ArchivedLogs:Potentials

Potentials
Dramatis Personae Doug, Parley
In Absentia	2013-04-23 Some perspectives are explored.
Location <NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building. A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan. In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generallly littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools. Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom. Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. At some point, over the weekend, a note appeared under the door of 603, addressed to Parley. It was a simple note, asking Parley to come by Doug’s apartment when he had a chance. It might have been easier to leave a message with Josh or Mirror, but there is a note, nevertheless. Doug hasn’t been waiting around for Parley, though, so it might have been difficult to determine when exactly the teenager was home. You know, for people without psychic powers, that is. Still, he’s been hard to pin down, between classes and working. Today, though, he’s been around the house. Mostly cleaning, and taking care of piddly things. Currently, his project involves putting a new hard drive in a laptop; a process which involves many more wires and things than one might think. Dressed in jeans and a black t-back tank top, Doug is bent over his coffee table, a pair of needle-nosed pliers in one hand as he studies the interior of the machine. Nearby, Alt and Delete lay in a kittypile, grooming each other lazily. On the iPod deck, The Human League sings softly about cocktail bars and losing loved ones in a song that finds Doug singing along with the chorus. “Don't, don't you want me? You know I can't believe it When I hear that you won't see me Don't, don't you want me? You know I don't believe you When you say that you don't need me...” He /might/ be belting it out. Maybe. It’s a little loud, on his part. Catching Mirror or Joshua would likely be just as difficult as catching Parley; the house of full-time workers on sporadic schedules makes pinning down /any/ person somewhat a chore - and with Mirror’s unique circumstances, getting the /right/ person even more trying. Regardless, not too long of a time will go by, before a kind of quiet - knock? - hovers at the peripheral of all that MUSIC, then doesn’t bother following up with further competitive knocking. << (knock knock?) >> It’s not ‘said’ - it actually is more of a mental rap, light and polite? There’s a wash of relief that floods back at that mental knock, warmth pushing out even as Doug drops the pliers on the table and stands suddenly. << (Parley) >> follows soon after, as the blonde crosses to the door and pulls it open. “Hey, stranger,” is offered verbally, the man on the threshold given a wide smile. Doug flutters his fingers in a wave before looping a hand over one of Parley’s biceps, thumb brushing against the fabric of his shirt sleeve. “Come in,” he urges, giving a gentle tug towards that goal. << (good to see him) >> Oh no, swept! Parley offers no resistance to the hand pulling him in, a small bemused - searching? - smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, looking over Doug’s face, “I got your note.” It’s said almost like a question? “Is everything alright?” Habit has him slipping his feet from his shoes as he passes through the barrier, one of them requiring a little foot-shake to knock it loose. Doug grins as Parley comes inside easily, and nods. “Everything is fine,” he says as he swings the door shut and turns the lock. “With me, at least. How have you been?” << (been worried)(curious) >> He studies the smaller man carefully, as if taking physical inventory of the parts he can see. Then he’s moving towards the kitchen, reaching out to snake his hand along Parley’s back as he goes. “Do you want something to drink?” he offers. “I’ve also got an abundance of cookies,” he teases. “Since my mysterious food burglar hasn’t been coming around as often.” Weeks of hitting the gym are paying off; Parley’s back has a few new savage cords of muscle tightening down it under that snaking hand, dark eyes glancing long towards the blond’s face, “Your mysterious food burglar is gainfully employed now.” No more need to swipe food! “It’s a little embarrassing now, to think about. I can hardly remember what was going through my mind that first week or two. I’m well. Been very busy, picking up more work as I get used to my job. I’ve got my own computer now.” Slightly self-mocking, because it also has a slight guilt of pride for this new addition. Juuust before you might think he’d forgotten the question, “--what kind of cookie?” He peeks for the kitchen? Doug’s eyebrows pop a bit at the new muscle, and he withdraws his hand reluctantly, albeit with a smile on his face. “Hey, I was happy to help,” he says. “And like I told you, I liked coming home and seeing little signs that you’d been here.” He moves into the kitchen, then, and to open a cupboard. “Work’s going well, then?” he asks. “I was wondering what was keeping you away.” << (kind of worried) >> He pulls out a couple of bags of cookies -- Chips Ahoy and organic ginger snaps -- and puts them on the counter. “A computer?” he echoes, his brow furrowing slightly. “That’s cool. What kind?” Because he is a nerd, and that is what is important. “Just a Mac,” Parley claims a gingersnap, holding it between either of his hands just beneath his mouth like a rodent. He smiles briefly at it, murmuring somewhat to himself, “It’s... rather white.” /Descriptive./ This fact seems to please him. He looks up at Doug, “Mmh? Keeping me away? No, nothing out of the ordinary. I’m not home often. I,” he pauses to consider mid-bite, mouthing on the edge of his cookie, “...very much enjoy my work.” His head tips to one side, then the other, scanning the far wall, “I wish I’d thought more about it, it wasn’t my most considerate time. Hindsight...” His mouth twitches. “Well. I’m learning.” He glances over Doug, thoroughly up and down, “And you? How have you been?” Doug offers a wide grin, and bobs his head. “Mac’s good,” he says. “Good virus protection, and pretty easy to pick up. They’re a pain in the ass to talk to, though.” He pulls out a quart of milk, and sets it next to the glasses. “I was just wondering where you’d been,” he says as he picks out a chocolate chip cookie and crunches into it. “I mean, I figured you were okay, because I got the card back. But I wanted to ask you how things went, and I don’t actually have a phone number for you.” “Busy,” is the answer for the question. “With classes and work, mostly. I finally got my papers finished, so it’s pretty much taking notes in class until finals.” He grins, and reaches to pour out the milk, holding the cookie in his teeth. “Trying to get out and meet new people. Date.” << (Not good at it) >> “So?” he asks, sliding a glass across the counter towards Parley. “Was your mission successful? Did you find what you were looking for?” “Talk to -? Oh. Your gift.” Weary smile, “Luckily, that’s a little beyond my scope.” The smile fades, and dark eyes twitch slightly narrow across the room. Parley rubs the back of his neck, compressing his mouth in either something thin-smiling or thin-frowning, “Mmh. That. You could say I now have what I need. Though even that I -- could have managed better. I really shouldn’t have dragged you into it. I don’t want you to think I’m unappreciative for what you gave me, and if you hear anything else, you know you can always tell me in confidence but - I’m easing up. And you should as well. You didn’t get into any trouble, did you? How has dating been?” “Yeah, probably,” Doug agrees with a small laugh. “I don’t know many computers that have feelings. Still. You should be all right the old-fashioned way.” His eyes crinkle, but his expression fades into something more serious as he studies Parley’s face. “You didn’t drag me into anything,” he says. “You asked me for a favor, and I was happy to help. That’s what friends do.” He frowns as he stands upright. “I don’t know that there’s anything for me to ease up on,” he says. “I’m not actively poking at anything. I wouldn’t know what to do with what I found.” He waves a hand as he returns the milk to the refrigerator. “I didn’t get into any trouble,” he says. “I put the card under the driver’s seat of my dad’s car, so he thinks he dropped it there. I don’t think he suspects any sort of conspiracy, although he was sweating for a couple of days.” He scrunches his nose as he comes back to grab another cookie. “Dating is...” << (not happening) >> “more difficult than I anticipated it being. For all my ability to understand languages, I am terrible about understanding /people/.” Sipping milk, ducking behind his cup, Parley is a difficult study for the start of Doug’s answer. He licks half of a white mustache off his upper lip, tucking away the last bite of cookie and glances over, as though startled out of reprieve, “What about people?” Doug ducks his head, almost dipping his nose into his glass of milk as he raises it. “Oh, I have trouble, sometimes, understanding how to deal with people on anything more than a friendly basis,” he says honestly, the chagrin of admitting it washing through his mind and across his face. “I mean, every time I /think/ I’ve got the hang of it, I’m wrong.” He flutters fingers at his temple. “I wish I had your ability. I bet it’s a hell of a lot easier to talk to folks.” “My ability,” Parley chases a crumb of cookie around the rim of his glass with his tongue, eyes settled in the direction of a window, “has its uses.” Got it. He’s finished his snack, setting the glass down. “Though more in knowing what other people want. Not in achieving what I want.” And he raises a considering gaze to Doug’s face, “What is it you would like from people?” “It might be easier to achieve your goals, though, if you know what the other person is feeling about them. Like a fairly instant vetting of their...interest.” Doug crunches through a second cookie, chasing it with some milk. “All I can do is attempt to read their body language, and hope for the best.” The question gets a wrinkle-scrunch of the blonde’s nose. “That’s a good question. What most people want, I guess. Good friends, someone to love and grow old with....” << (not alone) >> He makes another face, and lifts a shoulder. “It’s been pointed out that I have plenty of time for that, but I’d kind of like to /experience/ it. Sex is fun, but...” he lifts a hand, and his eyebrows. “I...” for a moment, Parley blanks, a cloud passing in a rush through some gray inner plane, returning only in first a few thin beams of light that slowly blossom back to present-mindedness, nimbly collecting his empty glass as he does so and heading for the kitchen, “--think you might be overestimating the span of empathic abilities a little.” He turns his back to rinse out his glass in the kitchen sink. “You can’t really depend on a psionic mutation to screen the people around you for long-term relationship compatibility.” He plucks loose a towel to dry the dish, pushing up onto his toes to slip it back into a cupboard, “Human dynamics don’t really run that black and white. I would think.” “No, but you can sense how they feel about /you/, right? And modify or abandon your actions appropriately?” Doug wrinkles his forehead thoughtfully. “And avoid all that awkward embarrassment when it’s not right.” He exhales, heavily, and leans against the counter. “I don’t know,” he says, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. “What do /you/ want from people?” “I -- don’t think you realize what you’re suggesting.” Parley folds over the towel and replaces it, “A relationship based on psionically intuiting how to act to a get the other party to accept you would be.... Incredibly deceptive, for a relationship meant to be based on trust and honesty. It’s the fear of that that makes even other /mutants/ dislike psionic mutants.” He glances at Doug, “Creatures have been forming relationships for billions of years before the X-gene manifested. Half of what makes it such a fascinating process is that you /can’t/ tell how personalities will interact.” Doug hums lightly as he considers that. "I guess that's a fair point," he concedes, drumming his fingers on the countertop. "It would get pretty boring, too, I suppose. Always knowing." He pokes his tongue into a back tooth, bulging his cheek slightly. "I guess I'm just impatient." Then he frowns. "You didn't answer my question." “Impatient to already be growing old with someone?” Parley has a brief smile, his hands behind his head to pull tighter the little loose topknot of hair he’s managed to tie back. Then he shifts to move past Doug, towards the livingroom proper once more, “Mmmmh, what question. What do I want from people?” "Impatient to start the interview and orientation process, at least," Doug says with a chuckle. "It might take a few tries to find the right one." He nods in verification of Parley's guess. "Yeah. What is it /you/ want? From people." “I want,” Parley stands at the window, his hand against the glass where a faint fog forms around his fingertips. Looking down at whatever street or sidewalk or back alley riddled with rust-streaked architecture or complicated fire escapes might dominate the view. “...To see what people are capable of.” “That sounds dangerous,” Doug says, moving around the counter to perch on a stool. “You might not like what you discover, that way.” “Have you forgotten where I’m from already?” Parley asks thoughtfully, sounding slightly amused, slightly wry. He turns away from the window, and drifts towards his shoes, sighing, “I think I’m somewhat familiar with the nature of human darkness. It’s just one of many extremity branches reaching off from a single trunk of potential.” He pauses pulling on his shoes, to smile over his shoulder at Doug, a small, introverted smile that puts a fleeting glint of hardness in his eyes. “I’m interested in the /tree/.” Click, says the lock on the door, disengaged with a quiet turn of tumblers. “Take care, Ramsey-san.” Click. The door closes again.