October 18, 2003.10.18.03. - won't let it be any other little girl [darby-phantom][port newark]
(darby )
Port Newark.
The time is just after midnight, and clouds hide the fading moon, as well as lead the wind chimes dance in the slightest wind, above the door in the little alcove where she sits. Or rather, where she holds court, like someone of [purity] royalty, the intensity of her gaze settling on each passer by, as if weighing them, judging their very soul, their very worth.Of course, that is rubbish. She sees what she sees, but she is not the one who is to judge another. She is not the one who must see the value in their own soul – instead, she is merely one who sees, who knows, who often times when no one else does, the one who understands. By the very blood that runs within her, however, she is pure, she is royal, she is something to be feared in some cases, underestimated and misunderstood. It does not seem to bother her, these misjudgments, but rather amuse her.
Tattered jeans, and a tanktop with crocheted lace-like over top with flowing sleeves adorn slender frame, though tonight this is under a thicker shaw as well, due to the dropping temperature. At least the rain has stopped. Dark hair hangs straight and dark to her lower back, with highlights of red and purple throughout catching meager light from dirty lamp nearby. She sits on a woven blanket, legs folded under her, wrists resting lightly on her knees. Her back is ramrod straight, her posture perfect, clearly comfortable where others would complain of the harshness of cement under them, and the brick of the wall against her back. She watches. She waits. Silent.
(james)
half moon was covered by clouds high above
so the shadows cast from the strolling figure were by streetlights alone
a constant shift and flux of axis as he moved down the sidewalk
the cement on which the stranger is perfectly comfortable mostly absorbs each footstep
thick, heavy soles creating an even, slow drumbeat to his strollit forms a strange, absent harmony to the distant windchimes
but he doesn't pay that any mind
the few and far-between that live down here do what they can to make the place bearable
most aren't your run of the mill Garou able to live just about anywhere
not like him.... hands shoved into the pockets of baggy olive-drab cargos
sleeves of the dark grey sweater bunched up around his elbows
dark eyes on the sky - or what there is of it
Camel long clenched between his teeth
smoke lazily coiling towards the skymakin' rounds, or something like that
(phantom)
Port Newark, just after midnight . . . an interesting time, in an interesting place. Phantom is making his way home after a night of singing (playing) for his supper, belly full (a rarity). His path will bring him past Darby, as if he could resist stopping to say hello to the (pure) royal kin who had been so kind to him, so generous. He has a present for her - a trifle, really, nothing important to anyone but him - and he'd been hoping their paths would cross again sometime soon; lucky that it's tonight, after such a good time and good meal.Runtish form is clad in his new thrift shop accquisitions, scuffed and sturdy work boots, jeans without holes and a long sleeved tshirt protect him way better than the rags they'd replaced.
(darby)
There is little that she misses from her somewhat unique vantage point. There is much to be said for looking up on those that pass rather then looking down to those you move by, but then again, it’s all within the eye of the beholder. The distance steps of the smoking warrior pulls attention that way – movement on an otherwise still night. Head tips slightly, and lips curl into something that might have been the beginning of a smile, but it’s unfinished, and slides away again.Shift of perception mirrors the slight shift of weight, the slide of hair over shoulder as something else captures her attention and all the intensity therein. Phantom approaches, and there is no denying the runtish boy, who looks far warmer this night then before. Again, the flicker of something (Warmth? Satisfaction? Amusement? Something... more... or less?) across full lips, sliding away into comfortable patience as they close the distance.
Ground eating strides bring the Ahroun into speaking distance first, and the first vestiges of his Rage becomes less the idea, more the palpable force over slender frame. She inhales, slightly, and dark eyes travel from boots to dreds to boots and back up to his face again, before voice slides over the slight distance... “Evening...” a pause, a tip of her head, careful consideration, and addition... “...sir.”
(james)
Evening
the voice crossing distance soft
a hitch in the forward momentum
brows lifting a bit to strafe to the side
.....sirallright. brows really lifting
James actually takes a look around - hey, there's Phantom down the way
before his attention turns fully to the woman (girl?... yeh... teenagerish) sitting inthe alcove
both brows hiking up again as if to ask who... me? before a grin thinks about forming on his lips"Eveni."
(phantom)
Steps slow for just a moment as he sees someone else approaching from the opposite direction, but keen eyes quickly recognize the gait, the posture, the dreads (James, out and about. Good.) and he resumes his former pace, stopping close enough to be in the circle, but far enough to give the Ahroun and the kin space for conversation.
"Hi Darby, James."
Speech, as always, a song, lilting and melodic. A constant performer.(darby)
That seems to be the standard reaction to her proper dictation and respect offered to those of higher (fullblood) rank around here. It is enough to pull lips into something almost resembling a full smile, leaving no doubt that the glint in dark gaze is amusement.Teenagerish, though beyond a girl, almost a woman, enough to be considered such in the society they both live in. She remains still, though her gaze finds rest upon his own, meeting, and holding soft umber with an intensity that suggests she sees far more then he thinks he shows. (and that assumption would be correct.)
Finally, a moment or two passes, and arm lifts from where wrist rested against knee, palm turning upward, finger crooked (come here) slightly to entice him closer within...“Yes, you.” Answering the unasked question by hitched brows. In the course of the movement, the shawl falls from her arm, pulling the crocheted sleeves away from pale skin beneath. There, in the semi-light of the dirty lamppost, is the reason for such a gesture, the skin along forearm puckered lightly in branded scar, the glyph of her tribe. The screaming purity of her blood leaves no doubt that she is... related? Either.
Hand turns then, in offer of simple shake. “I’d wondered how long it would be until I was found.” Not that she was hiding, and the warmth of her voice as she turns to Phantom speaks of such. “Good evening, Phantom. I trust you are well?” Words, as always, carefully chosen, spilling as if some gift from the fullness of her lips, consideration always before thought gives way to voice...
(james)
Yes, you.
fair enough
good enough to get him a step closer anyway
even, in a moment, dropping down to crouch
just because he's ranked doesn't mean he'll make her look up to him
that's just not the Bone Gnawer we all know and love
the Camel is plucked from between his teeth
held in the loose cloth-wrapped fist furthest from her
chin tips up towards the runty metis"'m 'is big broth'r...."
mostly in response to the shown glyph
big brother and mellow as he may seem
he's still got that underlying tension that's lava beneath his skin(phantom)
Galliard follows Ahroun's lead, after hand dips into the ever present bag that holds his keyboard and a few other found treasures . . . he pulls out the gift he'd found and places it on Darby's knee, not touching but warmth felt all the same before his hand retracts. It's a cloisonne pin in the shape of a palm tree on what looks to be gold backing; does the metis know the worth of what he's found? Likely not, nor would he care if he did; the antique was under one of the seats in his theater, found while working one day.
"I thought you might like that . . ."
Words trail off to (not) silence, the boys constant, quiet humming taking their place. Eyes move to James (big brother . . . family) and a nod is given. acceptance.(darby)
He drops to a crouch and that, as well as the consideration of keeping camel away from her, leads the faint suggestion of a smile perhaps grows just a touch, before sliding away once more. The added comment soaks in as she watches James, the way he moves, the mellow outward appearance that does little to hide the aching seethe of fire under his skin.The gaze lingers. Intense. And when she looks away it is almost as if a weight is released, the connection severed, leaving questions of what she sees behind the outward exterior. She watches Phantom, and when he reaches for her knee, and places the offering there, there is the birth of a full smile as slender fingers close over the pin and lift the beautiful pin. She studies it, and then checks to see the fastening works before she pins it to her shawl right away, and reaches to take Phantom’s fingers in her own, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Phantom. It is beautiful. I’ll treasure it..”
She leaves it at that, so as not to embarrass the shy metis, knowing from previous meeting how easy that is to do. Instead she turns to look at James again. “Darby” in way of introduction.
(james)
her gaze lingers - intense
and his doesn't shy away
the weight that lifts when visual contact is broken heaves from both sides
but he does not only judge the strange (purebred) kin
rather he watches the young metis, too
weighing carefully how he treats the girl
knowing that his trust and gifts are given anything but lightly"James" carefully spoken in response, to not slur at least that word "Ju'box... Drum' on Skull'. Fos'ern a Eagles. S'our terr'try.... but guess y'alrea'y know 'at." chuckled, wryly "Been wai'n long?"
(phantom)
Trust, indeed, not given lightly; it takes quite a bit to get to the boy, so seperate yet so longing to be a part of things. He rocks on his heels, crouched quietly, and listens to the exchange between kin and Garou. Waiting to be found . . . he knows the feeling.(darby)
“James.” Repeated, softly. To memorize perhaps, or simply to label all that she gathers in the closeness of the Garou. Add to that the way he watches Phantom, judging their connection, trusting the instincts of another before laying judgment complete on his own impressions.Grandmother would approve.
There’s a slight dip of her chin in affirmation, amusement lending a softening of her lips. “Mr. Bedlam mentioned it, yes. He offered me a place in the Barrens, but comfort is in the city.” It seems a lot, these few words from the quietly sure kin. Less, more. Seen, unheard. Confident, un-conceited. “A couple of weeks. Not long.”
(james)
there's a breif nod and chuckle
weight stretches to flick the ashes off the tip of the Camel into the gutter"Know how that feel'." almost smirked "Can' smell an'thin' when 'm out in'a Barrens f'r any amount a time."
(phantom)
The Barrens, that forest reserve or something south of here . . . he's never been there, but can't imagine ever being anywhere other than the scab, a city wolf through and through. Can't see the forest for the trees . . .
"Never been out of the city."(darby)
The chuckle is soft, and perhaps more remarkable that it escapes at all rather then for any special property held within. Hands are loosely folded in her lap, the bricks painting little lattice work designs in pale skin for the hours yarn covered shoulders have pressed against the wall behind her.She rests the warmth of her gaze on Phantom first, tilting her head slightly, brows furrowing... but there is no comment on what she sees, merely the reach of her hand to touch his again. “I only retreat to the forests when I am in need of more herbs for Grandmother – it is difficult for her to gather on her own.” Little snippets of her life in another place another time, before returning to the question at hand.
“James..” fingers lift from Phantom to touch his arm instead, the jolt of the contact shows in the widening of her gaze, the sharp inhalation of breath, the slow measured release of the same where calm center is found again. She doesn’t mention it, exactly, instead asks.. “Should I move on, or is it safe to remain in Eagle Territory?” She will not encroach on another’s claimed land.
(james)
"Not all it crack' up t'be"offered in a chuckle
the forest is nice and all
it's what they fight for, for Gaia's sake
but it's just not his cup of tea either"Tris'n I 'll take y' there if y'wanna go s'mday."
the touch sends a whipcrack bolt through the kinwoman
but the Garou? he watches her reaction passively
the widening gaze
the sharp intake of breath
.... interestinghe doesn't mention it, exactly, either
though she can be sure he noticed it"Yeh." chin drops in a bit of a nod, then features move into the slightest frown of inhale before the butt is flicked to the gutter (all hail the great trash heap!) and attention turns back to her "We don' mind extra eyes 'r ears round the place, long as y'keep yer nose clean 'n' us appraise'"
(phantom)
A nod in appreciation of the Fostern's offer; it'd be nice to go with Family, at least for a little bit. Steady rock increases for a second, puny form uncoiling from its crouch to stand, looking towards the theater.
"I'd like that . . . but I should get home."
Eyes fall to Darby, liking the pin on her shawl, artist's eyes appreciating beauty where ever it's found.
"I'm glad you like the pin. G'night Darby, James."
A nod at each and he's off, hummed song following behind him.(darby)
The reaction was noted which does not surprise her, though it is not addressed for the moment and instead the offer to remain is tendered. There’s a nod, slight, the barest incline of her head as fingers fold in her lap again. “Thank you. I’ve no contact information other then finding me here for the time being, perhaps a number where I could reach you...”She leaves it at that, before turning to Phantom and watching the way his body unfolds to full stand, fingertips touching the pin as lips curl into a soft smile. “Thank you, I do. Good Night.” There is no warning this time in parting, there is only the assurance they will see each other again. Unsaid, other then by the intensity of dark gaze.
(james)
seems that nod up is a trademark
cause that's what's offered to Phantom as a farewell
then his attention turns back to the strange kin"Yeh, gotta pen?"
(darby)
There’s a slight nod, and dark gaze falls from him to the bag at her hip, half hidden under the shawl before it is pulled into her lap, A moments search brings a small pad of paper and a pen to light, both of which are offered to the garou before her. There is almost a hesitation for fear that she might touch him again, steeling herself for what she may see this time while debating speaking of what has already been revealed.In the end, it is offered none-the-less, ready for whatever the brush of his fingertips across her palm may set off. “Are there many Eagles?” It could be an idle question, but the quiet intensity with which the question is asked suggests more.
(james)
he reaches for the pen and pad
boxer-wrapped hands making the transition a little easier this time
at least this time there's more the chance of hitting linen or cotton or whatever that is instead of the flesh covering the corded muscle in bared forarms"'nuff...."
absently
while a number is scrawled - neatly - across the pad
it's the number for the cell that Rune left him
but nobody else is at the condo save Kemp
and nobody else has a cell
that'll have to do
though as he hands it back
his head tilts
it's safer now that Phantom's gone
just him and the kinswoman
and her idle intensity".... wha's on ya mind, Da'by?"
(darby)
She takes the pad back, glancing at the numbers left, before the pad and pen are tucked into the bag again, sliding the tattered crochet back under the shawl at her hip before hands find way to her lap once more. Question posed, there must be an answer, though the slight furrowing of her brow suggests that the answer isn’t easy, or clear. Finally, a murmur... “Pain. Everything about you circles in pain.”This is spoken toward hands, before dark eyes lift again to capture soft umber, the lava-like burn of tension clear in the minute twitch of muscles here, there, the set of his shoulders. Perhaps it is safer, perhaps it is not. Then again, Is it ever safe for Gaia’s warriors?
Tongue moistens lips, and chin lifts, slightly. “You ache now, but it is not physical, though it manifests as such sometimes. There is something looming in the near future. There is something...vague. but it will appear to your left. Do not turn from it, turn into it. It may be just a branch, a gesture something, I don’t know. I just know that turning right brings pain.”
Brow creases with further furrow, before head shakes slightly, the brief flash that is left does not leave enough to be explained clearly enough.
(james)
he listens
Mamma Ruggs taught him better than that
but at the end of the explanation the Warrior snorts"Tell me sum'n I don'o. Vision..." sitll that canid tilt to his head "... 'r it still that obv'ous?"
seems she's not the first to say something like that
(darby)
Something in what he says clarifies a lot of what he doesn’t, perhaps, but she lifts her eyes to his once more, and hand lifts, palm upwards. “If I may see your hand?” Already bracing herself for what will come of the touch.She continues, with another softening of her mouth into that absent almost smile that never quite materializes. “Some would say visions, Grandmother called it insight. Part of it is obvious, though a lot is well hidden.” She treats it as commonplace, this ability that’s been nurtured in the young woman since she was a child. Something done without thought, though with some measure of control when focused.
(james)
something in the way he chuffs a laugh....
a lot of it has to be hidden
there are some things you just can't admit in public
especially to those of the Nation
missing your Beta cause the bed's lonely at night sure ain't one of 'em....christ
the breif amusement at the thought gets cut short
(maybe you shouldn't think about that, Jamey-boy)there's a moment's hesitation
he's hurt enough kin in the past week
and her reaction seems a bit more obvious than others
he saw the underyling fear and aversion she had to his touch
but after that linger - she did, after all, ask - he unwraps the cloth from his right hand
offering it calloused palm up to the kin(darby)
The thoughts race behind his eyes as he contemplates before giving up his hand. There is no withdrawal, no jolt at first this time, having been prepared, and fingers slide cool and soft around the burning heat of his (rage) hand. A long moment before she drops her gaze to his palm, her other hand lifting to slide fingertips gently slide in tender caress over the lines and planes of his hand.There’s a soft sound, almost of amusement, though there’s something lingering underneath it, and it is followed with a slow intake of breath, held, and released the same. “The little girl... she aches to see you in pain. She tries to bring the...” a hesitation.. before... “Beta home.” There is no condemnation there, any hesitation only in trying to be clear, as he asked, and she offered, and she does not like being wrong. At all. Ever.
Thumb caresses over his palm before following lines up to wrap around his wrist, the pulse within strong, so strong, before so softly. “I cannot see if she will return for sure. I can only see the depths of your ache the longer she is away. Part of you is certain she will never come home, the other holds on because she might, and around it all weaves the agony of the constant war between the two halves.”
She lifts his hand a little, and shoulder blades pull from the brick, folding limber form over slightly as full lips press a kiss in his palm (it gives the feeling of an intimate ritual, something that marks him for later, though without malice... just another oddity about the intense kin), her fingers then closing his hand overtop (hold it close), as she returns to her lean and simply lets his fist rest between her hands. “I am sorry that I cannot give you the answers you seek. Perhaps in time it will become clearer. She is a very lucky woman to have inspired such loyalty – be careful that it does not overpower your common sense.”
(james)
James stills
watching as his hand is inspected
listening as she quietly continues
and something in him seems to... stophis hand is pulled from her grip before full lips can touch it
it's nothing personal
he still allows her to close his fingers
he just could not bear another's touch
not like that
not if it's not hersdeep umber drops away
his hand finally returns to his space
running through the tangle of heavy dreads"Give Ca'm'n my thank'...."
barely murmured as he straightens and walks away
(he won't let himself think it's any other little girl....)(darby)
His hand pulls away, and she simply takes it back to close his fingers, waiting as he assimilates everything in a slow burning. He aches so deeply, his pain so vividly raw and red, it does not take someone of her abilities to understand.She nods, though something in her eyes suggests that she knows there is more then he lets himself see, more then he thinks she saw. But she remains silent for a long moment, until lean body unfolds, slowly, stiffly from where she has sat for hours, the woven blanket gathered, as is the tattered bag.
Shoulders are straight and strong, even under the weight she carries. Strides are long and even, no matter the pain gathered in just those few moments (hours). Perhaps now her lack of ready smile, her emotional reserve, the intensity of who she is, is better understood.
More likely, it sets her even farther apart. Such is the cross she bears alone.
Another glance toward retreating figure, before she turns the corner. Time to find a place to sleep in relative safety till the morning.
Posted by james at 12:00 AMOctober 14, 2003.10.14.03. - food. clothes. shelter. [tristan][port newark]
(tristan)
He’s avoided the condos. He’s avoided the warehouse, he’s finally avoiding the drink. There for a few days he certainly wasn’t avoiding the later, that’s for sure. But the smell had finally washed from skin, he was clean, sober, and Kemp would find his breath recently re-acquainted with scope. Well, before the current introduction of philly cheese steak, that is.Rain sheets down, washing the streets free of grimy residue that will accumulate again in seconds once the clouds pass by overhead. The scab can never been completely cleansed, no matter the continued efforts of Gaia’s warriors. The rain forms distorted view outside of the relative dryness of the overhang he’s folded into a crouch under, sandwich in hand, being devoured in true Gnawer style. There’s a soda sitting between his feet, elbows rest lightly on knees, as steamy treat is enjoyed.
(james)
there seems to be a fairly consistent theme in the scope of Jersey weather - rain
cleansing rain in the springtime
sweltering rain in the summertime
chilling rain in the falltime
and for once, the Ahroun was heeding the weather
the tails of the patchwork trench flip and flap around his ankles with each ground-devouring step
Cochrans shiney not for polish but for the rain that keeps drizzling downcold. chilling. a hint at the ice to come.
where in a few months making rounds of the territory like this is gonna be real unpleasent
course... not like he has anything better to do
the feeling of pack is closeby
but still a bit too far North for his comforthead's not bowed against it, really
he's using the deep sockets beneath brows for cover
dark lashes squinting against the errant drops
the tilt of his head's probably more to protect the joint clenched between his teeth(tristan)
There’s no missing that stride, the way the Cochrans beat against the cement, making way through the territory that soon will be miserable with snow and ice. He watches as he nears, the set of shoulders, the protection of the joint, as finger are licked clean. The coke is grabbed and held as lean form unfolds, shoulder blades pressing against the bricks behind him.Half a block and closing, and fingers lift to slide through curls, pushing damp strands back from his face, before hand slides into his pocket. He’s not been obviously avoiding his friend, just... well. Ok, just a little bit. After the run in with Decker, you can’t really blame him...
Finally, the fast walking Gnawer comes within hearing distance, and after a thousand greetings are considered and tossed away, he finally just tosses out a soft, yet carrying, “hey.”
(james)
it's not like James hasn't been avoiding... well... everything at the moment
the Modi may be at the condo, but that's not enough to make him go back to that place
the musician kin may have been just as easily found, but the moon's still been too close to fullbesides, there's a thousand things one can find to do down at the good ol' Newark Port
James has gone through at least fifty in the past few days alone
and thus preoccupied, he's not distant enough to miss the greeting
low and soft and last-pick as it was
his chin picks up a little, exposing the J to the rain
seems to defy the falling water with a flare of inhale's emberin leiu of a greeting, when the Ahroun stops infront of the kin, he just holds the weed out
(tristan)
The joint defies the splash of rain with a inhalation that brightens ember – but the pretty boy isn’t watching that, instead catching preoccupied gaze that lifts when the warrior stops. There’s no verbal greeting, just an offer of the weed, and grin appears, slight and lopsided, as fingers pull from his pocket and reach to take the offered joint, nodding to his small area of almost protected, almost dry corner. “pull up a wall..”Joint to lips, long slow inhalation, and it’s offered back while he holds quick gaze taking stock, checking to see that James is in one piece – just as he always does, though he doesn’t quite hold his gaze, or know exactly what to say, so finds refuge in watching the continued sheet of rain fall from small awning overhead.
Slow exhale pours grayed smoke curling from his lips before he finally turns to look back at James. Again the shift through possible comments, again settling with something seemingly mundane. “y’allright?”
(james)
lungful of smoke plumes exhale when his back greets the wall
whooshed in forced offer to the moist and drippy night
there's a moment of consideration
and in fact, he's primarily silent until the joint is handed back
that's held in cupped professionalism for several more thought-provoking moments
head even tilting in a rather canid query
then his chin drops in a slow, measured, nod"More worry 'bou' you."
inhale
hold
pass(tristan)
He waits for the long moments he takes in contemplation, watching the way he too seems to go through several possibilities, and then the slow measured nod. The words that follow bring something of a huffed sound.. amusement, as fingers wrap around the joint and held for a few. Finally, grin slides lopsided as he lifts the weed to lips, just before inhalation... “funny, I was more worried about you. Guess we’re even, there...”There’s even a wink, as he inhales, holds, passes. It’s no mistake which hand he’s using, though it gets better by the day, there’s no mistake that hand was chosen to hold the soda, dangling at his thigh, as he rolls to face his friend, shoulder pressing against brick supporting the lean of lanky frame.
Another few seconds, and upon exhale... “I’m ok. Nothing my 3-day drunk couldn’t cure...” or a fight with an Eagle packmate, but well. Heh.
(james)
"Funny." parroted beneath the amused lift of a brow "Tha'nly got me more tro'ble."the smirk is.... wry.... at best
a little bitter self-depreciation thrown in for garnish
but the course of smoking events including but not limited to: inhale, and exhale
whatever it was is simply smoothed away on heavy smoke
then discarded with a flick of the roach into the gutter's river
...to the gods!
that's when dark eyes glance down at the pointedly hidden extremity
then back up again, and hold, even given Tristan's proclivity tonight to look away"'m sorry 'bou' yer hand."
(tristan)
That brings an actual chuckle, as tension seems to bleed away from him in a slow ebb “Yeah, well. Me too, it be honest... Decker’s back.” Yeah, he knows James knows he’s in the area, but in that there’s an admittance to the confrontation. If James wants more, he’ll have to ask.Gaze flicks to the flying roach, before back where it is caught and held.... and this time, he doesn’t look away. A shake of his head sends damp curls into movement, strand catching against strong jaw, sticking slightly before fingers push it away again. “I shouldn’t have pushed – was too close to full. And it’ll be alright in a day or two” or three or four “no harm no foul.... unless...”
And it’s that grin slides a little more normal with the tease... “you’re offering to kiss it and make it better.”
(james)
there's a nod
and... a bit of a grin
it's really what's growing into a chuckle
a part of it is because pack is so close again
another part of it..."Yeh... won'er how long it'll ta'e 'im to fin' out I mouth off t' Im'gen." a moment's distraction, sly glance to the side "Depen'..... anythin' broke?" but the tease passes as quickly as it came "What happ'n?"
(tristan)
Brow.. lifts... “Imogen too? Damn boy, you are on a roll.” Chuckled, amused. “She didn’t look none the worse for wear. Didn’t even mention it, really.” Hand tucks into pocket, digging out battered pack and lighter, cigarette shaken out, propped between lips, before offered to James, only after it’s tucked away does he flick the battered bic, ember flaring.That grin slides sly... and brow arches “Hm... which answer would get a yes?” he chuckles, and shakes his head. “Just bruised, nothings broken.”
But it passes, as does another moment or two, before softly. “Was told to keep my mouth shut, that I didn’t know you, and I should leave any talking to you to the Garou as it’s not my place to attempt to even help. Told him that now that he’d graced us with his presence that’s an option.” Smirked, slightly.
(james)
"Jus' tol' 'er t' fuck off. Learn already what I get f'r roughin' up a packmate girl." a beat "Did'ja lis'n to 'm?"he's not watching the kin now
hasn't been for a few minutes, really
dark eyes drawn back out to the rain(tristan)
He chuckles softly and arches a brow. “I’m talking to you now, ain’t I?” He shakes his head slightly, curls tugging along his skin before he watches his friend his family. “Told him to fuck off, actually. He said I don’t know him – he’s right, and I don’t want to any more then necessary, really. He’s your pack, which makes him part of my life, but doesn’t mean I have to like him any more then he does me. Fucking German assholes. But then he said I don’t know you – and he’s wrong, and I told him as much.”his hand lifts then, touching James’ jaw with a little nudge back to catch his gaze. “He’s your pack, and I’m just a kin... your kin. Your family and I know and understand what you’re going through. Decker will never see kin as anything but kin – even the one he fucks. And he don’t like me staring at her ass, so I’ve already got strikes against me in that respect, but that shit don’t matter to me. What matters is that you needed me, and you still do, and until you no longer need or want me around, right here is where I’m staying. Decker can talk his shit until he’s blue in the face, and I’m not going anywhere. Told you when you helped me get the apartment – you fed me. Clothed me. Gave me a place to stay – you ain’t never getting rid of me now....” the last, of course, is said with a soft chuckle.
(james)
he doesn't resist the gentle nudge
and, in face, he doesn't resist the grin or chuckle the explanation inspires
the hell is with their pack and cocky kin?
not that he'd have it any other way
(he knows, already, he can't protect them)"Good." a hand comes up, tugging on errant curl "Makin' sure you 'member diff'rence 'tween them Get, 'n' us Gnaw'r, no matter how much the line blur un'er Eagle. C'mon.... owe you a pizza."
by the drink, the Ahroun would probably guess Tristan just ate
but it doesn't seem to matter - pizza it is
easily as he arrived, he steps back out from under the shelter
just beginning to dry dreads darkening in the moisture".... 'n' a dry change a clothe'....."
tossed back over his shoulder
the further addition doing nothing to explain the initial offer
just strolling steadily away down the night deserted sidewalk
leaving the mystery of the Fostern's enlightenment on what exactly true pack is to the whisper of the rain".... 'n' a dry place a stay 'n' change...."
well, maybe the response is a little clearer now
cause even if Tris can't see it
he can hear the smile(tristan)
He smiles. He chuckles, and the tug on errant curl brings answering grin and laugh to his own lips. He nods, he remembers. Confrontations like the one with Decker pulls such differences into bright light, for sure. Sides, cocky kin keep life interesting. Can James even imagine what a bore kin who just agreed with everything would be? Tristan can – has seen it, knows it, has never been it though, and isn’t likely to ever be.Brow lifts at the offer – but there’s no way he’s turning down food. Momma’d skin him for sure, and he’s a growing boy after all. Thus, James step into the rain is followed mere seconds afterwards with the pull of lean frame from bricks, stepping into the downpour just behind the Ahroun.
The comments come.... and the smile just grows. Hearing the grin in James’ voice he actually laughs, and a step brings him even with the shorter man, arm hooking over his shoulder and whispered tease. “Don’t forget the kiss it make it better part – that’s my favorite...” before hand ruffles wet dreds, and falls back to his side as he walks with James toward yonder promised meal and shelter somewhere in the darkened distance.
Posted by james at 12:00 AMOctober 10, 2003.10.10.03. - ain't that weak [imogen-lennox][forrest hill, condos]
(imogen)
Sitting on the steps instead of a chair, night is falling and the sky is grey. Her right shoulder rests against the railing column, she's reading a slender book in one hand, and smoking a cigarette in the other.The sun is setting as mentioned before. Soon, the street lights would come on. Soon, she would have to put down the book or stop smoking and go in.
It's a completely innocuous thing to be doing. Sitting outside and reading. Normal and expected of anyone.
She slides the cigarette into her mouth, holding it between her lips to free up her right hand; first to turn the page of Andromeda's Strain. Her fingers push back strands of brightly hued hair from her bruised cheekbone, pushing them behind her ear, before falling away to scratch absently at her left arm. An action that is quickly arrested, falling away from the curve of her deltoid, and reaching for her cigarette again.
(james)
somewhere, somehow, as the stripes of the blinds lengthened across the carpet when the sun arced into the exceedingly late afternoon sky - the Ahroun returned to what some may call reality
he, however, defines it by an earthquake of a hangover and a monumental case of cotton mouth
so severe is this waking experience he's actually untangled himself from the waterbed and made it into the bathroom before even realizing exactly where he isand last night hits him like a freight train
you hurt him, James
accusations flung at the scruffy reflection in the wall to wall mirror
judgement held in the deep umber glare cast back at him
for a moment, he can ignore the Beta's room behind him
more satisfied with the staredown happening with this raggedyman challenging him from the depths of the glass
if he could only focus long enough to swim through the pounding fog... he'd go over there and kick his asshowever it seems to take far less effort to make it to the medicine cabinet
some excuse of a painkiller downed with four glasses of water
.... make that five
and before he attempts making it into the shower
there's one final look at the haggard and tangled reflection
I'll deal with you later
then the memories (and guilt) are steamed away in the fine construction of Rolling Hills pipes and the endless water heater they reach out tothe sun's setting, now, by the time he makes it into a pair of clean (clean!) clothes and downstairs
damn well forgot he had this pair of jeans
black levis barely edging towards grey from the few washes they've ever needed
that's topped with a white.... white, not grey.... wifebeater that eventually accepts the placement of limbs through the armholes
socks and Cochrans are an adventure all their own
but he made it, sure enough
bypassing the call of the fridge (so faint it's nearly unheard)
heading straight out to the balcony and the cigarettes he.... thinks.... he left there last night(imogen)
The sound of the door opening drifts her attention that way, an eyebrow lifting slightly at the damp rather bedraggled look of the Gnawer as she taps ash into the ashtray. The cigarette lifts back to her mouth as she folds the book closed with the other hand, letting it drop beside the ashtray.It's a habitual glance toward the sky, even though there is no moon; the proximity to being full is known even to kin. Some sort of instinctual knowledge, the way animals are restless when the moon is full; or perhaps something not so instinctual that must be thought of, because simply, if one does not consider it, one might die at the hands of a stranger, friend, lover.
It's not hard to guess what he's looking for, and if she's smoking, she may as well share. She stands, one hand on the railing, picking up the cigarette package with the other. To walk across to the edge of the balcony and offer the Bone Gnawer the cigarette package across the divide.
(james)
even if the sun is quickly dimming on the horizon
it's still bright as hell to the hungover Gnawer
his head ducks away for the precious time it takes to squint and sheild
carefully looking back up from beneath brows and the curtain of wet dreads
... there... was.... movement out here
and a grin creeps - slowly - in a greetingin the time it takes her to stand
his gaze has swung to the far side of the sky
the moon isn't out yet, but he can feel it beginning to stir
squinted eyes narrow a little more
oh... so you are still around...
the true full moon tonight
Hunter's Moonpack. incoming!
and that's all it takes to draw him back to the task at hand
carefully stretching to retrieve the offer like Adam a touch from a far more visually appealing God
some things are sacred, in their own respect"Th'nks."
(imogen)
"You're welcome," she answers mildly. "Looks like whatever yeh drank last night," ahh, to be Fianna and to be intimately familiar with a hangover. Or better, to be Fianna and to have drunk enough to have the capacity to drink most of a pack of Garou under the table and not suffer the hang over, "Was gettin' in th'way o' findin' yer own," she finishes with a brief, if muted amused glance.The sun is guttering toward the horizon, a watery red sphere hidden by smog and cloud. The fading rays catch in the nearby windows, and light the air in a pale orange glow, the colours of twilight.
(james)
once the cancer stick is propped between his teeth
he dares enough movement to cast a glance back over his shoulder
returning only once Zippo is opened and cupped protectively between hands for a light
thus, the first puff shoots back out on the half-harted (careful now) chuckle"Have..... no idea th' hell I lef' 'm." another stretch to return the pack "n' dunno how much I fuckin' drank'r smoked, either."
must be a helluva situation for the normally mild-metaphored Gnawer to cuss without thinking
other than the fact it's common knowledge he's one of the Garou Imogen can easily drink under the table
he veritably looks like he's been run over by a truck instead of freshly showered and steamed clean
one can only dry heavy dreadlocks to a certain degree, after all, and the freshly tussled look never quite disappears
coupled with the dark circles beneath his eyes.....
he's had better days
(he's had better months)
and suddenly something seems to dawn on him"shit." gaze lifts, looking fairly sheepish, if that's believable "N'ver made it ov'r wi' th' stuff.... did I..."
no James, there's no question you drank yourself into a train wreck intead
(imogen)
"They're over there," a lift of her chin, "by th'steps. Yeh drank enough, in either case." Her voice has a tendancy toward quiet, but never fades from eloquent, if only in tone. She portrays more with less words, imbuing tone and inflection with what she wants to say. Her tone now is ironic.She takes another drag from her own cigarette, moving to perch on the end of the armrest of the nearby chair. One of two mismatched on her balcony. "No," she shakes her head and a brief curve of a smirk, "but don't worry about it. I probably wouldn't 'ave answered th'door." the smirk twists further. "Sleepin'."
(james)
dark gaze follows the line directed by her lift of chin
there's a soft snort of amusement
well, so there they are
mental note made for later
because he sets the just started cigarette carefully on the railing
finger held up in that 'one moment' sort of way
and the raggedyman disappears back inside the condo
better do it now, before he forgets yet againthe time inside is spent raiding both the bathrooms
given the healing prowess that Garou reputedly have
it's amazing to take stock of the amount of first aide supplies laying about the residence
various rolls of gauze and tape, butterfly strips, disinfectant, antibacterial soap, triple action ointment, bandage scissors, suture kits that he won't even begin to ponder where they were procured - but he grabs an assortment and settles on a pillowcase as a bag, pausing in the upstairs bathroom to toss in a few bottles of pills ranging from painkillers to antibiotics because Gaia only knows what injuries she hassoon enough the door liberates him into the chilling air of approaching fall
the smoke rescued since it hasn't rolled away yet and he's not about to give it a second chance
the case is offered across the empty air between the balconies
there's a questioning glance.... but he's not far enough out of the repercussions of last night to chance an offer quite this early(imogen)
She gives the pillow case an almost incredulous glance, "What, did yeh take out a hospital when I wasn't looking?" she inquires voice outlining her amusement.There's a pause, then, as she regards, not the offer, but the pillow case and it's weight, her right hand reaching up to rub absently at her neck.
Exhale, forced and on the edge of annoyance, "Bring it over would you?" she says finally, "I'm doing a bloody horrible job of this one handed." It's not a request for help, phrased like this; it's nearly a confrontation, the way she treats it, a sharp glance in his direction, dark eyes half shadowed because the sun is now gone and she hasn't turned on the porch light.
(james)
"Yeh." shot back with an amused glance that matches the still carefully monitored tones "Nev'r tol' me what y'need, s' brought it all."though strangely enough
given the moon slowly creeping pregnant into the sky
he shies from the sharpness of her glance
treating it as if it were a snapped remark instead
he feels horrible about last night
so, just nodding gently in exchange for any answer
the expectant response to the near confrontation would be a growl and flare
blistering into some retort of how dare she look at him in such a way
but.... he feels horrible about last night
and sometimes there are things that do keep the Rage in check for just a few moments moreas he steps onto the plateau of her balcony
lungs fill and lips part as the words begin to string together faster than thought can keep up
but he manages to catch himself
teeth close back together with a soft tick of his jaw
gaze shifts from her and towards the door
he'll take it inside, if she wantsdamn he's walking on eggshells for some reason
(imogen)
A beat where she regards him, an eyebrow lifted, before she grinds out the cigarette on the railing of the balcony and shakes her head briefly at the glance toward the door. "Miriam's home," she explains, if that is considered an explanation at all."May I see?" clearly she doesn't intend to take everything he has. When the pillow case is given to her, she places it on the ground and sits back on the deck chair, starting to go through the contents. She probably isn't keeping the pillow case, the way she takes out the gauze, bandage tape and after a brief glance at her cut hand, the bandaids as well.
The sutures are glanced at and considered before being put back in the pillow case, as are a few of the antibiotic pills, glanced at, a brief frown crossing her features before it fades. Antibacterial soap, painful though it could be, joins the gauze and other accoutrements.
"Ta," she says finally, having gone through the contents of the bag, straightening slowly.
(james)
there's a bit of a nod at the explanation
even if he's yet to meet this mysterious Miriam
that's enough to satisfy reason and halt foreward motion
or at least direct it to bring the case within arm's reachas she sinks to go through the contents
he steps decidedly and deliberately away
hip pitched against the railing
seeming a casual lean to finish his cigarette
at least... to any onlookers
but his gaze is mostly studying his feet
save the occasional glance flicked as items are set aside
discerning what he can from what she keeps what she happens to need it forthe moon is steadily creeping higher into the sky
most likely, he keeps his distance to avoid adding anything to what she's dealing with
last thing she really needs is his internal detonator making her skin crawl
though by the way he chews on his lower lip between drags
there's something else
some unnamed thing adding to the frustration and worry already crackling invisably around the Ahroun
either way, he keeps his mouth firmly shut
smoke crushed out in the tray, still he keeps his distance"An'time..."
(imogen)
James has never met Miriam, and Imogen likely meant to keep it that way. It would appear her isolationism extends to those of her blood relation, as well.She regards James briefly, a shrewd glance that ends as she rubs her hand across her face, a movement that begins and ends quickly. "Are yeh goin' t'drink again tonight?"
(james)
he doesn't see her shrewd regard
he's back to weighing just how badly his secondhand boots need a polish
the weight of drying dreads half-hiding the thoughtfullness of his profile
not that it's easy to see the furrowed brow or firmly set jaw on the non-lit porch anyway"Pro'ly shou'n't." almost as an afterthought, and when he finally looks up the wry rake of a grin is illuminated by light slashing in from one of the lawn's lampposts "Got me in'a trouble las' night."
(imogen)
"Good," an eyebrow arched still, as she leans back into the chair, drawing her legs up to sit indian style, shifting slightly to accomodate the arm rests.She rubs absently at her arm, a soft crinkle of bandage beneath the touch of her hand before it falls away; likely because she recognizes the movement. "I doubt gettin' in trouble two nights in a row is good f'r yer health."
(james)
still facing her, this time she can see the wry expression turn into a laugh
just as he can see that she rubs at the bandage on her arm
mocking and bitter as the normally congenial sound may seem"Nuh." head shakes, and dreads wiggle over shoulders bare but the thin cotton straps and the dark scars that creep from beneath "Think'm guil'y, worry, upset, 'n' fuck-up 'nuff as it is."
(imogen)
The eyebrow resettles and she smirks, "And feeling none to sorry f'r yerself," a phrase that clearly means the opposite of what she just said.Her hair's fallen free of it's hold once more, and she reaches up to push back the strands, the motion ending when the same hand picks up her cigarette package and taps out a long slender nicotine stick.
"Seem better when the moon is smaller, will it?" the question is clearly rhetorical, the energy placed in this line of questioning is half at best.
(james)
unlike the sharp glance of before - her smirk is met in dead challenge"Should'a seen las' nigh'.... was worse." hey, if you can't laugh at yourself, what can you laugh at, right? somehow provoked, the bitterness seems to grow in his own little corner or her balcony, head shaking as for some reason he sees or feels a need to answer the rhetorical question "Nuh. You still be bellig'rent. Tris'll still be hurt. 'n she, mos' likely, 'll still be gone."
(imogen)
"I don't think I've ever been called belligerent, before." She notes, mildly. It's a frustrating thing that she can keep that tone, on the full moon, as if the conversation were nothing, as if his temper wasn't hanging by a thread, and the moon wasn't full, and she wasn't still carrying the mark of a Garou (or several?) on her skin beneath the fold of clothing and carefully applied bandages."I'll be however I chose to be, an' there's nothin' yeh can do on that score." She holds up her finger signifying the first. "Tristan, whatever has happened to him, will most likely get better." Her second finger. "And she," respecting that it wasn't the name that James used, or simply artistic knowledge on how to keep a conversation flowing, "May be gone or not, but .. whatever." She cuts off the conversation, and shakes her head sharply, ending whatever she might have been about to say. "You'll do what you want, however yeh want to do it." she finishes, starting to get up, cigarette still caught between her fingers.
(james)
"Lotta thing I c'n call yeh.... that was easies' t' say."his temper may be hanging by a thread, but well enough that was volleyed with a smile
crooked and incomplete as it will forever be
it isn't her tone that's frustrating him
in fact, it's not a thing she has or hasn't done tonight
she could dance a jig on the table and the moon above would still have the tidal swell on his Rage
and for a handful of moments
he allows the icy silence to linger between them
his head tipping in rather canid expression of study
oddly, the practically cavalier grin remains"Th' hell that come fr'm?" the words might even be slightly laughed "Dunno wh't reason y' think I'd 'ave t' wanna change you. Ya walls five mile thick'n Worl' War Three won' even bring'm down. Otherwi'e..... yeh righ'. Tris'll get better. She may c'me back 'r I may nev'r see'r 'gain. Th' fuck you care what I do 'bout it? You would'nl bat'n eye if I put a silver slug'n my head save tha' you'd 'ave t'clean it up 'n deal wi' th' pap'rs."
(lennox steel)
Lennox Steel (a plain girl) spills down and up the stairs to her condominium apartment like a tumble of milk spilled down a ridged scale, captured on film, then rewound and doomed to do it over and over again. Her short, boyish hair is unruly, a smear of cloud's blood against the gathering shadows as day dims to evening. The rising moon skims across the clustering clouds, scattering where pollution waits like a net, a filter. Lennox, breathing heavily, sweat gleaming on bare arms that are chilled, leans against the wall to wince at a stitch in her side. Then she bends over and picks up a coffee cup, Star Bucks, paper, and drink the hot brown liquid, sloshing some on her shirt in the process, punctuating the mistake with a violent, foul-mouthed curse.(imogen)
"Then I misunderstood." About his words and her own. Her words are slowly measured evenly spaced and clipped as she takes the cigarette that was still unlit and slides it back into the package.She's walking to the balcony stairs to retrieve her book when he continues and she turns to look at him; even if he's slouched against the railing, he towers over her, this slender woman whose height is surpassed even by children in elementary school.
Her eyes narrow. "Self-pity doesn't suit you, James. You're better than that."
She stoops to pick up the book from it's darkened hollow on the stairs, her head turning to look in the direction of the curse, glancing at the girl for a brief moment.
(james)
his skull rotates to watch her as she passes
it's a smooth, liquid movement
every single cell in his body screams predator
and now it's ampliphied beneath the Hunter's Moon
(the deer are fat from summer and the pack hunts easily tonight)
dark gaze locked on the slender kin
the curse is heard by sharp animal ears
but beyond noting where the good Doctor's attention diverts
the girl is veritably ignoredmost kin, and certainly all humans, wouldn't be able to bear the weight of an Ahroun's steady gaze
he figures she, however, can handle it without breaking a sweat"How's callin' th' truth self-pity?" dark brow lifts towards the frame of dreads "Tell me wh't y'r gettin' at, Im'gen, 'cause I don' see it."
(lennox)
The broken cycle starts up again almost as soon as Lennox has gulped down enough sustenance, and with an instant's ungratified reluctance she peels herself from the wall, leaving the half-empty cup by the stairs, and starts trudging up the stairs backwards again. Her heart thuds a quiet thunder of sound in her ears, which makes her long for the discman she left behind on the metro, just underneath a discarded newspaper stuck together with grayish gum. Lennox can see the seat if she thinks about it, and how someone had scratched "damn the man" right onto the shady glass. This goes on for the measure of another spoken sentence of three, and then Lennox flops down on the lowest step. The direction of her eyes carries her gaze over to Imogen, who she remembers, and to James, who she can speculate about. She resembles nothing so much as a bedraggled vulture.(imogen)
And she does bear the weight of his gaze, glancing up at him (locked) from her half crouch. It's hard to say sometimes, what she was more: predator or prey. Certainly, she had (nearly) the same blood as he, but none of the natural weapons or instincts that made him so dangerous.Her weight shifts slightly, the fingers of her left hand flexing slowly, the digits stiff from the stillness her injury enforced and the actual injury itching beneath bandages because she healed faster than humans though no where near as fast a Garou and no where near fast enough.
"No," she says quietly, a brief upturn of her mouth, a curious movement that is no where near a smile, "I'm sure you don't. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and yeh might see it after the moon isn't so full. As it is, I haven't the energy." And with that, she straightens, the movement hitching briefly when the straightening is brought to her back, and then smooths out once more.
"And don't you dare ever put your body on my autopsy table. Worst fucking thing."
(james)
one thing the Ahroun has never doubted is that she had the will to be one of them
even if her body and soul didn't cooperate
the woman's sheer guts has always been something he's respected
right now, however, it's dangling a steak before the beast"Hidin' behin' ya walls 'gain?" smirked as a brow lifts, fairly well aware he's mostly between her and the door back inside, even if his lean is oh so (deceptively) casual, and his tones oh so (dangerously) soft "Not like you. Star' s'methin' 'n not finish it. Wha's th're to avoi'?"
the full moon
another's feelings
the very sanctity of her being
none of these has stopped the firey kin from speaking her mind before
James can hardly swallow a few injuries - no matter the severity - would be enough to do so now
it's her body that's hurting, her tongue seems perfectly fine"What keepin' you fr'm enligh'nin' me wi' wh't seem so fuckin' obvi'us."
there was a time - in fact, any time other than now - in which there'd be a wisdom card played
the lesson learned last time the Gnawer decided there was a need to push her
judgement clouded by the luminous moon above and the hangover's lingering fog
and the fact she's just baiting him
for once, for whatever reason, James doesn't back down(imogen)
Her hand rests deceptively light on the railing, her fingers curled on the balustrade as a centre for support. The cold damp fake stone bites into cuts already embedded in her hand a central point. It's for her balance as much as anything else. "There are a lot of things to avoid at this particular time. Would you like the list?" Mind her temper. Fianna pride and Fianna guts, Fianna fury and a Fianna's silver tongue. She knew enough to get away once, and not enough to avoid it the second time around.Her gaze flicks toward Lennox and then back toward James. "I don't finish things I don't think I can win. And I don't finish things that I don't think I should have started."
But because he asked: "You're wallowin' in feelin' sorry f'r yerself. And f'r myself, I don't care t'watch. So you'll either have to step back from th'things that are makin' it hard, and work through 'em, or get the hell off my balcony."
(lennox)
...it probably isn't a good time to interrupt. But Lennox Steel sometimes has shitty timing. Her legs carried her up the stairs, and into her apartment, and she reemerged with a ratty jean jacket (though she still gleamed with sweat, the air was cold) and a pair of keys, jingling, jangling in her hand. Lennox would wait until James had left, but some perverse inner-devil pushes her forward, crossing the geography of between to stop at the bottom of Imogen's balcony. "'Oi!" The accent is french, though you don't realize it until the next sentence. "Ze mechanics came and left me your keys. Zey are not very good."(james)
pride, guts, fury and silver tongue
they both have it in their own particular ways
his, perhaps, isn't quite as refined or elegant as hers
though right now there's a fury backing it just begging to be let looseall he does, though, is take a step forward
his hand settles on the ballustrade just infront of hers
it's quite the contrast
her smaller fingers slender, though nicked by the days past and nipped by the stucco
his hands larger, knuckles broad from boxing, musician's callouses giving the stone a run for it's money
it draws him close... uncomfortably so, now within inches instead of feet
that sphere he tried so hard to keep her out of now sucking her in
that inner fire making her skin want to turn itself inside out much less crawl away
dark eyes locked on hers because for damn sure she won't turn away"Th' fuck you think I do ev'ry day." there's a dark storm in those eyes, and his voice, however low, seeths "But unli'e you, I feel. S'metime... I ev'n let it show. 'n jus' 'cause I hurt, 'r feel guil'y, 'r sad, 'r any other numb'r a thing, dun' mean I give up 'n' wallowin'. Ju's mean I ain' dead inside yet. If I pity mysel' much a' you think? I'd a been on ya slab long ago. Fuck you, Im'gen, I ain' tha' weak."
just as easily as the Ahroun invited himself into her personal space
he removes himself from it
getting the hell off her balcony as she requested
Lennox given little more than a passing glance as the dreadlocked Gnawer moves past(imogen)
She might have said something, except that she held her tongue, as perhaps she should have, ten, fifteen minutes ago, turning and watching him stalk off. A moment passes, and her attention flicks, belatedly to Lennox. "I'm sorry, what was that?"As if the moments before hadn't even occured.
(lennox)
Lennox doesn't particularly want more than a passing glance from the dreadlocked fury. Her muscles go rigid, and her brow lowers, and she shifts from foot to foot, before stepping onto the stairs after the static electricity that is James passes by. She gulps, and then gestures with one hand, the moonlight catching on the keys -- "Ze mechanic."Posted by james at 12:00 AMOctober 09, 2003.10.09.03. - the deepest regret [tristan][forrest hill, condos, cont'd from last scene... again!]
(james)
"S'plain it nex' time..."chuckled as the young Galliard wavers
(that's good Jamey-boy, contribute to the delinquency of a minor)
his own beer is settled on the table and a hand shoots out to wrap around the metis' upper arm
it's easily to discern his grip could break bone if he wanted to
(and don't you doubt it, it has)
but this time it's more of a gentle guide than anything
carefully turning wobbly Phantom towards the door of the condo"... crash'n the cou'..."
he makes sure the Cliath can balance on his own before letting go
keys retrieved from a pocket to unlock the thick, oak door"Kemp may still be here.... else I'd offer yeh th' spare room."
there's a nod for the organist to follow him inside
both Rune and Decker's rooms are also empty
but he won't offer those for various and opposite reasons
the condo is EXPENSIVELY furnished
from modern furniture to the plasma television to the aluminum fridge to the dining room full of electronics (gathering dust, since Rune's been gone) James would be hard pressed to identify much less actually use
the wave towards the plush, leather couch is absent
and he disappears down the hall to return with a thick, soft blanket and pillow
obviously, the place must belong to another packmate, and not the guttermutt Gnawer
(he's mated to the owner, even if he can't really share that, the place is as much his as Rune's at this point)
but the easy half-grin on his lips speaks that Phantom's welcome to stay as long as he needs"Bathroom down th' 'all on yeh left, raid th' fridge a' needed.... I'll say upstair t'night 'n be here come mornin'. Night."
normally, he'd retreat to the warehouse to sleep
unable to cope with the empty bed that smells so much like her
but he wouldn't leave Phantom alone in a strange place with his packmates liable to show up at any time
soon as he's sure the young guest is comfortable
he's heading back outside to the balcony and joint(tristan)
The young gnawer wavers and stands, and he’s taking the joint and already partially up when James takes over and his innate hospitality does the rest. “Night Phantom....” Tristan grins and leans back in his chair, J lifted to lips, the inhale long and slow and held as hand falls to rest against his knee. Dark gaze slides out over the balcony, toward some unseen point in the distance (where he last met up with his Fianna King) lost in thought while James takes care of Phantom.There’s a slow relaxation, muscles molding, melting into the plastic chair that proves the pretty boy kin is still a one (or two or three) hit wonder. Dusky lashes fall to partially hide dark gaze, slightly glazed with... distant thoughts – yeah, that’s it! Hand finds beer, bottle lifted to lips, and gaze shifts to door as the Ahroun returns, the J lifts, offered back to his friend.
(james)
now, on the journey inside, his attention was focused on Phantom
so he remained fairly coordinated
however, now that he's up and moving around
the several beers are moving quite happily through his bloodstream
merrily mixing with the effects of the weed
it hits him juuust about at the doorway
within which he pauses
shoulder pressing up against the frame
a huffed laugh tumbling past his lipsgot. daaaaaamn.
something of a sheepish smile is shot towards the kinsman
but that doesn't stop him from reaching for the joint
what does stop, or at the very least delay, his collection is the lack of coordination
it takes a try or two to make sure all the gears are in limbs
or... limbs in gear....
and the navigation back to his chosen chair is as uneventful as possible
table becoming a walking stick (good boy) in the transgression
and then, once safely in the plastic Gnawer recepticle, he reaches for the offered joint... er... roachit's clutched between teeth to make way for a rogue grin
vaguely amused that in his misery he should be more used to intoxication by now
melting right on back into that supportively balanced triangulated stretch of before
dark eyes close, sucking the sharp smoke deeply into his lungs
and just. for a moment. holding.(tristan)
Oh and the kinsman in question is highly amused to be watching this little spectical. No telling how many beers James had before he got here, no telling how many J’s have been smoked today – but it’s easy to tell it’s alllllllllllll come back to haunt the boy right. About. Now.Boyish grin leaks into unrepentant laughter as he watches the uncordinated collapse into the chair, rearranged limbs, roach carefully set between fingers before it finds new home between Gnawer lips. His own hand falls back into his lap, watching James through slitted gaze, glad to see him relaxed – even if it’s simply intoxication taking it’s toll.
Long arms stretch over head, pulling lean torso into full extension before collapsed relaxation is comfortably found once more. Foot props up in Phantom’s vacated chair, fingers lace behind head, tangled in curls at the base of his neck, as eyes find that distant spot over the railing again.... Silence for now, comfortable enough in it for the moment.
(james)
the silence is comfortable enough for now
simply the elegance of a confidence in presence
there are times nothing needs to be said - compared to times nothing can be
it's a time to realign oneself
with one's own soul, with a family member, with a brother, with the night itself, even the full moon high above
just a moment taken and spared to allow the dischordant energies the time to fall back into formation
for some it can take hours of meditation to cleanse the soul in such a way
for others, they can find the bodily wisdom in the spanse of a single, deep, breathtension melts
worries fade
memories pause
warmth grows that cannot be blamed on the boozeJames isn't sure which of the two categories he falls into
nor is he aware of exactly how long the silence lingers with ease
the breaths turned half-hits not counted though he's sure he's camping
soon enough, eyes the color of earth's soil venture from behind the curtain of darker lashesthe balcony window comes into view
thick glass sheltering the opaque curtains from the night's invasive view
protecting the passed-out Galliard further within
he remembers, now, a day last winter that seems a lifetime ago
when the days were beginning to get colder and harsher just before the ice storms hit
the strange, uppity Fang did something to blast the glass right on out of it's frame
and he made the most of his Rite knowledge to keep a So-Cal GlassWalker warm
offering the very sweatshirt heated by his own flesh even if she had a closet full upstairs
he spent all his earnings from a week's drumming on a new television to replace the plasma screen surely broken by his own remarks
simply because her comfort and happiness was more important than anything else he could need for himself
and they weren't sure how long it would take to get the condo repaired
everything he did was without a second thought to his own needs - her single smile reward enough
it brings a fond, wistful, and deeply sad curve to his lipswhat he would gladly sacrifice for but a moment of something more than the distant presence barely tugging at the other end of the Totem's ever-present line
"Ma'be..."
the silence filled with memories broken by the prompting word
(no, he didn't forget)
the roach is extracted from enamel's grip
a clip fashioned from the torn away, laminated top of an empty carton
and while his arm swings towards Tristan, that gaze doesn't(tristan)
Even if he’s not privy toward the thoughts that race some lazy meandering poetic path through the Gnawers mind, he seems to know bits and pieces of what is there. It’s hard not to know that the memories of things inside is what keeps him here on the balcony. After all, as enigmatic as the kin is, as cute and fun and as pet-able as a newborn kitten Tristan is, it is the balcony, and the combination of nominal escape and agonizing closeness that it provides that keeps the Ahroun hereThat, and protecting the Cliath inside.
As well as Kemp if he’s still holed up within...
And whomever might be wandering around.
Or protecting the condo from all of the above – either way, he’s here.James sees home movies behind his eyes, moments of contentment and actions without thought, and the prettyboy kin sees something mirrored in distant streets, 4 star opulence and satiation among silk sheets and spiced smoke, dark hair and lean body, rage and purity and intensity and silences broken by music that swells between two....
There is a movement from camper’s corner and fingers unlace and escape entanglement in curls to fall and extend, accepting the fashioned clip and roach and pulling it close. Of course James didn’t forget... he rarely does, though with the arch of that brow, slight, confused slightly, it seems for a moment Tristan did. Hit is taken, deep and held, as hand falls to rest, clipped roach outstretched, as gaze narrows in some breathless search for meaning...
Gaze clears briefly as remembrance comes, and smile slides sheepish as grayish tendrils of scented smoke escape from full lips. “Maybe.” The word repeated, the train of thought somewhere gathered from multiple fragmented rails to pull together a cohesive thought. “Maybe I just needed to see if I could go there” the restaurant and food they’d be speaking of then.. “Now.. without him. Face the questions, the pity. Or worse, the understanding looks filled with questions and pity...” absent roll of shoulders into a shrug again. “haven’t been there since he left, even though we all know once a favorite restaurant is found hell nor high water would keep a true Gnawer away...” trailed off with a slight, bemused snort.
(james)
"Ain't been'a Julio's."countering the snort
though there's a partial grimace at his own grammatical flair
his mentors would throat him to hear such slang from educated lips
but right now it's a fuckload easier to say than haven't
and right now... he doesn't seem to really care
the return roach is waved away for Tristan to finish
there is always, endlessly, more
either on the Ahroun himself of somewhere stashed inside
seems they never run out of ways to dull the rage or smudge the memories
it's a matter of having the guts to step away from such easy and convenient escapes"Ain't been'a Hool'gans." though, after the last show, they agreed not to go back "Ain't been'a lot've place." the words are slower now, softer, slipping across the battlescar slur, analogies written in phrase that he understands the reasons, and his jaw lifts in the classic, proud profile crafted by his pack's version of anything characterized, answered, or pointed out in a nod up ".... 'n' upstair."
the last admission perhaps the subtlest
only a few days passed before he moved from the condo to the warehouse
busying himself in responsibilty and tasks to occupy his mind and body
whatever it took to pass the time until she was able to return from her Tribal dutiesthere's a difference, he realizes, between him and the kinsman
one relationship was far more public and recognized
it's a thing he recognizes in the time in Albany after his pack was no longer to be found
the endless queries and looks, the pity should the story be told (it rarely was) and the congratulations of a mission accomplished which brought nothing but regret to deepen the overwhelming grief
he could have gained rank back then, easily, on Elder's approval
but it wasn't worth the price of his pack's blood on his hands
and now he faces the same lonely nights
what has changed now is the questions are unfounded, falling from the wrong direction, or answed in misdirection's truth
none save the man beside him can acknowledge the true reason he wastes away
even his own packmates spend more time overlooking the relationship
and perhaps the weight he bears is heavier for the absence of recognition for the penalty of dishonoranother difference is that he can feel that hold feebled by distance that, indeed, she is still alive
a small portion of knowledge that inspires a notion of hope that she may one day return
but they are Garou, Warriors - never knowing what dawn will be their last
and as easily as he can feel that ghostly presence he knows it can disappear in a fraction of a moment
he will be left with nothing but memories and fears and the turmoil of constantly guessing
just like the man sitting across the table from himhead shakes, physically snapping himself out of the pit despair is casting him far too comfortably into
(tristan)
Last bit is waved away (there is always more) and so it is that the pretty boy kin finishes it off, roach flicked away in offer to the gods over the balcony railing somewhere. Maybe in appeasing them – these mythical gods who enjoy the last dregs of pot in the early morning chill of late fall – maybe by such simple gestures they’d see fit to give him one. Little answer.Just one.
How can it be too much to ask?But of course, it is. There is no mythical appearance of some all knowing being that gives him the answer he needs, he craves. Just to know, one way or the other... added to the despair in the lonely nights hours – is he destroying his relationship with his mate by his dalliance with the Purebred King? Or is he moving on to something better? Or is he moving on and getting swallowed up to drown in something far worse then he could ever imagine?
Around around around the thought train goes. Endless circles and pull him deeper still.
There’s no contest – even the kin would say the burden born is heavier on the Ahrouns shoulders, the age old deference to rank, even if he knows James sees him as equal. When not mopping the mat with him under the guise of teaching/sparring, of course.
Eventually, the Ahroun shakes it off, or attempts too, and so does the kin, chuckling a little. “Good gaia we’re pathetic.” Light tone, self-mocking, knowing that sometimes you just got to laugh no matter how much it hurts. Belly (6-pack, baybee) crunches and pulls torso forward, elbows finding way to the table again as fingers wrap around another beer, though he doesn’t open it quite yet. Finally murmuring... “least you’re faithful.” Head shakes, curls slide to hide downcast gaze.
(james)
the expression urges a range of soft laughter from the Ahroun
knowing just as well as Tristan that sometimes, laughter is essential in the agony
Gnawers are best at accepting their lots and moving on, right? Right.
Riiiiight
then explain to him just why they're both sitting out here moping
hands rake through heavy tangle of jungle-vine dreads
some semblance of a stretch mooooostly making the best of his sprawl
halfway through gravity regains it's hold and he sinks back into the bodyheat warmed chair"Tellin' me." smirked in self-depreciation that would make even the redhead next door proud "I'm s'pose' t'be s'me grea' warr'er. N' here I am." the bottle he forgot remained in his hands used to sweep grandly across the balcony that has become their temporary kingdom "Mopin' m'self t' death ov'r a woman...."
the smirk deepens
the most amazing woman he's ever known"... the hell sorta warr'er'm I?"
barked in laughter set free because intoxication dulls reservation
what do you have if you can't laugh at yourself, right?
gaze slipslides and moves right on past the kin before finding it's way back
(focus, Jamey-boy)
studying his friend: the downcast gaze, the sheild of curls, the sink of shoulders, the hesitation to open the bottle
the infidelity isn't something he's supporting nor ostracizing Tristan for
what is one supposed to do when they aren't sure if they're still mated?
there is only so long one can wait....."She the firs' since Jenna...."
not exactly sure what he was aiming for in that comment
it just.... stumbled right on out of nowhere
it may be the justification of his faithfulness
it may be the undisputable fact that he is, indeed, dead below the waist
(you're full of shit, James: all men, all animals, have needs and urges....)
it may be the simple understanding Tristan had the reasons to stray that he, himself, doesn't(tristan)
Lips curl in half grin – far from its normal brilliance and goodness for sure, but a grin none-the-less – at the grand gestures. The great warrior sinking into the bottle with the second class gutter rat kin who’s ever bit as fucked up as his friend, for different and the same reasons. He knows that should Rune walk in that door right now James would give his left nut to show just how pleased he is to see her smile. He knows that should Diego walk in right now, he would do the same.Unfortunately, Tristan also knows that should the King show up down the street right there under that lamppost reclined and possessive as always, telling him he was looking for him, that he needs him, that all he wants is to hear him play and to delve into the depths of pleasure never before known....? Barring any warning from anyone, Tristan would be (will be) right back in his arms again...
And it kills him. A part of him dies inside knowing that he would go, that easily, he’d turn his back on any hope of salvaging a relationship if Diego should still be alive, should still want him. Gaia, what if he’s fighting right. This. Minute. To escape some fate worse then death just to get back here only to find Tristan seeking refuge with another man?
Once a dog, always a dog, no matter the duration he was chained to a single post.
There’s a nod, slight, at the comment that really doesn’t mean anything but means everything. The first since the last Mate he lost... the first in years, the.. well. The first. Diego was different, but no first. He had hoped he’d be last, however.
Head shakes as if to banish the line of thought, derail that train, curls bouncing before falling against his cheeks once more, a quick twist opening bottle, and the motion of lean form falling to recline in his chair once more used to his advantage, a good half of it drained on the way. Body forms against plastic, lips part in resounding belch, followed by sheepish grin. Doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything right off. Cept the murmured “s’cuse me.”
Finally, however, silence thickens too much, and voice falls again... “I just wish I knew. Unfortunately all i do know is that if that Fianna Kin showed up there in the lawn right now, and there was no reason you could give me to stop, I’d play a right fine Juliet to his Romeo, before escaping the balcony to elope into the delights of the nearest posh hotel...” because he is affected by his presence that much – so much that he would be hard pressed if they –both- showed up who’s arms he would be in come morning light. “once a dog, always a dog, I suppose.”
(james)
the belch brought a glance, even an amused grin
the outpour, however, brings a soft sigh"Ma'be." his head tilts, contemplating the molds forming rippling stucco on the wall in this sudden speech forming rather than the man it's directed to. "Be a hyp'crite t' say y' can' wait fo'ever." cause all the Ahroun has done is wait "I dun'o where t' star' t'fine'm.... 'r what t'do save ma'be as' Er'k to use'is gift 'n' fine'm." or... what remains of him. "All I know izzat this's li'e anythin' else. Do what y'have to. When y'have to. To survi'e. S'one day at a time, Tris. Deal wi' t'morrow when it come 'cause yeh nev'r know if't will'r not. Worry bou' it when't does... jus' make sure when yeh gotta choice, make th'one yeh c'n live wit'. We dun' 'ave 'nuff time f'r more regret."
(tristan)
He has his reasons for not asking Erik to use his gift. He didn’t know Diego, and they were considering moving south because Diego wasn’t comfortable here in the Eagle territory, only comfortable with James. Diego wasn’t pack... and wasn’t likely to ever be.But the speech, carefully formed, is listened too and then that dark gaze lifts to rest heavily on James until his friend meets his eyes. The holding of that gaze is intense, no matter the softness of the words that follow... “Exactly. You think she’d appreciate you’re wasting away here dying because she’s not here, slipping ever closer to Hurano because you refuse to carry on today for fear of dealing with tomorrow?”
There’s a pause, while gaze is held, before he drops his own - respect, maybe even apology as hand spans the distance between them, finding and grasping the Ahrouns hand in his own. His friend could crush his fingers with but a thought with the strength caged within his skin. The Kin would allow it. And just as softly, the words continue. “You love her – completely, and intensely. You’d die for her without a thought. But right now, until she returns, you have to live for her the same way. To survive. One day at a time, James. She’d kick your ass 15 ways from Sunday to see you like this and you know it.”
(james)
James is aware of the reasons that Tristan wouldn't ask Blood Eagle's help
if there was a chance, it would have been done weeks ago
the simple need to help in some way or other drove the hypothetical offer
just as with the earlier time spent with Imogen on the balcony
just as with countless other times he's spent with others in past years
things that he offers are half-expected to be declined
whether they're unfeasable because things simply wouldn't work
whether they're unwanted simply because of who's offering
whether they're unnecessary because they wouldn't do a damned bit of good
it's the Hood's.... instinct.... to try anyway
for every success there is an equal failure - such things are life
he has learned to accept these chanceshe doesn't pull away when the kin's hand wraps around his own
and as easy as it would be, he doesn't look away even when the soft words hit brutally as any silver-fused Klaive
instead, there is a moment of silence, of assimilation
then liquid pools of deep umber shift and harden
sobriety seems to reacquaint itself in the burst of clarity contained in his gaze
the muscle forming yoke across his shoulders coils to bars of steel
weight shifts forward onto the balls of his feet
the deliberately dulled emotional tear suddenly ripped wide open to a whole new level of torturous fireRage. FLARES.
he could easily crush the musician's precous, priceless hand with but a thought
permanently crippling his friend and destroying his abilty to do the thing he loves most and depends on for income
with the way the tendons jump across forearm - he almost does
grip begins to tighten
hand begins to shake
in the single, terrifying, moment James' control begins to wane
his body succumbs to the mercy of the full moon shining blindingly above the errant clouds
bowing to instinct - lash out and maul what it is that salts gaping woundsbefore he can stop it, the growl throttles up from his chest and curls lips to snarl where warm grin resided mere moments ago
the first reaction is to spit venomous reply
how dare you....
and such poison gathers easily across alcohol thickened tongue
the richest tones once in his eyes cloud to the darkest of tempest's blackened fury
the unconscious reach for Eagle's strength tickles it's beginnings to crackle in the air about themthen just as quickly as the lupine volcano professed eruption
the rising magma of his Rage falls away
quickly chased by his gaze that lowers in apology
movement is slow and deliberate to loosen his grip on Tristan's hand
carefully removing his touch... eventually completely
the animal within him wanted to blindly strike when finding itself backed into a corner
the man within him is what realized that his friend spoke words, however harsh, true"I know." finally. softly. he still hasn't lifted his eyes, shamed by what he knows he almost did to the last that deserved his anger, the one that fights to remain standing by his side "Only reason I survi'e today.... s'cause she may come t'morrow."
they both know if he lost her the Ahroun would have given up long ago
and with a sigh, the lanky Gnawer collects himself to stand
a hand reaching out to ruffle through Tristan's mess of curls
it may just be a silent thanks, a meek apology, or even a strange affirmation and blessing
whatever the touch meant to either of them - it isn't clarified
instead he bends to gather his pack and Phantom's keyboard and steps towards the door
whatever is left can be cleaned up tomorrow
(tristan)
Those eyes that are soft and warm harden, and rage flares, and for the first time there may be a flicker of fear somewhere within the pretty boy kin – the boy who loves completely, who would give up everything just to have the other, the more important, the warrior, his friend survive to do what he must, what he can, what the kin, by design, is unable to do.It is a thin line he walks, and he knows it, but he doesn’t back down. He’d give up his play, his one true love, the one thing he’s always had – if only to snap his friend, no. his brother out of his despair. Muscles cord, hand begins to tighten (resulting bruise to be hidden the day or two it takes to heal) and that growl near undoes the Kin’s resolve. Teeth grit under the power that ripples around them, the wash, the reach, the pure unadulterated fury in his loved ones gaze, and it takes all he is, all he has to remain sitting right there, unmoving but for the drop of his eyes in respect.
Hand is released, achingly slow. Deliberately so, and part of him is certain that the backlash will be even worse – but instead comes soft words, then even softer ruffle of fingers through curls. The swallow is thick, and his gaze doesn’t lift for fear of betraying that for a second there, he was actually frightened, but more then that – the tears that scream he feels the pain so deeply harbored, and no one understands like he does what the Ahroun is going through. He would tell him more, he’d say something else, try to get him to realize that even if she doesn’t come home, if he lost her, he needs to survive if not for any other reason then she would expect him too. He doesn’t doubt for a moment the Serpentwolf would find a way back just to kick the Gnawer’s ass for presuming it was ok to give up, at any point, for any reason.
But he’s said enough tonight. Hopefully, he got through in some small way. If not, he’ll try again another time. The touch through curls isn’t clarified, and it doesn’t need to be. It is enough that it was offered, that it exists. Hand returns to wrap around unopened bottle, loosely held, while gaze remains affixed on the label he doesn’t even see. Thoughts jumbled, as some part of him longs to lash out as well. At least James knows she’s alive. He doesn’t even have that. At least there’s a possibility that she will come home. If his brothers found him, there is nothing left of Diego to come home. A thousand comparisons that in the end mean exactly squat. They’ve both lost, they both ache, and they both mourn.
He doesn’t move for a long time, not until James goes inside, not until the door closes behind him, not until James finds some place to lay sleepless, or in a drunken stupor, or just in exhaustions rest. Seconds, minutes, hours – there is no concept of time. He knows when he’s waited enough, when it’s been silent long enough, when he can finally lift red-rimmed eyes that still water with silent mourning. Only then does he wipe away the tears, scrub the moisture from his face, and clean up the balcony. Standing, chairs are placed silently back where they belong, the garbage is collected, the leftovers... well, left for now, bagged neatly and set by the door. Single beer taken for himself, before pack is slung over his shoulder, Violin hefted in hand, and the creak of boards gives way to squeak of step, to silent steps along the asphalt, to fading steps into the sunrise.
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.10.09.03. - what's shotgunning? [tristan-phantom][forest hill, condos, sort've cont'd from last scene as that took two days....]
(james)
Imogen can give most Garou a run for their money in stubbornness
James, it seems, can be just as steadfast in the resolve to never give up
(never. back. down.)
because for some reason he keeps making the offers that he knows she'll refuse
one would think he'd finally have learned by now and paid attention to the flesh-peeling lessons
she refused help that night, would have if he pressed, and he figured she'd keep up the trend tonight
so perhaps that explains the light of surprise that finds its way into deep umber
a brow lifting that she actually accepted something (she... knows how to do that??)
with the musician's approach, however, the response is nothing more than the trademark noda chill tightens in his gut, though
for her to call and ask for help - it must be bad
for her to give in and accept his help - it must be bad"Bring it by, lat'r."
quiet response to her farewell
Tristan's still a ways off, but doubts Imogen would want him to know of her state of (dis)repair
the Gnawer can respect that
so instead, he sets to gathering the bottles and tray
knowing the last thing the good Doctor would want to do is bend and stretch and clean up
a journey down the stairs to dump each into the trashcan Rolling Meadows provided a bit down the path
by the time he's returned the glass tray to her table and reached for his backpack seems dinner's arrived
a look back down the stairs at his kin says more than words could - or would, at this point
brows lift a little, gaze slants away, breath quietly sighs, shoulders move in a (helpless) shrug
he's done what he can. what he's allowed. and that has to be enough for now.
at least she's alive, and that's what matters"Can' pass that uh'"
coupled with a nod towards the neighboring balcony and the shift of weight back down the stairs
(tristan)
That look says more then words, and the reply is just silent, yet meaningful. He’s glad, worried, but glad, but that seems to be par for the course when you fly with the eagles (fortunately, he’s just a weasle, and won’t get sucked into any jet engines. Tonight, anyway.) and it’s all said with just a slight nod, and curl of lips.Instead of asking further for answers that won’t be answered, can’t be answered, he just grins and hefts those bags, turning to head toward the other stairs, up familiar stairs, toward a balcony he hasn’t sat on in ages. “Didn’t think you could... but brought beer to sweeten the deal anyway, just in case.”
Head turns to look behind him, wink tipped to his friend, before he hefts and sets the bags on the table, violin finding a spot out of the way and protected, pack slipping from shoulder to fall to worn wood beside it. Only then does he start unpacking the little cartons, a couple picked out, set on his side of the table, the rest left for James to pick and choose or dispose of however he wants. Two beers grabbed, tops popped, added to the veritable feast before he even turns and settles to a chair.
(james)
brows lift as he's slowly climbing the stairs
the sphere of full-moon enhanced rage infringing on Tristan's own little bubble
he's frustrated (goddamned infuriating woman) and it shows
the way muscle moves over the mishealed bones of his jaw when it tightens
bones and teeth all but inaudibly grinding as he just tries to shake. it. off.he's a Hood
he wants to help
he's supposed to help those in need
especially when it's a dear friend in need
and to be turned down at every corner
sometimes, that can just get to a man
(especially an Ahroun on such a night)"So what the occas'n?"
asked with a casually lifted brow
lanky body turning to half-settle half-drop into the vacant chair
she moved stiffly and carefully
he moves with the energy burning flair of a tense animal
it's easy to see who came home fairly unscatched
and that just.... doesn't sit well with the mellow Gnawer
(that's his friend.... that's his packmate's mate..... there's got to be more he can do)(tristan)
He knows the feeling well. Perhaps better then he should, or others would, and the glance up at his friend as he sits down says exactly that. They’re hoods. They’re supposed to help. And it hurts to be unable too.Kinda the way Tristan feels about James recently – let alone about his own failures in helping/keeping/finding his own mate.
He chuckles, softly and lean shoulders roll in a shrug. “Was hungry, and haven’t had Thai for a while.” Since Diego disappeared, since he’s been staying the hell out of Forest Hill unless crashing on lumpy couch, since... forever it seems. “So it sounded good, and since I know it tastes just as fine the next day, figured I’d stock the fridge through tomorrow, at least.”
“Maybe” The last is mumbled around first mouthful that quickly turns into several more in true Gnawer style.
(phantom)
The runtish metis has ventured far tonight, tired of the urban sprawl and looking for something a little more pleasant, a little more green. He's walked quite a ways, stalking (hunting) through the night with his keyboard safely in a bag he'd found, clutched at his side, a security blanket so far from home. He's actually kind of lost, reduced to making random turns in hopes of getting somewhere he recognizes, somwhere from where he can find his way back to the theater. He pauses at a corner and looks both ways, trying to decide . . . and then he sees some remarkably familiar condos. Hadn't he been here before? Once . . . with Grania. And the Eagles live here . . . maybe James is around somewhere, maybe he can talk to the ahroun. He makes the turn, approaching the condos sumissively (always submit to those of higher station) especially once he's bathed in the rage of the ahroun, so close to the full moon. Pausing, he looks around to see where the feeling is coming from, not thinking to look up.(james)
easily enough, the lopsided half-smile that graces his features remains as Tristan explains
for most, it would seem a good enough reason
fair and true enough, taking it for what it is, and all that
but - blame it on the moon - there's more to it that the Ahroun catches
the heightened senses of the pregnant moon's wrath
finding the word that's hovering before the gaping mouth of a cavernous appetite
as the kin chews, he's lenient enough to spend the time with a soft chuckle"Ma'be, huh?"
unfortunately for the musician
Tristan isn't one kin that James won't push - at times, anyway
deep umber slides in a slippery glance across the food
the question narrated by the subtle lift of a brow
the reach for his share of the boxes interrupted by something else
attention strafes out towards the manicured lawns and half-empty parking lot
hand blindly closes around the bottle of nearest beer
a thoughtful moment brings it to his lips
(this is... three... already? easy there, Jamey-boy)
then the long torso is stretching to settle elbows on the railing
the bottle dangling precariously from fingertips over the flowerbed below
figure seems vaugley familiar
lips purse into a low whistle
(look. up.)(tristan)
Maybe. Maybe not. He knows James has no qualms about pushing, however subtly, he doesn’t even have to look up to know that brow is lifted and there’s a question during that reach... that stops. It’s his turn to look up as the whistle slides over senses, and that grin reappears.Even if he knows he won’t get out of it. He’ll have to answer the question eventually.
He waits then, angling a little to see who’s passing by underneath that dangling bottle, hoping whomever it is looks up in time to catch should James decide to drop instead of drink (which brings to mind the Fianna – not for any other reason then... he misses him. The look over is wistful, almost hopeful, but there’s not the slide of Purity to add to the Rage that already is thrumming under his skin a response to Full Moon that invades his senses...)
He makes sure a couple of boxes are sectioned out of the pile, ‘nother beer added to the table, just in case it is indeed someone known.
(phantom)
A whistle and the Gnawer looks up (nothing new for the vertically challenged Galliard; he's always looking up) to see the beer bottle held precariously above his head; a quick step (or two, or three) is taken, a graceful dance to go with the music both Garou and Kin have heard. Sensitive ears may pick it out now, a sign that the boy below is, indeed, known, a friend, but more likely they'd see the flash of moonlight on the featureless mask, the whiter than bone plate over twisted features, protecting the metis' small vanity. He speaks (sings) softly, as always, though his voice carries, a performer (always knows).
"Hi . . . I was just out walking, and . . ."
He's dressed better than usual, actually prepared (somewhat) for the elements that come with the latter portion of the year, though tonight is warmer than the most recent nights. A longsleeved tshirt, jeans (without holes!), boots, prepared.(james)
from the distance, he couldn't yet see the mask
it was only the feel and posture that reckoned recognition
fingers close more firmly around the bottleneck (be prepared, as the boyscouts say) and the pursed whistle spreads to a smile
dreads backlit by the porchlight tip to the side of the yet occupied porch
(don't thik he'd let Tristan sit by the open stairway, didja?)
the half-empty (already!) bottle tips oppositely towards the steps"C'mon up.... jus' eat'n."
friendly enough, for the full moon, comes the invitation to join
though there is still the underlying tension that bleeds off the Ahroun
weight shifts backwards to settle more comfortably on the plastic chair
he pointedly remains in the chosen spot - the remaining open chair tucked behind the table
it would put Phantom's back to the condo's front wall
even at a casual dinner, the Warrior raggedyman will protect his friends
put them furthest from where the danger would (could) comeas the Galliard is dressed up for the 'in town' occasion
the Gnawer is in what most would call laundry day digs
though, knowing him, this is regular wear
baggy surplus BDUs faded, patched, and tattered
the Cochran II's more in need of a polish than anything else
a black t-shirt that several weeks ago fit snugly to the tone of muscle on his torso
now, though, it's a little looser in the way it hangs
the cords of strength on his arms and beneath the cotton don't have the layer of fat the Beta had spoiled him with
there's a hollowness, found in the darkened circles around his eyes that aren't completely at fault of the night's shadows
but still, through it all, he meets the runtly metis with a warm - if lopsided - grin
bottle used to point to the table and the feast that Tristan thoughtfully provided"Two know each other?"
brows lift and furrow a bit in question
he thinks his kin mentioned meeting the organ player
but with the way past weeks have gone... he's not entirely sure
etiqutte amongst family, and all(tristan)
the song makes it’s way up toward them, floating about on air thickened by James’ rage and unanswered questions and there’s a warming of his grin as he leans over further, and waves down toward phantom. “Yup – met the other day.” Clarification of the last question, as he thinks he may have mentioned it as well, but days and conversations tend to meld when everyone is doing their damndest to forget things.He knows well why James is seated at the open spot, his own protected, the one offered Phantom even more protected. He’s always looking after his friends, and with Tris, it’s appreciated. Most of the time. Unlike other kin who can’t seem to bring herself to accept offered help.
Tristan is dressed much as he was before, though Phantom’s newer used clothing gets an approving look – he certainly looks warmer, which will definitely been needed in upcoming months. His own jeans are a bit threadbare, tattered in stratigic places, though torso is under a warm turtleneck due to the chill of the evenings as it breathes more and more of winters touch across any exposed skin. One moment it’s warm, the next it’s cold enough to see your breath, then again warm. Gotta love Jersey.
But he finally finishes the thought as the Metis joins and grins, nodding toward the Thai food and beer.. “’elp y’self” mumbled around another mouthful..
(phantom)
He takes the steps quickly, gracefully, sensitive nose already smelling the wonders of Thai food and mouth very nearly watering as stomach growls it's demand (why haven't you fed me yet?). He takes the open seat, not to up on tactical planning and having no real idea why he gets that particular chair, other than it's comfortable to have one's back to a building, nothing able to creep up behind. Food is offered and doesn't need to be offered again; the hungry metis falls upon it with vigor, eating like (a Gnawer) he hasn't in a day or more. And then he blushes, realizing his lack of manners . . . mouthful is swallowed quickly, beer grabbed to chase it and a quick face pulled when the taste crosses his lips; he's never had beer before. Another quick swig to make sure he can speak, this time no face.
"Thanks. This is good."
A smile offered to Tristan the (pretty boy) kin and another to James, the moody ahroun who looks like he's lost something of himself since Phantom saw him last.
"You a'ight?"(james)
once the small metis moves into the light proper
one more approving look is added to the reception of his new(er) clothing
(noooot too shabby)
the Ahroun should, by all means, be dressed more appropriately to the night
but it's that inner fire that's keeping him more than warm
the chill of approaching winter isn't quite getting through just yetunlike the two Tribal counterparts - James doesn't dig in quite yet
the Litany speaks of the privleges of rank
yet the Fostern is the highest ranked among them
and he makes sure the others begin warming their bellies first
(if you can't take care of one, take care of others)
careful ascertation in deep umber that Phantom survives his (first... apparently) beer
the same for Tristan though there's no need for real worry
boy is being sugar-daddy'd after allthe third beer is finished and the empty bottle placed on the table
only then does he reach for one of the still-steaming boxes
picking at some semblance of an eggroll in thoughtful chew
contemplating the answer to the sudden question"Think it depen'...." mellow to moody, not the normal drummer, is it "on yeh def'nition a 'right." shoulders roll the black t-shirt towards mane of tangled dreads, the roll lifted towards the half-hidden by porchroof sky "... 's th' moon."
(tristan)
The snort of... amused disbelief? Follows instantly on the last of James’ statements. He’s seen his friend on a full moon more then once, and knows well that he’s full of shit. Luna swells, rage rises and burns with an inner intensity that keeps his friend warm.Unhappy. But warm.
He chuckles at the reaction to Phantom’s apparent first beer, but he just winks, toasts him with his own bottle, downing more then one of them. “How ya been, Phantom?” Murmured around a bite that scrapes the bottom of the first carton... “You should see it when the whole gang is around here on the full. Gets... interesting....” boyish grin flashes, unrepentantly.
(phantom)
Watching James, Phantom has his doubts but he doesn't air them; he, too, has seen the Fostern during and around the full moon (though only once) and knows this isn't the same. But he nods, accepting the answer; if James wanted to share, he would, and there's no need to press an issue that's none of his business. Toast is offered back to Tristan and another eager swig is taken. Phantom is sixteen.
Phantom has been alone for an indetermined amount of time, and when he did have company, it apparently wasn't of the nicest sort.
Phantom is broke.
So, Phantom has never had beer, though he enjoys it immensely now. Bottle is set down and carton is taken back up, another (too large) bite crammed into the boy's mouth. He chews quietly for a moment, reflecting on Tristan's statement.
"I was here at full moon. Once."(james)
there's a wry grin as Tristan nearly chokes
he's well aware he's full of shit, too
a bit of the Garou's inherant bitterness is leaking out
and the grin turns apologetic"Half th' pack Ahroun." Rune. Decker. James. Now Tucker. "Even I can' take it s'metime."
not to mention half the pack is Get
which is a trouble all of it's own to a Gnawer
sometimes it's hard to realize three of them aren't Germans
then toss in the icey kinfolk next door....."'n ta'e is slow." this time it's chuckled, gently "Else ya drunk 'fore yeh know't."
weight slips further down into the cupping welcome of the chair
boots spreading to triangulate his balance
dreads form a pillow against the thin plastic backing
and deep, dark brown eyes gaze past the edge of the roof and to the glare-hidden stars above
or at the very least where his education says the constellations should be
the meager dots that are poking through at the moment
after a few moments, those eyes close
and the silence (save their chewing and drinking) is spent in a thoughtful aire
the personable streetcorner ruffian showman suddenly deeply instrospective
it's a fairly well known fact that James doesn't have the alcohol tolerance of his packmates
and the quick succession of beers on an empty (!!!) stomach begins to show
a level of the invisable tension begins to slip away
the steel bands of his shoulders relax to a minute degree"'m sorry, Phantom." his eyes are still closed, not looking at the young Gnawer quite yet... though it must be strange for an apology to be issued in any event "... was rude." head lifts, now, giving the Galliard the respect of looking at him when speaking to him. "Guess th' shit I been through lately been gettin' to me."
(tristan)
Container, empty, is set aside, and mouth wiped with the back of hand, as he looks at James. And really looks at him again. One bite. The Gnawer took one bite, went back to beer, and goddammit if he isn’t sinking farther and faster then Tristan can haul him out. Hands slide through mismanaged curls, blunt nails sliding against scalp before fingers fall to rest on the table and lean form leans forward, elbows on the table, hands lightly clasped as he chuckles at Phantom. “James here is famous for his intolerance to alcohol... of course, i’m not much better. My..” hesitation. Sigh. Switch. And apologetic grin. “...Diego once got us to kill off a bottle of imported tequilia from Mexico where he’s from... we felt the after affects to that for almost a week. Learned to stick to beer to be social.”And that said, he drains his bottle, and grabs another with a grin. Do as I say, not as I do, s’what Momma Grace always said. There’s another pause after the light(er?) story, before the container that James picked at is lifted, and set more squarely in front of the Ahroun, while dark gaze remains on him. “Course, Momma Grace’d skin me alive if she knew I was letting you drink on an empty stomach, even if on the Full.”
(Whatever you do, Jamey-boy, don’t make me have to call Momma.)
Others need. Gnawer’s supply. By brute force if necessary. (oh that’s an amusing picture considering just boxing lessons ends up with Tristan bruised and cracked and laughingly pathetically whipped like the mutt he is...)
(phantom)
Eye brow raises at the offered apology and piercing green eyes widen just a little at the offered appology - strange, indeed - and he nods, mouth too full to speak. He chews quickly and takes a slower, smaller sip of the beer before him; he's seen what the drunks do to his (half) block of halfway decentness in the scab (there's no place like home).
"'S'ok. I heard a little."
Eyes move to Tristan artist's appreciation (and boy's curiousity) taking in the tousled curls, the apologetic grin, the lean form curled in its seat.
"Never had it before. But it's good."
He's relaxed enough, now, to let his baby down, to set they fabric wrapped keyboard down beside him as he sits there, eating and drinking with friends. It's an odd feeling, that, and one he's never felt before. Good - he could definitely get used to it - but odd.
"Who's Momma Grace?"(james)
there's the chuff of soft laughter - knowing Phantom would be surprised
not the norm for a Fostern Ahroun to apologize, is it
for a moment, the knowing, teasing glint reappears in deep umber
then the gaze slips away to the sound of paper grating on the table
next sound is a slight clearing of his throat
seems the mighty Full Moon has been put in his place by a meager kin
there's a mock growl aimed at Tristan
in any other situation it would be terrifying
and, perhaps under the full moon, it could still be
but it fades on the wings of a ghosted smile"Yes Pa."
shot back in arrogant tease
and he makes the monumental effort to pull himself upright
pivoting on the axis of his hips to sit properly at the table
doing his best to force himself to eat the spicey Thai
when all he really wants to do is slink away or find something to take his swelling anger out on
it's slow, methodical, not the trademark inhalation they've come to know and love
but at least he's eating"His ma." chin jerks up towards Tristan "Kin t'be reckon with up'n NYC. Only bunk wi' 'er a few week couple year 'go.... don' mean she won' make th' trip t' tan my hide 'f I misbehave."
(tristan)
He doesn’t seem terrified at all of that growl, in fact his grin just widens and with a wink and slightly lifted brow he counters with “Tease.” And then brings it one more step further with a rakish grin. “That’s right, boyo.... who’s your daddy.....”Before relaxing back in his chair, satisfied to see him eat, no matter the methodical nature of the trip of the fork from carton to mouth and back again. He nods with a fond grin and shifts his gaze toward Phantom with a warmer smile. “Yeah, she’s my mom, but is also the same to every Family member in the tri-state area. She’d take you in too and treat you every bit the same as she does us... Fast with the discipline and switch when it’s needed – and never when it’s not, and just as fast with hugs and love. But never too much adoration because that would get you’re head all swollen and she can’t handle any child who’s too big for his britches.” And it’s perfectly clear that he loves his mother with all he is....
“And she took a shine to James in that week, and he knows damn well he’d best behave or I’ll have her down here on the next train.”
(phantom)
A nod, family ties. (What's it like?) The metis finishes up his carton of food, then takes up his beer, drinking slowly and enjoying the warmth the alcohol carries with it through his body. And the brotherly (he thinks, he's watched enough tv through store windows to hazard a guess) banter . . . he lets it flow around him, a different sort of song.
"Lucky, then."
Never have two words conveyed so much about one person . . . lonliness they'd only guessed at (that pushes the boundries of despair at times, wolves need pack), a desire, no, a need for something akin to what they have, a normalacy in the rabbit hole.
"She sounds nice."(james)
"S'what most Family like."interjected between a few bites of food
with Tristan watching his consumption like a hawk - he's not giving up just yet
but it gives him an excuse to stop forcing food into a stomach that doesn't seem to want it
(full of shit, Jamey-boy, you know you're hungry even if you don't feel like it, you're a damned Gnawer)
and allows for a glance up at the young metis
there's a fondness in the Ahroun for the kinwoman, too"Should take y'up one weekend...." his words are a little slower, that slurred accent thickening with the alcohol, and as he reaches for another bottle to twist the top off, seems he's not ready to stop yet - low tolerance be damned! "... in'tr'duce y' to s'me other. Show y'what bein' Gnawer all abou'"
yeh, seems the Ahroun is more than aware of how desperately lonely Phantom is
wolves need pack
Gnawers need Family(tristan)
the stomach wants it, even if the mind does not. Have to be some pretty bad shit to see a Gnawer starving himself to death. Not the best of ways to go no matter who it is – but for a Gnawer? That’s downright.... wrong.But the suggestion brings a grin, and he shifts his gaze between the two of them.. “that’s a damn good idea, actually. Momma’s been hounding me for another visit as it is... seems Andrea has herself a ‘boyfriend’ and Momma’s aiming to scare the boy to death. You’d do perfectly James.”
Again that flashed grin, before he looks over at Phantom, and nods... “Momma’s always got a full house, and the more the merrier. Always food on the stove – seems she has this 6th sense of when one of her ‘boys’ is going to come home to visit, because obviously we can’t take care of ourselves.” Rest of his beer is tipped back, finished, and another grabbed... the level on Phantom’s checked, and another offered... “Drink the second slow – keeps the warmth without getting you too tipsy just yet. I’ll probably have to carry James in later.”
They’re banter is indeed friendly, even brotherly. Family.
(phantom)
"I'd like that."
He tips back the last bit of his first (ever) beer and sets the bottle neatly somewhere out of the way, then accepts the second, nodding his understanding at the instructions.
"Thanks."
A (long) slow sip and he rests his arms on the supports of the chair, letting the beer dangle between his fingers as he'd seen James do, trying desperately to fit in, despite the part of himself that says he never will.
"Is Andrea your sister?"(james)
there's another look shot towards Tristan
carry him in.
though at the rate he's going - the kin is probably right
soon enough he finishes the rest of the box and shoves it aside
leaning back in the chair to nestle the current beer on his lap, loosely held by calloused and strong hands
moments pass as the next question is proffered
then the full moon is digging into a cargo pocket for his pack of smokes
it's not a Camel that he pulls out, however
insted the mysterious thing is a conspicuously self-rolled number
by the scent a Garou would be able to catch - that's not tobacco eitherbattered bronze Zippo is pulled free
zipCLACKing open to set flame to the joint held between James' teeth
the inhale is looooooong and slow, rolling fragrant and tasty smoke over his tongue
holding it deeply in lungs it will never blacken
it's plucked from his mouth and held in offer to Phantom
seeing as it's his first beer, he probably hasn't been exposed to weed before, either
something of a staple at the Eagle's condos, however
brows lift if instruction on how and what would be neededseems as much as Phantom's trying to fit in and become a part of the group
James and Tristan are waaay ahead of him
treating him like he'd never been apart in the first place
it's what being Family is all about
(tristan)
That look brings perfect wide eyed innocence to his own face, marred by the devilish glee in dark gaze, though he relaxes easily enough and answers Phantom’s question. “Yeah, not by blood. Momma adopted her a couple years ago when her folks passed on. She’s just turned 11, and starting to realize the affect her young pretty looks has on the neighborhood boys. Momma chased out a 15 year old neighbor with her wooden spoon just last week. Andrea seemed oblivious for the most part of why momma was upset – according to her she just invited him in for cookies.” Lean shoulders roll into a shrug, and curls tumble as he chuckles. “momma has infallible record on reading any boy’s intentions within a 3 mile radius. To this day I’ve never figured out how she knew of my escapades before I had them.”Ah, the Eagles on the Full moon = liquor and weed in large quantities. Got to love that. The pack appears, the self rolled, the battered lighter, and soon the air is filling with that sweet pungent scent. He just grins, apprecitively – always get the good shit too - and waits his turn in the rotation.
(phantom)
Shooting a glance at Tristan, he reaches forward and takes the offered joint; and James assumption that he's never tried it is correct. He'd watched what the Ahroun did, and he does his best to imitate it . . . but. he. chokes. Lungs unaccustomed to smoke reject the sweed acridness of the drug on the first try. He has to set his beer down for fear of dropping it; it wobbles once, twice, before finally stopping upright. Blushing furiously, he shoots quick glances at each of them, then passes the whatever-it-is to Tristan, who hasn't had it yet.(james)
there's just a knowing glance to Tristan's explanation
even he's not sure how any Momma does it - Ruggs, Grace, or otherwise
but they just seem to know"Easy..." a momentary panic to caution the novice Galliard, but hell, if you ain't chokin you ain't tokin, as the saying goes, but seeming as it's a little too late (or the caution simply in vain) the older Ahroun simply chuckles softly "Take it slow nex' time.... n' hold it in a bit." nodding towards Tristan's example "Weed's harsher inna join'... nex' time I'll find a bong for yeh."
(tristan)
He can’t help the sputtering laughter as he reaches to rescue the tipping bottle and help right it, as well as take the offered J. “Easy there..” And with a shake of his head he waits till Phantom watches, takes a hit nice and slow, and holds it in as he passes on to James again.He leans back into his chair, and with a chuckling exhale.. “just whatever you do? Don’t accept any weed from Livingstone. That shit’ll fuck you up for DAYS...” Oh yes, the stories of the bluntling run rampant around here.
But there’s a nod to James’ suggestion of a bong. “Got one at my place..” offered easily as breath that there will indeed be a Next time. Phantom’s family, after all.
(phantom)
"Who's Livingstone?"
Reaches for his beer again now that he can breath, clearing his throat with a long, too fast swig from the bottle. Rage that had been a nearly overpowering buzz (in his ears) is slowly mellowing to a managable hum, thank goodness, and he thinks he could handle another hit off the J when it comes back his way, after watching what Tristan (pretty boy) did.
"Thanks."
A little slurred, and unclear exactly what he's thanking them for . . . but somewhere along the line, he picked up a decent set of manners, and it feels like time to say thank you as far as he's concerned. (Family. So this is what it feels like.)(james)
the grin to agree with the warning is rather... wry... and knowing
fairly apparent that James has borne the brunt of Livingston's stock
more than once
... for.... daaays...."S'ar Theurge." offered in clarification for the galliard, the explanation paused for a long, slow hit "Bob Ma'ley inna GeeDub suit."
the last offered on a plume of heady smoke
if the neighborhood watch were brave enough to complain
the resident Garou would have been kicked out by now
the endless supply of weed the least of their 'community' infractionshe takes a moment to inspect the joint
expertly fixing a bit of the paper that had come unglued from the heat
then it's carefully offered to Phantom once again
the crackling aura of Rage has lessened incredibly with the addition of the sedative"Sho'gunning it less harsh..... but dunno if yeh up for it."
there's a sly look shot to the kinsman
figuring Phantom would blush himself right under the table to find out what that was
though would doubtfully accept it from either Gnawer present(tristan)
He chuckles at the first, he listens and watches throughout, but at that sly look? Oh our pretty boy kin has the decency to duck his head (evil, evil, evil little thoughts dancing behind those eyes) and chuckle with a shake of those curls...Call it payback for the who’s your daddy line, huh?
He looks up and grabs his beer, that grin boyish and full as he toasts james (take your shotgun anytime, boy, and you know it) before slamming a good portion of it back. And retreating to the Livingston topic. Safety and all. “He’s a reputation for... oh... enhancing natures recipes...”
And its no mistake he doesn’t even TOUCH the shotgunning line....
(phantom)
Ah, if he knew what shotgunning was, he might blush . . . but would accept it from either Gnawer present, actually, should the opportunity present itself.
"What's shotgunning?"
Much more careful, this time, with his hit, only a small cough and most of the smoke held in for a few seconds, slowly blown out as he passes the pot along. Another swig and his beer is gone and . . .
"I have to . . . um . . ."
He stands unsteadily, turning towards the door, then the stairs, unsure which way to go.
(james)
"S'plain it nex' time..."chuckled as the young Galliard wavers
(that's good Jamey-boy, contribute to the delinquency of a minor)
his own beer is settled on the table and a hand shoots out to wrap around the metis' upper arm
it's easily to discern his grip could break bone if he wanted to
(and don't you doubt it, it has)
but this time it's more of a gentle guide than anything
carefully turning wobbly Phantom towards the door of the condo"... crash'n the cou'..."
he makes sure the Cliath can balance on his own before letting go
keys retrieved from a pocket to unlock the thick, oak door"Kemp may still be here.... else I'd offer yeh th' spare room."
there's a nod for the organist to follow him inside
both Rune and Decker's rooms are also empty
but he won't offer those for various and opposite reasons
the condo is EXPENSIVELY furnished
from modern furniture to the plasma television to the aluminum fridge to the dining room full of electronics (gathering dust, since Rune's been gone) James would be hard pressed to identify much less actually use
the wave towards the plush, leather couch is absent
and he disappears down the hall to return with a thick, soft blanket and pillow
obviously, the place must belong to another packmate, and not the guttermutt Gnawer
(he's mated to the owner, even if he can't really share that, the place is as much his as Rune's at this point)
but the easy half-grin on his lips speaks that Phantom's welcome to stay as long as he needs"Bathroom down th' 'all on yeh left, raid th' fridge a' needed.... I'll say upstair t'night 'n be here come mornin'. Night."
normally, he'd retreat to the warehouse to sleep
unable to cope with the empty bed that smells so much like her
but he wouldn't leave Phantom alone in a strange place with his packmates liable to show up at any time
soon as he's sure the young guest is comfortable
he's heading back outside to the balcony and joint
[in progress, but just for you, Damon]Posted by james at 12:00 AMOctober 07, 2003.10.07.03. - i owe you an explanation [imogen][forest hill, condos]
(imogen)
It's sixty two degrees out, and, as is typical for the area, humid. In a few short months, sixty degrees will not seem that cold at all, but here and now with summer still emblazoned in everyone's memory, it feels chilly, weather that speaks of fall.She's outside, nonetheless, cigarette burning between the fingers of her right hand, a movement that half conciously avoids brushing the filter against the tips of her long slender digits, to avoid irritation across the half healed tiny slashes across the fingerpads and the one deeper further up her finger where whatever it was that had cut her (there) had bitten deeper than elsewhere.
Bruises heal quickly on kinfolk flesh, though not as quick as it would on her full-blooded 'cousins' (not that she would claim such a familial connection), and darkening that bloomed across her cheekbone has faded already to a pale discolouration. The flame of her hair is pulled back low on her neck, and a bright burst of colour against the natural paleness of her skin, the black of her shirt.
Dressed in jeans and a light knitted sweater, the fabric not quite close fitted to her frame, she sits in one of the deck chairs on her balcony, one leg drawn up to rest on the edge of the seat, the other bent loosely, booted foot flat againt the deck. She holds herself, not quite without that not-quite-grace she has, but with a certain stiffness to the edges. The tenseness of muscles that speaks of the knowledge that sudden movements will be painful, and she will not put that upon herself just this now.
Miriam is home, somewhere perhaps, because music plays somewhere inside the condo, heard even through the closed window pane. Something depressing and instrumental. Classical, even. At least it's not N'Sync.
Smoke spills out of her mouth with each nicotine laced exhale as she briefly watches a car make it's way down the head, headlights flashing bright, tail lights flaring red in departure.
(james)
headlights flash, blinding in their sudden spotlight
taillights glow, highlighting a lanky raggedyman sheilding his eyes
darkened irises protected by the lash locking squint beneath the shadows of deep sockets
one shoulder shrugs to resettle the pack on his yoke
and the Ahroun keeps movingit's a slow stroll, really
not exactly flavored by his.... concern.... of the other night
while the lengthening evenings portent of the coming fall
the weather's still fairly nice
at least.... gorgeous compared to the ice storms that will come
he's damn well making the most of it
Rune's kin pay enough to keep the Rolling Meadows lawns finely manicured
hands had settled in loose fists swinging past hips with each step
Cochran II's dully thunking on the shaped concrete
dreads swing in lazy count across the tops of the (surprisingly new and clean) t-shirtat the central Y where the paths begin to split - he stops
he could, of course, continue on to the neighboring condo
checking in to see if the cub-now-Cliath has demolished the posh safehouse
though, well, he knows that isn't the reason he came by
the pack rustles, and bottles clink
and soon a hand is rising in the darkness
bringing a Pacifico beer bottle into sparkling angle to the nearby park-lantern
dark eyes search the faintly lit shadow behind the burning ember and exhaled smoketwo days ago - blood covered that hand now wrapped around the still-chilled bottle
blood of a security guard (or three?) that he had no idea who or what or why he was killing
just that it was necessary to the task that Imogen had lain out for him
and for some reason.... that doesn't seem to matter to the Gnawer
(banaman... they were only human....)
what does is the fact he can stand on the walkway and hold the beer up as he is(imogen)
She had decided last year (and the year before that) that she hated passing winters here in New Jersey. In fact, she hated the winters in the states period, for she'd lived elsewhere before coming to Newark and had fared no better. She did, however, enjoy the fall, the cool rain, and the cool weather.There's a slight, if quiet smirk that curls her lips at the lift of beer, and in exchange, shifts her weight to reach over to the armrest (it takes trained eyes to catch the hitch in the movements, and to realize she used her right hand, when it should have been easier to use her left) and lift up her cigarette package in some vague return greeting.
Two days ago -- had been a very bloody night indeed, and had not ended with the death of guards, but later after burning bodies that this too, Imogen did not explain. Her absolute silence in the work might have seemed ordinary (she truly is an intensely infuriatingly reticent woman), but for the flavour to it. It had been a bloody night, indeed, and since some (but certainly, not most... and maybe that made it worse) of the blood was her own, perhaps her silence that night could be excused more than her silence most nights.
"Bring yer own beer wit' yeh now, do yeh?" she inquires, mildly, and non-chalantly.
(james)
somewhere in the darkness, the kin (sloooowly) shifted weight in return greeting
a trained eye would have caught her hitch in movements, noticing how she compensates
James simply remembers the blood (his. heart. stopped.) and knows where the wounds were
but hey.... she's moving - that's what counts
somewhere in the darkness, the Garou quirks a (forever) lopsided grin"Yeh." chuckled only loud enough for her to hear "Fig're Kemp clean us out."
the hand lowers, and on the trip ascending the stairs, compressed air hisses as the cap's popped off with the aid of a Bic lighter
and even as easily as he smiles in settling the opened bottle on the table beside her
there's the memory that perhaps the good Doctor wasn't the only one more prone to strangely flavored silence
deep umber drops in a pointed look at her arm and it's limitedly stiff movements
but a moment later attention swings to the pack of smokes
he's learned his lesson about actually askingthere's a symphony of movement: unshouldering the pack, setting it into the empty chair, pulling out another beer, popping it's cap, taking the pack, lighting a cigarette, and exhaling through his nose because that fucking smell of burnt flesh and fur is still clinging to his sinuses
(imogen)
"Actually," said slow with thoughtfulness, "you'll be pleased to know that, Kemp doesn't drink; or smoke. Too many damned 'just say no' classes in school, I s'pose."A lift of one corner of her mouth, as she raises the cigarette back to her lips, "So yer beer and fags are safe."
Pause. "I owe you an explanation."
(james)
"'s a good kid."it's soft, murmured, an absent truth
good kid that was thrown right into the worst school in town
(but weren't they all?)
weight shifts backwards as the bottom of the bottle is raised to the sky above
several amber swallows pour down his throat before he stops long enough to breath
(maybe... he's not that unscathed..... but from what?)
the porchlight, in those movements, highlights the sharper angles to his cheekbones
and the constantly moving fabric of the shirt is a little looser than it used to be
his jaw grinds and the joint pops in a thoughtful flex and lick of lips to clean the leftover droplets away
then the dreads dip and weave over his shoulders in small nod"'preciate tha'."
there's nothing condescending or demanding in his tones
nor the caustic mockery of the bitter tool
it's pretty clear he would have done what he did for her without an explanation
others need, a Hood provides
(imogen)
"Maybe." An absent truth of which Imogen was not so sure, perhaps.She regards him for a beat, two. Buying time, perhaps, as she takes a slow inhalation of cigarette, rather than a breath of fresh air, and reaches out to rest the cigarette in the ashtray, the ember burning redhot against the grey smeared glass. Her hands rub together as she exhales smoke, the unscathed fingers of one hand, brushing across the small cuts of the other.
Breath in now, clean humid air, a hint of coolness because the sun had gone down, and while it was still warmer than winter would be, it was autumn and everything was relative. For now, it's a comparison to summer.
Start at the beginning then: "Last week, a body showed up in Jersey City." Her weight shifts slightly in the chair, the bent leg extending until it joined it's mate on the balcony floor, and she straightens from her half curl/recline, sliding to a more upright position. "His blood had completely coagulated; there were claw marks across the floor, tearing in the cushions." A half lift of her shoulders. She has a particular posture, Imogen. She never slouches, back straight, shoulders back. It's a posture that can be associated with dancers and those who will never have to suffer from back problems. "Garou. It took me days to figure out that it was th'body that was Garou, not the attackers," it almost might seem she should smirk here. Self-deprecatingly that it took her that long. But for her tone, she might as well be referring to something that happened somewhere else rather than to herself; the detachement of a witness on the stand. "He was Bone Gnawer. At least so far as I could tell from the Glyph." A meager shrug eloquently states her slight knowledge of glyphs, despite her former tribes emblazoned in her skin. "Not that it mattered much; it's not as if he could tell me anything, anyway." She pauses here, perhaps because she can't quite decide where to go. She skips ahead days and several chapters in the story. "The sample I asked you t'destroy was airborne chemical. Designed to cause blood to coagulate. A minute, maybe less. Garou only. Not human, not kin." She still rubs her hands together absently, fingers running across the over-sensitive healing skin. "I was tryin' t'go after the original: it had t'be injected, but was a good start f'r the airborne. Destroy both, and Sequegenics lost ten years o' work and who knows 'ow much money.
"The man with th'guns in 'is hands an' the woman with the sniper rifle were kinfolk. I was," a hesitation here, because for once, she cannot think of the right word, "assisting them. There were six kin; five died earlier," This was important, somehow, "one other drove away."
A slight twitch of her lips, and she reaches out for the cigarette once more, curling her fingers around the filter, "My sample was destroyed, a little farther away than anticipated, out near the woods. Th'last o' it burned wit'the cursed one that 'ad been there."
Her hand moves slightly, in a gesture, the ember of her cigarette tracing through the air, That's that before the motion continues to her mouth to inhale nicotine laced air into her lungs.
(james)
as is the inherhant habit of them both
as she speaks, the Ahroun watches her
deep brown eyes gracing full-moon attentions on the kin
most would take it as a stare down, beneath Luna's swell above, a challenge to speak freely before a Garou
they both know that doesn't work for shit on the good Doctor
so this is just his notion of respect, that what she speaks of is important enoughand as she carries on... there's no. question. of importance.
(he was a Bone Gnawer)
the subconscious flinch at knowing Family, however distant or unknown, met an end
(Garou only, not human, not kin)
dark brows lift towards the frame of dreads
there's the breif consideration to sit down, rather than lean against the ballustrade
that would, of course, depend on whether or not he'd make it to the chair
she mentioned what he was dealing with could kill him.... but....
christ. think he'll just stay where he's leaning
glad he paid attention to holding his breath and working quickly
he's not doing so now - heart's beating a little harder, lungs are filling a little deeper
so what if it's burning through the bummed smoke at twice the speed
not like his lungs would ever blacken
(there were six kin, five died earlier)
jaw drops in the acknowledgement of a nod
most Garou see kin as expendable - not James. Never James.
and not with what happened so recently to them allafter she finishes - he's quiet for a good long while
taking the time to assimilate this rush of information
taking the time to finish off that beer
the sound of the second bottle hissing open all that breaks the silence between them
sweet fermentation quenches a suddenly dry mouth and throat
a jump-started second cigarette coats his tongue with nicoteine and smoke
the first is smashed out in the tray on the table halfway between kin and Gnawerit causes blood to coagulate in a minute, maybe less
James doesn't have the extensive medical knowledge Imogen has of how the body works
his repetoire of facts and figures gathered from random books fueling his education at the Albany public library
or perhaps the books... borrowed... by Frankenweiler mentors at the University
but even he knows that's a horrible, horrible way to diea breath is gathered to speak
then it's replaced by a collection of smoke and toxins
exhaled uselessly in all but silent sigh
the left joint hinging jaw to skull grinds as it works to hustle words into gear
but in the end, even the street performer who makes a living on eloquence is at a loss for words"Th'nks...."
is all that makes it out, in only a murmur
(imogen)
She has a thing for challenges; look a Garou in the eyes; work among men and sexism; the dead and crime. Stand firm on her points without a single concern for safety. Destroy a chemical, bleed for the effort. She would almost seem reckless, if she weren't so .damned. calculating.Tonight her eyes watch the mostly darkened street, watching where the street lights illuminate the night air which has become filmy with fog. It will burn away come morning.
The silence where he pauses is just that: silence. She smokes, her weight shifting her weight backward once more, deeper into the chair, drawing her leg again up, the boot scraping softly against wood. Her elbow rests against the curve of her knee, bending slowly as she lifts the cigarette back to her mouth once more.
Her attention jerks sharply and suddenly toward him and his thanks. Surprise, perhaps. It's muted by shadow.
Silence again, an ebb and flow, and she stands, a movement that is at once both restless and cautious. She shakes her head, "Don't mention it."
(james)
her surprise is muted by the shadow
but at the height of the moon's swell high above
(hunter's moon)
the Garou is far more aware than normal
the predator's Rage rising until all senses are humming and alert
sight, sound, touch, scent, even taste, and that animalistic sixth sense which hovers just beyond definition
however muted towards nothing in the darkness her surprise may have been
the lanky raggedyman Gnawer noticed itbut he does nothing to clarify his thanks
just a little twist of forever lopsided grin at her letting it's weight slide away
just like old times, eh, Jamey-boy?there are a thousand reasons why he could only bring that one word in response to her story
that the dead Garou was a Bone Gnawer and somehow her actions were vengeance for his death - he was not forgotten
that she thought enough of him to call and bring him in on the mission instead of another no matter how far away they were
that she allowed him to help when previous attempts were so brutally declined
that she, even reluctantly, performed a duty for the Garou nation she tries so diligently to avoid
that she told him the rhyme and reason for the blood on his hands even if he never expected to know why
that he's a Hood and it's etiquette to thank someone when they give you something either grand or seemingly trivial
reasons surfacing from even deeper that would never cross the good Doctor's mind if she cared to think on it that muchthe blazing, shifting red of her hair rises from the shadows of the porch to the slanted light from neighboring light
the beast in him can sense the restless caution that's leaking invisable scent from the pores of her skin
under the silver light scything holes in the scattered clouds above - the hunter should react to the prey
but the Ahroun does little more than shift his weight more comfortably against the railing
all designed to tilt the bottle's mouth against his own"Wan' me teach y' the glyphs yeh dunno?"
That's that
Don't mention it
he's learned when it's time to keep the conversation flowing foward instead of lingering on details
sure, he'd love to ask how she is, if she's allright, will be allright, needs anything, or another equally concerned question of his friend
but he's learned that lesson, too
that he showed up tonight is as close to asking as he'll get
he'll have to settle for whatever return she grants him, if anything at all
(imogen)
Instead of answering right away, her pale fingers (fading red and pink in unparallel slashes across the pads) reach up to pull free the elastic that had confined her hair, curls and waves freed in a single motion only to be gathered up again. Each movement deliberate, she twists the strands (red and gold, flame and sun, oak and roan) low on her neck, tendrils snaking free to brush against her cheekbones, curl against the collar of her sweater.Despite her restlessness, there is only so far one can walk on a balcony, and she turns to glance at James for a moment, pensively. Ironic: second offer in the last two or three months to teach her something more. Her smirk isn't quite tinged with mirth; it lacks the energy for humour.
"No," she says slowly, "I c'n recognize that th'marks are Garou. I c'n tell, I think, if s'a cursed one, or a..." unfamilar term, "...Gaian. We're hardly near a Sept."
The smirk twists further, "so I probably know enough; more than most, anyway."
(tristan)
He’s making the trek back between his apartment where he rarely is anymore, and the warehouse, where he’s been keeping James company as much as possible yet again. Violin is in hand, of course, and long strides eat the cement under his feet even with backpack slung over shoulder (freshly washed clothes... oohhhh, aaahhhh...) and two plastic grocery bags in the other hand.
One contains Beer, of course.
The other, dinner. Hadn’t been to that little Thai place for a while, and tonights earnings went towards feeding whomever is at the condo tonight, or whomever he decides to give it two on the way back – extra bought for just such an occurrence. Winter is, after all, in the air.
The condo’s come into view, and it’s habit that pulls his gaze toward the balconies, not expecting to see anyone, though he pulls to a halt when he does. A moment’s contemplation, change of direction, and the pretty boy kin is heading across the lot.
(james)
the Ahroun (... hunter) watches the careful and controlled movements
while continued attention may be the signs of respect in a simple conversation
there's something more, something deeper: a study that's creating itself in his mind
her lack of energy for the sharp humor in response to the specific offer
how her words form a fraction slower than the whipcrack normality
... well... that sums things up
but first, his shoulders roll in a smooth shrug"Can read'n wri'e most've 'em."
nothing more than a vague response, really
once the offer was made it will always be open
and he wouldn't be dragging her off anywhere to teach in the name of officiality
a mediocre exchange of knowledge if she could ever someday use it
(knowledge is power, isn't that right, Jamey-boy?)
if, of course, she would ever be interested, or even mildly curiousonce again, silence falls between them
little more than the wet sounds of beer in bottle, and the crackle of tobacco burning
his hesitance to make the subsequent offer a bit on the obvious side
gaze draws to the navigation of ashes to tray instead of the woman"Some barbs in the' condo." offhand, given Kemp's just say no! attitude he's sure they're still there "'n other med'cal supply if y'dun' have 'em."
a glance to the footsteps on lot asphalt
(ooooooh.... read that wind.... Thaaaai fooood)
and only then, does the deep umber gaze return to Imogen - and holds
she looked bad that night, but so did everything
now that he's sure she hasn't returned to par
(now that he knows there were more wounds than she let on)
he's risking another flaying to offer the care she seems to need
mentally kicking himself for backing off to her decline that night
the sketchy phrasing - the look in dark eyes - reads more: For Gaia's sake Imogen tell me what to do to help. Please.
but he knows better than to say that(imogen)
She shakes her head slightly as he indicates that he can read and write most glyphs, reinforcing her previous refusal silently.Her hand pushes back strands of hair from her bruised cheekbone to glance sideways at James and his offer, a brief pause before she shakes her head slightly, "I can't stand barbituates," she explains, "I'll manage. Might take some o' the other supplies, though."
She had refused the night before; steadfastly and bluntly, and perhaps would have refused even had he pressed. Stubborn she is, enough to give even Garou a run for their money. She catches Tristan's approach out of the corner of her eye, raising a hand in greeting .. .and farewell, "I'm goin' inside."
Skip it for now. The cigarette had been burning in the ashtray, almost guttered out, and she reaches out to grind against the glass, before continuing the motion to walk inside, tugging the door shut behind her.
(tristan)
James notes his passage (not surprising with the aromatic feast to the senses) and chin lifts in something of a hello. Not because it’s the universal pack and kin hello done by all who hang around the condo, but because his hands are too full to do much else.It’s repeated with a flash of a smile for Imogen as he steps up onto the walk, seeing her head inside, and a bit concerned for the way she moves, as well as knowing that they’d been up to.. well.. something... last night. No specifics – but Imogen never calls and asks for help. Knowing she did concerned the kin as much as it did James.
The redhead disappears, and a few more long legged strides brings him to halt at the bottom of the stairs, watching James, judging in those quick silent moments how things went, how things are going, how.. well. Just how. That boyish grin flashes easily enough though, hand with grocerys lifted in offer.. “Thai – get it while it’s hot...”
(james)
Imogen can give most Garou a run for their money in stubbornness
James, it seems, can be just as steadfast in the resolve to never give up
(never. back. down.)
because for some reason he keeps making the offers that he knows she'll refuse
one would think he'd finally have learned by now and paid attention to the flesh-peeling lessons
she refused help that night, would have if he pressed, and he figured she'd keep up the trend tonight
so perhaps that explains the light of surprise that finds its way into deep umber
a brow lifting that she actually accepted something (she... knows how to do that??)
with the musician's approach, however, the response is nothing more than the trademark noda chill tightens in his gut, though
for her to call and ask for help - it must be bad
for her to give in and accept his help - it must be bad"Bring it by, lat'r."
quiet response to her farewell
Tristan's still a ways off, but doubts Imogen would want him to know of her state of (dis)repair
the Gnawer can respect that
so instead, he sets to gathering the bottles and tray
knowing the last thing the good Doctor would want to do is bend and stretch and clean up
a journey down the stairs to dump each into the trashcan Rolling Meadows provided a bit down the path
by the time he's returned the glass tray to her table and reached for his backpack seems dinner's arrived
a look back down the stairs at his kin says more than words could - or would, at this point
brows lift a little, gaze slants away, breath quietly sighs, shoulders move in a (helpless) shrug
he's done what he can. what he's allowed. and that has to be enough for now.
at least she's alive, and that's what matters"Can' pass that uh'"
coupled with a nod towards the neighboring balcony and the shift of weight back down the stairs
(tristan)
That look says more then words, and the reply is just silent, yet meaningful. He’s glad, worried, but glad, but that seems to be par for the course when you fly with the eagles (fortunately, he’s just a weasle, and won’t get sucked into any jet engines. Tonight, anyway.) and it’s all said with just a slight nod, and curl of lips.Instead of asking further for answers that won’t be answered, can’t be answered, he just grins and hefts those bags, turning to head toward the other stairs, up familiar stairs, toward a balcony he hasn’t sat on in ages. “Didn’t think you could... but brought beer to sweeten the deal anyway, just in case.”
Head turns to look behind him, wink tipped to his friend, before he hefts and sets the bags on the table, violin finding a spot out of the way and protected, pack slipping from shoulder to fall to worn wood beside it. Only then does he start unpacking the little cartons, a couple picked out, set on his side of the table, the rest left for James to pick and choose or dispose of however he wants. Two beers grabbed, tops popped, added to the veritable feast before he even turns and settles to a chair.
[cont'd next scene]
Posted by james at 12:00 AM