ArchivedLogs:Unbirthday

Unbirthday
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Isra
In Absentia	2015-10-14 'This will do.' (Some time after hacking the planet government.)
Location <BOM> The Allspark - Ascension Island
Small and compact in the manner of most cabins on the island, this place is solidly built. Hardwood floors, sturdy log-wood walls, fireplaces in every room. It consists of a small sitting room, a bathroom with claw-footed tub, and two small bedrooms. The furnishing in here is eclectic, to say the least; it looks somewhat as though it has been scavenged piecemeal from what you might find if you did a google search for 'luxury home decor'. There's a plush dark sofa with a round marble-topped coffee table in front of it, a wrought-iron and red-glass side table beside it with a colourful Tiffany lamp on top. A full-sized tiger pelt as a throw-rug in front of the sofa. A large dark-brown leather recliner near the fireplace. Binding most of the room together, though, is the /scorch/ marks, floor and walls and furniture alike permanently rendered a little /crisped/ around the edges. Night has fallen, and the setting of the slender crescent moon plunges the island into darkness. Candles and camping lanterns light some windows on the grounds. Here, a rather more robust blaze roars in the fireplace, like a beacon for the cabin's missing inhabitant. Lying on her side, Isra takes up the entire length of the couch in a catlike sprawl of limbs. Her skin retains the drab mottled gray camouflague pattern she had worn during the mission, as well as the wounds she had weathered during its course. She has one wing flung over the back of the couch and the other curled around herself, along with a red throw blanket charred along one edge. Where bullets or darts punctured her wing membranes, the holes have already begun to close, though the edges of the wounds look glossy and raw. She holds a hardbound paper book open in one long-fingered hand, head canted so that she can read by the firelight without looking into it. There's a heavy flap outside the cabin, a thud of booted feet touching down on the porch, a snap of closing wings. Dusk doesn't knock, just tugs the door open and tromps in. He looks pale, eyes shadowed, expression /satisfied/, if exhausted and drawn. He's already peeling off his coat, his boots, socks, shedding the long-sleeved wrap shirt beneath, these items of clothing strewn in a messy line across the floor as he stumbles over towards Isra, the chill and damp of the nighttime sky clinging to his wings. Clad now only in jeans, he folds himself down onto the singed pelt in front of the sofa, thunking his head back against the cushions with eyes drooping closed. Isra props herself up on one elbow when Dusk enters, watching him with unblinking eyes as he strips. Once he settles, she uncurl the wing from her own torso and drapes it over him, warm and leathery. 'Have you successfully hacked the Government?' she signs one-handed, closing the book -- /The Scar/ by China Mieville, clearly much-read, judging by the genteel staining of its fore edge -- with her other hand to set it down on the endtable. A low rumble stirs in Dusk's chest, soft and purring when the warmth of Isra's wing drapes over him. He rubs his fuzzy-bearded cheek against her wing, eyes cracking upen to peer up at her. Over at her book. Up at her. Even through the heavy blanket of /tired/ that lies across his expression, a smile breaks through, slow and sharp and fangy. 'News tomorrow will be fun.' He nuzzles against her wing again. 'Missed your birthday. Will this do?' Isra coils around Dusk, perhaps surprisingly supple for her rangy stature. Though probably not so surprising to /him./ 'I look forward to it, though I suppose we will need to hunt down a news /paper./' She signs the last word separately where most would omit it altogether, underlining her incredulity at the very conceit of news printed on actual paper. 'But, yes.' She tucks her head against his neck, nibbling gently. 'This will do.' The rumbly purring in Dusk's chest deepens. His head tilts back, neck baring for a moment to Isra's nibbling. Just a moment, though, before he turns his head abruptly, shifting up to nip sharply at /her/ neck and lick at the droplets of blood that draw there. He settles back in a heavy slump against the base of the couch shortly after, though, tucked back comfortably under Isra's wing. 'They still print the news on paper?' His smile is prooobably teasing here. It fades after -- maybe more serious, maybe just more sleepy. 'Put B on a train. Hope she sleeps.' His eyes slide over towards the door to Ion's room. 'Is he --' But this question trails off without conclusion, just a lift of brows that goes -- nowhere. His head tucks in against Isra again, breath exhaled slowly. Isra growls low and soft at the sting of Dusk's fangs, the tip of her tail twitching lazily. 'B will sleep when ze needs to. Ze is a survivor. Ion...' Her gaze does not follow his, which answers the question as well as words could. She turns instead and stares into the fire, her pupils rapidly constricting to black pinholes in the luminous green of her irises. '/You/ need to sleep.' She levers herself halfway off the couch without breaking contact with Dusk, and in fact drops one hand to his back, kneading small circles down along his spine. 'I can give you a backrub.' Dusk closes his eyes, a shiver running down his spine. His wings droop lower, his soft purr taking on a pleased near-whine at the rubbing. He melts back into it, head nestled down onto the cushion of the sofa. His hand starts to lift towards his chin. Almost a thanks. It drops back to his lap, though, halfway there, a soft smile playing on his lips as he just relaxes drowsily into the contact.