2007-07-19: Rules Were Made To Be Broken


Max_icon.gif Identity_icon.gif

Summary: "What, no hug?"

Date It Happened:

Log Title Rules Were Made To Be Broken

Location Central Park, Brooklyn Brownstone.


Max has escaped the Hartsdale facility. After being confined for weeks, the painfully short leash he's been kept on since his release has hardly been satisfying. Though there will probably be consequences, he slipped out of his room in the hospital wing, appropriated a car, and took himself a little drive. After a few hours of meandering he found himself at the park. The Company vehicle is shucked like a used t-shirt. He moves with a very slight limp as he strolls and enjoys the night air. His heavy coat is draped over one arm, and he's unbuttoned the jacket of his black on black suit.

The light click of boots heralds the progress of a woman along one of the paths in Central Park. At her feet, a large, impressively toothy Pit Bull trots along. It is not on a leash, and she does not seem to be paying it much mind. Her habitual leather jacket has been left behind tonight, and her attire is all together different than her previous style. Also, her hair is short, and she's a blonde. It's possible someone she knows could walk right by and not recognize her as Identity Woods. Doubly so since no weapons are visible…

Walking the opposite direction, Max very nearly does let her pass unrecognized. He even nods and murmurs a quiet, "Good evening." It's only when he's gone several more steps that it hits him. He stops in his tracks but he doesn't turn around. His head cocks to the side minutely, his ears perking. "The blonde looks good on you."

It is the limp that first attracts her attention, dark brown eyes finding the man along the path, settling there for a moment to study his gait. Her own pace slows just so as her eyes find something familiar about his-and then her eyes sweep his face, and she steps past, pauses, and stops. There are a few beats of silence between Max's words and Identity's reply-not words, but the sound of her boot scraping the walk as she turns to face his back, eyes sliding along the line of his body.

There's a dramatic pause before Max holds both arms out wide and turns around slowly, displaying that he's also unarmed. When he drops them back to his sides, his coat clanks and rattles. It always does, though. He studies Identity from the ground up like a cattle merchant at the market. When he reaches her eyes, the scar at the corner of his mouth twitches. "What? No hug?"

The dog continues to trot along the sidewalk, tong lolling a bit as it runs off to chase an unfortunate squirrel.

Identity's eyes remain on Max for a long moment. She tips her head to the side, chin coming up just a little as she lazily studies the man before her, taking in those minute changes. After a few beats, she asks in a quiet tone, with just the slightest of edges, "Is it a hug that you want?" She takes two steps closer, bringing her just within arms reach, though her hands remain laced just behind her back. Kind of a bold move considering their past, but.

Max's grin is animalistic to the point of being feral, showing white, even teeth. With his own hands still at his sides, he closes the distance between them by another step. Now only inches apart, his eyes bore into hers unflinchingly. "I can think of things I'd like more." Without looking away, he tosses his coat to the side where it clatters into a bulky heap. Then he grips the lapels of his suit coat and pulls, producing a pop and crackle from the joints in his neck.

Id's eyes do not waver. It's an old game, and probably one of her favorites—certainly it's one she enjoys with Max. Her expression betrays nothing, much like the first time they met. "Have you married? You have that… tethered look about you." As the coat is tossed, her eyes remain on him. The meeting of their eyes moves beyond challenging into down right inappropriate.

Now Max's face does show emotion. Frustration. It passes quickly though, replaced by a clinically impassive mask. "I'm working with Bishop and his peons now," he admits neutrally. "After a stint in the Primatech Hotel, of course." Still close enough to touch, he starts to circle Identity, studying her more intently than ever. "How about you? Where've you been keeping yourself?"

Once Max is behind her, Id allows herself a little smile. It was just a shot, but apparently that comment struck home. The flicker of frustration across Max's face is not lost on her. On the back of her neck, below the hair line, is a new tattoo of the numerals 23. A sub-dermal bar piercing is also visible—stainless steel. Where ever she's been, she's had a little art one. By the time Max circles around front again, the slight smile is gone. "Did they teach you the secret handshake?" Though her tone remains almost neutral, the words do not.

Max wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. Though he's recovered from his beating in his cell at the hands of the guards, there is still an angry red line across his cheek. It's a freshly healed gash, opened by a baton stroke. He reaches up, running the tip of his thumb along it absently. He has other marks, most of them either more subtle or hidden beneath clothing. The limp, for example. "I was properly hazed after I arrived." If the concept bothers him any, he's hiding it well.

Her eyes follow the path of his hand. Though she says nothing immediately about his injuries, it is obvious she has taken note. The dark intensity of her eyes returns to Max's gaze. "You fit in better than you'd like." Not a question. Identity's fingers trail the bottom hem of his suit jacket.

"Mmm." It might be an affirmation, it might not. "We managed to work out a mutually beneficial arrangement." When Max reaches out to smooth back a lock of Identity's hair that's gone astray, the gesture is uncommonly gentle. It's a definite contrast to the fiery gleam in his eyes. The scar across his mouth twitches again.

The quiet tension between them would send an empath screaming into the verge. Which, while amusing, might draw unwanted attention. "About the beard." She doesn't make a move as he touches her hair, remaining well within his personal space, within that danger zone. "I like it."

The heel of an expensive, hand-shined shoe scuffs against the walkway as Max shifts his weight. The muscles in his jaw work visibly as he does a bit of clenching and unclenching, and his hand pauses. Then he smiles a small, tight-lipped smile and brushes the backs of his knuckles against Id's cheek in a manner that could be considered affectionate, or possessive, or even threatening by those that know him well. "At first, they wouldn't give me anything to shave with. I'm glad it pleases you."

Identity mms and her lips part slightly. "Ceramic blades aren't that hard to come by. Probably acquisitions was being cheap—didn't want to do the paperwork." Her tone remains almost blase, though her posture hasn't completely relaxed. She remains poised to move if necessary. "Did you miss me, Max?"

Several seconds pass between Identity's question and Max's answer. His eyes explore the contours of her face, lingering on her lips. At first he doesn't meet her eyes. When he finally does his own face is unreadable. He doesn't blink. He could lie, but why bother? So he nods once. "You look good," he says, repeating his earlier statement.

Another pause. The stillness of her gaze on his hides her thoughts. "Thank you." No threats, no bodily injury overtly threatened. Identity tips forward, posture bringing her close, body stopping just short of touching Max's. She leans in further, lips brushing his cheek, just below the rise of his cheekbone. She smells a little different, like some spicy soap or body oil on her skin. "Watch your back, Maxxy." She lingers for a moment, before she moves to step away.

There's a scant shift in Max's posture. He almost leans into the kiss, but not quite. "I always try to," he replies demurely. "Mmm. You even changed the way you smell. You always were good with the details." The statement is obviously appreciative, though there's a professional tone to it. He licks his lips again, as if he can taste her in the air.

Identity smiles very slightly, though the usual condescending lilt isn't there. "Your control is better." She nods slightly, and notes, "So is mine." She regards him for a long moment, then steps away, turning back toward the direction she walked from. To do so, she must pass by Max, stepping around him. "It's good to see you." Small talk, never really her style before.

As she passes, Max reaches out to snag Identity's wrist. "Wait." Side by side with her now, his breath whispers against her cheek as he speaks. "I should have a few hours before they send someone to find me. We should use the time to get… reaquainted." The definant set to his shoulders and his slightly challenging tone leave his words open to interpretation.

The pleasantries could only last so long. She stops as his hand finds her wrist, standing still, so close, his breath against her skin. Id glances askance at Max, and it's a moment before she says, "You're misbehaving." She glances down to his hand on her wrist, though she does not move to pull it away. "They aren't going to like it." A brief pause. "I'll show you my new place." Rules were meant to be broken.

When Max releases her his fingers linger briefly. He nods and bends to scoop up his coat. After brushing off dirt and leaves, he digs into one pocket and slowly withdraws a length of heavy chain. He meets Identity's eyes, then pointedly tosses it aside. Another like it comes out of a second pocket, and a large handful of ball bearings from a third. When he's done he shakes the garment. No clanky. "Shall we?"

Id notices the chain being tossed—how could she not? Chains. Metal. Hello, clatter. "You're feeling adventurous tonight, Maxxy." The old nickname is back in form, though everything else about Identity is a little restrained, a little different. "I like that in a man." Not to be outdone, she slides her arm through the crook of his, as if they're a happy couple out for a quiet evening stroll.

Brooklyn - Rooftop Garden - Blackbird Brownstone

The roof of the Blackbird Lofts has been transformed into a garden which blooms in the summer, and is cared for by the super as well as some of the residents. There are flowers and veggies in the summer, but during the winter, it lays fallow. Still, this is a great place to hang out and survey the city. There are a few portable bits of lawn furniture, and an awning with an old boom box.

The quiet journey back to Brooklyn is filled up but what remains unsaid. To the credit of our intrepid due, no property damage is done, no blood spilled, no innocent bystanders rushed to the ER. They've grown. As people.

Identity leads the suited Max to a brownstone in BrooklynBlackbird by the nameand passes the security door with a key. One would assume this is her building, though she passes by all four floors of apartments, leading the slightly-limping Max up four flights of stairs, to a final set leading to the roof. There is an excellent view of nighttime Brooklyn from here, and some fragrant roses are in full bloom in the various boxes. No one else is up here, just now. A good breeze blows over the roof top, making a step up to the rail free side a questionable proposition for the faint at heart. That, of course, is the first place Identity goes. She leaves her back to Max. "This view is one of the best in Brooklyn."

By the time they reach the roof Max's limp has grown decidedly more pronounced. As soon as he steps outside he pauses to dig a blister pack of painkillers from his pocket. He pops two out and swallows them dry, then approaches the edge to stand beside Identity. "Not bad," he concedes. "I can see why you landed here. The place could do with an elevator, though." The last bit is dry, and his lips curve into a smirking smile.

"It has an elevator," Identity replies. "It's only for show." Read: it's in a perpetual state of Out of Order. She glances over as he approaches the edge to stand with her. She turns to face him, back to the edge now, sliding her body in close to his. Her hand slides between the lapels of his suit jacket, and her palm brushes up his chest hard enough to smart if it hits any injuries. It could be inferred she's checking the goods to see how damaged he is. Physical boundaries are broken, casually.

It's true. There are bruises and torn cartilage in Max's torso and ribcage that have yet to fully heal. This doesn't stop him from pressing against Identity's hand. After all, he's suffered far worse, including the injuries she's inflicted on him over time. His own fingers cup the back of her head and tangle in her blond hair. His other hand settles on the curve of her hip. Despite his obvious pleasure, there's a tense readiness in his muscles. Anything less would be an insult to them both.

"The worst I could do is push you over the edge." Id makes this observation casually, reminding Max, "I'm not carrying any weapons." No knives to open his flesh, no guns to blow open new body cavities. She leans against him, hands slipping over his sides to slide up his back under the suit jacket. Her nose brushes the side of his neck as she leans into him, and breathes in the scent of his skin, mingling with the roses blooming nearby. "You're a bad habit. I shouldn't indulge." All the girls say that when their bodied up against bad boys. Especially the ones with records for assault and battery.

Max drags his fingers through Identity's hair, then bends to press a kiss in the hollow behind her ear. He'd like to claim that he's unarmed, but the city is full of metal and he can sense where every inch of it is. The hand on his hip slides up to tighten around her waist. "You're assuming I'd mind. You fight almost as well as you screw. With you, either is a pleasure." It's a teasing, left-handed compliment.

The city isn't the only thing full of metal. She has more than a few adornments that could make it painful to get into a knock down, drag out with Max. More so than usual, that is. "You? I don't worry about you. You're a disturbed psychotic." No judgments here, right? Id's inflection is matter-of-fact. "One day they'll give the order. A green light is a green light." Her fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, exposing abused flesh. "I'm good at those, too."

When Max's chest is exposed, so are vivid, colorful splashes of bruising. His musculature is more defined, as well. There was plenty of time to work out when he was under lockdown. "We all have our skillset," he deflects modestly. "I bet you say that to all the boys." When his shirt is unbuttoned he leans away just long enough to shrug out of it and his jacket simultaneously, letting them both drop to the rooftop. The fresh tag on one shoulder is a vivid counterpoint to the pink, faded scar where he attempted to remove the evidence of his first date with a pneumatic injector. His strong hands pull her hips against his. "Besides, we're all on the same side now." Both his tone and his smirk are less than convincing.

"Is that what you think?" Identity smiles then, a cheerful, amused curve of the lips that suggests she knows something he doesn't. "That's very cute." A pause. "Wouldn't this be considered fraternization?" Her hands slide up his torso, mindful of the bruising. Her fingers slide over his shoulders and upper arms, tracing the more pronounced muscle contours. "There are more than two sides. It's what make this business so much fun." You never know who's on which side. "I don't know if there's surveillance on this roof, by the way." That's when she pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss.

Max responds hungrily. He lets out a soft grunt against her lips as her body presses against her battered form. It doesn't stop him, though. Neither does her warning about surveillance. He only pulls her closer and slides his fingertips under her shirt, grazing them against the soft skin of her back as he slides the fabric up. He pulls away and lets out a quiet chuckle. "You think you're important enough for your own satellite? Maybe a ground team with audio pickups? And you say I'm cute."

Id chuckles at that. "Remote surveillance. There's this thing called technology. Some people prefer it to brute force. I can't imagine why. Too clean." Her eyes wander from his face, and she observes absently, "It's been a long time since I've kissed a man with a beard." Her hands slip up into her hair, and she brushes it back. "Being with the Company is like having an over protective father. Daddy doesn't really care so much about what you're doing as having something to bitch about."

"Mmmm," Max agrees absently. This is a fact he knows all too well. His own leash borders on being a choke chain. When Identity moves her hair out of the way, he takes it as an opportunity to lean close and inhale her new, spicy scent. He drags his teeth lightly over the skin of her collarbone. "The question is, how much do you care about what Daddy thinks?" The question is muffled against her skin.

"My Daddy's dead. His thoughts don't weigh in too heavy." There's just the slightest intrusion of an accent on those words. Max's mouth on her neck makes it hard to concentrate. Id slides her hand up the back of Max's neck. "So long as Uncle Bob pays the bills, I'll do my best not to burn the place to the ground." No promises. Before she left, she was a little more… we don't want to use the word fanatical. The bloom seems to have gone off the Company rose, as it were.

The change doesn't go unnoticed. Max's eyes widen slightly. He bites down just hard enough to leave light, semi-circular marks at the fleshy curve where Identity's shoulder and neck meet. "You're different now," he whispers, still speaking against her skin. "More confident. It suits you." He cups one hand between her shoulder blades and one at the small of her back. His embrace lifts her feet briefly off the ground, and he turns so that his own back is facing the edge of the building. Yet another gesture that's open to interpretation.

Interpretation is for people who aren't currently in the arms of a former lover/violent nemesis/mark. "Four months is a long time for people like us." There used to be a dividing line between them. Her boundaries have definitely shifted. To what? Hard to say for sure. A breeze slides over the roof, buffeting lightly against them. Id's fingernails dig slightly into Max's skin, pressing little half moons as she curls her hands over his shoulder and the back of his neck, securing her body against his. "Are you well enough to come to bed?" Wouldn't want to break anything.

Max is definitely intrigued by this change. It certainly provides him with possibilities to explore. He shivers deliciously as Id's nails dig in. "I'll manage." That's putting it lightly. There's something new in his eyes as well. An eagerness that wasn't there before, or remained hidden beneath his cool, calculated exterior. "Let's go finish catching up."

"You always do." Id presses a light kiss to the side of his neck, then leads Max back toward the stairwell, boots crunching over a bit of loose gravel fallen from one of the decorative paths in the garden. "Be sure to tell me when it hurts." With that she leads him down, down, and down to the second floor, where her recently furnished apartment, and probably the largest knife cache in Brooklyn, awaits.

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