don't shut me out; don't hold it all in [p]

Geneva Stockholm · 03-01-2011, 05:33 PM

Geneva Stockholm's life had unraveled in the storm that had stolen much of her pack's security and comfort, but life was beginning to resume at a shaky yet steadying pace. She busied herself as often as she could; luckily, there were plenty of opportunities for her to put her hands to work. She had concentrated mostly on maintaining a safe head quarters for the pack, a common place where they could find shelter, commune with each other and the leadership, and find supplies. She sometimes felt that whenever she made some headway in the old church that she was falling behind in other areas, but she knew that there was merit in ensuring that there was a safe haven for their pack. She also wanted to make certain that her mate and her son had a safe place to stay as well.

Jefferson worried her endlessly, although she hadn't said anything to him yet. After the initial shock of finding him further injured and disabled had worn off, she had had little time to talk to him about the effect that the damage was undoubtedly having on the one-eyed male. It was hard to find a quiet moment, when some member wasn't going in and out of the old, heavy wooden doors of St. Augustine's, or she wasn't called out to speak to someone. Much weighed heavily on the gray female's mind. Not only did she deal with the devastation of the storm; she also had the terrible crime against Jace Wolfe to consider, and justice to seek.

The woman's olive colored eyes traced the patterns of light that the stained glass windows cast against the walls, a filter for the already muted and dim winter sun. For the moment, she busied herself folding different, previously tattered lengths of linen and other various materials that she had found strewn about the Villa town. She had mended them and sewn them together to the best of her ability, making certain that there was a way for Valley pack members to keep warm when the wet wood from outside could not sustain a fire. There was so much to do; she only wished she knew that best way to do it all.

Jefferson Soul · 03-01-2011, 06:03 PM

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Slowly but surely the brute had been recovering essentials from the broken ranch, moving what was left of the kitchen to the small church in the nearby villa that Geneva had decided was best fit for a temporary home. He wasn't sure what to think of it, perhaps because the brute held not an ounce of religion within him, or perhaps it was the fact that it wasn't a home at all. There were countless cabins they could have moved into that hadn't collapsed in the storm, and yet they had chosen a small church instead. In the end, he made no complaints; bitter pain had hardened him, and the male had uttered hardly a word since the accident.

Much of their medication tools like bandages and the like had been brought over. For now, the brute carried his older rocker — one-handed, of course. The empty sleeve of his long, argyle shirt flapped desolately in the breeze. Pushing the church doors open, the male staggered in with it over his shoulder, expression stony but emotionless; the arm that was left had once been considered his 'bad' arm, but now that it was the only one remaining, the biting pain from using it seemed to no longer affect him. He had no choice but to push on with it.

His steps echoed through the small church as he moved down the center aisle, green gaze falling on Geneva as he brushed past in silence. He placed the rocker down somewhere near the front, sighed, and glanced from side to side. No beds, no blankets, but shelter. Just like the old days, before he had even heard of Phoenix Valley.

Listlessly he moved back to her, shoulders sagging, a heaviness in his step. Not anger, but desolation possessed his eye, an unending sadness and emptiness in the wake of both his accident and all that had happened to the Valley. Jefferson moved up beside her, wrapped his only arm around her shoulders, and leaned his head against hers. A sigh. "It's cold in here."

Geneva Stockholm · 03-03-2011, 01:06 AM

500+

Jefferson brushed past her, and she took a shallow step closer to the pew she was using as her work bench in order to accommodate him, not thinking very much of it. She hadn’t asked where he had gone when he had left St. Augustine’s without her earlier; it did not make any sense to beleaguer him with questions that had no point to them. Despite his very recent injury, he continued to push forward, and she didn’t try to stop him, although she wanted him to slow down. There was no time to slow down, for either of them. With so much to do and so many in need right before her eyes, she didn’t feel justified in asking him to stop, if only for a while. It would have gone against his nature.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a clear view of the rocking chair that had once been Jefferson’s favorite place to sit; he must have recovered it from the ranch. Geneva wondered what the hearth must be like, if she could ever restore the old, braided rug that had once been the rocking chair’s companion by the hearth in their old home. Her vision blurred for a moment as quiet, unshed tears formed in her eyes. But breathing deeply, she pushed them away, swallowed them back down into the darkness that had pooled somewhere between her chest and stomach, a pit of black fear and anguish that had formed since the destruction of her home. Those tears would remain unshed. The last time she had stood, surrounded by the wreckage of the ranch house, she had sworn that she would not let that hopeless part of herself take over. She could be the woman who had laughed with her child and had loved her mate without question; she could hope against despair and reach into hidden parts of her heart to bring life and strength forward. The aftermath of the storm would not end her; she would resume. With passion alive and well in her heart, she would not yield.

Jefferson’s silence since sustaining his injury had not been surprising; he had never been a creature of many words. But the stretches of silence between them had seemed like an endless chasm, yawning to swallow her whole. Despite the fact that he had been injured, she still felt as though he was the strongest creature she knew. He was her rock, her meter stick by which she judged what strength really was. She felt strong without him by her side, but she never felt strong enough. Not to face every single thing, but his strength and energy seemed to be unfailing.

"I've never longed for spring as much as I do now," she murmured in reply. She could not argue. It was cold in here, despite the fact that it was shelter from the elements. She did not have the means to make this place more homey yet, but she doubted that it would honestly feel anything like the ranch house even when she did achieve her goal of setting this place up completely. She leaned against him, relishing this rare moment between him, trying to remember to be care. The single arm that remained used to pain him so. She suspected that it still did, although he seemed to ignore it. With a sigh falling from her lips, she leaned farther into him, feeling that this moment was sacred, before she turned within the circle of his arm to look at him. "I have something to tell you," she said, sounding tired and resolute. "It isn't pleasant."

Jefferson Soul · 03-08-2011, 01:12 AM

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She seemed happy to see him, initially; for a few blessed moments they stood together, his head leaned against hers, arm around her shoulders. Peaceful, as if not a thing had ever happened. As if what had been his "good" arm still hung from his shoulder, unscathed. As if Pripyat was free of the guilt his father brought upon him. The sacrifice had been just, in Jefferson's mind — his arm, for his son's life — but the guilt that seemed to plague them all now made it all far more complicated than he'd liked.

What was passed was passed, after all. His arm was gone. There was no turning back.

A small smile began at his lips when she suddenly moved closer into him, but just as quickly did she break away from his hold and spun to face him. Something to tell him? He hated the sound of that. "All right," the brute said hesitantly, worry darkening his scars. It was his problem to deal with as leader, of course, but Jefferson would have chosen any day for such problems to simply never arise.

Geneva Stockholm · 03-16-2011, 11:22 AM

Short.

Geneva pulled away from him as she watched his dissatisfaction washing over his scarred visage. Geneva could not blame him. She had wanted their stolen moment to stretch on and on, but there were so many other things that required their attention. There were so many needs and their magnitude seemed to completely eclipse Geneva's own needs. She wished that they would be able to steal away for even a night, to find comfort in each other, but she knew that that scenario was far from the reaches of their own reality.

"Lucifer...has very greatly hurt one of our members...a new one, a woman..." Geneva could not bring herself to name the injustice that had been committed against Jace. She let her gaze drop to her feet. She hated feeling powerless. She hated that she could do nothing. She felt physically incapable of even the most basic function most days, and that had been increasingly apparent in the last few weeks. She had been quietly transitioned out of leadership, where she was not fit to be right now. She was increasingly tired, increasingly hopeless regarding her abilities.

Jefferson Soul · 03-27-2011, 11:45 AM

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Sorry, overlooked this one accidentally.

As happiness sapped from her features, so did all the energy in his eyes and frame. The scarred man knew Geneva was sick, ill with the same disease that had taken her father and the man that had served Jefferson's role for her before the cyclops had come around. Watching her suffer with no means of helping her was a taxing trial on the Patriarch's part; knowing he was powerless in her struggle, despite all the power he had held and managed over Phoenix Valley for so long, was a wall he had not come across in some. To stand idly by, watching the pain and suffering of another — and the one he loved, no less — was simply just something that wrenched his heart.

Jefferson could only guess at what she was referring to in her words, but to know Lucifer had caused it brought a burning rage to his chest in addition to his twisting, sickened stomach. His eye dipped a moment, bottling up his anger and calming it in her presence; she was not strong enough to handle the blunt of his fury she had grown so used to dealing with. No, not anymore.

"I see," he replied, turning eye to her once more. His voice, stony and dark, seemed to crawl from the deepest shadows of his throat. "Explain."

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