and glancing back - past him, to the harried saleswoman whose figure is now dwindling in the distance (these places are big), before at last choosing last room in the row, opening the door and stepping through.
It's a good thing these are real rooms, with four walls that go all the way to the floor, and actual solid doors with little locks on the handles, because somehow - some subdermal, subconcious, preconcious level of communication (the flash of her grin, the sway of her hip, the hungry length of his striding gait behind her) it's already obvious what she's thinking about.
Inside, the suits on their hangers fall clattering to one of the plush little chairs. She steps back to allow him entrance, then pushes the door closed. Perhaps for form's sake, she picks up a suit and hangs it from the metal hanger by the door before starting the process of shimmying out of her clothes (because she has to strip, damnit, to try them on. and for no other reason. nothing else is on her mind). Her eyes find his after her top has come off - lifted over her head with crossed arms, leaving behind the faint crackle of static electricity through her fine hair - as her hands fall to her waist to begin unbuttoning leather.
"So..." It is a direct look, sharp and sure and certain. "...which one should I try on first?"
(james)
oh yes, he knows her size intimately
the number on a tag means absolutely nothing
maybe it's from the amount of silky lacey underthings he's taken and thrown to the floor
maybe it's from the way his hands have covered and corrupted her flesh in the middle of the (many) night(s)
maybe..... just maybe..... it's from those times that she's already fallen asleep, and he's either stayed awake, or something caused him to resurface from exhastion's haze, laying quietly in the waterbed's arms and listening to her breath, his fingers splayed across her skin or the silken sheets covering it, barely touching, memorizing and tracing and sculpting so infinitely gently all of her curving and sloping form that he can reach, fascinated by the way she reacts to him, even unconsciously, the little sighs and stretches, or the snuggle closer to his larger, heavier form because of the way the mattress sinks or just that the heater hasn't cycled back on
there's a bit of that shy grin, again
because yes, he knows
just like a thousand other little things that he has stored in memory
other such things that she could tell him to get, vaguely, and he'd still be able to find the right onehis surprise at her, well, offer of surprise carries on into the fitting room maze
he never expected anything from her anyway
and to hear she had something planned?
though it fades, reasonably, as the doors and turns continue
she checks back to look at the saleswoman
he looks back to reaffirm there is a way out
a little bewildered, is he
(these are fitting rooms? and not housing complexes?)then the door is closed and locked behind him
static electricity crackles through her hair
his hand is reaching for it held above her head
pulling it away to toss on the fabulously tapestried and carved chair
while that gets a curious glance, he can't keep his eyes from her for long
(okay, he's beginning to like these fitting room things)
lower lip gets sucked between his teeth
choices choices choices - all these colorful choices
red or black or white or silver or freakin'. strippa. pink.then the smile just spreads
one step is all it takes to cross the space between where he stood and where she begins unbuttoning leather
his fingers warm and firm about her wrists, effectively stopping her little show
slowly, he pulls her hands away
dark eyes cast to watch the movement of their limbs
her arms lifted up and away, exchanged between hands, and the pressures along skeleton cause her to turn
another step foward, his chest against her back moving her until palms are placed, flattened, against the tri-fold mirror
the entire time he never looks to her eyes, still watching the physical connection between them
that's when he begins to memorize (worship) her body again
the rough callouses on palms finding their way in meandering path across wrist, bicep, flank, breasts, belly
firm and gentle pressures molding her back against unforgiving strength
sliding down until his fingers can meet the waistband of her pants, creeping to finish the job she began
moist, heated breath finds its way to the side and back of her neck
climbing to mix with the rich scents lingering in her hair
finally..... finally he looks past the dangling strands
glancing up from where his face is tucked against her
answer writ in the smoldering burn within deep, deep umber(he chooses, oh so wickedly, the pale color of her flesh)
Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 04, 2003.02.04.03. - this may end up going very badly [erik-rune][north jersey]
(rune)
Early evening.The sun has gone down (just) and the day's brief glimpse of spring is already fading. Wind rises from the east, carrying with it the hint of the distant ocean, the cold dark expanse of water endless beneath the dark, cloudcast sky. Here the sky is not dark, but rather sullen glowing orange, as the clouds reflect the polluting light of the vast sprawling urban-suburban area of Northern Jersey.
It's the hour when most ordinary people are fighting the rush hour traffic, coming home from New York City, or whatever suburban satelleite office employs them.
Counterstrike is paused on the screen of the plasma television, some vision of bloody, unreal death. Rune - only recently awake, freshly showered, pampered, made-up, lotioned, and everything else that goes along with it - paused the game and headed out to the front porch of the condo for a smoke. Hot pink cigarette tucked casually between her fingers, she lounges against the balustrade, looking down over the steps leading up to the condo, and reassures herself of the presence of her car. Because, really, you cannot be too careful.
(erik)
And it is while she smokes that a taxi, a yellow dcrown vic, pulls up into her driveway. And if that wasn't suprise enough, when the door opens Erik steps out.He pays the driver, who backs out of the driveway and shoots off down the road, looking for another fare. Erik stands in the driveway waiting until the cab is gone before he approaches the house.
(rune)
Dark eyes lift, flickering through the gloom at the pull of pack. Dark brows (finely arched, meticulously groomed) follow, rising in a pair of high arcs, betraying the Glass Walker's surprise. She's dressed in her usual winter uniform: some silky turtleneck, a creamy color with a weave so fine the fabric has a sheen to it, silk, or something like it, and leather pants hugging hips and the long length of muscled thighs, like a second skin. Italian leather, with a texture that would put a baby's ass to shame.Red mouth curving into a faint, irrepressible smirk, she lifts a hand to wave greeting and completes the gesture by sliding her hand through the inky strands of her fine hair. The hand returns to settle on her hip as she takes another drag from her cigarette. As he climbs the steps, she shifts against the balustrade, sidelong, to keep him in view. Such easy, easy motion. "Hey Erik," chin lifting in greeting learned, no doubt (or perhaps absorbed, osmosis) from Decker. There's no honorific to his name, not now, where any neighbor might hear, but there's clear respect in her tone, in the way she meets his eyes briefly, and then looks down and away before looking back. "It's an unexpected pleasure. I don't think I have any whiskey, but I can offer you a beer."
(erik)
He smiles...somewhere...hidden behind those scars. But if she notices it, she had best remember that it is never good when Erik smiles. At least that's what Madison used to say. "Hey cutie. Beer'l be great. Shall we go inside?"Business. All business. Erik seems to have connected with the rest of the pack much more than with you. Why is that? Does it even bother you at all?
Should it?
(rune)
It bothers her. It bothers her more than she can say. Hell, seeing him show up in a taxi at her door at six on a Sunday night - the truck's gone, Decker's elsewhere, Erik can no doubt feel that. If he was looking for his tribemates, he probably would've turned around already.At the word cutie - cutie - the smirk tightens a faint notch. It's probably the last thing she would want to be called (or one of the last: honey, dear, lovely, whatever. Despite her make-up, despite her shopping addictions, despite her fine clothes and obvious attention to her appearance, despite her relentless self-indulgence, surprisingly enough), particularly by her Alpha.
"Sure thing. C'mon in." She turns and tosses her cigarette in the sand-filled coffee can that sits by the door and serves as an outdoor ashtray, then pushes the door open and holds it until he can grab it. Through the foyer, into the living room, with all its toys. The plasma TV (the video game paused there), the Bose stereo, the leather couch, the computer equipment sprawled out through what would otherwise be the dining room. Tossing her cigarettes onto the breakfast bar, she circles to the kitchen and grabs a pair of beers from the fridge (Stoudt's American Pale Ale) then returns to the living room and leans against the breakfast bar. She hands Erik his beer, cracks her own, and pauses long enough to turn down the volume on the stereo (the Clash - London Calling). "...so, what's up?"
(erik)
Yes, he notices the minute tightening of her face. He had been looking for it. And though it pains him, he just can't make himself care. So he follows her into the kitchen to discover that, jeez, even her beer is rich. And anyways, he's suprised she took the 'cutie' thing so well.Imagine that.
"Well, wanted to wait fer James for I got started, but I'm lettin Dire in tha pack." Might as well tell her first.
(james)
six on a Sunday night
that's when the little note he left said he'd be back
he had secured it to the fridge with the two by three inch magnet that was a picture of Bettie Page's less risque but naturally provocative shots - because for some reason it seemed like a natural choice to hang a note with a woman that was anything but the average 1950's housewife
because after he did whatever it was he was going to do
he was going to bring home dinner, toomeaning they can probably smell him about the time that pack feeling hit the sidewalk
one tall raggedy Gnawer strolling up with two plastic bags full of Indian takeout
there's a minute juggling of balance to free one hand to dig out the keys
the door swinging open with a blast of cold air"Hey Erik.... Rune."
(rune)
Everything is pretty much rich, even if she has no visible means of support. Family, likely, out there somewhere. It's how most of them live. Certainly, they cannot hold down ordinary jobs. Not with their rage that would some ordinary, stressful little crisis into something explosive, something wrong, not with the way normal people shy away from them, unconsiously but surely and inevitably.So: family, somewhere. Not that she's mentioned it. Not that she would. Not that he'd ask.
James walks in, with Indian take-out, no less, and Rune inhales. Deeply. "Food. Jesus Mary Joseph, thank fucking god." The faint curl of her smirk, half-a-gesture back toward the fridge. "...fucking Livingston devastated my fridge. Again. Good thing he'll only drink fucking Jamaican beer."
She lifts her bottle in a mocking (self-mocking?) toast and she takes a long, long drink. "Erik came to tell us he's letting Dire into the pack." Her shoulders rise and fall in an easy shrug, then as she returns her attention to Erik. "I figured as much, though. He proved himself on the trip." A reluctant admission, that. But an admission, nonetheless.
(erik)
He nods, sniffing at the food. Damn, he was hungry. That James is a right good fellow.(james)
plastic rustles as the bags settle onto the counter
he's going about unpacking them as he listens
all the little take-out boxes one by one
rendeng, spicey chicken, curried beef, steamed vegetables
he knows what it is everyone would prefer
and even if he doesn't know who's going to be around during the night
there's a fridge, and the pack has no qualms of nuking leftovers
they just have to get to them before Livingston or Luc do
jaw drops in a thoughtful nod"I can trust him at my back, he proved that."
while Rune may not see the specific significance of that statement, the way it was phrased
he's sure his Alpha does
with everything set out, including plates and silverwear, the coat's shrugged off
he's moving away from the food to hang it up
r.h.i.p. baby
he'll take what he wants from whatever they leave(rune)
Rune tips her bottle toward Erik, and nods with a smirk. Take-out, no doubt, is the Glass Walker version of the kill, and of course, the choice bits go to the highest in station. When he's made his selection, she dives for the samosas, first. Deep. fried. goodness, baybee. (Hard to imagine where she puts it, except, of course, she is Garou, and an Ahroun at that, and the body beneath the expensive clothes is all sleek muscle.)The dining room is filled with computer equipment and peripherals. Toys, really. All toys. No one's every seen the Glass Walker hacking anything, unless online shopping counts in some dim, vague sense as business. And so, in lieue of an actual table, she pulls a stool up to the breakfast bar. There are four of them, scattered around. Two usually in the living room, two in the kitchen, facing each other.
"I've got one concern about Dire, Erik." She hasn't touched her food yet, for all that she has filled her place. "He's not particularly... wise to human ways, and we're an urban pack. He attacked my fucking mailbox because he thought he saw goblins, or some such thing. That bears watching, and probably even deserves... mention, or some fucking thing, when you talk to him. It's easier to ignore that sort of thing in the middle of fucking nowhere. Out here, though - " a lifting gesture, the bottle that has never left her hand (not even when she was filling her place) encompassing the whole of the urban/suburban sprawl, "...where humans are packed so densely and there are authorities to worry about, well. There could be some trouble from him on that front."
(erik)
He looks up from the food, following James around as he moves to set it down. Suprised again. Only one bitch, and it aint really a bitch. Well, it don't matter."Yeah? Well, sounds like you have a hell of a point there. It does bear watching. In fact, it -needs- watching. He needs us, Rune, and I won't abandon him. It's as simple as that.
"'sides, he just fits. Like the rest of us aint as fucked up..." He lowers his head then, digging into a container of food. He doesn't care which.
(james)
their plates are filled
and that's when he finally comes back into the kitchen
much less near the food
while rank is privileged, and he's well aware of that
it also seems pretty clear he was seriously hurt in the process of learning that
but rather than skulk around the perimeter, he just busied himself with keeping things neatone plate, piled high with noodles and curried beef and satayed chicken so spicey it still steams
there's little wonder that after trips to the Barrens he dives straight for the Indian take out
if anything is going to clear his sinuses of that pine-sol, this stuff will
that would be stool number three, he takes"The goblins are one thing, but Carmen needs us, too. Dire can't take care of her all the time, nor can he give her the side of the education she needs to survive in the city. Soon enough it'll be time for her to go to school." he know the kid's in the packing package, so to speak "Harder to have pack all the way out in Batsto, but this place isn't childproof, neither is our apartment. And what about his girlfiend?"
one bitch, mostly
it seems whatever he had against Dire has been put aside
Gnawers may be one to never forget a grudge, but fair is fair
or whatever it is that he doesn't trust is what he just plain doesn't say
just inhale that food, Jamey-boy(rune)
They all have their scars, though some are less obvious than others. Hell, she looks goddamned soft, particularly compared to the rest of them. Smaller than the lot (though not by much, and most of the difference in height, at least, compensated for by ridiculously expensive and ridiculously high heels) of them, with that pale soft (and bloody well unscarred skin), and all her pampered ways."We're plenty fucked up," Rune mutters, "Every last goddamned one of us." Echoing Erik's words beneath the cusp of her breath, before falling silent, letting him respond to James.
It's the most bizarre pack of which she's been a member. Of course, it's also only the second pack of which she's been a memebr, and before moving out to Jersey she'd met precisely two Get of Fenris in her ten years in the Nation, urrah that she is, urrah through and through. Suddenly packed up with (count 'em, now) four, talk about culture shock, even now, even fucking months later.
Then: "I'm not suggesting, by the way, that you abandon him, or anything like that. Just fucking talk to him. He spent about an hour explaining to me why he didn't need to worry about the police, arguing with me over a bunch of stupid shit, way back when," - the pause, and the faint flare of her nostrils, remembered irritation - "but last weekend he followed my instructions to the fucking letter. Still, you're tribemates with him, and Alpha. He'll listen to you more than he will to me. Just... mention it to him when you let him know. And from there on out, we can all keep an eye that."
(erik)
He nods around a mouthful of food, and washes it down with a swig of beer. Then he looks up to rune, meeting her eyes with his hoorible, though hopefully familiar, stare. "Yeah, he'll listen to me. I'll take care of it. But Carmen is a puzzle. He's got no Gaia damned business raising that gaia damned kid. And we sure as fuck can't do it... "He digs back into the carton with a fork, an actual fork. Gotta put on airs for the rich folk. And hell, it makes digging for the meat much easier.
"And he aint gonna like it. Damn Metis." And he stuffs the fork full of food into his mouth and reaches for the beer again.
(james)
"I won't say I won't help him out."there's a thoughtful pause to actually finish chewing that mouthful
whatever was piled high on his plate is almost gone, now
old habits die hard, even around pack.... this pack
he's not giving anyone or anything time to steal his food"But I won't be stuck taking care of that kid while he's off chasing goblins, or sitting down to explain to her it's not cool to rip someone's piercing out as a hello. But I don't think you'll be able to get him to part with her, either."
then, as an afterthought
and probably in another pause to actually chew before swallowing
he reaches into one of the BDU's many pockets
pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper with a phone number on it
sliding it over to Erik"Someone Tristan ran into, don't know name or anything much about him, but set off the kid's spidey senses, limped only when he remembered to and talked in two voices at once, much less randomly gave him a contact number. Told him I'd let you know."
(erik)
"If he don't part with she's gonna end up dead. Maybe by his hand. Somehow he's gonna haveta see reason."
than james hands him the numbr and he looks at it closley. Close enough to look like someone who needs glasses to read at all. then he sniffs at it. Then he puts an end of it into his mouth and tastes it. He winks at James. "interestin. Where'd he run into him at?"(rune)
"Kinfolk." The Glass Walker snorts. "Tell him to find a fucking kinfolk to take care of the kid." The Glass Walker's smirk widens, the image of Zoe forty feet up the fucking tree flashing through her mind. " - a fucking human kinfolk. It's best to be real specific with Dire. If he can find someone around here - or even someone willing to relocate and watch after her - he won't have to give her up, not entirely. He could still visit. And then it's on him to find someone suitable - some menopausal woman looking to roost again, or something, so he's not hanging around someone's potentially fertile mate, someone who's barren, for whatever reason. If he can't find anyone - " the Glass Walker flickers a glance at James, then shrugs rather callously. "Well, she's Fenrir, apparently. Y'all can probably find a good family at some Fenrir Sept somewhere."Erik's eating with a fork. James is inhaling his food. Rune's picking apart her samosas - with her fingers, getting her soft hands and pretty manicured nails all greasy - and devouring them.
(james)
the number should taste like his pocket
and whatever's been in there
which probably isn't as pleasent as the take-out
so the little tasting and wink gets a laugh"At the diner on the corner of (street and street)."
then there's another nod
last bit of chicken used to wipe. his. plate. clean."Why I asked about his girl, I don't know if she's kin, or a permanent solution. Much as I like kids," and they both know he adores kids "I don't want her around if she'll end up hurt. With a pack like ours, she will - Fenrir blood or not."
(erik)
He puts the number carefully into an inner pocket of the army jacket and looks up at both of them. Isn't it obvious, he thinks."Aint it obvious? She goes to Zoe. Dire gets to be Uncle Whatever, and I get to be the one to tell him. Understand?"
(rune)
It's Erik's call, and Rune nods - not acquiesence (it's not like he needs her approval) - but understanding. Hell, at least Erik didn't suggest Imogen.That thought should bring a familiar smirk to crawl across her crimson lips, but there's something else on her mind. The Glass Walker flickers a glance at James, drawing in a long steady breath and grabbing her cigarettes. It's a personal rule, she doesn't smoke in the condo. It's a rule often-broken. On the full moon, when it's too cold outside, when she's stoned off her ass, when she just wants a goddamned cigarette, when she needs one, whatever. It's a rule broken now, as she selects one of her colorful cigarettes from the colorful box, and lights up the bright (caribbean) blue smoke. Traces of lipstick cling to the golden filter, visible as she reaches for the clean, empty ashtray shoved to the side of the breakfast bar.
"There's one more thing, Erik." Direct is best, isn't it? Still, she flinches away, and doesn't quite meet his gaze. Decker said he'd kick both their asses, after all, if he ever found out. Her voice is taut as a high wire. "You know, don't you?"
She can only be referring to one thing.
(james)
since he took the stool on the kitchen side of the breakfast bar
a boot toe hooks beneath the lower cabinet and he leans back
streeeeeetching to place his now all but licked clean plate into the sink
(he's learned most of the time there isn't much leftover for seconds, the full meal he had while waiting for the rest of their order to be prepared plus the plate just now has him pleasently full.... at least for another hour)
and more than likely he'll be the one to take care of the dishes later, too
deep umber eyes turn back to the both of them
wasn't exactly obvious to him, no
sure bet he sees the proverbial light, now"Understood."
it's another streeetch the other way
fridge door sucking open beneath his grip
soon three more beer bottles are set on the counter
a Gnawer, and a Hood, he damn well makes sure his pack is taken care of
always put before himselfeven if he all but visably cringes at what the Walker brings up
gaze slams down to give the bottle hissing open in his hands full attention
sure, there's been unspoken comments, knowing looks, smiling shoves
but that's not openly talking about it, is it.(erik)
He looks up at her, clearly annoyed behind those facial scars. and he was gonna just let it pass. For now. Still, its probably best to air it out every once in a while.He doesn't have to look at James to know that the Kid is uncomfortable all of a sudden either. Oh well. You lie down in shit, you stink.
"what about... it?"
(rune)
The red nails of her free hand tap on the counter. Now, the Glass Walker takes her time. Finding the words she wants to say, finding the words she needs to say, finding whatever she should say to her Fenrir Alpha. The rest of the nation have plenty of slurs for urrah. Urrah have slurs of their own for the country cousins. The divide is sharp, and the lines carefully maintained.She takes a drag of her cigarette, exhaling smoke before setting it down to smolder in the ashtray. Her eyes flicker across his face - she catches the tightening of his mouth, the twist and pull of puckered scar tissue, and even if she did not, she can no doubt sense his irritation on a purely primal level.
"You know." The Ahroun's sleek shoulders rise and fall beneath the silky turtleneck, causing the fabric to ripple, practically shimmer in the light. "So I figure, there are some things I should say to you."
Dark eyes - lined and ringed with smokey shadow, rimmed with long, dark lashes - lift and settle on his scarred visage, and briefly find his eyes. It's a human gesture - inimitably human - just long enough to let him know she's no longer flinching, but not long enough to be taken for challenge. These are murky waters they navigate, between the human and animal instincts.
"I won't get pregnant." Flatly spoken, flavored by the ghost of a smirk. "I won't disgrace the pack. Hell, in my own way, I'm doing my duty by Gaia and all that." Glass Walker ways, Glass Walker spirit-tech, Glass Walker... well, hell. They're a strange bunch. If this were a wholly urrah pack, it wouldn't even be an issue. Test tube babies, in vitro fertilization, surrogate mothers, who knows? An Ahroun pregnant nine months out of every twelve isn't much use, no matter what sort of brat she's carrying. "And if he finds a suitable mate, I will not stand in his way."
There's a brief pause. She should, perhaps, ask more, or say more. She won't, however, not yet, not unless he asks. Retrieving her cigarette from the ashtray, the Glass Walker takes a drag and allows her eyes to find her Alpha's gaze once more. No flinching away this time, either. "That's what I wanted to say."
(james)
it's one of those things.... that you just don't want to bring up
even though sometimes you know it's best - gotta air things out every once in a while
sort've like calling your parents to pick you up when you're in high school drunk at a party
will you be praised for calling rather than driving home?
will you be whipped into a pulp for drinking in the first place?
one of those coins where heads can be just as unpleasent as tails
well aware of how drastically things can change when you actually talk about them
he's every right to be uncomfortable
how easy it would be to crawl into the disposal and turn it on
save himself seeing disapproval in the eyes contained above the horrible facial scars
but he's not one to run, from whatever it is, good or bad
so..... he'll just sit here, quietly drinking his beer
the bottle slowly spun between his fingers as he watches them talk
not even the half-hollow clink of glass hitting the tiled counterhe probably shouldn't speak up
revel in the old ways of his Tribe
stay on the sidelines, not to be noticed until the very last minute, or some shit
but he speaks up anyway
so softly, just to clarify a previous conversation"That's what Dire and I got into, and why I didn't trust him because he didn't understand it the way we did...." Fenrir and Walkers and Gnawers all have their own versions of the Litany, that's for sure "... and.... it'll probably come up again if he's in the pack, because he doesn't agree with my ways."
he doesn't ask what they should do about it, should that happen
because he's pretty sure the answer will be to just not let it come up again
so, instead, he just meets that fiercely scarred gaze when it turns to him
whatever Erik'll say, he'll say(erik)
He listens patiently, eyes on Rune, carton of food tipped on its side where it sits on the counter. "So lemme get this straight. gaia put you here, made you Gaoru, so you could fuck the Kid? Ok, listen up you two. Its 'bout time somebody told ya..."One, when two Garou fuck (no candy coating with Erik) the female gets knocked up. Alot. It is way more probable than you think, and if you think a little dick skin (condom?) can thwart Gaia's rules, let me intro you to my friend Dire.
"Two, what's so special about you two? Ya aint supposed to do it, so don't. The litany is that fuckin simple. So don't expect any help from me or mine if a Dire pops out of ya somewhere down the road. I don't help no dumbasses.
"And three, why the fuck do you think he doesn't 'agree with your ways'? He sees fuckin goblins, fer christs' sake." He picks up his beer and empties in, washing down the last of the meal.
"You think about that. Pack don't abandon pack, but pack don't drag pack down the frickin Spiral either." He doesn't ask if they understand. He figures they were ready for that. Probably helped their guilt, and if that makes them clearer on the field of war, that's jim dandy with him. "I gotta go talk to a METIS now, cause he's so damn pathetic he needs us fuck ups to take care of him..."
(james)
he's normally pretty mellow
but listening to the words from his Alpha
something. ex. plodes."No."
that's when the bottle hits the tile
glass shattering
glass biting into his palm
beer spilling onto the floor
that hand reaches out and wraps itself into the collar of army coat
dragging his Alpha up nice and close
(gonna pay for this one, boy)"Pack doesn't drag pack into the fucking Spiral. Pack fucking KILLS the pack that tried to fucking do that to him. His pack. His mate. His. Child. I can deal with you, and Dire, and Decker looking down on me for breaking the mighty Fenrir version of the fucking Litany, because it doesn't jive with the fuck up Gnawer's. But don't you dare think I'm doing that, I'll die first. If you ever plan on saying that to my face again, you better throat me here and now, permanently. I won't let you say it again, Rhya."
fist unwraps
Gnawer lets go
(Get kills Gnawer)
shaking so bad cause his Rage is out of control
shoulders against the fridge, he looks down and away
unable to believe he just did that, but he couldn't damn well help it
way to push that button(erik)
Erik shrugs his shoulders and turns violently, to slap James' hand away from his collar. Eyes blaze, firey and fanatic blue, but that is a good sign. His eyes burn, if they had gone cold there would have been trouble from him. And though you can see his rage and anger in his eyes, the Alpha masters himself.
"So, you both (both? what did Rune do?) think you know the wyrm, then? How it works? How it breeds? think it can't touch you? You'll be safe in each other's arms? You two are fucked. FUCKED! If that's what you think... "
"Let me tell you something. Its the small things. Always the small things. The wyrm don't open great big holes in yer soul. It -usually- seeps into the tiniest of cracks that we -all- have. Why in Gaia's name would you give it a great, big, fuckin pit to pour into? Why?"
Little by little he has been calming, the fanatic fire burning lower and lower, the red color leaving the scars. "Listen, if you two need each others comfort that baddly, fine. I aint fuckin perfect neither. But I'm gonna be watchin. Both of yas. And Kid... next time you wanna grab my jacket... I'm gonna take that hand." And then he smiles, actually smiles genuinely, and it has never been clearer what Erik's auspice is. The Black-Moon, Rotagar, as Decker would say. And he stands there, waiting, in case there are more words that need to be spoken.
Fuck. Trust the Glasswalker to bring it up.(james)
"No."wait, isn't that how this all started?
he keeps the back curve of shoulders pressed against slick fridge
a tight line of concave tension running up his spine
as absolutely furious as he is
Erik's still his alpha and superior
so the Ahroun does what he can to keep a rein on things
(even if the damn fridge is near rattling cause he's still shaking so hard)
his voice is forcibly calmer
but the earth umber eyes that meet and hold the firey blue gaze?
they're just. as. fanatical
somewhere deep inside the Kid there really is a true warrior
it just takes him being backed into a corner to finally lash out"I don't know all about the Wyrm. Nobody knows everything about it. If someone did, we wouldn't have a war to fight anymore. But I've seen how it creeps in. I've seen how it destroys packs and families. I saw how it destroyed mine. I'm twenty-one and still a fucking Cliath but I'm not stupid."
slow and sure, he's pulled himself away from the fridge
after that instinctual apology from the grab
he steps right on up to his Alpha again
he won't back down from what he believes in
he won't even back down from the Rotagar
though his tone is a great deal more respectful"I'm not safe in the arms of a lover. I'm not safe in the arms of an Alpha, either. I believed in Cooper even more than I believe in you, and he fell. I've no guarantee the same thing won't happen to you, one day, only a hope that you, and all of us, are stronger. You can watch me all you want. If I fuck up I expect to pay for it - I'm sure Rune will do the same. So far we haven't fucked up. We proved that down south just as much as Dire proved himself to become pack. It's pack first, duty first, each other later. When there's time... if there's time. And we do it out of everybody else's sight. Maybe it shouldn't have been brought up, but it was. Out of respect. Out of honesty. Out of some sick premonistic curiosity if Dire decides to pitch a bitch about it again. Or maybe, at least on my end, acceptance for what I am and what I do and what I believe in. Fenrir look at what we're doing as a great big welcoming sign for the Wyrm. Bone Gnawers don't. GlassWalkers don't. I live by my Tribe's Litany, NOT yours. I can accept anything being packed with four Get throws at me - but I. will. not. accept that love is wrong or tainted."
when the black moon Garou smiles
the full moon lets a grin slide across his face
there's a lot of reasons he likes the Fenrir
that twisted sense of humor is one of them"Don't ever imply I'm taking pack into the Spiral, again, Erik, and I'll have no reason to grab your jacket. If I ever look like I'm falling, I expect you to take my head."
(rune)
Rune bristled - visibly - at Erik's words, but whatever her natural and immediate reaction, she swallowed it, and hard, when James fucking exploded. She didn't move, then - not a fucking inch - from her seat on the stool in front of the breakfast bar, though her dark eyes tracked the movement and settled on the pair, some grim presence, waiting for whatever the hell would happen next.And after whatever the hell happened next - (better, in her opinion, than could be hoped, after all that) - she listens to the pair. Erik's response is greeted by a faint twist of her lips that could be a smirk, or merely the remnant of bitter experience, and that expression remains as James responds to him.
There's another moment or three of silence - bloody, blessed silence - as she finishes her cigarette and deliberately snuffs it in the ashtray before the damned talkative Glass Walker finds her own voice again.
"I'm sure I once thought I knew, but I bloody well don't know the Wyrm and its ways anymore. The world's a helluva lot more complicated than I'm fucking willing to admit, but I'm old enough to know that." Her nostrils flare with some remnant irritation, exhaling a long controlled breath with too much force. "And like James, if I start leading the pack down the fucking spiral, I expect you to take my fucking head. I shouldn't have mentioned it to you, Erik, most likely. Decker said you'd have our fucking heads, way back when. But - " the brief gesture of her hand, rising, to run through the fine strands of her inky hair. " - secrets, little lies of omission, of commission, whatever, vague slips of honesty, the fucking - whatever, fear? - of being revealed seemed worse than not addressing it.
"And now that it's been aired," the Glass Walker shrugs, an opaque little gesture. "I won't bring it up again. And, hell. I expect you to watch us, and I'm not giving you any other reassurances. They're empty things, really. My actions - and James' I'm sure - will speak for themselves."
[in email progress]
Posted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 03, 2003.02.03.03. - sliver moon humor [decker-tristan-imogen-dire][north jersey]
(tristan)
There is a softness to the songs being played tonight - normal time, normal corner - and it matches the soft light in his eyes, the curl of lips that pull into a concentrating pout that never quite mars the smile, the sway of lean (used and abused and delightfully so) body in time with the instrument that seems to outright croon tonight. Bhraums, Chopin, Motzart - it all seems to have a sultry undertone tonight, a smoothness that slides through notes without words that paint pictures without vision...
He hit his stride a long time ago, and he's been playing for hours - the occasional request taken, the case at his feet showing a good pile of coinage, and that boyishly confident smile firmly in place, the light in his gaze a far cry from the upset young man of just two days ago... Things are ok in his world right now.
The music continues, the people gather, the people move on and more take their place... and he? simply plays on...(james)
bricks grab at a light gray patch on the shoulder of trench
weight shifting to lean against the wall
some easy lounge where arms cross over muscular chest
the long muscles in his back stretching slowly in the guise of comfort
deep umber eyes watch the violinist
listening to the sultry croon that came out of the hands of Chopin
listening to the low ephemeral quality of Brahms' dreams
listening to the stringed love letter drawn by Mozarthe may be some uncouth urban primitive
finding the tribal rhythms from the scab's hidden heartbeat
but it's clear that he has an appreciation for the classics, as well(tristan)
Eventually even he must pause, eventually even he must rest, and eventually… the music ends.
Not abruptly, not suddenly, more a long drawn out lullaby that sooths the (savage beast) listener, gives a security where there is none, (come play your song for me…) speaks of the strength of protecting arms, (Let the music set you free) of loving touch, (and when the night is done) of the scents of mothers skin as she rocks her precious baby to sleep… (play on, play on, play on)
The last note hangs on the still cold air, shimmering in crystalline clarity before it too fades away and he pulls the bow from the strings, lashes falling to hide dark gaze as smile plays over lips, and coinage rains… beloved instrument is pulled from shoulder rest, bow and violin held against belly as he looks over those gathered and takes a well deserved bow to smattering of applause.
It’s then his eyes find James (family) and playful wink cuts through the crowd even as he turns his attention to this comment or that, that person or this, his laughter ringing free, hand shook here, and there as the crowd disperses.(decker)
Next to James, half an arm's reach away, crouching with his back to the wall: Decker. Squatting, really, but that's an ugly word that doesn't quite have the right feel. Peasants squat. Animals crouch. And he's an animal. Homo sapiens, canis lupus. One and both and neither.He's just rolled a joint, but with the fingernail moon slipped down under the buildings and the horizon it's not necessary, and pot's expensive, and his debt to Rune was running high. So he's just holding it. Looking at it, studying it like the riddle of the Sphinx with his lumbar back to the wall, free wrist on his knee, fingers curled loosely. Looking at it, studying it, rolling it idly between his fingers and watching the bits of marijuana crushed between the paper slipping out where the haphazard folding left creases and breaks while he waits for something else to catch his attention - or, perhaps, just enjoys the rare moments of quiet pack unity.
Music slips over the cold night - cold, but not so very cold anymore. Well above freezing, almost into the forties. Music glides off the pavement and slides off the buildings. God only knew if he liked it, but at very least he wasn't complaining tonight.
(james)
these quiet moments have been rare indeed
something or someone or even what isn't big enough to qualify as some happens
true enough there are times when they really can blame it on the moon
luckily, now, that's not a bad thing
the sliver high above the occasional clouds
given that, and the carryover from the few nights past
seems the Kin and the Modi aren't the only ones in good moodseven in times like this, their actions are instinctive
the Gnawer stands and watches one direction
the Fenrir crouches and watches the other
always looking out for each other's backs
even when it's just to listen to a streetman playit's an easy smile that responds to that wink
waiting until the crowd disperses"Keep this up I'll have to find another corner, Tris."
(imogen)
It's a general meeting place, tonight, it seems. Tristan plays, and eventually, someone finds him. James with his packmates of burning rage. Imogen and her cool implacability. Bright flames, candles to the darkness of the unawakened. Some of the crueler called them sheep.She exits one of the coffee shop, fingers shifting the light weight of a small plastic bag holding a few bags of ground coffee. In her other hand is a take-away cup with it's cheap lid, the hot liquid inside steaming gently. It's doubtful she'd been a crime scene tonight, not if she was running such an errand. The sky is cloudy and for the most part, all forecasts have promised rain to add to the dreariness. Lucky for Tristan and countless others playing on street corners, or sleeping on street corners, the rain has stopped for now.
It's warm enough to keep her jacket open as she walks down the street, attention flicker toward the playing kinfolk and then the two Garou beyond, booted feet making a soft beat against the street made grey and grimy from melted snow dirtied by hundreds of careless feet.
(tristan)
He laughs as dark gaze slides to James again, this time seeing Decker crouched as well and playful grin gracing the Modi as well. He spreads his arms, bow and violin in one hand, the other open as he looks properly sheepish. “Sorry?” yet triumphant all the same as he crouches before his case and collects coin, slides it away into the soft bag found for that purpose, tucking it into his coat pocket as he sets his beloved instrument into the case, wiping it down with a soft cloth as he continues.. “But you’ll be happy to know that most of the requests I got tonight involved “so where’s the man with the drums? You two play together? He know you have his corner?” for the most part.”
Easy smile as he stands, foot resting against the case – casual contact that means everything: it’s there, all’s well, its within reach and he’s ready for whatever comes his way. “Evening Decker” then a glance up, and warm smile for Imogen as she approaches.(decker)
Grey eyes flick past his joint to Tristan. A silence, not so much seething as considerating. Is it worth it? Then, grunt: 'hnh.' Must be some sort of hello.Just so happens the direction James is watching is the one Imogen's coming from. All the same certain knowledges seem able to pass between the packmates without even the need for conscious thought. A beat after James notices Imogen, Decker leans forward an inch or two from his crouch, peering beyond James' legs to note the kin coming up the walk.
(ain't that a sight.)
Suddenly Decker's vibe's a little more relaxed. A little lighter at the edges. Might even be a curve to the corners of his mouth as he leans back, eyes downcast as he fiddles with the buckle on his lowslung belt before laying both his wrists out on his knees, joint still unlit between thumb and forefinger of the right hand.
(james)
sorry..... right
he'll believe that
just like he's sure the Kin will believe he's actually annoyed by this"Tell them he's on walkabout. Sounded like you were in a good mood."
how well he knows that emotions transgress through play
just how long has it been since he's played?
the thought comes up from some oblique place to strike him
he hasn't necessarily had to, living at the condo as he's been
some of what he made before the trip carried over, too
so while there hasn't been the need
for a breif, brow furrowing momen, he wonders where the want has been
something that will soon have to be corrected, it appearsdark eyes slide across the slushed ice, past his (family) kin
dreads dragging over his shoulder as the entire body doesn't lift from the wall
there's just a liiiiittle stretch (cause yeh, that's quite the sight) to peer around
chin lifting up in a little nod for the good Doc
maybe that grin hangs around to feel his packmate relax
maybe that grin hangs around because Imogen is simply his friend"Oooooooh, you brought me coffee?"
even managing a little excited lift of his brows
that grin is definitely there in the tease that suffices for hello
ah yes, that would be the great crusade to find the lost arc of humorous covenant hidden deep within the firey Kin(imogen)
She receives a warm smile from Tristan as she approaches and he receives a half nod from the redhead, a movement that stirs strands of hair freed from her pony tail, most of the mass pulled back low on her neck, but for those few aforementioned recalcitrant strands. "How's it going." Murmered statement that is a greeting more than a question.Boots protect her from the slush, mostly (as they have protected her from snow and blood), though a bit of the dampness has transferred to the cuffs of her jeans, causing a faint darkening along the hem. The hand that holds the plastic bag rests lightly near her thigh, thumb hooked into her pocket, the rest of her fingers threaded into plastic bag. Both eyebrows lift at James as he speaks, with that teasing note, and she simply watches him for a moment, before taking a deliberate swallow of the coffee in her hand. "Get your own ga'damned coffee." Deadpan delivery and it's only then that she smirks, "I've already shared my beer with you."
A glance past James to where Decker crouches, holding an unlit joint between his fingers. A moment passes, and then the dark blue eyes slide back to James. She's never quite one for greetings, be it responding to warm smiles, or waves. Something about it simply isn't second nature to her.
(tritan)
hands slide in and out of pockets in the oh so familiar search for a smoke.. it’s been hours since he’s taken a break, too into the music to break away, something he knows James understands. Just like he understands the feeling behind the music. Some play to escape, some play to show off the mechanics, some play for this or that or because they have too. He has always played his emotions, always played his feelings through finger and string, from mellow and haunting to lilting and fun, to the doomsday mourn of an ache that is far too deep to simply speak about…
But tonight? Oh yes. He is in a good mood. He grins at Imogen… “Better be proper coffee too..” you know, laced with Irish cream? Oh yes. He laughs and fingers finally find his pack and lighter, and corkscrew curls slide over strong jaw as he tips head to light a cigarette, offering pack and (hotpink) lighter in James’ direction. “And yes, I’m in a good mood. He’s staying.” A world of information in two. Little. Words.(decker)
From beyond James, the low southern drawl: "Yeah, she ain't gittin' coffee fer nobody but me."And, as Imogen rounds James' mass and comes into view, the Modi's eyes meet hers for that one too-long not-long-enough glance, mouth twitching into a lopsided smirk. "Sup, Imogen."
Yeah, that's right: beggin' for her to contradict him.
She looks back to James (the more vocal of this little group) and he uncoils to his feet, dancing the joint through his fingers and slipping it away. He had three all rolled and ready in his pocket already, for when the moon passed its nadir and started toward the full again. Hands go around behind to dust off the small of his back that had pressed against the wall - it and whatever semitoxic substances might've coated it.
(dire)
The tricked out Jetta pulls down the street. Turns into the lot and after chooseing a space pulls in and stops.
THe driver sits there a moment singing to a Falco song. Totally getting into it as he drums his hands ont he wheel and such. The song ends and he cuts off the radio. Sighs and rotates his shoulders in the oversized leather jacket. He was feeling all nice and stuff after the rite of cleansing. THen the long bubble bath at Danni's. Carmen liked the bubbles and after her song had fallen right asleep. Danni insisted he leave her there to sleep while he went out.
The door opens and he streches again. Sniffs and growls softly. Sniffs again to see if it's safe. He tilts his head. Old scents here.
He walks up to the packs portch and raps on the door. Waits a while and shakes his head. Hopping the deck and some how managing not to break his neck he knocks on Imogens door. No answer he sniffs and sighs.Reaching into a pocket he pulls out a string with a little sliver of malichite on the end. The motions are done. THe rite inacted. He follows it down the steps and heads out of the complex.
(james)
she's not one for greetings
she has stares that peel even the most reslient of paint
which is why he figured he'd just prompt a like remark
and call it all good
so her deadpan delivery gets a sheer grin from the Gnawera brow lifts, taking the pack and (strippa pink!) lighter
tapping out one for himself, lighting up
and instead of handing them back to the Gnawer Kin
he offers them to the other Kin
and knows Tristan wouldn't mind, either"Good."
a world of information in that single word
because he knows the reasons, and he remembers his reaction
smooooooth transition sliding dark eyes back to the Modi"Yeh, seems she only buys and shares beer with me."
brow lifts
oh yeh, beggin' a contradiction on that one(imogen)
"Yes. Proper coffee," spoken to the Bone Gnawer kin, "and it's mine." Another swallow of coffee, a suppressed wince as the damned proper coffee that appears to be so in demand burns her freaking tongue.Cigarette and lighter offered. The other kin shakes her head slightly, the fingers wrapped around the coffee cup and the fingers resting lightly against her thigh, stuck through the plastic store band bag flicking up in half demonstration. No hands to smoke right now, thank you very much. Or at the very least, not enough inclination to smoke that she's going to bother juggling it with the bag around her wrist. "Thanks, though," tacked on after a moment.
Decker speaks, daring her to contridict him, a glance sliding upward as he stands. Amusement twisting a half smirk across her mouth, "That shouldn't be too hard. Unless you've grown t'likin' cofffee since I last checked?" Another glance this time between the two Garou, the eyebrow lifting once more, in what might be slight imitation of James, or her own indication of mild humour. "Please. There's enough beer for everyone." It's more her words than tone that indicates humour, "What th'hell do you take me for?"
(tristan)
Of course he doesn’t mind, and his smile turns positively wicked at James one word reply, adding three to his own.. “Oh it was….” Beat. And another “very.” A wink as he tucks free hand into the pocket of his jeans, the other involved in the slow lift and lower of cancerous stick to his lips and back to rest against thigh.
He can’t help the slight smirk, the though he ducks his head because even if the Modi seems to be in a great mood? He could damn well get plastered for what he dares say next… “Least I get tequila.” No beer, no coffee, straight to the hard stuff baybee (and did he mention that was quite a sight? Nope. Not that he didn’t notice, but he was told to keep his eyes where they belong, so dark gaze lifts to James again. Not that he’s ignoring the rest of them, he’s just behaving. Yannow. Mostly.(decker)
"Don't tempt her, Tristan," muttered so low under his breath that he'd have to have the ears of a bat to hear at all. "Imogen's tryin' to taste better."Then, his attention swerves toward James. Brow for brow, blond for dark: cocking up. Beneath the blond brow, grey eyes like distant thunderheads, heavy and stormy. He just...looks at James for a while. When he speaks, it's dangerous and quiet.
"Watch yer step, boy."
(And this is when Decker flies into a frenzy and...)
...and, an unexpected twitch of mouth, a lift of chin at his packmate. "Don't want me t' report yer l'il exploits to Rune, now do ya?"
(dire)
Walk
Walk
Walk
Walk
Walk
He walks along. Time and again checking the stoneon the string. Finally he turns the corner and here comes the Skald.Dressed in black pants, A new black silk shirt and his over sized black leather jacket that he's had for a while. His heads down, looking at the string as he approaches. blond hiar shining in the night lights. THe glacier blue eyes cued in on the string and stone.
(james)
we! have! humor!
no matter how small of an inclination it is, it's there!
one victory for James, thank you, thank you
and whatever smugness he may have had at that little victory
is totally lost at the comments
(tastes great less filling? mmhmmm.... not going there)
Gnawer breaking into a laugh - wholehearted and too amused
his head shaking to take dreads across shoulders
finally shifting to lean back against the wall
finally extending an arm to hand pack and lighter back to their proper owner
the other hand gesturing absently with the Camel
deep earthen brown meeting stormy gray
easily holding that rolling thunder stare"Dunno... she might beat me for it."
and with that rogue grin just raking across his lips
..... was that a plea.... or a suggestion?(imogen)
She's close enough to Decker to catch the commentary. Or at least close enough to hear the sounds and guess, because she's the only one privy to that discussion, and her eyes narrow in the direction of the Fenrir.She might even be disturbed by the good mood.
"Get you coffee, taste better," she replies after a beat, shaking her head as her gaze strays down the street, catching the sight of the approach of the black swathed Galliard. "You sure do ask a lot."
James's reply to Decker, coupled with a laugh provokes a glance from the fire-haired kinfolk, as she takes another sip of coffee, the movement hiding whatever expression that might have crossed her lips. Be it smile, smirk or grimace.
(tristan)
We have HUMOR.
Expected from James.
Even expected from Imogen in that famous deadpan way she has (and there is a flicker of an image of her just snowplowing the boy on moving day) and then…..……..taste……better……
oh god.. he aches to say something in reply but he. Doesn’t. dare. But lips twitch and he attempts to hide the laughter (simply infected by Jamey-boy’s, right?) and there is no hiding the goodnatured boyish grin that slides over lips and finds permanent home in dark eyes…
And then…
Exploits….
And beating…
And pleas and suggestions….And Imogen and her list of Decker’s demands….
And the boy? Aw hell. He has absolutely no comeback in the world to all that – so he simply, concentrates on bringing camel to lips and inhaling without choking on the laughter still bubbling softly free. Yes, boys and girls, the good-natured, kin is stunned silent.
(dire)
He's walking up the street and he smells them before he sees them. They should be called the Nicotine pack. His head jerks up and it comes to rest right on Imogenes ass. He blinks and... blinks. His brows shoot up and he blinks looking up and seeing the rest of them.
Man, That just wasn't fair.
He winds up the string around the rock and slips it back into a pocket as he moseys on up to them. Nods.(decker)
Yeah, yeah. Good mood. Whatever. Seems even that won't make him any more verbose. Just a grunt for the beating comment. Might just be that James would enjoy it. He's heard the noise those two make, and damned if it didn't sound like a fucking slaughterhouse sometimes.And while prettyboy's damn near bubbling over with laughter (earning a sidelong sneer of a glance from Decker - 'cause no, he ain't forgiven for staring at her ass yet), Decker just kinda...shrugs. Grunt, sneer, shrug, snort. Let's hear it for the expansive vocabulary of the Get of Fenris Modi.
"Damn right I ask a lot," muttered. "Ain't I givin'it enough?"
And that. Was so surly-deadpan. That if he hadn't been looking at Imogen when he said it, she'd miss it - the subtlest hints of lazy amusement in his eyes. And those eyes, half a beat later, turn down the street to the approaching Skald.
"Dire," simply enough: both an announcement and a greeting.
(james)
that's a bark of laughter out of the Gnawer
coughing up the lunful of smoke
he's not about to answer "yes" to the question posed to the kin
the condo's share a lot of wallspace
sure bet he's heard them, too
guttermutt's guttermind connecting that comment right purtily
he doesn't even bother saying anything elsestill just chuckling amusedly when there's a nod up for the Skald
(imogen)
She'd been swallowing coffee as Decker spoke, and in an imitation of Tristan nearly choking on his smoke, she nearly chokes on semi hot liquid as the Fenrir speaks, and the Bone Gnawer bursts out laughing, casting James a half glare (not paint peeling. Amused, maybe.), as she swallows rapidly, clearing her throat.When the danger of... ignobly expiring on the sidewalk (death by humour. Or by coffee) is passed, one finger leaves the coffee cup to point vaguely in James's direction, "S'enough outta you." Half breathless as she catches her breath, inhaling slowly, clearing her throat again.
The finger moves to point in Decker's direction, for a moment, wordless, the same amusement flickering before her attention flickers to Dire's approach, a half glint of recognition, a faint lift of her chin in a half nod of greeting. Another swallow of coffee, cautious this time.
(tristan)
The sidelong sneer isn’t unnoticed (nor is Dire’s oh so innocent [not] look at Imogen’s ass that gets a slight lift of brow) and he? Just grins at the Modi. Forgiven or not, it seems that Decker knows damn well what he’s got. Perhaps even more then he’d like to think. And the grin? Completely unrepentant.. seems it’s a damn good thing he’s moved a few miles away. Lot quieter. Well. Kinda. Now it’s his own neighbors complaining
Givin in enough indeed.
Oh yes – inhale, exhale, and for gods sake don’t say a word. (oh the words he’d say) and his grin turns on Dire for a moment. And then Imogen telling James to can it in her own way gets outright laughter again as he looks between Decker, James and Imogen, and settles for the relatively safety of Dire.. “Evenin, Dire.” Because god knows what all this good mood stuff is gonna lead.. (oh he knows where it will lead on at least two sides, and that causes all the more amusement.)(dire)
He nods to them. A simple cant of his head. A smile. Nothing huge but he wans't known for neverending pissyness. Just.. random acts of madness.
He's had a good evening. One on par with the rest of the pack he's still not a part of evidently. He smiles sofly listening to them all. Looking between them and picking up a bit on the humor.
He's a Skald, humor was one of the ways to move people.
He pauses sniffing the air. looking around and then up. Always on the alert. born of the warrior form any other seemed a step down. THis human one more squishy than most. Sences reeled in to just normal pretranatural levels, why... he could probly only scent somone at 400 yards in this nose. Damn thing.
Sniff.
Damn Imogen smells good. All that pure blood singing in her veins. Her heart beating in her chest. all audiable and easily senced by the fenrir.
Not that he would ever even entertain the idea of one day looking in her general direction with anything approaching something other than famiiar affection or natural admiration.
He likes his heads where they are thank you.
Then there were the other smells. James' on distinct one that's so different from Deckers. just like a human could tell an orange from vanilla he could detect such a major scent change between those two.
Tristin kinda smelled like james though.
Glaciers hearts ice blue eyes flicker among them as they talk and what not and he looks up again. Around the sky and back to them.
He listens to more as his own fingers come up to gently feel the black silk shirt somone had bought him. Told him he looked pretty fly.
Then came the dreams the other night. Terriable night mares about stuff falling out of the darkness on him.
He'd done that damn cleansing rite AGAIN today because of it.
The fact that the TVs and news papers were splashed with stories of shit falling out of the sky didn't fucking help.
SO he feels the silk and tries to enjoy the banter.And he shifts his foot to kick the goblin pissing on deckers boot in the ass making it piss all over itself too.
His head flicks up to Tristan and he nods.
"Bonjour. Comment êtes-vous tout ceci met à l'amende le soir? J'apprécie plutôt ce claquement chaud dans le temps. Oh, et quelque chose j'ai découvert eariler "matticotti" appelé"(decker)
'S enough outta James, and 's enough outta Decker too. The thuggish Modi snorts a chuckle under his breath, rocking his weight back to thump shoulders against wall, plant feet apart, slouch down. Look at Dire: stare.He's taking in Mr. Pretty-Fly-for-a-White-Guy in his fly silk shirt. Who's speaking French. Decker understood the first word. Sort of. He knew it was French, at least. Heard it on a sitcom or a cartoon or something. Somewhere.
And it's back to familiar, frowning, tolerant, ever so tactful Decker. "Quit sniffin' her, Dire. The hell you talkin'?"
(james)
as that finger uncurls from the cup and points at him
both hands go up in total surrender
even if that grin just doesn't quit
Gnawer backed against the wall, hands up in white flag
reaaaaal convincing"Yes ma'am."
and then the Skald speaks
in French no less
and a brow. certainly. lifts.
.... the hell? - yeh, what Decker said(imogen)
Yeah. Reaaaaaaaaal convincing James. His grin doesn't quite, and at the very least the half smile that touches her lips doesn't quite fail, though it falters and changes into an odd look as Dire spouts off in french.She understands more than she can speak, and the end she just stares at him. Decker's already spoken most of their opinions, and she doesn't want to know what he was doing with the manticiotti, because really that was all she understood.
(tristan)
Decker’s done, James gets a wide grin, Decker’s comment brings laughter… and the French? He didn’t understand a single word. He blinks.. looking at Dire, then flicking the butt of his cigarette into the gutter to extinquish with a little psssst in the slush. Hands slide into the pockets of his jeans then, comfortably, foot touching his case once more – just to make sure its there.. and then.. well.. the hell? of the others pretty much sum it all up, don’t it…(dire)
He blinks realizing he'd sliped up and used the wrong language. He looks to Decker with a blink and then to Imogen then back to him and srugs with a nod.
Wasn't really going to apoligise... I mean.. if he'd gotten on his hands and knees and sniffed her crotch, well yeah, He was just sniffing in general and smelling them all.
His poor missused noses still remembers close confines with decker smelling like a monkey, rode hard and put up wet.
He listens to the others.
When they all give him the goose look he kinda sheepishly looks down and grins. "All I said said was hello.... commented on the weather, and the food that is Matticotti. I rather enjoied it. Even if it didn't taste like any italians I've bitten in the past."
He looks up with juuuust enough of a grin to let them debate on weither he was kidding or not.(decker)
If Dire'd gotten on his hands and knees to, er, 'sniff' her crotch, you don't wanna know what might've happened. Decker don't share.More to the point, Imogen packs silver.
The bare hint of a grin's met with a blank stare, still. "The hell's manticotti?" Sounded like some sort of manta ray to him.
(james)
for some reason
he just doesn't doubt the way that Dire's phrased that
though he still stays quiet
using the near finished smoke to jump start another
that butt flicked to the gutter after Tristan's
something of an appraising nod
he know what it is, good food(imogen)
She steps past James, and steps around Dire to reach the garbage can a few feet away from where Decker leans against the wall. The three quarter's empty coffee mug is tossed inside, dismissing the cold coffee now.Much of the conversation now appears to be Decker discussing the finer points of culinary food with Dire. She does nothing to break the trend, instead moving to lean slightly against the cold brick of the wall, her hand sliding into the pocket of her jean, while the other shifts the light weight of the coffeehouse bag, a faint crinkle of plastic with the movement.
(tritsan)
If dire had done that kinda sniffing – well Tristan woulda beat feet outa here, before he got some of that retaliation of Decker too, because he’d be laughing his fool head off. Not a good way to stay on the Fenrir’s good side, even when he’s in such a good mood.
He chuckles and nods to Dire. “Good stuff, manticotti – and I’ll just trust you on that comparison.” Chuckled as he stretches slightly, then it turns to more full body oh god I’ve been standing in one place too long stretch, hands over head, back arching slightly, eyes closing before it all reverses and pulls farther to see lean frame sinking to easy crouch, arm lightly resting on knee, the other atop the violin case. Which of course, affords him a rather nice view of Imogen’s little walk, but does he look like he noticed? Oh no… (oh but he did…)(dire)
He blinks pausing and looking at decker like he just pulled off a mask like in scooby doo"Wha... it's food... you eat it."
Blink. Mayby decker hit his head on the headboard too hard or something. It should heal.
Slowly turning his head back to trist. Eyes not turning with till the very end. Staying on Decker untill they flicker over. He sees the strech. He sees the squat. He absently wonders if the kin was going to Smell James crotch.
he'd only rarly seen humans do it. That'd be intresting to watch. Oh and watch their reactions too. So he hushes up.(Decker)
"Oh." Well shit. Food. In his world, that's burgers, fries, sweet-n-sour chicken. Chow mein. Mono- and bisyllabic words.That little walk seems to be attracting quite a bit of attention. Certainly got his. She's facing him, though, so it can't be the a-s-s. His eyes follow the trajectory of her coffee (still some left over, too. What a damn waste) to the trash, casual-like, and boomerang back to her.
(must be the hair thang.)
Either that or the eyes that don't look away. Or those finely-made features. Or the damn attitude. Whatever. Something's got him all...
...watching her move. "Stubborn," he mutters at her, whatever that might mean. As she leans against the wall, he shifts his weight to one foot, nudging over to make some room for her. Didn't need her resting her elbow on the lip of the trashcan.
(james)
he's probably the only male in the vicinity that's not looking at Imogen
at least anywhere from the neck down
maybe it's just that his eyes don't naturally wander
maybe it's that not all beatings are good beatings
and just maybe.... it's another reason altogether
there's an offhand glance just to watch where she's going
then there's more room made on the bricks as he steps away
body folding and long arm reaching down to grab Tristan's wrist
head tilting as dreads swing, smoke blown up and away
lifting the kin's arm so that sleeve falls away to reveal watch"Night folks."
it's getting late
he's got somewhere to be
some negligent wave
some swing of tattered tails around his ankles
and the Gnawer heads away(imogen)
It's sometimes the oddest things that get attention. The slow steady walk across a few feet of concrete. A hand running through her hair, vibrant red tresses, all the colours of an autumn sunset. She does not take much things like that well, so it might be a question as to whether she notices some looks. Or if she simply ignores them altogether, avoiding the possibility of conflict.She glances sideways at Decker as he shifts over for her, settling her shoulders against the wall, her lips curving into a faint smirk, half amused. He's got height on her even when he's leaning like that, so the look she gives him includes a lift of her chin to cross the difference in height. An eyebrow lift. And?
Whatever he meant by that.
Then the attention shifts away, and James is walking away, his back turned, so instead of some half gesture it's just a simple "Night, James."
(tritan)
He feels Dire’s eyes on him during that stretch and all, but it does nothing to budge that easy going grin. Not like he’s not as used to being checked out as Imogen must be, what with the hungry way Decker’s watching her move. Least he had couth enough not to outright stare – but then again? He’s not the one…..yeah..
From his vantage point across from James and Decker and Imogen, and even dire who completes the something of a lopsided group, he can easily follow the conversation in movements. The way Decker’s watching Imogen move. The curiosity in Dire’s eyes as they watch him – wonder what he thinks our pretty boy will do, hm? And the Bone Gnawer’s easy grace still leaned on patchworked shoulders until he’s away and moving and grabbing his wrist. Dark eyes look up, he arches a brow, and grins slides teasing. Wonder where he’s gotta be in such a hurry. Neighbors probably won’t be complaining tonight, however – they’ll be just as occupied. he smiles… “Night James.” And to be fair? He watches that back porch swing (easy ground eating stride) away too.(dire)
Dire's ctually watching James and Trist.
Oh OH! Look. LOOK. Physical contact, though while seemingly platonic might symbolize a dominance action on the part of the social alpha... James grabs Tris and "uses" him for his own devices and then departs without accknowledging such...Trist squatting, looking up at James. Definate submissive pose.
But.
they
were....
Both...........
Ma....l.....e......................
Dires head cant's to the side and there is a soft inquizitive shound made. Coming out something like "Arroungh?"
Then he remembers himself. Covers it by looking up in the sky and runs a hand though his hair all nonchalant like.
"Heard the hu... people went into the Aetherial... and died on the way home... The spirits of the wyld cry at this... such hope in the h.. people... give them much."Male/Male...... well it' snot garou garou.... so that's something.
but it's TOTALLY baffeling to poor Dire. I mean what would.... they..... Oh.
blink.
OH!?
He swallows and keeps looking up at the sky.
"I hear that some people even go up in planes and jump out for no apperent reason at all. I don't know if it's true.. seems silly"Oh yes. Tristans smile.. Danni gives him that smile in the morning. Oh my. Oh my. The poor Skald is honestly baffeled. And watching tristan watch James ass out of the corner of his eye he just coffs. Shakes his head as if to clear it and pats down the pockets of his jacket and pulls out a 20 Oz pepsi.
He opens it. Offers it to Decker first, then takes a swallow if Decker doesn't take it.
Instinct.(decker)
[north jersey](tristan)
There is a softness to the songs being played tonight - normal time, normal corner - and it matches the soft light in his eyes, the curl of lips that pull into a concentrating pout that never quite mars the smile, the sway of lean (used and abused and delightfully so) body in time with the instrument that seems to outright croon tonight. Bhraums, Chopin, Motzart - it all seems to have a sultry undertone tonight, a smoothness that slides through notes without words that paint pictures without vision...
He hit his stride a long time ago, and he's been playing for hours - the occasional request taken, the case at his feet showing a good pile of coinage, and that boyishly confident smile firmly in place, the light in his gaze a far cry from the upset young man of just two days ago... Things are ok in his world right now.
The music continues, the people gather, the people move on and more take their place... and he? simply plays on...(james)
bricks grab at a light gray patch on the shoulder of trench
weight shifting to lean against the wall
some easy lounge where arms cross over muscular chest
the long muscles in his back stretching slowly in the guise of comfort
deep umber eyes watch the violinist
listening to the sultry croon that came out of the hands of Chopin
listening to the low ephemeral quality of Brahms' dreams
listening to the stringed love letter drawn by Mozarthe may be some uncouth urban primitive
finding the tribal rhythms from the scab's hidden heartbeat
but it's clear that he has an appreciation for the classics, as well(tristan)
Eventually even he must pause, eventually even he must rest, and eventually… the music ends.
Not abruptly, not suddenly, more a long drawn out lullaby that sooths the (savage beast) listener, gives a security where there is none, (come play your song for me…) speaks of the strength of protecting arms, (Let the music set you free) of loving touch, (and when the night is done) of the scents of mothers skin as she rocks her precious baby to sleep… (play on, play on, play on)
The last note hangs on the still cold air, shimmering in crystalline clarity before it too fades away and he pulls the bow from the strings, lashes falling to hide dark gaze as smile plays over lips, and coinage rains… beloved instrument is pulled from shoulder rest, bow and violin held against belly as he looks over those gathered and takes a well deserved bow to smattering of applause.
It’s then his eyes find James (family) and playful wink cuts through the crowd even as he turns his attention to this comment or that, that person or this, his laughter ringing free, hand shook here, and there as the crowd disperses.(decker)
Next to James, half an arm's reach away, crouching with his back to the wall: Decker. Squatting, really, but that's an ugly word that doesn't quite have the right feel. Peasants squat. Animals crouch. And he's an animal. Homo sapiens, canis lupus. One and both and neither.He's just rolled a joint, but with the fingernail moon slipped down under the buildings and the horizon it's not necessary, and pot's expensive, and his debt to Rune was running high. So he's just holding it. Looking at it, studying it like the riddle of the Sphinx with his lumbar back to the wall, free wrist on his knee, fingers curled loosely. Looking at it, studying it, rolling it idly between his fingers and watching the bits of marijuana crushed between the paper slipping out where the haphazard folding left creases and breaks while he waits for something else to catch his attention - or, perhaps, just enjoys the rare moments of quiet pack unity.
Music slips over the cold night - cold, but not so very cold anymore. Well above freezing, almost into the forties. Music glides off the pavement and slides off the buildings. God only knew if he liked it, but at very least he wasn't complaining tonight.
(james)
these quiet moments have been rare indeed
something or someone or even what isn't big enough to qualify as some happens
true enough there are times when they really can blame it on the moon
luckily, now, that's not a bad thing
the sliver high above the occasional clouds
given that, and the carryover from the few nights past
seems the Kin and the Modi aren't the only ones in good moodseven in times like this, their actions are instinctive
the Gnawer stands and watches one direction
the Fenrir crouches and watches the other
always looking out for each other's backs
even when it's just to listen to a streetman playit's an easy smile that responds to that wink
waiting until the crowd disperses"Keep this up I'll have to find another corner, Tris."
(imogen)
It's a general meeting place, tonight, it seems. Tristan plays, and eventually, someone finds him. James with his packmates of burning rage. Imogen and her cool implacability. Bright flames, candles to the darkness of the unawakened. Some of the crueler called them sheep.She exits one of the coffee shop, fingers shifting the light weight of a small plastic bag holding a few bags of ground coffee. In her other hand is a take-away cup with it's cheap lid, the hot liquid inside steaming gently. It's doubtful she'd been a crime scene tonight, not if she was running such an errand. The sky is cloudy and for the most part, all forecasts have promised rain to add to the dreariness. Lucky for Tristan and countless others playing on street corners, or sleeping on street corners, the rain has stopped for now.
It's warm enough to keep her jacket open as she walks down the street, attention flicker toward the playing kinfolk and then the two Garou beyond, booted feet making a soft beat against the street made grey and grimy from melted snow dirtied by hundreds of careless feet.
(tristan)
He laughs as dark gaze slides to James again, this time seeing Decker crouched as well and playful grin gracing the Modi as well. He spreads his arms, bow and violin in one hand, the other open as he looks properly sheepish. “Sorry?” yet triumphant all the same as he crouches before his case and collects coin, slides it away into the soft bag found for that purpose, tucking it into his coat pocket as he sets his beloved instrument into the case, wiping it down with a soft cloth as he continues.. “But you’ll be happy to know that most of the requests I got tonight involved “so where’s the man with the drums? You two play together? He know you have his corner?” for the most part.”
Easy smile as he stands, foot resting against the case - casual contact that means everything: it’s there, all’s well, its within reach and he’s ready for whatever comes his way. “Evening Decker” then a glance up, and warm smile for Imogen as she approaches.(decker)
Grey eyes flick past his joint to Tristan. A silence, not so much seething as considerating. Is it worth it? Then, grunt: 'hnh.' Must be some sort of hello.Just so happens the direction James is watching is the one Imogen's coming from. All the same certain knowledges seem able to pass between the packmates without even the need for conscious thought. A beat after James notices Imogen, Decker leans forward an inch or two from his crouch, peering beyond James' legs to note the kin coming up the walk.
(ain't that a sight.)
Suddenly Decker's vibe's a little more relaxed. A little lighter at the edges. Might even be a curve to the corners of his mouth as he leans back, eyes downcast as he fiddles with the buckle on his lowslung belt before laying both his wrists out on his knees, joint still unlit between thumb and forefinger of the right hand.
(james)
sorry..... right
he'll believe that
just like he's sure the Kin will believe he's actually annoyed by this"Tell them he's on walkabout. Sounded like you were in a good mood."
how well he knows that emotions transgress through play
just how long has it been since he's played?
the thought comes up from some oblique place to strike him
he hasn't necessarily had to, living at the condo as he's been
some of what he made before the trip carried over, too
so while there hasn't been the need
for a breif, brow furrowing momen, he wonders where the want has been
something that will soon have to be corrected, it appearsdark eyes slide across the slushed ice, past his (family) kin
dreads dragging over his shoulder as the entire body doesn't lift from the wall
there's just a liiiiittle stretch (cause yeh, that's quite the sight) to peer around
chin lifting up in a little nod for the good Doc
maybe that grin hangs around to feel his packmate relax
maybe that grin hangs around because Imogen is simply his friend"Oooooooh, you brought me coffee?"
even managing a little excited lift of his brows
that grin is definitely there in the tease that suffices for hello
ah yes, that would be the great crusade to find the lost arc of humorous covenant hidden deep within the firey Kin(imogen)
She receives a warm smile from Tristan as she approaches and he receives a half nod from the redhead, a movement that stirs strands of hair freed from her pony tail, most of the mass pulled back low on her neck, but for those few aforementioned recalcitrant strands. "How's it going." Murmered statement that is a greeting more than a question.Boots protect her from the slush, mostly (as they have protected her from snow and blood), though a bit of the dampness has transferred to the cuffs of her jeans, causing a faint darkening along the hem. The hand that holds the plastic bag rests lightly near her thigh, thumb hooked into her pocket, the rest of her fingers threaded into plastic bag. Both eyebrows lift at James as he speaks, with that teasing note, and she simply watches him for a moment, before taking a deliberate swallow of the coffee in her hand. "Get your own ga'damned coffee." Deadpan delivery and it's only then that she smirks, "I've already shared my beer with you."
A glance past James to where Decker crouches, holding an unlit joint between his fingers. A moment passes, and then the dark blue eyes slide back to James. She's never quite one for greetings, be it responding to warm smiles, or waves. Something about it simply isn't second nature to her.
(tritan)
hands slide in and out of pockets in the oh so familiar search for a smoke.. it’s been hours since he’s taken a break, too into the music to break away, something he knows James understands. Just like he understands the feeling behind the music. Some play to escape, some play to show off the mechanics, some play for this or that or because they have too. He has always played his emotions, always played his feelings through finger and string, from mellow and haunting to lilting and fun, to the doomsday mourn of an ache that is far too deep to simply speak about…
But tonight? Oh yes. He is in a good mood. He grins at Imogen… “Better be proper coffee too..” you know, laced with Irish cream? Oh yes. He laughs and fingers finally find his pack and lighter, and corkscrew curls slide over strong jaw as he tips head to light a cigarette, offering pack and (hotpink) lighter in James’ direction. “And yes, I’m in a good mood. He’s staying.” A world of information in two. Little. Words.(decker)
From beyond James, the low southern drawl: "Yeah, she ain't gittin' coffee fer nobody but me."And, as Imogen rounds James' mass and comes into view, the Modi's eyes meet hers for that one too-long not-long-enough glance, mouth twitching into a lopsided smirk. "Sup, Imogen."
Yeah, that's right: beggin' for her to contradict him.
She looks back to James (the more vocal of this little group) and he uncoils to his feet, dancing the joint through his fingers and slipping it away. He had three all rolled and ready in his pocket already, for when the moon passed its nadir and started toward the full again. Hands go around behind to dust off the small of his back that had pressed against the wall - it and whatever semitoxic substances might've coated it.
(dire)
The tricked out Jetta pulls down the street. Turns into the lot and after chooseing a space pulls in and stops.
THe driver sits there a moment singing to a Falco song. Totally getting into it as he drums his hands ont he wheel and such. The song ends and he cuts off the radio. Sighs and rotates his shoulders in the oversized leather jacket. He was feeling all nice and stuff after the rite of cleansing. THen the long bubble bath at Danni's. Carmen liked the bubbles and after her song had fallen right asleep. Danni insisted he leave her there to sleep while he went out.
The door opens and he streches again. Sniffs and growls softly. Sniffs again to see if it's safe. He tilts his head. Old scents here.
He walks up to the packs portch and raps on the door. Waits a while and shakes his head. Hopping the deck and some how managing not to break his neck he knocks on Imogens door. No answer he sniffs and sighs.Reaching into a pocket he pulls out a string with a little sliver of malichite on the end. The motions are done. THe rite inacted. He follows it down the steps and heads out of the complex.
(james)
she's not one for greetings
she has stares that peel even the most reslient of paint
which is why he figured he'd just prompt a like remark
and call it all good
so her deadpan delivery gets a sheer grin from the Gnawera brow lifts, taking the pack and (strippa pink!) lighter
tapping out one for himself, lighting up
and instead of handing them back to the Gnawer Kin
he offers them to the other Kin
and knows Tristan wouldn't mind, either"Good."
a world of information in that single word
because he knows the reasons, and he remembers his reaction
smooooooth transition sliding dark eyes back to the Modi"Yeh, seems she only buys and shares beer with me."
brow lifts
oh yeh, beggin' a contradiction on that one(imogen)
"Yes. Proper coffee," spoken to the Bone Gnawer kin, "and it's mine." Another swallow of coffee, a suppressed wince as the damned proper coffee that appears to be so in demand burns her freaking tongue.Cigarette and lighter offered. The other kin shakes her head slightly, the fingers wrapped around the coffee cup and the fingers resting lightly against her thigh, stuck through the plastic store band bag flicking up in half demonstration. No hands to smoke right now, thank you very much. Or at the very least, not enough inclination to smoke that she's going to bother juggling it with the bag around her wrist. "Thanks, though," tacked on after a moment.
Decker speaks, daring her to contridict him, a glance sliding upward as he stands. Amusement twisting a half smirk across her mouth, "That shouldn't be too hard. Unless you've grown t'likin' cofffee since I last checked?" Another glance this time between the two Garou, the eyebrow lifting once more, in what might be slight imitation of James, or her own indication of mild humour. "Please. There's enough beer for everyone." It's more her words than tone that indicates humour, "What th'hell do you take me for?"
(tristan)
Of course he doesn’t mind, and his smile turns positively wicked at James one word reply, adding three to his own.. “Oh it was….” Beat. And another “very.” A wink as he tucks free hand into the pocket of his jeans, the other involved in the slow lift and lower of cancerous stick to his lips and back to rest against thigh.
He can’t help the slight smirk, the though he ducks his head because even if the Modi seems to be in a great mood? He could damn well get plastered for what he dares say next… “Least I get tequila.” No beer, no coffee, straight to the hard stuff baybee (and did he mention that was quite a sight? Nope. Not that he didn’t notice, but he was told to keep his eyes where they belong, so dark gaze lifts to James again. Not that he’s ignoring the rest of them, he’s just behaving. Yannow. Mostly.(decker)
"Don't tempt her, Tristan," muttered so low under his breath that he'd have to have the ears of a bat to hear at all. "Imogen's tryin' to taste better."Then, his attention swerves toward James. Brow for brow, blond for dark: cocking up. Beneath the blond brow, grey eyes like distant thunderheads, heavy and stormy. He just...looks at James for a while. When he speaks, it's dangerous and quiet.
"Watch yer step, boy."
(And this is when Decker flies into a frenzy and...)
...and, an unexpected twitch of mouth, a lift of chin at his packmate. "Don't want me t' report yer l'il exploits to Rune, now do ya?"
(dire)
Walk
Walk
Walk
Walk
Walk
He walks along. Time and again checking the stoneon the string. Finally he turns the corner and here comes the Skald.Dressed in black pants, A new black silk shirt and his over sized black leather jacket that he's had for a while. His heads down, looking at the string as he approaches. blond hiar shining in the night lights. THe glacier blue eyes cued in on the string and stone.
(james)
we! have! humor!
no matter how small of an inclination it is, it's there!
one victory for James, thank you, thank you
and whatever smugness he may have had at that little victory
is totally lost at the comments
(tastes great less filling? mmhmmm.... not going there)
Gnawer breaking into a laugh - wholehearted and too amused
his head shaking to take dreads across shoulders
finally shifting to lean back against the wall
finally extending an arm to hand pack and lighter back to their proper owner
the other hand gesturing absently with the Camel
deep earthen brown meeting stormy gray
easily holding that rolling thunder stare"Dunno... she might beat me for it."
and with that rogue grin just raking across his lips
..... was that a plea.... or a suggestion?(imogen)
She's close enough to Decker to catch the commentary. Or at least close enough to hear the sounds and guess, because she's the only one privy to that discussion, and her eyes narrow in the direction of the Fenrir.She might even be disturbed by the good mood.
"Get you coffee, taste better," she replies after a beat, shaking her head as her gaze strays down the street, catching the sight of the approach of the black swathed Galliard. "You sure do ask a lot."
James's reply to Decker, coupled with a laugh provokes a glance from the fire-haired kinfolk, as she takes another sip of coffee, the movement hiding whatever expression that might have crossed her lips. Be it smile, smirk or grimace.
(tristan)
We have HUMOR.
Expected from James.
Even expected from Imogen in that famous deadpan way she has (and there is a flicker of an image of her just snowplowing the boy on moving day) and then…..……..taste……better……
oh god.. he aches to say something in reply but he. Doesn’t. dare. But lips twitch and he attempts to hide the laughter (simply infected by Jamey-boy’s, right?) and there is no hiding the goodnatured boyish grin that slides over lips and finds permanent home in dark eyes…
And then…
Exploits….
And beating…
And pleas and suggestions….And Imogen and her list of Decker’s demands….
And the boy? Aw hell. He has absolutely no comeback in the world to all that - so he simply, concentrates on bringing camel to lips and inhaling without choking on the laughter still bubbling softly free. Yes, boys and girls, the good-natured, kin is stunned silent.
(dire)
He's walking up the street and he smells them before he sees them. They should be called the Nicotine pack. His head jerks up and it comes to rest right on Imogenes ass. He blinks and... blinks. His brows shoot up and he blinks looking up and seeing the rest of them.
Man, That just wasn't fair.
He winds up the string around the rock and slips it back into a pocket as he moseys on up to them. Nods.(decker)
Yeah, yeah. Good mood. Whatever. Seems even that won't make him any more verbose. Just a grunt for the beating comment. Might just be that James would enjoy it. He's heard the noise those two make, and damned if it didn't sound like a fucking slaughterhouse sometimes.And while prettyboy's damn near bubbling over with laughter (earning a sidelong sneer of a glance from Decker - 'cause no, he ain't forgiven for staring at her ass yet), Decker just kinda...shrugs. Grunt, sneer, shrug, snort. Let's hear it for the expansive vocabulary of the Get of Fenris Modi.
"Damn right I ask a lot," muttered. "Ain't I givin'it enough?"
And that. Was so surly-deadpan. That if he hadn't been looking at Imogen when he said it, she'd miss it - the subtlest hints of lazy amusement in his eyes. And those eyes, half a beat later, turn down the street to the approaching Skald.
"Dire," simply enough: both an announcement and a greeting.
(james)
that's a bark of laughter out of the Gnawer
coughing up the lunful of smoke
he's not about to answer "yes" to the question posed to the kin
the condo's share a lot of wallspace
sure bet he's heard them, too
guttermutt's guttermind connecting that comment right purtily
he doesn't even bother saying anything elsestill just chuckling amusedly when there's a nod up for the Skald
(imogen)
She'd been swallowing coffee as Decker spoke, and in an imitation of Tristan nearly choking on his smoke, she nearly chokes on semi hot liquid as the Fenrir speaks, and the Bone Gnawer bursts out laughing, casting James a half glare (not paint peeling. Amused, maybe.), as she swallows rapidly, clearing her throat.When the danger of... ignobly expiring on the sidewalk (death by humour. Or by coffee) is passed, one finger leaves the coffee cup to point vaguely in James's direction, "S'enough outta you." Half breathless as she catches her breath, inhaling slowly, clearing her throat again.
The finger moves to point in Decker's direction, for a moment, wordless, the same amusement flickering before her attention flickers to Dire's approach, a half glint of recognition, a faint lift of her chin in a half nod of greeting. Another swallow of coffee, cautious this time.
(tristan)
The sidelong sneer isn’t unnoticed (nor is Dire’s oh so innocent [not] look at Imogen’s ass that gets a slight lift of brow) and he? Just grins at the Modi. Forgiven or not, it seems that Decker knows damn well what he’s got. Perhaps even more then he’d like to think. And the grin? Completely unrepentant.. seems it’s a damn good thing he’s moved a few miles away. Lot quieter. Well. Kinda. Now it’s his own neighbors complaining
Givin in enough indeed.
Oh yes - inhale, exhale, and for gods sake don’t say a word. (oh the words he’d say) and his grin turns on Dire for a moment. And then Imogen telling James to can it in her own way gets outright laughter again as he looks between Decker, James and Imogen, and settles for the relatively safety of Dire.. “Evenin, Dire.” Because god knows what all this good mood stuff is gonna lead.. (oh he knows where it will lead on at least two sides, and that causes all the more amusement.)(dire)
He nods to them. A simple cant of his head. A smile. Nothing huge but he wans't known for neverending pissyness. Just.. random acts of madness.
He's had a good evening. One on par with the rest of the pack he's still not a part of evidently. He smiles sofly listening to them all. Looking between them and picking up a bit on the humor.
He's a Skald, humor was one of the ways to move people.
He pauses sniffing the air. looking around and then up. Always on the alert. born of the warrior form any other seemed a step down. THis human one more squishy than most. Sences reeled in to just normal pretranatural levels, why... he could probly only scent somone at 400 yards in this nose. Damn thing.
Sniff.
Damn Imogen smells good. All that pure blood singing in her veins. Her heart beating in her chest. all audiable and easily senced by the fenrir.
Not that he would ever even entertain the idea of one day looking in her general direction with anything approaching something other than famiiar affection or natural admiration.
He likes his heads where they are thank you.
Then there were the other smells. James' on distinct one that's so different from Deckers. just like a human could tell an orange from vanilla he could detect such a major scent change between those two.
Tristin kinda smelled like james though.
Glaciers hearts ice blue eyes flicker among them as they talk and what not and he looks up again. Around the sky and back to them.
He listens to more as his own fingers come up to gently feel the black silk shirt somone had bought him. Told him he looked pretty fly.
Then came the dreams the other night. Terriable night mares about stuff falling out of the darkness on him.
He'd done that damn cleansing rite AGAIN today because of it.
The fact that the TVs and news papers were splashed with stories of shit falling out of the sky didn't fucking help.
SO he feels the silk and tries to enjoy the banter.And he shifts his foot to kick the goblin pissing on deckers boot in the ass making it piss all over itself too.
His head flicks up to Tristan and he nods.
"Bonjour. Comment êtes-vous tout ceci met à l'amende le soir? J'apprécie plutôt ce claquement chaud dans le temps. Oh, et quelque chose j'ai découvert eariler "matticotti" appelé"(decker)
'S enough outta James, and 's enough outta Decker too. The thuggish Modi snorts a chuckle under his breath, rocking his weight back to thump shoulders against wall, plant feet apart, slouch down. Look at Dire: stare.He's taking in Mr. Pretty-Fly-for-a-White-Guy in his fly silk shirt. Who's speaking French. Decker understood the first word. Sort of. He knew it was French, at least. Heard it on a sitcom or a cartoon or something. Somewhere.
And it's back to familiar, frowning, tolerant, ever so tactful Decker. "Quit sniffin' her, Dire. The hell you talkin'?"
(james)
as that finger uncurls from the cup and points at him
both hands go up in total surrender
even if that grin just doesn't quit
Gnawer backed against the wall, hands up in white flag
reaaaaal convincing"Yes ma'am."
and then the Skald speaks
in French no less
and a brow. certainly. lifts.
.... the hell? - yeh, what Decker said(imogen)
Yeah. Reaaaaaaaaal convincing James. His grin doesn't quite, and at the very least the half smile that touches her lips doesn't quite fail, though it falters and changes into an odd look as Dire spouts off in french.She understands more than she can speak, and the end she just stares at him. Decker's already spoken most of their opinions, and she doesn't want to know what he was doing with the manticiotti, because really that was all she understood.
(tristan)
Decker’s done, James gets a wide grin, Decker’s comment brings laughter… and the French? He didn’t understand a single word. He blinks.. looking at Dire, then flicking the butt of his cigarette into the gutter to extinquish with a little psssst in the slush. Hands slide into the pockets of his jeans then, comfortably, foot touching his case once more - just to make sure its there.. and then.. well.. the hell? of the others pretty much sum it all up, don’t it…(dire)
He blinks realizing he'd sliped up and used the wrong language. He looks to Decker with a blink and then to Imogen then back to him and srugs with a nod.
Wasn't really going to apoligise... I mean.. if he'd gotten on his hands and knees and sniffed her crotch, well yeah, He was just sniffing in general and smelling them all.
His poor missused noses still remembers close confines with decker smelling like a monkey, rode hard and put up wet.
He listens to the others.
When they all give him the goose look he kinda sheepishly looks down and grins. "All I said said was hello.... commented on the weather, and the food that is Matticotti. I rather enjoied it. Even if it didn't taste like any italians I've bitten in the past."
He looks up with juuuust enough of a grin to let them debate on weither he was kidding or not.(decker)
If Dire'd gotten on his hands and knees to, er, 'sniff' her crotch, you don't wanna know what might've happened. Decker don't share.More to the point, Imogen packs silver.
The bare hint of a grin's met with a blank stare, still. "The hell's manticotti?" Sounded like some sort of manta ray to him.
(james)
for some reason
he just doesn't doubt the way that Dire's phrased that
though he still stays quiet
using the near finished smoke to jump start another
that butt flicked to the gutter after Tristan's
something of an appraising nod
he know what it is, good food(imogen)
She steps past James, and steps around Dire to reach the garbage can a few feet away from where Decker leans against the wall. The three quarter's empty coffee mug is tossed inside, dismissing the cold coffee now.Much of the conversation now appears to be Decker discussing the finer points of culinary food with Dire. She does nothing to break the trend, instead moving to lean slightly against the cold brick of the wall, her hand sliding into the pocket of her jean, while the other shifts the light weight of the coffeehouse bag, a faint crinkle of plastic with the movement.
(tritsan)
If dire had done that kinda sniffing - well Tristan woulda beat feet outa here, before he got some of that retaliation of Decker too, because he’d be laughing his fool head off. Not a good way to stay on the Fenrir’s good side, even when he’s in such a good mood.
He chuckles and nods to Dire. “Good stuff, manticotti - and I’ll just trust you on that comparison.” Chuckled as he stretches slightly, then it turns to more full body oh god I’ve been standing in one place too long stretch, hands over head, back arching slightly, eyes closing before it all reverses and pulls farther to see lean frame sinking to easy crouch, arm lightlyPosted by james at 12:00 AMFebruary 01, 2003.02.01.03. - give and take [rune][newark]
(james)
first come the steps
he ain't bangin' on the skins or buckets or barrels
so there's this cadent beat from the strike of soles against sidewalk
each stride long and loose
from his shoulders, down through lower back, hips, and finally those long legs
that swingin', ground covering gait that seems an effortless pride
maybe that's his breath foggin' up the air infront of him
or maybe it's from that joint clenched between his teeth
lips pulled back to let a little air in around each laced drag
but every few they close again
dark eyes falling victim to closing lids
lungs filling with that green tingling haze
one mo' hit for the roadthe city is dark
the roads are dark
but it doesn't seem like it would matter to him anyway
he'd be smokin' it walking down the middle of the street in broad daylight
but since the moon has dwindled to trickster's darkness above?
seems he's found a little amusement in adding his own version of fog to what creeps down the street
he lit up when the sun came crashing down
some reflection of the oranged pollution haze in the bic's sheen on his face
now night is blanketing the winter-locked land
the cold seeping in with a vengance through patched coat and BDUs
but he doesn't seem to notice it
hands negligently ambling at his sides to match each step
the very ends of dreads tapping against spine in echo(rune)
Something must be guiding his steps, and the rhythm of soles against sidewalk. The long, ground-eating gait takes him through the slouching slumlands, crumbling brick storefronts turned into evangelica churches or boarded over, except on the corner where the bodegas and liquor stores still thrive. The few other stores that eke out an existance in these barren, blasted blocks - pawn shops, check-cashing places - are veritable fortresses, surrounded with black iron and the latest in electronic gadgetry, fortified with armed guards who remain behind bulletproof glass and stare out at the street balefully. Everyone's a target.Among the tenements and abandoned factories, among the turn-of-the-century brick storefronts are neat little homes, or what once were the neat little homes of immigrants with dreams and goals, who sweated out a living in the factories and cultivated tiny gardens in their backyards, full of exotic vegetables from their homelands - Italy, Eastern Europe, Greece - the only memory of their past. Now, not even that. The houses are abandoned, flophouses, crackhouses, falling-down tenements, or just empty lots littered with works, populated by children who are far too old for their size, with hard eyes and sneering mouths.
Another corner, another block, four - past the rowhouses where the immigrants once dreamed, and now the urban poor linger and die slow deaths - into what was the business district of the neighborhood. It is, in fact, still the business district of the neighborhood, but there are no green grocers or dress makers, no chiropractors, no drug stores with soda fountains. Two liquor stores on the corner, three bars somewhere in the middle, and a dirty storefront that claims to be a Malcolm X Memorial Community Center, though the lights are broken and the interior - seen through the shattered window - is empty, another victim of budget cuts.
Outside the best of the three dives - the Empty Glass - lounges Rune. Slim shoulders pressed against the brick, an amused smirk curves across her red mouth as she fends off the advances of one of the dealers from the corner. There's no moon in the sky, and she, too, has that easy sense of calm that comes on the rare days of moondark. She can feel his approach - she knew he'd come - and before he has turned the corner, she's lifted her gaze from the man to whom she had been speaking, slipping across the horizon to wait for the sudden appearance of her pack(lover)mate. The smirk slides into a smile, the easy slouch straightens into a hip-centered lounge. Her companion follows the slant of her gaze, then backs up a step or three, muttering some faint curse under his breath.
Because, really, there's no mistaking the look she gives him.
(james)
something must be guiding him
something must be calling him
he follows it, that whispering urge
the little tug that has barbed hook down between some hidden vertebrae
it's an invisable fishing line that draws him
reeling him in
some big fish in a derelict sea that doesn't struggle the foundering tug deeper and deeper into the murky, filthy, ruined waters colored with the leftover scraps of lives and hopes and memories and moneythe tall raggedy man seems to revel in it
some bedragled royalty that surveys the kingdom slums
there's a smooth line from larynx swell through the rugged jaw
for even though he seems to belong here, where so many would scorn or recoil
it doesn't bother him to be amongst the forgotten and fighting
waging wars against poverty and addiction and racism and a thousand other (worse) things
as much as he would stand out amongst the Wall Street crowds
here he is so comfortably in his element
that confident walk
that swaggering gait
that savage smile raked across his lipshe didn't have to see her before rounding the final corner
he knew, already, what vision would greet him after pivoting step
it straightens his shoulders even more
it sends some volting charge up through lumbar spine
the smile that finds its way towards her companion shows perhaps too many teeth
some darkly playful side of the full moon warrior
the burning ember of the quarter joint caught between gleaming white
downward hook of human canines bared in a rather canid expression
there's a challenging spark in deep amber
(slow exhaling threat all but audible, isn't it)but lips slowly close around the joint
one arm lifting to place palm against the wall above her shoulder
lungs expanding in chest to draw huge hit off the joint
cherry flaring in the burgeoning grasp of surrounding darkness broughy by flickering lamps
the other arm, finally remembered, lifts for fingers to pluck the zig-zagged dream from his mouth
and the Gnawer folds, dreads slipping earthward as head tilts
mouth meeting hers in a kiss. that. is. animal
shotgunning the heavy smoke into his pack(lover)mate through lush contact(james)
How did he -- some high-priced whore.
...and other comments from the audience (for they do attract an audience. The dealers hanging on the corner half-turn, shoot smart little barbs at her erstwhile companion, who thought he had a chance with her because she bought some pills off'a him, because he offered her a joint of chronic like he was in the big-time, expecting some repayment in return.) are all lost. There's a low-fucking-roar in her ears, almost subsonic, that drowns out everything except for him. The smile raking savage, the baring of teeth, the frisson of awareness as her lazy smile turns anticipatory. Predatory.
His palm is flat against the rough brick above her shoulder. His strong body is blocking her in, until she is trapped between the ungiving brick and the familiar, muscled form. Gloved hands slide from her pockets where they sunk seeking warmth. As he folds his body down to her, her arms unfurl, hands slipping beneath the wings of his patchwork trenchcoat to settle on his lean hips. Nails curve, stretched leather and and straining lining muting the bite into his flesh beneath.
He devours her mouth (she swallows his breath, inhaling the scented smoke he shotguns in her lungs) and she drags him forward she's crushed by his weight, well-and-truly trapped against the wall. The animal kiss does not end until she's close to drowning on smoke, her body straining against his as her lungs scream for oxygen. She drags her head away and expels the choking cloud of smoke, then curves her mouth back, snapping teeth across the hard edge of his jaw.
"Well," indulgent, amused, wanton (animal), her red mouth curves in a smile against his skin. "...fuck me. That was quite a hello."
(james)
he can feel where her sharp nails would be through the strained leather
he's felt their bite before, and even through the canvas and thermals beneath
he knows exactly what certain pressure weilds in power
and a warmth spreads from the contact, through his belly and thighs
leaking into the supple sink of muscle
his weight comfortably settling (pinning) hers against the unforgiving wall
any other day he would worry the brick's rusty stains against her coat
today he seems to revel in that, too
because the roll of hips and shift closer makes the mortar scarring all the deepereven as she pulls away for the sanctity of air
he's chasing after her, some demon's relentless pursuit of angelic agony
flat teeth dragging across the red red wicked swell of her lower lip
keeping them in contact just for that pristine moment longer
until she bathes the air around them in the smoke sweetened by its stay in her lungs
then she finds the bone forming his jaw
chin lifting (throat offered) as the smile spreads across him
she can feel it, in their close contact, how it spreads through him"Well." softly laughed low and deep in his chest, some indulged smugness "Quite a hello for quite a woman."
rarely does he get an entire joint to himself
there are maybe one or two drags left in this one
sufficient enough that he is beyond buzzed and sailing amongst the clouds in the night sky above
a tattered kite that's been bruised and battered and torn by the winds
settling to find some santuary on the ground lain before her feet
she can hear the hazed grip by the husky tones finding their way past his lips
murmured in some serene breath leaking out of tingling lungshis hand lifts, roach held beween thumb and forefinger
careful of his dreads and careful of her inky silk
held up in offering to (always) share the last that he has"And I was hoping at some point during the night we'd get around to the other part."
(rune)
Lips part, in response to his offering, but before she accepts the remains of the joint, her head curls until her teeth catch and graze his fingers, lips pressing together to sooth the burn. He is careful of her inky silk, and she is careful of the flame, even as she teases him. The curve of her smile wicks wider - wicked, wild - and then her chin rises, head tiltling to the side (because there is no room behind her. He has her pinned hard against the wall) to allow the movement. Inky strands of hair catch on the teeth of the brick's rough texture, others fall along the length of her elegant neck, thus revealed."We'll get to that." Her smile curves sly, wanton. "...and sooner rather than later, if you're not fucking careful."
The remnant roach finds purchase in her lush and now deliciously bruised mouth. Lungs expand with the long inhale, curving body rising against his muscled form. One of her hands has slipped its perch on his hip, crawling up his flank, interposing itself between them, then rising over the hard rise of his broad shoulders. Across his neck, the gentle pressure of cool leather, with only the suggestion of raking nails behind it, promise rather than fulfillment. The gentle touch is close to tender, light and delicate, as her hand circles his neck to dive into thick dreadlocks.
She finishes the hit, holds it half-a-moment, and then the pressure of her hand on the nape of his neck changes from gentle to firm, from firm to demanding, forcing him by slow degrees down and into another kiss as thorough as it is long, returning the shotgun and filling his lungs with the rich smoke held in her own.
Far be it from her to deny him the last hit on the joint.
(james)
her lungs fill with the thick smoke
his fill with clean air just to lift flank and chest into her crawling, tender touch
the invasion of hand between them a welcome conquest
sending little ripples through the warm liquid of total body high
spreading and running and tickling along the highways of his nerves
amplified by the scrape of cotton over flesh
his head lifts, feline, stretching into the fingers tangling in dreads
dark eyes falling completely closed beneath the caresshe can feel the pressure building, to pull him down
so often he would bolt to her every beck and call
the firm insistance becoming a relentless demand
lashes slit, allowing some little glance to peer down at her
there's a glimmerling of challenge remaining in his eyes
a brow lifting, and for a moment, he resists
muscles through his shoulders tensing to press back against her drawthey both know his resistance to her is nil
and that cooly appraising look becomes a slowly growing smile
muscle loosening to bring them back together
his arms find their way from the wall to somehow place themselves between her and the bricks
gathering her tightly up against his chest
as if he would do more than simply inhale her lifebreath deep inside
there is aggressive abandon within their kiss
he hungers for the taste of her flesh as his lungs starve for her smoke-laced oxygenlungs that will never blacken burn from asphyxiation
there's only the need for a percentage of breath's oxygen
but when that single breath is held for glorious hours
even that percentage is used over and over again
how he loathes to expell the breath she so willingly gives him"Mmmmm..... Is that a threat or a promise?"
sighed across her lips
loath to exhale, then at least he will not move away
gray smoke coiling around them
a curtain between them and the rest of the (forgotten) world
bittersweet herbal remedy to the air's frosting chill(rune)
The night is pressing down on them, thought above - seen only in narrow strips through rows and rows of sagging, decaying development - the sky is clear. Most of the stars are invisible, drowned in the pollution of ever-present light, but some (the strongest. the brightest. the closest) shine on, undisturbed. Somewhere out there is the moon, the rich and heavy disk that rules their blood, raises their ire, and allows them to sink - slowly - into something approaching sanity once more. Even now they can feel it, somewhere circling the earth, some faint silver burn in the backs of their minds, some tidal pull at the center of their bodies' respective gravity.Maybe some of that tidal pull finds its way into the sway of her hips. Perhaps it is merely the spillover from his liquid body high, the faint but certain movements of his muscles beneath the thin veneer of draping clothes, translated by her body's memory of his own: the shape of it, the weight of it upon her, the strength he spends and shares with her, the way he moves when enraptured or enraged.
"Both." Murmured into the cloud of smoke that hangs between them, the word hangs on her lush, pursed lips, blazed into his skin by the hot rush of her breath across his flesh. "Or maybe I should ask, which do you want it to be?"
There's a playful lilt to her tone, undercut by the certain growling challenge that always rises between them. They are not playful lovers, these, for all the games of dominance they play (he pins her. he offers her his throat.) and even now, beneath the darkling moon, there is some predatory current between them, some livewire, some vicious fucking undertow.
Her lips curve into a smile, sketched against his skin. Her lips curve into a smile, flat enamel of her bared teeth cool against his flesh. Both are promises, both are threats, of their own sort.
(james)
(Both)
the word ripples and thrills
it's some reaction rumbling from the depths of his being
way down in his gut, one of those things he simply cannot deny
and she can bring it raging forth with but a single wordit's like a favored promise from some angel
an angel with claws and teeth - but a diety so much greater than himself nonetheless
this shining being (how he adores her) turning but the breifest of smiles on him
that singular word striking that seraphic chorus deep in a humble Gnawer's soul
and then, she offers more
the sole word promise melting and swaying into an option phrase
suddenly, this ephemeral body has given him choice
(..... which do you want it to be?)"Ooooooh baby."
chuckled from somewhere in his chest
(was that just a playful expression, or did he actually dare say it like that?)
it's as much laughter as it is a growl
his jaw tilts upwards to the point that smile - that seditious smile, so far beyond that grin - is offered to the hidden face of Luna in the clear sky above, as if the darkness of the no moon night has inspired some little devilish playfulness in the full-moon man
they are not gentle lovers, no
even in their play, there is rarely a time no visable marks are left upon their skin
and though the bruises and lacerations may fade - because it is the way of their kind to heal the physical hurt so easily
and the nail furrows may eventually disappear amongst the ashed scars on his back
there are other marks they've left - permanent and deep - that will never, ever leave their bodieshe is in the vicious fucking undertow
and when his smile is returned to her
it is dark enough to drag her drowning with him
she's caught in his arms
they wrap python about the long, lean muscles that create her (beautiful) form
constricting to hold her up against his chest
pulling her heart in mirror right up to his
with only the space of their breaths between
she can feel the way it hammers against his ribs to crawl right into her
as if he would give his final breath, the final pump of firey blood in his own veins to simply be with her, for that one moment when they are no longer apart in any way - just so that tandem beat can finally find the perfect synchronicity
his head has fallen to the point where lips tease the silken skin beneath and behind her ear
swallowing the scents of her flesh and shampoo and lotion and something so much more primal with each movement that creates a word
simply because of the air he must gasp to create the verbal communication
she gave him breath, before, and now her taste is his nourishment
words slide sinful in their whisper"I want all of you. I. Want. Both."
(rune)
Laughter - lighter than it should be, darker than it is - begins to swell in her chest, which expands minutely amidst his constricting lift and hold. Her smile crawls wide, lips curving against his cheek, and her shoulders shake with the half-repressed force of it. Maybe it's the half-playful expression, maybe it's that he dared say it like that, maybe it's the sudden surprise as he lifts her until their hearts are level and somewhere beneath their ribs' respective cages, beating in (racing) time.The laughter slides into another sound, low and throaty and edged, mirrored by the long uncoiling of a shiver that begins at the base of her spine and unfurls upward, vertebrae by vertebrae, muscle by muscle, as his breath teases the soft skin beneath her ear.
"...you, fucking, bastard." There's an amused lilt beneath the bladed edge of the words, remnant laughter still bubbling through the sound. Whatever softness is implied by the amusement, though, is erased by the catch and bite of her teeth, snagging the lobe of his ear and pulling back hard as if she meant to draw blood. (No. Blood will come later, incidental byproduct of her nails digging into his flesh, her teeth into the curve of his lower lip as he - and she - and they find some momentary, spiring height before falling back into the darkness below, only to claw their fucking way up again. Blood will come later, but the promise of it, and all it entails, remains.)
Arms worm their way through the tight embrace upwards, until her elbows are settled one his shoulders and her gloved hands are buried in his dreadlocks. The sleek, capable digits tighten, dragging him back from his little feast of scent and taste because she wants to kiss him, goddamnit, because she wants to fuck him, goddamnit, because she wants - somehow - something more than mere skin, because wants is blooming within her like some sunseeking, hothouse flower, too wide and rich and heady for such cold climes, because this is more than mere sex, and he's holding her three inches from the ground and her feet are dangling and she's fucking helplessly walking on air (suddenly, effortlessly higher than he is, the rich poison of a whole joint running like liquid fucking fire through his veins), because however far they need to go to shed the masks and find landscapes of bodies (escarpments and plateaus, valleys and long, fertile planes) mapped and known, and relearned and memorized and read as some scorching sort of braille is way. too. fucking. far.
"Goddamnit." she's laughing and she's kissing him as if she were suffocating, and his lungs the last breath of oxygen in the world) and then she's not laughing anymore. "Put me the fuck down. And I'll fucking give you both."
Her hands tighten, dragging his head back another half inch so that she can focus on him, so that she can stare her challenge into his eyes. "I'll make you fucking take both."
(james)
how her laughter thrills him
there are times, when the masks are thrown away
cast aside and forgotten in the throes of taboo
sounds form a wordless language between them
communicating far more than words could ever personify
breathless half-phrases shared and sacred
coveted like a king's most treasured gold
those are things that speak to the animal behind the man
drawing from some forbidden cache the most intimate of devotions
but her laughter brings something completely different
full-throated sound so rare he could pride himself the greatest of seekers
because he has uncovered something more priceless than any treasure
and he cannot help but respond
a sound bubbling forth in this rapture that she should be so pleased
and that he is the one responsible for it(you set me on fire, you know that?)
her fingers tangle in his dreads
thick vine ropes hauling his skull out of the sea of her scents
dragging the animal away from its gluttonous feast
there's a little sound that replaces his laughter
a moan that catches in his throat
a sound that carries into the devouring kiss
she may be suffocating and he may hold her savior breath
but it is so very clear that she is the energy that sparks his heart to continue beating
a half-wonder if she can feel the strengthening thump against her breast"Choices, choices."
veritably crooned a his neck stretches to her pull and the kiss is broken
within that smile, tongue reaches out to steal her taste from his lips
as if he could not bear one moment without its constant infusion
some IV drip lacing opium dreams and cocaine nightmares
spurring some unfathomable addiction that sears through his veins(i can't live without you, you know that?)
a brow lifts, slightly, seeing the beginnings of her challenge form
then he's drug further back, unable to stop the grin
his arms begin to slowly, barely, so infuriatingly slowly loosening
allowing her back towards the ground millimeter by millimeter"I admit I'm tempted that you'll just fucking give me both."
her challenge met, the stare held
there's a dark burn simply glowing in those dark eyes
some black inferno that only she can inspire, much less survive
his hands slide down, over back, following the curve of her ass
then just as her toes begin to greet the frozen concrete sidewalk
the grip tightens again to lift as he ducks down
moving within the range of her grip
coordinating the length of her muscles to fold at waist by the pressure of his shoulder
abruptly tossing her over his shoulder like some rescue from these ruined, degenerate streets
(oddly, even as fast as he does it, he knows how to position her so she's comfortable, padded by the thickness of his coat)"But I think I'd rather fucking take both."
the cadence of his steps returns to the concrete slabs which form the path to the Beemer
parked just down the street and out of the way - but never out of sight
there's no hurry, even if he wants to run because where "yes" exists is too far and too long away
strong arm locked as steel around her hips
he'll fucking take both - and he'll make her fucking wait(rune)
"What can I say - " interjected between his statements, seasoned with an irrepressible smirk that does nothing to hide the wildfire burn that flares to life behind her eyes as he allows her to slide (to sliii-iiii-iiide, body gone liquid, fucking boneless-melting-easy wanton ooze) back towards the ground. " - I'm just a fucking - " she's leaning up for another kiss, and means for this one to be quick and heated, sealing whatever unspoken promises sizzle and spark across the barriers of skin and clothing, from her jangled, jumped nerve endings to his own. " - temptress." Color her shocked. The ground is beneath her feet, her heels have just clattered against the concrete, and her toes are arching to follow. He allows her no more than a blessed glimpse of land before lifting her into the sky once more and tossing her over her shoulder. Perhaps he's some poorer relative of King Midas; whenever he touches her, she goes fucking giddy, she goes fucking molten. Somehow, she's gasping now - between bouts of surprised, surpressed laughter - trying to find some equilibrium between this strange, light feeling in her chest, that rises like a heilum balloon and lifts her up to the sky and the stars beyond ( - is this what it means, then?) and the delicious bubble of amused outrage that ricochets through her voice.
She's not still beneath the iron grip of his strong arm (not even fucking close). Her hips twist and wiggle, the balance of her weight changes (if he's just going to take it, she's going to make him work for it, after all. That's their deal. It's part of the fucking contract, and one guesses that neither would have it any other way), and her hands begin a slow crawl down his spine because her ass is in the air, and (vengeful or playful or merely lustful) she wants to feel him up.
"I'm going to fucking kill you." Diaphragm rising to power the breath to give wings to her words, moving against the powerful curve of his supporting shoulder. The balloon in her chest rises and rises, expands and expands, until it seems like it's going to fucking burst. Some faint, aware portion of her mind wonders if she's having some sort of heart attack, as it processes the unfamiliar feeling. Still laughing, though the threat comes out in a mocking (taunting, tempting) little growl of sound. "I'm going to fucking kill you, but only because I fucking love you."
(james)
color him shocked
he was drawing breath to find some playful retort
a little quip back to her death threat
but then he hears the growled end
whatever he was going to say just sailed away
he actually.... replays that.... in his mind
luckily they're at the Beemer
because he'd probably stumble and place them both on the sidewalk in a far less romantic position than either intended to get into during the night
either way, his body folds for a graceful recovery, and her heels finally make more than a second's worth of contact with the ground
he's got her backed up to the car, after that liquid slinky sliiiiiide down to the ground
smooth leather taught over hips and thighs pressed against the outward curve of the passenger door
that's when dark eyes find hers, momentum carries him forward just that minute bit more
his thighs are straddling hers, and the warmth of his chest is against hers
drawing some long arch of her back against and across the Z3"And you know what?.... I think I'd let you do it."
soft and low, a thoughful assertation of the situation
his head tips, a bit, when one arm reaches forward
there's a brilliant shine in deep umber
as if those eyes contained the very energy that sparked life out of the earth eons ago
or maybe, he was right all along, that he really does need her to live
and those little words suddenly ignited the lifeforce essential
he's always known - even while he's doubted it, or not thought about it, somewhere inside he's always known
maybe it was just the subconscious subdermal sub-real connection of the same feeling reaching out to it's partner, to the other half that makes the wholebut, to hear it - to have that confirmation however brief or playful or singular it may be
his hand has found her cheek, rough palm sliding against perfectly soft skin
fingers weaving their way into the darkly liquid strands of her hair
as much as he arched her back, he's drawing her forward
continuing their strange little game of dominance
(he pushes her away. he pulls her endlessly back)
there's a smile a mere breath away from hers"Because I fucking love you, too."
there's a smile meeting hers in a long, languid, then bruising kiss
no mistake, the blazing passion that weaves into the moist touch
it warms and lingers and grows into scalding burn
the touch of lips then tongue then teeth then an unbridled possession filling this moment eternal
time stands still, in this second that he's lost himself completely to her
the the beep of the convertible's keyless entry reminds them of the present
she can feel the shift of the gears within the door unlocking it to her access"Now get in the car so I can fucking prove it you."
Posted by james at 12:00 AM