ArchivedLogs:Harassing
| Harassing | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2013-05-25 ' |
| Location
Holland Farm - Georgia | |
The farmhouse itself is a large one, quintessentially farmlike in its large white expanse, huge wraparound porch, simple homey decor. /Quaint/, might be the word. The /farm/ itself is a large one; the approach to the house is lined with orchards up the long drive, peach trees flowering, now, not yet fruited. To the side, fields of corn; the vegetable garden out back is not a small plot but two /acres/ of crop, some for family consumption and others sold at market. There is a barn, though animals are not the main focus here. A few dairy cows, some chickens in their coop, a crotchety old rooster prone to hiding under the house's front stairs and pecking at ankles. Horses in the stables. Beyond the farm, stretching back away from its property, trees: they climb high up; where land stops being farmable in this little valley and starts being rockier and steeper they start to be less treeful. More scrubby. The climb here gets steep in places but the /view/ increasingly rewarding. Come mid-morning, Shelby--restless with lack of asphalt and television--sets out from the farmhouse. Grandma Holland has made certain she’s well equipped for roaming, with a faded red handkerchief folded around two immense sandwiches, and a thermos full of apple juice. It’s all distressingly healthy and hearty, with little in the way of preservatives. She isn’t /quite/ sure she’s happy with that but free food, right? She looks the part of a country girl, at least. Short, cut off denim shorts, a button up shirt undone and knotted over her navel and...okay, so she needs some cowboy boots instead of sneakers, but she’s got her hair done in those two Indian braids, which is close enough. Her destination? She knows it by heart, it’s where they planted Jim, among the squat, gnarled peach trees. Being /reasonably/ certain there are few ticks out in the orchard, she’s only coated herself in one layer of bugspray, rubbed on ample sunscreen and thusly considered herself prepared for this foray. Cutting through the aisles to the correct one, she calls out, “You better be decent! I’m comin’ in!” /Rustle/ says one tree amongst the many. You'd almost miss Jim if you were traveling casually; though the trunk of this peach tree is thicker, the thickness of a man's torso, it's roughly the same height as the rest, two /thick/ forking off branches parting ways off either of his shoulders like an expanse of wings, spreading out against the sky to form a leafy canopy dotted with plump honest-to-god Jim-grown peaches. That would be the more unusual side of him; even in deep tree mode, Jim's /posture/ can radiate a sentiment rather familiar, disgruntled and stubborn, with his arms crossed and his spine upright, legs melting together into a solid trunk so really, the most human portion of him is in the torso, the face and the... decision to wear a kilt. No. Really. He looks sleeping while yet standing up, eyes closed. His injuries look, in some regards, all but healed; once-raw green gouges are puckered dark scars; the spear of bone through his chest have at least been sawed off at either end and his face, /thank god/ has begun to seal itself back together with the aid of hemp palm twine - only the /best/ for plant training and top bonsai-shaper's recommendation. Just ask Lucien.
A kilt? Seriously? Shelby reacts this time just as she did the first time seeing that item of clothing--she shakes her head sadly. As if he’s committed the same level of sin as wearing black socks with sandals. Or socks at /all/ with sandals, /ugh/. Still, it gives her plenty to work with. The patter begins almost as soon as she’s within easy speaking range of the Jimtree. “Y’know,” she starts, dropping the sandwiches and thermos off on the grass near his rooted legs, “a dude puts something like that on and us girls think, yep, he wants us reaching under there to see if he’s wearing it the right way.” Oh god, here she comes, sauntering in closer. He might be considering an acknowledgement; he might want to think about a good /defense/. Because Shelby is not respecting personal space right now. Fwump, she connects with the tree, hooking an arm over the fork marking his shoulder and peering first into his knitting face, then down at the kilt. Check out those wiggly fingers--she’s holding them where he will be certain of seeing them. If he’d bother to open his eyes. “Here I gooooo!” she threatens, guiding her hand down towards kilt-hem. Jim-movement in treeform crackles - WHOMP. His eyes snap open, ludicrously /blue/ and human and clear in the center of ruin and bark. He's closed his one good hand quickly around Shelby's delicate /teen girl/ wrist. Then... crkle... crch... chrkle. His hand is... aging. In the way a tree ages, growing out and melting together in fast-motion until he's /shackled/ the girl. And then /lifts/. In the slow, timeless speed of a creature unconcerned with the rapid twitchy movements of these /mammals/. Lifting, lifting until her arm is raised up towards the sky. Like she's making some sort of DBZ attack. Or doing CHEERLEADING. Eyes. NARROW. AT. HER. FACE. “Hey!” Shelby is none too pleased at first--and she’s given plenty of time to /be/ none too pleased. That is her delicate wrist, thank you. After some initial squirming and a close encounter with bark, she is shown just /how/ delicate too. So narrow look is met with narrow look. It’s when she suddenly grins that he needs to start worrying. “I knew you were in there,” she says carelessly. Then she shifts against him--thanks for the hand there, Jim, that actually helps--so she can get one leg up and around his trunky hips. The kilt is a help too--no scratches from the bark, yay! A moment later, a short hop, and she gets the other one up. And BAM. Suddenly he’s got a belt made of delicate teen girl /thighs/, thank you very much. “...got a woody yet?” OH GOD. IT'S ATTACHED. Shake-shake-/shake/. Well no, Jim isn't shaking the girl /hard/, that sort of thing breaks wrists, but it's safe to say the /trees are unhappy/, Jim frowning furiously and very much wide awake now. Tug-tug... gaaaah. Sorry, Shelbs. He opens his hand and /drops/ her arm. Trees never grew so fast /in reverse/. Oooh, taking her for a ride! Shelby’s laughing /long/ before Jim manages to shake her off. She falls with a thump back onto the grassy ground, chortling like a jerk. “I’m gonna take that as a /yes/,” she gloats as she rolls to hands and knees, then stands to brush herself off. Once that’s accomplished, she dramatically rubs her ass. Yes, it hurts. Thankfully, she does not demand he kiss it and make it better. “You know you’re gonna have to get up and out of there eventually, right? Can’t kick my ass if you’re in one spot.” /THUNK/. A peach drops onto Shelby's head. Ow! Those things hurt! Maybe not quite as badly as Shelby makes it seem but one never really expects to be pelted in the head by fruit. She’s scowling as she stoops to scoop up the fallen delicacy. “Fine, /stay/ a fucking tree. See if /I/ care.” But she must, because she only stomps a short distance away. Over by her lunch. Where she throws herself on the ground, arranges her legs beneath her and begins to pluck at the handkerchief securing the sandwiches together. “Wasn’t like I didn’t spend the whole goddamn time scared you’d /die/ once they told me you were /gone/.” Mutter grumble scowl. “Wasn’t like I didn’t bring /extra cigarettes/ down here ‘cause I knew you’d /want/ ‘em. Asshole.” Shelby may as well be talking to herself. Trees do not sigh, nor do they grumble. They only stand upright, reaching simple and earnest towards the sun, drinking in light through panels of emerald green. The rustling of wind rustles through the orchard, sending dappled leaf-shadows dancing along the ground. But are the shadows... moving? The hushed whisper of foliage, the subtle creak of branches straining, crunching. Expanding. The sunlight over Shelby's head slowly is overtaken by a thin filter of greenery as Jim's branches extend to form a silent shelter on her /milky-pale freckles/. That's the more delicate side - this expansion happens below as well. In the form of tree roots quietly earning purry /ripping/ sounds as they part the soil. And then begin to rise up around Shelby OVERTAKING HER BLANKET. All the while, his eyes are closed now, a deep disgruntled /frown/ in his brows that is more than happy to disown the extension of his appendages. It’s all fun and games until you’re surrounded by a fast moving root system. Shelby has her head tilted back, smiling thinly up at the sheltering leaves that have appeared overhead. She approves, perhaps is even touched by the thoughtfulness inherent in that gesture--not that she’d admit it but she’s impressed. And then he goes all Mother Nature’s Revenge on the blanket. “Whoa, hey, now you’re just showing off!” she squeaks, holding the sandwich up as if roots were water and she needed to protect it from getting soggy. “Dude, playing tentacle monster is /so not cool/. I’m not that kinda girl!” The invasion pauses. By nature, roots are an ancient-looking snarl, as though they had always been here. As though there were no way such brutal growths could have so rapidly formed. Jim remains unmoving, unbreathing as any other tree in his row. Except? Small... squeezing sounds, a soft whine of living plant-grown in fast motion. Impossibly, little gems of bright color - pink and white - begin to stipple up from the roots, to swell larger as though /pressed/ by a muscle, pulsing rounder, plumper. They then, one by one, in a wave, begin to open up into large frilly-edged peach tree blossoms, wreathing around Shelby. Their delicate petals shiver in another breeze. When she realizes what he’s doing--although it takes an unfortunately long time for the suspiciously-minded Shelby to figure it out--she drops the sandwich and claps both hands, folded, over her mouth. It is fortunate that her back is to the Jimtrunk. He can’t see the way her face is working and if she can just get herself together... But no. The wind, light though it is, makes those blooms dance at her. The effort that must have taken... She’s up, stepping over the fairy ring he’s created for her. This time when she throws her arms around his neck, over his shoulders, it’s so she can cling instead of torment. Her forehead goes down to rest against scratchy-rough bark and she begins to cry. Big, gulping, /ugly/ sobs to water his branches. The soft grinding crunch of movement. The squeak of shifting, twisting wood. Shelby will find nothing soft, nothing with a flesh or a pulse nor a shared human touch. She cries to the privacy of the trees, all casting their uniform rows at right-angle shadows. A slow compression closes around her ribs, Jim's arms rough against her skin but careful in their pressure. A shield of leaf and branch rides with them like closing privacy screens to shelter her from the wind and, why not, the world. Her back is scrubbed at awkwardly by his one pair of remaining fingertips and a miniature collapse presses his face suddenly fiercely hard against Shelby's shoulder. Why not. Because /fuck/ the world. The tears Shelby spends against Jimtree are probably months in coming. He’s getting /all/ of them whether he likes it or not. Fortunately it seems he’s encouraging this, so she doesn’t try to reel in the emotions as she normally would. They come and come and come, until she’s made a right and proper mess of herself. And his shoulder. Gross. Crying is exhausting and after the tears have tapered off into little hiccups and clotted sniffles, she just rests there against him. Not like she could wiggle free anyway. Though she does drop her shoulder the teeniest bit, to account for a slightly painful poking. Just a little though. “Fucking dick. You’re not /allowed/. Any more. Fuck that. We’re getting you, like. Chipped. Or something. I can’t /do/ this shit.” It's a trifle tangly, the brush of snaggy fingers over the back of her head, catching on her braids. Jim holds the girl like a forest, silent and private and full of a million rustling unknowns, pressed tightly against his body, smelling of dirt and /green/ and brown. Peaches. Blossoms. Meadowgrass. He releases her, in time. Hands - what remains of them - still on her shoulders. He frowns grimly for her words, blue eyes human, sane, but ancient, and fastens his hand up in the nape hair above her neck, and firmly brings her head forward. Placing a helpless kiss on her brow, he leaves his nose to rest on her hairline for a moment, mouth and chin against her forehead. His gaze narrowed past her crown at the world beyond his leaves. Then he releases her. In contrast, Shelby smells of so many unnatural things--soap, shampoo, bug spray, artificial coconut from her sunscreen. All scents that are invisible to /her/ as she breathes him in--and refuses to let go. It’s too late now, Jim. She’s onto you. But she does work one arm free to scrub at her face, after he’s lifted his head again. His poor, battered head. It’s what she studies once she’s wiped the goop out of her eyes, scrubbed her nose on the back of her wrist. Not very sanitary but her shirt doesn’t have long sleeves and it would be rude to pluck a leaf for use as a napkin. “Those assholes,” is all she says of the visible marks of damage. More pressing is the question that comes more slowly, afterwards. “You’re...gonna come back, right? Not like. Stay like this? In the ground?” Jim frowns at her as she looks over him, the split bissecting off his cheek fastened down by its twine. The same cheek /warped/ where it's not riven, three parallel indentations dragging up cheekbone to the side of his eye. He raises a hand and gives Shelby's cheek a /bat/. It's kind of a pat, kind of a light smack. Like 'what'sa matter with you'. Whatever it's intended to mean, it's /scoldy/. “What!” Shelby scowls--she’s good at that--and cups her hand over her cheek to prevent further Jim-style scoldings. “You’ve gone all...all /native/. What’m I supposed to think? Maybe you /want/ to stay in the dirt. S’probably nicer. For trees. But damn, Jim...” That has to be maybe the third or fourth time (maybe less!) that she’s actually used his real name. It is meant to highlight /just/ /how/ /serious/ she is. “You can’t make me like you and then decide to go /all/ tree, okay? Just promise. You can stay a little tree but this sure as hell not where you belong. No more’n I do.” Jim's mouth twists sideways, into his cheek. Where once whiskers hung around in bad need of a shave, instead grows a rough mossy surface. Possibly the feature he misses most from the use of lungs is the /versatility/ of a human sigh. The exasperation it could express. The resignation. The affection. The irritation. Any one of these features could be passing behind that timeless-battered face, unmoving. Unbreathing. Slowly blinking. Or perhaps /none/ of them. He drops his head to one side, opening up his hands /demonstratively/ to either side. And, looking intensely at Shelby he reaches across himself and flippantly /dusts/ off a shoulder. Pssh. Then reaches over his other arm to repeat the process, chin shoved forward in some neanderthal machismo. Then opens hands again, brows raised. This? This is nothing, kid. Unlike Jim, Shelby still has lungs and the will to use them. She snorts. It’s a pathetic attempt, since her nose is still semi-clogged from crying, but it is still a snort. She is skeptical! And the reason for it? The deceptively gentle fingertip that traces down that twine-bound split in his face. Unlike the usual shoulder checks or elbow smacks she shares with him, this is almost feather-soft, and follows the line from cheek to jaw. “Yeah, so you’re a badass, I got that already. Doesn’t mean you maybe wanna /retire/.” Though eyes close in almost a gritted shudder at the touch, if such a construction as plant cells had the nerves for it, Jim opens them again instantly at Shelby's words. And they NARROW. And he draws back a hand like he's gonna /WHOMP/ her again on the cheek. Ah ah ah! Shelby’s on to him this time. She ducks, gets an arm up, and suddenly finds herself grinning at him. /Quite/ against her will, thank you, but she’ll take her victories where she can. “Okay, okay, so you like it rough. I got it,” she says. And then she takes one /large/ step backwards, out of immediate smacking range. “How many days before you can talk again, y’think? I’m like, totally already missing the ‘arrrgh god damnit kid!’ thing you do.” She does a shockingly good Jim impression, let it be noted. Must be all of that vocal training. Jim's hand absently raises to his chest, making the same crackle and creak with the movement as the ones before, and he fits his hand into the sunken chasm dented into the front of his chest, eyes traveling somewhere to the further horizon, grimacing like he JUDGES this place, nose wrinkled. And he just shrugs. “Too bad Hive can’t like, just patch me into your head,” Shelby says, only a /little/ wistful. “If /I/ couldn’t talk, ‘least I could still write shit out. Like...” Her eyes flick down. Ever notice how, if you look at kilt patterns in a certain way, they’re just alternating boxes? Jim won’t even feel it but those boxes are sliding around now, colors rearranging to create text. In seconds, he is the proud owner of a kilt that says, “The Whomping Willow”. Hey, she’s been around geeks long enough to pick up some of the ins and outs. Prank pulled, she stoops to pick up the peach he’d lobbed at her earlier. A few squeezes assure her of its ripeness. She takes a big, juicy bite and chews while studying him with a frighteningly speculative look. Though he must surely know it's said mostly in jest, Jim shakes his head instantly, firmly, at the thought of using Hive for the purpose, jaw tight. Utterly missing Shelby's cheeky /tagging/, he only sees her scoop up her peach. Tired-eyed, the whites of his eyes a slight tinged-weary shade of red, his roots squeal and crumple and purr in the earth, absorbing the flowers he'd grown for Shelby and instead forming -- it's no peach tree appendage, but at the base of his trunk, thick moss grows upwards ringed in kudzu vine. A throne for the /princess/. Though /warily/ keeping an eye on that speculative look Shelby wears, he's slow-blinking and stupid, wearing out of free moves for all the energy going into his recovery process. And he offers her a hand to help her claim her seat. Color her surprised! Shelby’s shaken out of whatever she’d been plotting in order to blink at the throne Jim has made for her. She blinks again, licking peach juice from her lips as she flickers glances between throne and blue eyes. It is perhaps telling that she doesn’t say anything as she tosses the fruit aside and reaches to accept the hand up. Up she goes into that cushy seat, where she curls up with feet tucked beneath her and her shoulder against his trunk. Once comfortable, she cranes her head back to once again study what she can see of his face. Her expression is /strictly/ guarded, until she lets a small, very un-Shelbylike smile appear. “A girl could get used to this,” she remarks. But just that. Then she’s snuggling in and down, stretching and resettling before closing her eyes to enjoy a sun-dappled nap under his sheltering branches. | |
