ArchivedLogs:Start
| Start | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2017-02-09 "You want cocoa?" |
| Location
<NYC> {Workhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
The wide entryway leads into a semicircular sitting area with plush modular chairs, sofas, and huge beanbags arranged around two low tables. The bright, open expanse of the house fans back and out from here, executed in stunning industrial style with extremely conservative usage of rough stone walls. Through a door on the right is a library boasting an eclectic but extensive collection of books, a cozy reading nook, as well as a state-of-the-art computer work station. Opposite this is a media room with a projector mounted overhead and a formidable sound system on all sides, the windows still admitting plenty of light when the blackout curtains are pulled back. Beyond the sitting area, toward the back of the house and separated from adjacent areas only by plentiful black granite counters, are a pair of kitchens, each stocked with their own appliances, cookware, servingware, and utensils. Adjoining the (vegan and kosher) kitchen on the right is a simple dining room with a long oval table and chairs designed to accommodate a range of body shapes. On the other side, tucked between the general-purpose kitchen and the media center, is a guest room and a full bath. At the center of the entire house is a cylindrical elevator shaft of steel and glass with two floating stairways coiled around it like an immense double helix. Both elevator and stairs lead down out of sight and up to a circular landing joined to the second storey wings by walkways that leave the space above the sitting area open. Above the kitchens is a sun-drenched split-level recess, the lower half a conservatory enclosed by glass and the upper half a rooftop garden. The whole is walled with glass and lets in copious quantities of natural light softened by lush greenery. Workhaus is quiet, Wednesday night. It's not well lit, just at the moment. Mostly dark, save for the soft lights in the sitting area. Hive is there -- draped into one of the truly enormous poof beanbags, in soft black bamboo Thai fisherman pants and a plaid flannel over a white sleeveless undershirt. His enormous calico cat is curled up to one side of him, seated right on top of his arm, pinning it to the beanbag and purring Very Loudly. No matter, he wasn't really /using/ that arm anyway right? His hand just barely emerges from under Cat, that's all he /really/ needs to, every so often, tap at the side of his Nook to turn its page. On his other side -- half tucked under his /other/ arm (hopefully Hive wasn't using that one either?), Flicker is also sprawled on Giant Poof. He's also kind of dressed for bed. Green plaid flannel PJ pants, black short-sleeved undershirt with one sleeve hanging loose, harness and arm already removed for the night. He has his own books at hand -- though his, alas, are textbooks. At the moment they've been set aside so that he can work, laptop in his lap and fingers moving rapidly over the keys. Outside, the moon rides high and bright among the scudding clouds, its pale light glinting off the curve of Steve's shield as he strides across the courtyard toward Workhaus, his footfalls steady and sure. His navy peacoat is not buttoned, though the blazer beneath it is, and what little of his blue-striped dress shirt showing above its lapels looks quite rumpled, likewise his silver tie and black trousers. His thoughts are chaotic, a jumble of bewilderment, relief, elation, and a persistent sensation of freefall all centered around his companion, whose hand he firmly and repeatedly reminds himself not to hold. When the reaches the front door, relief gains the upper hand, and he reaches out to pull it open, then steps aside. Behind Steve, Jax's steps are slower. Kind of hesitant. His thoughts come as they usually do -- painful-bright even through a haze of exhaustion. Rapidfire, painted in vivid imagery with few words to them, skittering with a hummingbird flit from one image to the next -- right now he's paused on the threshold, taking in the rebuilt house with a disconnected sort of appraisal. As he steps inside he's pulling a small carry-on sized suitcase behind him, carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder. He's dressed blandly, for him -- black and red wiiiiide leg jeans, a black asymmetrically cut canvas jacket over a red and black colourblocked t-shirt. Dark glasses shading his eyes, his skin far too pale behind them. He is slow to slip his shoes off by the door -- slow to look down at the men (and cat!) draped onto the poof. There's a skittering of paws from elsewhere in the house. It doesn't take long before Obie comes charging up from the basement, long ears flapping. He eagerly barrels headlong into Jax's suitcase, toppling over and then correcting to rear back, plant paws on the man's legs, tail swishing rapidly. Paws scrabbling desperately at his jeans. A low whine in his throat. Hive, for his part, doesn't look up. A faint ripple of touch flutters up against the other men's minds, warm and gentle. Flicker has no such equanimity. He looks up when the door opens -- then tenses. A heartbeat and a few ripples later he's /at/ the door, wide-eyed. Mouth open. Closed. Open. Pursing into a soundless 'Wh --' that doesn't manage to get voiced. Obie will have to deal with getting a little smooshed -- Jax is getting dragged into a /fierce/ one-armed hug. Flicker steps back shortly -- eyes a little bright. Cheeks a little red. "You want cocoa?" Steve slips inside behind Jax and shuts the door, removing his shoes, too. Inwardly he leans heavily against the flutter of Hive's mental presence, suddenly exhausted. Obie's frantic greeting tugs a faint tick of a smile from him, and Flicker's too. "Desole," he says quietly, "I didn't know until tonight. I should have thought to text ahead..." "Oh pup." Jax leans down, scruffing firmly at the back of Obie's head, his other hand running fingers against the beagle's long silky ear. He isn't looking -- though probably not /surprised/ -- when Flicker is suddenly /there/, suddenly hugging. Obie's scritches are continued one-handed -- Flicker's hug is returned. Hard. Tight; Jax leans into it heavily. "Oh -- oh, I want --" In his mind's eye there's a collage of faces, a cacophony of feeling. "We can start with cocoa." | |
