ArchivedLogs:Lost Puppy

Lost Puppy
Dramatis Personae Billy, Trib
In Absentia	2014-06-22 Billy gets lost and ends up relying on the kindness of a stranger. How unlike him!
Location <NYC> Clinton
Despite its rough and tumble reputation of old, Clinton has come far from the illegal gambling and shakedowns of Prohibition, and the gang warfare of West Side Story. Clinton has now become the industrial supply center for midtown Manhattan, with hospitals and the light industrial and commercial businesses required to support so many thousands of people. The neighborhood has become quite expensive, but many actors still cram together in small apartments due to its proximity to Broadway. Looking very ethereal in his his all-white garb, a young man makes his way carefully down a too-quiet, nighttime sidewalk. It's Billy, and he looks up at every single street sign and house number with the same desperate expression. The frantic look really -really- doesn't help him seem any less like he might actually be a ghost - except for the fact that his little white canvas sneakers slosh a little bit with each step like he may have stepped in one, very large puddle. He whimpers quietly to himself, wringing his hands together so hard they might fall off. The time of night doesn't bother a true New Yorker. Not when the city has things available at all hours. And Trib might not be a /native/, but he is a New Yorker. Which probably explains why he's out on this empty street, dressed in a pair of black stadium shorts and a loose purple tank top. His sneakers are less sloshy-sounding as he comes down the street, a Rite-Aid bag and a Blimpie's bag clutched in his left hand. The boxer seems deep in thought as he walks, although his gaze flickers around every now and then to gauge those nearest to him. He pulls up short at the sight of the young man clad in white and his hand-wringing, and the big man stares for a long moment. Finally, he speaks, raising his voice so that his grunt will carry the short distance. "You fuckin' lost or somethin'?" A powerful chlorine smell carries on the wind in Trib’s direction. Billy shudders, as if the stranger's voice cuts right through him. "Ah!" He opens both arms and catches himself against the building. He leaves two, clean white handprints on the nice red brick. "I-I don't want any trouble, man," Billy manages with a wince, curling and uncurling his now slightly worse-for-wear hands. Trib wrinkles his nose at the smell of chlorine, but his grim sort of expression is reserved for the other man's reaction. His mouth tightens as Billy pulls away and marks up the building, and he shifts his weight to plant his feet firmly. At the other man's assurance, the boxer's eyebrows lift, and he rolls his shoulders. "Cool," he says in response. "Don't start none, and there won't fuckin' be none, yeah?" He gestures with the bags, indicating the on-edge state of the interloper. "You need any kind of medical help?" Billy chuckles at the response. Calming down, he presses his back against the wall and sinks down with his legs folded haphazardly under him. "No," he mumbles, looking up with a childishly exaggerated frown, "I am* lost, though." He isn't the type to keep eye contact for very long. Soon enough he's looking right back down to his scraped hands, not even half-expecting any help from Trib. It hasn't been a real big day of good-will. Trib's eyebrows furrow deeper as the other man sinks to the ground, and he tips his head. "You sure about that?" he asks. "'Cause you smell like you been dipped in fuckin' bleach." There's no censure in that; Trib is just stating a matter of fact. He watches the other man, one eye twitching VISIBLY at the idea that someone actually needs his help. Or maybe it's the residual chlorine smell in the air. He certainly inhales deeply enough to get another good whiff. "Where you tryin' to get?" he grunts, also avoiding eye contact to watch the pavement in front of Billy's sneakers. "Back to Brooklyn," Billy kicks at a pebble, sinking lower. He turns his sad, doe-eyed look back on Trib, "I'm sorry. That's ...mmrm, just how I smell." Sniffling, the bleach-blonde brings up the back of his wrist to rub his nose. "It's usually not this bad." "/Brooklyn/?" Trib can't hide the surprised tone of his voice, and he boggles at the other man for a long moment. "Jesus H. Christ -- you're across the fuckin' /island/ from Brooklyn. I think you gotta change trains to get there, from here." He shakes his head, staring at the doe-eyed sad sack, and his surprise turns to something a bit flatter. "You smell like bleach?" he asks, eyebrows lifting. "Like all the time?" This may or may not be surprising to him. His tone of voice doesn't exactly match his expression. "That sucks." Might actually be sympathy. Again, it's hard to tell. "I don't have any money." Billy slaps his legs, fighting hard against tearing up again. "Everything sucks." He slumps his shoulders inward, pausing to quietly report: "It's actually not that bad. It could be way worse. There are mutants who smell like sulfuric acid and stuff." ...he wipes the corner of his eye with his knuckle. "The fuck does money have to do with it?" Trib asks, looking confused. "You ain't got to have money to get across town. Just got to be careful about it." He inhales and catches his breath at the sudden show of weepiness from the other man, and there's a definite storm gathering on his face. "Jesus. Don't fuckin' cry about it," he grunts. "There's worse things than stinkin' like you're clean." He stands there for a long moment, considering the hunched-over mutant intently. "...you ain't a fuckin' crack head, are you?" "No," Billy leans into the wall as if to lean away from Trib, "It's just been a really bad day." His bottom lip quivers a little, but he tries to hold it together. Tib looks like he might yell at him if he doesn't. "You homeless?" Trib might be interviewing Billy for a /job/, given the clinical way he delivers the questions. "You got a place? You ate recently, an' all that shit?" "I am not homeless. I'm in college. I have an apartment. I have never shot up crack." Or even researched crack ...apparently. Billy's stomach grumbles. He blinks helplessly up at Trib. "You're in college, an' have an apartment, an' you're fuckin' lost?" Trib sounds like something about that doesn't add up. "An' you clearly ain't never even /seen/ crack," he rumbles, mostly to himself, and snorts lightly. He exhales roughly, and rubs a thumb along the ridge of his brow. "/Fuck/," he says to no one in particular, and he looks down the street. Maybe for someone else who might be willing to help the other man out. Then he turns a stern look on the other man. "Okay. I don't fuckin' /do/ this, but your'e a fuckin' mess." He points his finger at the nearby Sunrise building, and lifts his eyebrows. "You're goin' to come to my place," he says slowly, like Billy might need the extra time to absorb his words. "I'm goin' to give you a sandwich, an' somethin' to drink, an' you're goin' to call someone to come an' get your ass and take you home." He looks around. "Because, /fuck/, man. This ain't the neighborhood to be fuckin' /lost/ in." "I mean, I'm not in college for cartograph-" Billy flinches as the speech goes on and on, continuing to watch Trib but lowering his head more and more. "Okay," he concedes in a little, defeated voice. He doesn't move to get up. Maybe he's waiting to be told to. Trib frowns at the continued meekness, and there's another twitch of his eye as he attempt to determine if the guy is just messing with him, or if he's just one of those submissive types. He sighs, then, and his expression relaxes a bit. "You even /got/ anyone to fuckin' call, dude?" Billy narrows one eye and widens the other, looking off down the street. He shakes his head, 'No.' The blonde takes a deep, empowering breath, heaving it out. "I'll just walk." The prospect isn't brought up with much confidence but he does stand! Progress. Trib looks like he might bite through something for a moment, and there's a sounds like grinding marble as his jaw shifts. "Walk. To fuckin' Brooklyn." He has an encouraging grunt when the other man gains his feet, and hunches his shoulders forward. "Not at this time of night you ain't. Not /you/, anyway." Which, again, doesn't seem so much like an insult as it is a frank assessment at Billy's ability to accomplish that task. The boxer turns, then, and starts walking towards the Sunrise. "C'mon, Ble-ach," he says, twitching the fingers of his half-hand in the blonde's direction. "Let's get somethin' to eat an' come up with a better fuckin' plan." "You curse soo much," Billy hop-steps to catch up to Trib, studying the back of the man's head. At least he sounds like he's gaining back his spirits. "Hey-are you from New Jersey? You sound like you are." "Write a letter to my fuckin' preacher," Trib grunts good-naturedly at the observation. At least, it /sounds/ good-natured. All that's really visible is the back of his shaggy head. "I ain't gettin' paid to fancy up my fuckin' language." He shifts the bags in his hand, reaching for the door of the apartment building and looking back over his shoulder at the other man. "Passaic," he confirms, his grunt sounding impressed with this bit of sleuthing. "Born and raised. What about you?" Billy can't seem to catch up fully, though it sure as Hell looks like he's trying to, "I'm from Connecticut." It's offered innocently, with quite a genuine tone. Billy does his best to absorb the details of the building he's going into but truth be told, he's no sleuth. "But I went to boarding school in Westchester." He motions, you know, as if that is actually close by ...or the least bit endearing in this circumstance. Trib snorts at the admission, without heat. "Figures. You kind of sound like you'd be from one of them sweater-vest kind of fuckin' states." He scratches at his nose, drifting to the elevator and punching the button to summon it. "/Boarding/ school," is said in a sotto voice, coated with equal parts amusement and amazement. "Jesus. No wonder you got lost." Billy snorts back at the sweater-vest remark, smiling even. "I mean, there were extenuating circumstances." He looks around the entranceway, folding his hands neatly in front of him. "I'm Billy," he adds, after they stand too long in silence waiting for the elevator to arrive, "By the way." "Sharpe." "Ain't there always?" Trib asks, lifting his nose into the air a bit. "Fuckin' good boardin' schools are hard to find, ain't they?" He might be teasing, but the only clue would be the sidelong look he's giving the smaller man. When the elevator arrives, Trib steps forward -- just as Billy introduces himself. Then the big man can only STARE at the blonde man for a long moment before he barks a hard laugh. "Of /course/ you fuckin' are." Billy forces his smile to remain, blinking. "Yes." "Of course." He saddles up to stand next to Tib, facing the elevator doors. He waits. And waits. "...............is that your name, too?" He asks innocently. "Not /mine/," Trib says, rolling his shoulder. "But it figures /you're/ a Sharpe. Only a Sharpe could be such a pain in my ass an' be fuckin' /cute/ at the same fuckin' time." Trib /might/ just bite something before it's all said and done. He rolls his chin to look at Billy, and lifts his chin. "I'm Trib," he says. "Jones." The elevator slides to a stop on the third floor, and opens, allowing the big man to lead the way. "An' cute or not," he adds as he heads down the hallway, "if you're plannin' on robbin' me, don't. Not if you like havin' all your fingers." And with that, Trib leads Billy to his apartment, and whatever Mutant Relief effort might lie within. "Ah! A Jones! Of course!" Billy has no idea what he's talking about, but just being inside of a building and out of the heat already has him pretty happy. And wait for it: Billy gets even more cute when Trib tries to feed him, only to find out all of his maybe semi-crazy dietary restrictions. Still, he has no complaints about sleeping on a layer of already-white towels on the floor. He only sniffles like, twice.