Chance meeting? No. Fate. (tag: Jane)

[deadman]

Some say it's good to be the king, others that every dog has it's day. Well, both were applicable to the King of the Dead, and his dog Mr. Bones. Just as DM's jerky gait carried him swiftly along the stone halls of the base, just to the final turn that led him to Angie's quarters, he found himself the target of a particularly good bout of luck.

This was unsurprising to him, of course, as the Dead Man believed himself particularly lucky. Even when things seemed their worst, he generally believed that it was his lot in existence to receive a fair amount of fortunate timing, lucky placement, etc. Most of the time this positive attitude wasn't proven erroneous.

Even when he'd been electrocuted with enough energy to kill an elephant, he knew that everything would be alright. It's just how he was.

Don't worry, be happy.

This time his fortune manifested itself in the best possible light: His mate. The one who'd shared with him the climactic birthing of beauty on a field of death and destruction.

[glow=red,2,300]Jane. [/glow]

If he had breath, she'd have stolen it. If he'd had a heartbeat, it would have stopped. If he'd had sweat glands that functioned, they would have been putting in overtime...

He was upon her as he'd turned the corner, Mr. Bones silently yipping in his arms. He leaned over in mid stride, brushing his face past hers, and inhaled deeply through his nose... her scent was sweeter than the inside of a human head.

There was magic in it.

[Jane]

There was a storm coming. Jane could tell. Not because she could feel it or anything stupid like that; there were heavy clouds brewing from the east, and though she wasn't sure whether easterly storms were worse than westerly or otherwaysearly, it was a weird direction from which to greet disaster. Death was supposed to come from the west, right? Where the sun set?

She liked it when it stormed out. It made her feel vaguely Victorian in her brooding, rather than just kind of emo and pathetic. Sort of, like, Heathcliffy. Only she wasn't about to start shouting Cathy! across the moors, both because they had no moors and because, contrary to popular belief, she had no love for the deceased.

In fact, she had the opposite of love for the deceased.

Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew.

She toyed with the strings on her too-large sweatshirt, trying to avoid composing a potential e-mail to Isaac in her head. Dear Isaac - Isaac - Senator Foster - What's shakin', bacon?

Definitely not the last. At least she could cross that off the list in her head. If she was thinking about sending him anything, which she wasn't. (Much.)

Deep in thought, she found that, as she was about to round a corner, she was suddenly under creepattack.

Good God, is he smelling me?

"WHOA," Jane said as he seemingly popped out of nowhere, jerking instinctively away. "OKAY BACK UP BACK UP SERIOUSLY. What is wrong with you?"

She blinked for a second, one hand at her suddenly-pounding temple.

"Apart from the obvious," she murmured.

[deadman]

Crimson eyes stayed locked on Jane's for a moment more, unflinching at her railing inquisition. Instead of answering with words, however, he merely continued on his way. Greasy hair was facing her then, and the somehow cheerful face of Mr. Bones popping up over the suited shoulder. She could see his tail wagging.

Dead Man took a few strides down the hall, and vanished behind the turn... though there was little place else he could be going but to Angie's room, given the location in the base.