[Mickey] Late night. Darkness fights neon on the streets of Chinatown, wages a losing battle against the perenially lit restaurant windows, the strobing of twin car headlights as endless traffic throbs and gutters through the intestinal maze of streets. The scent of spices and cheap cologne fights the iron tang of recently fallen rain, and everywhere the promise of dawn is held in abeyance by the false electric twilight that illuminates the skies.
Mickey spirals and whirls down the streets, arms held out as if to embrace the choatic madness of it all, laughing, drunk, bleeding from a deep gash in his side. Dressed in his ubiquitous black leather jacket, his jeans streaked with oil and blood, his skin gleaming and stretched taut over the contours of his skull, he dances through the crowd, moving to quickly for most to register, but leaving a trail of turned heads in his wake.
Finally, however, pain and fatigue catches up with him. He trips, stumbles, falls hard on his knees. A laugh steals from him, surprise and amusement both, and then blows out into a wheeze. Hands on the pavement, he pushes up, fails, and settles for crawling into the closest doorway. Hands pat his pockets, draw forth a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Slick red fingers draw forth a cig, and slip it tremulously between his sensuous lips.
[Rory] She’d spent enough time in the shower at the Brotherhood to assure the warmth had crept back into her thin frame, long enough to see that her clothing was washed of the blood and grime she’d helped clean up, only to be walking down the same streets she so recently left.
She does not dance, does not twirl, does not cause people to turn their head. She does, however, cause people to shy away, even now, even under the darkened moon. It’s almost impossible to miss her – her breeding sings true through her skin, telling the tails of Celtic heroes and her own wasted potential. She wears near everything she owns, under a coat that’s not exactly warm enough for the weather for the desert born Fiann.
Her steps are quick, light, only faltering as she sees a man fall, then scramble toward an alleyway. Her brow furrows, and she hesitates, than takes a step closer, the scent of blood thick in her nostrils.
“You bleed…”
[Mickey] “Wha – ?” asks Mickey, looking up at the flame head of a woman, skin pale against the dark sky above, lit up and gleaming by the kaleidoscope of neon lights blaring out from a store window to their side. Cigarette in his mouth, he lifts a lighter carefully to his face, flicks the wheel. Sparks. Flicks the wheel, sparks.
With a sigh he lets his hand fall back into his lips. Closes his eyes, seems to drift into sleep, only to open them once more and stare at the woman. The beast. Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood’s clothing.
“Shit,” he finally says, looking at his hands, his gut. “You’re right. I’m stuck. They stuck me like a pigger.” He smiles at her then, and she sees that the interstices of his teeth are lined red with blood. A ghastly grin. “Here, do us a favor and get us a final drink, eh? Some cheap whiskey would go down a treat, plus it’s rumored to have anti-bacterial qualities when splashed liberally about one’s insides, eh?”
Cigarette droops in his lips. Despite his wound, something vital still burns within him, as if a fever were consuming his flesh and making of his dark eyes lambent siren lights. They glow and burn with a mad fury, delighted and mocking and cruel.
[Rory] He looks surprised, and she tips her head. The movement is sharp, quick, animal-like in it’s simplicity. It speaks of the beast that rides close under her skin, the monster she so easily becomes.
He asks her for a drink, and her brow furrows, slightly. “Broke.” single words are easy. The next, not so much. “Hat whappened?”
She does not notice the mistake, she seems oblivious to the fact that her words are mingled, twisted – as if she hears only what she intended to say, not what actually passed her lips. She sinks to a crouch, nearby but not quite within reach. She rubs the side of her nose with a pail finger, then tucks her hands between knees and chest, keeping them warm.
[Mickey] “Hat whappened?” he repeats, tasting the words, eyes closed, head lolling back. “Hat whappened. Hat whappened!” He seems delighted, the cigarette bouncing between his closed lips as he mumbles.
Reaching up, he plucks it, its white sides smeared with red now, and levels a look at her. He’s an ugly git, is Mickey, his face narrow, his nose long, dominating, his eyes too small, his mouth strangely feminine, sensual. With a hiss he adjusts his butt on the pavement, and then nods.
“You know how the Litany says Thou Shalt Not Liest with Another Garou, Even if She is Hotte?” He nods. “Well, the point of that law, as far as I can tell, is that you don’t want to go making no progeny. No brats. Because then those rug rats will be all retards and mongoloids. So, no oinky boinky between boy and girl Garou.”
His chin nods, sinks to his chest. He breaths shallowly, and then lifts his head again. “Hat whappened? Oh yes. So I met his hot metis babe earlier. I mean hot. She had this weird thing about her lower jaw, too small, so that her tongue hung out all the time, and she was always drooling, but hey, with something like that you’d think she’d be easier to hit on, right? And what a body. What a body.”
He lolls his head back again, whistles. “Curves like geometrists dream of. Skin like sepia smoke, eyes like flashing fire. Opals, even. She made poetry seem… boring. And her tits! Her thick, muscular thighs, toned and powerful.”
Eyes flutter, close.
[Rory] He seems delighted as he [mocks] mimics her, and she ducks her head, her cheeks flooding with warmth, with [shame] embarrassment as she tucks her forehead against her knees for a long moment. Then he goes on to speak of the litany, the breaking of which has made her, and she is certain that he is mocking her still, as shoulders hunch slightly, and she seems to curl up more tightly on herself.
Until he continues.
And somehow, she can’t help but be fascinated by the way he speaks so casually about hitting on a female, and her body, and….
…he closes his eyes, and she looks around, and then cautiously reaches out a hand to nudge his boot, to see if he’s still alive, snatching her hand back quickly as if afraid to be caught.
[Mickey] “SO I TRIED TO–” he blurts, boot nudged, and then blinks, stares around, sees her. Blinks again. “So I tried to get her to find my pickle. I usually hide it good, but she had long and delicate fingers, and when she got to ferreting I was sure she’d pop goes the weasel, if you know what I mean.”
He waggles his eyebrows at her, and then presses his hand to his side. It comes away dark red. He stares at it for a moment, and then up to Rory, holding his hand next to her hair, comparing the hues. The movement exhausts him, so he lets the hand drop.
“So yeah. I tried to slip it inside, but she got upset. I said, “Baby, you can’t get pregger, you’re a mule. So the law doesn’t apply to us, right?”
He looks to her for confirmation. “Everybody should be able to bang mules, and they should be able to bang each other. We should all be having glorious metis sex in the rain. Spunk showers basting our… our naked bodies… in complete and utter… Litanic harmony.”
[Rory] She stares at him, her mouth open slightly, her brow furrowed a bit as she tries to figure out if he’s actually serious, and also…
…she has the distinct look that she does not know what he means. At least, not in a practical application sense. She tips her head the other way, and he talks as if sexing up a mule is the best of the best.
Rory? looks confused.
[Mickey] “Hmm,” muses Mickey, and then closes his eyes. “Any chance you could get me a whisky, love?” Reaches out blindly to stroke her cheek, smearing red across her pale, pale skin. “Or give me a blowie? A man shouldn’t die… unfulfilled.”
He cocks open one eye. “You’re a mule, right?” Stares for a second, and then nods to himself, and closes his eye. “So go ahead. Ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”
[Rory] She flinches when he lifts his hand, though when it appears not to be a strike, she allows the touch. He asks again for whiskey, and she blinks rapidly, before shaking her head slightly. “…mo noney.”
There’s a long moment, when it seems like she won’t say anything else, even as he correctly figures her birth… her brow furrows deep as she works through what he says, and still comes up blank. “…blat’s whowie?”
[Mickey] “Blat’s whowie?” asks Mickey, and he starts to shiver, vibrate, knees slowly rising to his chest, and then he’s rocking over onto his side, wheezing, eyes squeezed closed. “Blat’s whowie?” His wheezing turns into pained laughter, and then he starts to gasp for breath, clearly feeling the pain.
“Oh man, hoo boy. Say that again. Go on, say ‘Blat’s whowie’ again. Oh, hoowee.” Slowly he rightens himself, and then leans back against the door. “Honey pie, a blowie is what a lovely lady does to a gentle man by putting his not so gentle manhood into her honey pie. Her ‘mouf’, you know.”
Mickey winces. “You seriously never pleasured a man? Looking like you do?”
[Rory] He laughs at her, falls over and laughs at her and she ducks her head again, flush with shame and embarrassment, resting her forehead on her knees as he gasps for breath, and tries to get her to say it again. She didn’t hear it that way, and likely wouldn’t make the same mistake again… or might. Either way, all she heard was her question as she intended it.
She’s about to stand, to move away from the laughing man, muscles gathering to do just that, until he continues, and explains.
And she blushes bright red this time. She answers, honestly. She’s never learned to lie well, after all. “No…” then a little smile, soft and wondering, as she touches her lips. “bissed a koy once… mast lonth…”
[Mickey] “Ok, so blowies ain’t your speed yet. Kissed a koy. Boy. Wow.”
Mickey slowly pushes himself to his feet, staggering up by half measures and degrees. Slowly rising until he stands, stooped, leaning back against the door. “Well listen,” he says, “There’s a lot of fun to be had out there. So if you ever want to do more than kiss? Come look me up, eh?”
He taps her chin again, and then hisses in pain. “Goddamit. Ok, I need to go take care of this. Movely leeting you, princess. Watch out for them menfolk now. They only think about one thing.”
[Rory] She just stares at him. Confused, curious, oddly compelled to… “Wait…”
She swings her backpack around, and digs into the smaller front pocket. When she finds what she’s looking for, she stands and offers the little vial of water, the healing talen to him, shyly. “Baia’s Greath. Healing.”
A beat, and then she offers her name. “Rory.”
[Mickey] “Hey, score,” says Mickey, taking the talen. He hefts it, and then holds it up to the light. “Thanks Rory. You’re a peach.”
Then, leaning forward, he takes her by the chin again, an underhand grip, gentle, and looks her in the eyes, his smile soft, and whispers,
“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
Let’s go, stumbles half a step away, looks over his shoulder, winks at her, and then laughing, loses himself in the crowd that surges around them.
[Rory] He reaches for her, and she contains the flinch this time, letting his hand rest under his chin, his touch gentle, his voice soft. She couldn’t look away if she wanted too, and though she does lower her gaze, slightly, watching him through reddish lashes rather than meeting his gaze full on – she listens.
And blushes bright – color staining her cheeks, spreading across pale skin as he whispers poetry, and then disappears. She is left standing there, blinking, her hand pressed under her chin where his touch still burns, and watches him go.
…only when he’s disappeared does she turn and head back toward Bronzeville, and home. Chloe’s not gonna believe this one….
[Rory] [OOC: I think you may have broken her brain a bit there! Hahahah! Thank you for the scene!]
to Mickey
[Mickey] (*laughs* Thanks for the scene, garfalisa! Very fun.)
to Rory
[Rory] [Grab me anytime! ]
to Mickey
[Mickey] (Will do. Night!)
to Rory