ArchivedLogs:Sleeping In. Or not.

Sleeping In. Or not.
Dramatis Personae Shane, Shelby
In Absentia	24 January, 2013 There's someone sleeping in Shane's bed!
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts- East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Teenagers are not early risers at the best of times. After the two days that Shelby's had, it will come as no surprise that she is still abed. Jax's hospitality was a well-organized machine but once she'd convinced him to leave the room, she'd shed most her clothes--leaving an untidy and street-dirty pile in the middle of the floor--and crawled into one of the beds. Shane's? Sebastian's? She didn't know, didn't really care, except to know that the sheets were clean and cool, and there were plenty of blankets. All of the careful bed-making Jax had performed was for naught when the girl promptly pulled sheets and blankets free of their moorings and wraps herself burrito-like in them. And then? Then there was -such sleeping-. Blissful, heavy sleeping. When morning comes--and creeps onwards--Shelby doesn't move. She is almost invisible in her burrito, a puff of ginger hair visible, the vague shape of her beneath the linens, the occasional soft ungirly snore. Oh glorious day--to be allowed to sleep in! Not sleep in too /long/ though; Shane is not an early riser, most days, though today he's slipping back in early enough into the morning. He looks a little jittery-wired, though, which might suggest not-yet-slept rather than woke-up-early, peeling off his coat (trim neat black v-neck tee underneath, with trim neat grey vest buttoned over top) while he enters. He stops, just at the doorway, frozen with nostrils flaring, sniffing, and his black eyes briefly wider as his claws slowy extend. His brows furrow, and he dumps his jacket on the floor (it joins a sprinkling of other clothes, shoes, a couple books, a cat toy, a few old dishes; this bedroom does /not/ join the rest of the apartment in its impeccable tidiness) to creep over towards the bed with eyes narrowing on the burrito. One hand darts out, poking at the Shelbyburrito gingerly. Tap. POKE. Tap. It's a prickly kind of tapping, claws pricking through the blankets, though thankfully the thick casing of cloth means a thick casing of claw-armor. No /stabbing/. Only prickling. The first tap earns a mumbled protest. Swaddled as she is, Shelby can't -swat- at the annoyance but she does shift her shoulders as if her dreaming mind -wants- to. Fwump--she rolls over in a bid to escape instead. But damn it, the poking continues and the mumbling becomes more of a whine. The whine increases and finally she lurches towards something like consciousness. Awake enough, finally, to form almost-words: "Nnnmmgh owwwwww fuck offfffff..." But it's too late now, her mind is already informing her that something is off here and by off it means she isn't alone. There's a pause and then a flurry of activity that leaves her propped on an elbow and squinting at Shane. Bleary, not all there yet and inclined to squawk in surprise--shark! "Sonofa--!" Shane's eyes widen again when Shelby moves, his weight dropping back as if preparing to STRIKE -- but he doesn't. He just drops a hand to his side, frowning and then /snorting/ at Shelby. "Oh, yeah, I totally am. You don't want to meet my mother, /raging/ fucking bitch. You're in my bed." He flicks clawed fingers at the bed like maybe Shelby might have forgotten this fact. Also, he frowns at the clean new sheets Jax had provided for her. "Where are /my/ sheets?" When Shane moves, so too does Shelby. She kicks violently enough to send her right up against the wall, back pressed securely there and blanket-wrapped knees drawn up. Her hands are visible now, the both of them bandaged and held up a la boxing match. -Not- the most pleasant way to wake up and when he snorts at her, she snorts right back. "Fuck...I dunno. Jax." Translation: Jax did it, she is just an innocent bystander. With no attack forthcoming, she curls her hands down and rubs her wrists against her eyes. "He let me crash here last night 'cause of the cops." The rubbing has reddened her eyes, making the look she gives him next rather malevolent. "What're you doing here? Where's Bastian?" "The fuck am /I/ doing here, dude, this is /my room/. My bed. My desk. My shit." Shane points at each of these items in turn, although the last is less /pointing/ and more an expansive wave to encompass all of His Domain. "Cops, the hell did you do this time?" He pulls out his cell phone, looking at the time. "Bastian, who knows. Probably showering. Getting breakfast. Going to English." "Your dad said I could crash here so I did." Shelby is still too groggy to be affected by pointing and/or waving. She's yawning--and not bothering to cover it--by the time the cell phone comes out. "And -I- didn't do shit," she adds after that jaw-cracker. The girl flops onto her side and begins to kick and squirm free of the blankets, avoiding the use of her hands. Underneath, she's in a tank top and underwear, both the dingy grey that comes of being far, far too old. "Some crazy asshole killed an FBI agent and I saw it...hey, move." This command comes as she stands up to sift through the clothes on the floor. "Don't you have that freakdoctor you were mooching couchspace from?" Shane does move, flopping down onto the bed when Shelby stands. "What happened to him." He's /un/dressing as Shelby starts looking through clothes, though he's doing it in a desultory sort of way, absently unbuttoning his vest with one hand. Pulling it off. Then just flopping against the mattress. He does lift his head to squint at Shelby, though. "Fuck, you /saw/ that? I read about it, people say he's one of us." He frowns. "And uh that we should all be locked up -- what the fuck you were /there/?" Now he's looking at Shelby more closely. Maybe finally only paying attention to the bandages. "-- Did he hurt you, shit." There are a lot of clothes on the floor that are not his. The first to get pulled on are a pair of gold sparkly leggings. So tacky. Shelby drops to the edge of the mattress too to carefully pull these on. "He's -not- one of us, don't wanna bring this heat down on him," she grunts. Because it's fine to bring the heat down on a mutant family, right? Right! "'Sides, your dad was closer. And -yeah-, I was -there-." Shane is given a look that dances between amusement and annoyance. "There was glass everywhere, I kinda fell in it when I caught the dude he threw through the window. And now the cops are after me, one of 'em almost got me last night but I got away." She bends over to reach for a pair of black yoga pants next, grabbing the sweatpants while she's at it. The jeans will be for last. "How come you aren't at English too?" "I mean the crazy asshole. Is a mutant. At least some of the reports say. The cops are after you cuz of that crazy dude?" Shane pulls his t-shirt off, too, and his belt, though this seems to be as far as he cares to undress, wriggling further onto the mattress and using the discarded blankets as a pillow. "That's fucked up. Are you /sure/ your freakdoctor isn't a mutant? Why else would he want to start a mutant clinic, /that's/ fucked up too." He last question just gets a snort. "I already speak English." "Yeah, he's a mutant. The crazy guy. He like, grows animals or something. There was a mouse...shit." Shelby can't control the way she shudders, remembering. Ugh. Ick. Etc. "I dunno how he did it but he made it grow until it was like, a bear. Didn't look like it felt too good." While Shane wriggles, she stands to hop as she pulls one set of pants after another up over her hips. Bounce, bounce... "The Doc isn't a mutant though, I asked and he was kinda bummed about it," she goes on, shaking her hands out before she makes for the jeans. "There's nothing fucked up about wantin' to help. If this fucker keeps up with the going after folks then we're gonna need it. He ran into your dad last night too, and fucked up your dog." Poor Obie. "WHAT." Shane sits upright immediately at this, forgetting the rest of the conversation to give Shelby a wide-eyed look; along his sides and his neck, his gills flare wide. "Is pa okay?" "He's cool. Did better than me, getting away," Shelby assures him with a rueful waggle of her hands. "Obie was kinda freaked out but he came around with lotsa petting." She is proud of that, she is. Maybe she couldn't save a man's life but by golly, she made a rescue beagle feel better. "Seriously, your dad's okay. He cooked and everything after," she goes on to say, brightening quite a bit. "Maybe there're leftovers. Shit, I'm starving." "Oh." Shane slumps back again, not lying down this time but sinking back against the wall. "Mmnh. Okay." He scrubs his knuckles against his eyes, and it takes a moment longer before he relaxes. "Poor Obie. There's probably food. Coffee. You want?" He wriggles like maybe he is thinking about standing up, though he doesn't quite get back to the floor just yet. "There's nothing fucked up about wanting to help," he agrees with a shrug. "Just never met a /human/ doctor that wants to work on /us/ for any good reasons." "I want -so bad-." So much so that she'll rush through the rest of getting dressed, long johns shirt, sweater, sweatshirt and hoody all going on in record time. With lots of arm and sleeve flailing. After her head pops through the last collar, she gingerly smooths her hair down--it doesn't help much--and tilts a look at the boy on the bed. "I guess maybe I've been lucky? I mean, I've only met the good kinda doctors. Not like...y'know. The ones you hear about." She pauses before giving him a harder look. "Wait, have you met the other kinds?" Shane slides out of bed, starting to reach for his belt (his jeans sit /far/ too big on his thin frame) but then ditching it and the jeans (he has black boxers on underneath) to scrounge through his own floor-laundry for a pair of black pajama pants instead. "Good, cuz /I'm/ going to die if I don't caffeine soon. Hive says your doctorperson's alright," he allows, grudgingly, "and I guess /he'd/ know." He trudges towards the door; when it opens it admits a large sleek cat, black-on-blacker who winds around Shane's ankles with pitiful mewling. Shane toes the cat back out the door before he follows, too. "Um." He rubs a hand at the back of his neck, half-turning to glance at her before heading out to the living room. "Yeah, it's kinda -- how we met pa." It would be a lie to say that Shelby doesn't peek at exposed boxers. She's tired, and immodest, and a little stressed, but she's not -dead-. But she isn't so enraptured that she can't be distracted by the promise of caffeine and a trace of smugness over having Hive-confirmation of her own instincts. "I told you," she remarks, shambling in his wake. When the cat appears, she is more sympathetic to its pleas and bends to offer her fingers. "Yeah? Sounds kinda like a story." That's a prompt, in case he wasn't certain. A curious one too, accompanied with a glance to meet his. Shane is STEADFASTLY IGNORING the pitiful cat. Which is okay, Sprite turns her mewling attention on Shelby instead, butting her head up against the girl's fingers and rubbing her chin on fingertips. Shane may not be /as/ immune to pitiful mewls as he makes out, though, because even before coffee or human-food he is stopping to pick up the pair of small pet dishes at one side of the living room, refilling one with water and rummaging in a cabinet for food both dry and canned to fill the other. "I guess it's a story," he says with a Totally Nonchalant shrug. "I mean, there's people. Doctors, scientists, whatever. They catch mutants and -- He gestures vaguely with the cat-food-scoop. "Study them. Us. In these, like, labs? Kinda creepy. I guess they want to know how we work. Try to replicate it. Or -- shut it off." The cat is given a brisk scrubbing of fingertips against ears and chin before Shelby follows along. She's clearly made herself at home, because as Shane attends to animal needs, -she- yanks open the fridge to study what's on offer. The teen is doing a damned fine job of not staring at him, going along with the nonchalance. "Fuck," she comments while opening the crisper, "I always figured maybe the rumors were just bullshit. Y'know, the sort've crap people make up. Like chemicals in the clouds, or secret messages on the radio. That's pretty fucked up, man. But you guys got out of there?" Here she finally gives in and steals another peek at narrow blue back. "Or Jax got you out?" "Nah, not bullshit. It's pretty, uh. Intense. There's a lot of them. I think they all work together." Sprite's attention has returned to Shane now, given that he has the FOOD; his progress back to set the food and water dishes down is slightly impeded by the cat rubbing up against his ankles insistently. But he makes it eventually, which frees him to turn his attention to grinding coffee beans for the coffeemaker. His tone is easy-casual, though his lean muscles are tensed, gills opening and closing in rapid restless shift. "We kinda grew up there? A little. Pa was in a different one but only for a little while. He and --" Shane waves his hand towards the ceiling, as the coffee grinder grinds loudly; he speaks louder, too, over the noise, "Hive and his roommates and people. They sort of try to find these places and get people out. I /guess/," he concludes with a wry smile, "because they didn't have /fun/ when they were staying. But yeah. They got us out." The fridge has a number of Things. Almond milk. Carrot and orange juices. Fresh vegetables in the crisper. Tupperware on the shelves with various leftovers. Stir-fried tofu and vegetables. Some kind of sweet potato curry. Lentil stew. "How do you take your coffee?" "Jesus." Shelby is a master of summing up. Or maybe she's commenting on the overwhelming amount of Healthy Food in the fridge. Where's the leftover pizza? The beer? The cartons of slowly congealing Chinese take-out? She removes one of the Tupperware containers and pries the lid open to sniff at the contents. A face is immediately made and it's put back. The fridge shuts. Maybe she'll just settle for coffee. "Lotsa cream, lotsa sugar. So, um." It's difficult for the girl to find something to say after hearing a story of that magnitude. She stalls for time by approaching the counter and hopping backwards up onto it, leaving her feet dangling. This new position leaves her with a terrific view of Shane's profile, which she studies. "I guess it makes sense. Hating doctors. Iolaus, though, he's good people. And this one doc down at the clinic, he stitched me up, said they've got lots of mutants coming there. Doctor, uh...fuck, what was his name. I forget." "Really? S'a clinic that'll take us?" Shane's brow raises, looking up at Shelby. "Was he nice? That's good to know, it can be hard to find a place that --" He shrugs, and leans back against the counter near Shelby while he waits for the coffeemaker to do its thing. "I guess I just get a little skittish. There's a couple doctors at my school but they're like us. Outside of them I've never met one that -- I mean, all the ones who were interested in mutants were /interested/ in mutants, y'know? They're fucked up as hell. I don't think I hate doctors. I just don't -- trust them. S'cool you've found a good one. I hope his clinic doesn't get bombed." "Yeah. He said some blue dude goes there. Guy's a model, I guess? Gave me a brochure, you can have it if you want. It's in my coat." Which is still in the bedroom and Shelby's not inclined to fetch it at the moment. She remains as she was, idly kicking her feet. "I think after the shit you've been through, you're allowed to not trust 'em," she comments, lips twisting with a sharp sort of amusement. "I mean, c'mon. Who's gonna wanna deal with that sorta stuff, after you've been poked at like some sorta...I dunno. Lab rat. But yeah..." She looks down and studies the wrappings around her hands. A loose fold is tugged at, tucked under an edge to temporarily secure it; they're already grimy and will probably need changing soon. "The crazy dude...that's why he killed the agent. Said he wanted to melt his brains or something. People are assholes." "It was kinda lab ratty," Shane admits, his own smile small but amused. "But, I mean, we're out. That's better than a lot of -- they kill people a lot when they're through with them /so/." He shrugs, turning and stretching up onto his toes to get a pair of mugs from the cabinet over the counter. Shelby better move her /head/, he is opening this door regardless of what heads might be in the way. "-- /Huh/. I wonder if he'd got out of one of those places too? I mean. Not that --" He glances down to her bandages, frowning. "It's still /shitty/ but it's not like I -- someone cuts you open enough times, it's hard to not want to -- hurt them, you know?" Shelby must be used to people swinging things at her head because she's bending at the waist even before Shane's finished reaching for the cabinet door. Down she goes, and down she stays until he's finished, bent like a broken doll. So fashionable. "Shit," she mutters from that position at the mention of killing. "Kinda makes me glad I don't stick out so much." Pause. "I mean, no offense or anything. It's just, I don't think anyone would've noticed if I went poof, y'know?" She folds her arms over her knees. "Maybe he was pissed about that. But he's bringing a helluva lot of heat down on us, doing it this way. I didn't even -do- anything, I was just there, and now I gotta worry about the cops and if they catch me, are they gonna send me to jail or back home or what." "Yeah, it's definitely -- I mean, /our/ birth-parents kinda sold us to them? But most people they take, uh --" Shane glances at Shelby with a slight frown. "Off the streets, you know. There's a /lot/ of mutants who are homeless and a lot of them nobody'd notice if they went missing. People might notice you now, though. Your doctor person. Us. See, I'll text you every week like, hey, you dead yet? In a cage?" He's smirking a little as he says this, but it fades as he pours coffee into the mugs. "Yeah, no, I get anger but it's a shitty way to do things. Makes trouble for everyone. Um. Where's home, is that really bad?" "Seriously? Shit, I thought my folks were bad." Maybe she's waking up a little--the coffee fumes probably help--but Shelby manages a more energetic showing of disgust over this little fact. She twists her face up in a grimace and makes a noise, deep in her chest, that illustrates just how she feels about the twins' parents. "But I guess I didn't really stick around long enough to find out if they'd fuck up -that- much. I don't wanna go back but..." She hesitates here before confessing, "Until I turn eighteen, there's not really a lot I can do, y'know? Except keep my head down." Bummer. Thankfully, Shane has provided a diversion that allows for a lighter topic and she seizes the chance: "Heh, how're you gonna text me if you lost my number? Bastian said you probably did." "Cuz you're gonna give it to me again," Shane tells Shelby confidently. "Except right in my phone this time. Who the hell can keep track of bits of paper, c'mon. How long till then? You good at keeping your head down?" He sets one of the mugs aside, black, and goes to the fridge to retrieve a carton from the door -- cream/er/, if not cream, made from coconut milk rather than dairy. He sets this down ont he countertop along with a jar of sugar and a spoon. "What'll you do once you hit eighteen?" "Pretty fucking sure of yourself, ain't ya? You're not -that- hot." But Shelby's grinning--that's probably a positive sign. The amusement lingers even after she gets a good look at the atrocity that's been provided for adding to her coffee. "What in the shit is that? That...is not a cow," she points out, indicating the coconut being splashed with a milk-like substance. When she points, the half-shell masquerading as a decorative cup on the carton rolls over, the not-milk "spilling" out of it and "leaking" onto the counter. It looks real! Take that, fake horror. "I been out on my own for a few years now so I'm pretty good at it...after...I dunno." "Dunno. Some cream thing. It's actually really tasty," Shane says with a shrug. "Jesus, what the fuck." He's snorting, amused, poking a finger at the pseudo-spilled milk where it goes onto the counter. Pooooke. He examines his finger curiously afterwards. "Maybe it's a cow shaped like a coconut. I thought you were gonna do some dancing shit." The counter is dry, just illustrated with a puddle of spilled milk. It doesn't transfer to his finger, but only because Shelby is distracted by reaching for the sugar. -That- looks authentic, at least. Or so she hopes, as she spoons some out to dump in her coffee. "I don't do the fake shit," she advises him. "And I was gonna but seriously, who's gonna lay out two thousand dollars to hang out with me? I'd have to talk right, and learn what fork to use, and..." What she's saying is that it's all a bit of bother. Tink tink tink, the spoon is swirled through the coffee. "Maybe I'll be a tattoo artist. What're you gonna do when you graduate?" "Could talk to my pa about that. He knows people." The sugar is just normal cane sugar. Shane doesn't put anything in his coffee, slurping at it black. At her question, he just snorts. "When I graduate," he repeats, wryly. "Bastian wants to go to med school. I have aspirations of being a homeless bum." He glances over Shelby, grinning sharp and wide. "You could give me lessons." "Fuck you, I'm not a bum," Shelby says comfortably, unruffled by the comparison. She picks up her own mug--the spilled milk is flowing back up onto the carton, ringing the lower portion of it--and takes a sip. Better. "But there's rules and shit you gotta know about if you wanna make it out there. You put in a good word with your pa, maybe I'll share." This time, she matches his grin, though with slightly less teeth. "Anyway, I gotta run. Need to go grab some shit, maybe get some real food. Tell him thanks for me?" Shane watches the reverse flow of coconut milk with amusement. "It gonna stay like that?" He pulls himself up onto the counter, waggling his mug towards Shelby. Like waving. But with coffee. "Yeah, sure. Shit, your number." He eyes his bedroom door. But it is VERY FAR AWAY. "Bastian have it?" "Sure. Probably." Shelby hops down from the counter, still grinning. She takes her coffee with her because she does have to go to the bedroom to fetch shoes, socks and coat. "And he's got it, yeah. I got his too. 'Cause he -is- that hot," she says, because it's funny. Ha ha, twins! Off she goes, feeling rather satisfied with herself for having come out on top of that conversation. Shane just /snorts/. "Yeah, he is," he agrees easily, settling back against the cabinets and drinking his coffee.