Lucas, a study in vagueness…. (WoD)

It is raining.

There is something about rain that pleases Lucas. Something about the fall of one thing feeding another that amuses him. This is why he is sitting bare-chested just under the overhang with the tent flap open, watching the rain pool on the tops of the tents, run down the wrinkles in the canvas and plastic, cloth and leather, run down and form amorphous puddles of liquid that reflect the greyness of the sky back at itself like distorted mirrors. It is a world of non-color, a picture in gray tones, like an old black-and-white film. He watches, silent, as the rain falls.

There is a tiny rivulet of blood trickling into one of the puddles from within the tent. He sighs. A dash of color against the sea of gray has disturbed the imagery and this annoys him. He turns to look into the room behind him, at the girl lying stretched on the bed, her curly blond hair tousled and her brown eyes wide, doe’s eyes. He follows her eyes to the source of the blood, the body of a foolish man who thought he could come and take what Lucas had already claimed as his own. The man’s blood was what had disturbed his reverie and with a sigh of disgust he stands up, walks to the body and lifts it with little effort. He is deceptively strong, the wiry muscles of his back and arms standing out against his pale skin as he drags the body to the doorway and gives it a good shove. It flops out the door and to the side, the man’s hand thrown wide as if in supplication to some god whose job it was to worry about such things, the god of useless souls who piss off their alphas and try to steal their  belongings, perhaps.  Lucas smiles distantly as he kicks the hand under a tarp. Maybe he’s meeting his god right now, he thinks. Hallelujah.

Already losing interest, Lucas turns back to his tent, ducks under the flap and into the room. The girl is lying buried in blankets, her breath steaming in the chill air. He ignores this, pulls the blankets back slightly, sits on the edge of the bed and looks at her, at the curls resting against the the paleness of her skin, the rise and fall of her breast as she breathes. She watches him warily, unmoving. With a sigh he pulls the blankets back farther, lies full length upon the mattress next to her, still watching the play of emotion across her face and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. He waits as she pulls the blankets up over him, watches the fall of her hair across her back and thin arms. She is shivering.

He lies with the girl nestled into the crook of his arm, uncaring of his own chill flesh but feeling the warmth from the girl washing over him as she rests her head against his shoulder. He knows she wants to talk to him, wants to tell him what she knows, but he has no interest in it just yet.

The rain is falling, and it pleases him.