ArchivedLogs:Flappable

Flappable
Dramatis Personae Doug, Parley
In Absentia	2013-04-27 Doug is freaking out, a bit.
Location <NYC> 603 {Mirror and Parley} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's a lot of celebration going on in the Lofts tonight. On two floors and the roof, the return of the prodigal sons is being toasted and cheered enough that the building overall has been unable to escape some fallout. Except for apartment 503. When the door comes banging open, Doug looks very /not/ in a party mood. Not that he's dressed for it, in a tank top and shorts with his feet bare. He barely gets the door closed behind him before he's moving towards the elevator, key card and keys clutched in one hand. A very short elevator ride later, and he's powering down the sixth floor hall, pulling up at the door to 603. THUMP THUMP THUMP. His knocking seems a little hurried, as if there might be someone /after/ him. "Parley? Josh? Anyone at home?" Another set of thumps. "C'mon, open up. It's..." he pauses, scrunching his nose. "a potential emergency." There's no sound, but for a moment the light through the peep hole on the door winks dark. And then light again, a few locks and deadbolts being disengaged before the door creaks open. Parley's face peers around the corner, wide-eyed and for a moment - bewildered? Then a trifle cautious, looking over Doug - mentally /scanning/ Doug's state of mind - and tipping his head to the side to espy espy the hallway behind Doug. His brows pull together, a cautious concern allowed, "Are you harmed?" He steps back from the door to allow Doug inside. The apartment is bizarrely eclectic, unfinished but oddly gaudy with its sparse furnishings. There is an honest-to-god /vinyl/ magenta couch and a NUMBER of body pillows strewn around like giant grubs - one in zebra stripes, one polka dots, one is mustard yellow. The walls have begun to collect... decoration. News papers, mostly. And what looks like a receipt. That has been framed. Parley is barefoot, the pads flashing white as he walks ahead, towards the kitchen. He's wearing tan cargo shorts and a loose dark blue tanktop that allows his fur to be at least partially unmashed down by clothes, opening up a cupboard, "Do you prefer coffee or tea?" Doug's mind is a sea of unattached emotions and strong images that only strengthens when it's Parley who opens the door. "I'm not hurt," he says, shaking his head as he moves into the apartment. << (anxiety) (Osborn) (fear) (so dead) >> "But I just had an interesting phone call." Since he has no shoes on, there's no stopping his forward momentum. Except the couch. "Dude. That is some couch." << (focus) (possible danger) >> He tugs at his shirt, and turns to watch the other man move into the kitchen. "Um. Tea would be good," he says, following. "Hey, did you tell me you were working for Norman Osborn when you came by last weekend?" The kettle Parley puts on the stovetop could only be a thriftstore find - it's been used hard, its base a little blackened from years of use. The steady flow of emotion and word fragments, concepts washing in off Doug's mind are conveyed through his channels, tidied, analyzed. His movements are rapid, coiled, with eyes scanning the kitchen implements for likely weapons, or supplies, or - "Norman Osborn?" He is also holding his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over it but not yet dialing any numbers. He looks at Doug, puzzled, "No. I've barely met the man at the gala." "Parley." Doug's tone is patient, but flat. << (no lies) >> "I literally just hung up with the man. Let's dispense with coy, okay?" He leans against the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, looking at the kettle. << (housewarming gift) (guilt) >> He looks away, finding Parley's eyes. "He was asking me about my dad's I.D. card. Told me his security was going to be coming and asking me some questions about it." He lifts his eyebrows. "He did not make it sound like an appealing prospect." << (weirdly unsettling) (possible threat) (flee?) >> He waggles fingers in the air. "Luckily, familial connections being what they are, he decided that it would be better if one of his /assistants/ came and met with me, instead." His mouth presses into a tight line. "Parley, he said the name was." Parley is partways opening the refrigerator, his fingers curled around the milk. "Did he. Hm." He closes the fridge and sets the milk on the counter, moving away again to withdraw both a box of white sugar (yes, a /box/) and a little squeeze bottle of agave nectar. "I do communication work for /Oscorp/, yes. I don't tend to work directly with the major CEO's of businesses. - Visible mutants," he makes a small, joyless smile, "tend to be bad publicity." He gets out a bowl with a few loose teabag packets just kind of pellmell tossed into it. The TEA collection is not superior in this household. "I do know Mr. Osborn has a tendency to be... Hm. /Cryptic/. He's a shrewd businessman. They have a tendency to push boundaries during every interaction." With the tea area set up, he puts a hand abruptly on Doug's forearm, standing in front of him to look up into his face, searching between either of Doug's eyes. "I am sorry, if he frightened you. I will see what this is about. Alright?" Doug relaxes, somewhat, when Parley clarifies the connection. "Oh. That seems...dangerous, for you." His mouth pulls into a mild frown. "Considering." He drums his fingers against his bicep thoughtfully. << (relief) (anxiety) (relief) >> The meagerness of the tea selection doesn't seem to bother him, although his gaze is focued there. As if determining tea based on the shape of the bag alone. "He was very pleasant," he says after a moment. "On the phone. It was weird." << (creepy hold music) >> He scrunches his nose. "And he might have offered me a job, but he hung up before I could verify that." When Parley's hand lands on his arm, his gaze snaps to the smaller man's face. "I'm not scared," << (lie) (fear) (Parley) >> He twists his arm under Parley's hand to awkwardly cradle his elbow. "I don't think he can make anything stick to me. It's just unsettling that he would send /you/ to talk to me about this. I can't figure out if he /knows/ something, or if it's just complete coincidence." His gaze turns somber, and his eyes do their own searching in the cat-like gaze. "Just. Be careful, okay?" "I don't really see how it's that dangerous," when Doug's arm twists under his hand, voila! Parley's fingers are shed without complaint. He busies himself opening a cabinet to get out two mismatched mugs. Murmuring as he does, "Oscorp, if anything, is one of the few businesses with /pro/ mutant leanings. It's possible he selected me," he pours hot water into one of the cups - it has little blue flowers around its rim - and hands it to Doug, "for the simple reason I am your /neighbor/. That's not difficult to find out. My abilities make investigative work rather soft-handed and delicate. And if what you're saying is true, and he's considering your father's connections, a soft-hand is exactly appropriate." He mashes down his hair, looking over the implements he's set out. And he then says, with an edge of exasperation, "Pick a tea." "I gave you the murderdrone files, right?" Doug's smile is a bit more relaxed, and he ducks his head. "I don't trust people at Osborn's level on a basic level, but with what I know about some projects is enough to make me extra cautious, here." He accepts the cup, his fingers closing around Parley's warmly for a moment. << (my friend) (maybe a little more) (keep him) >> "I'm sorry for the way I came in here," he says. "What you're saying makes perfect sense. I was just freaking out. I feel--" << (protective) (responsible) >> "I'd hate for anything to happen to you," he corrects, and moves to poke a thumb through the tea bags, eventually coming up with a flowery-smelling black tea. "You know?" The side of Parley's mouth twitches, his eyes blank. "I," he admits, "would also rather nothing happen to me." He stands motionless for a moment, looking at the refrigerator door with his head tipped to one side. Then exhales through his nose, "Though," and this is so light as to almost sound amused, filling his own cup with hot water and heading out towards the living room, "I don't tend to trust anyone, out of habit. If you look far enough into any company, you'll find their skeletons." He tears open his tea packet with his teeth, gazing down at the ground, "--I wish this hadn't fallen back on you. I'll do everything I can to see that it blows over into your benefit. If the opportunity arose, would you /want/ to work for Oscorp?" "That's probably a good policy," Doug says, ripping open his bag and dunking it before he follows after Parley. "Although, it probably makes for nervous living." He frowns into his mug, walking up behind the smaller man and setting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, I knew there was a chance of blow back," he says. "I've been poking around in too much stuff for other people to /not/ be in this spot." He doesn't /sound/ worried, but there's a bit of anxiety still floating around in there. There's a gentle squeeze, and then he's pulling his hand back. "I-I'm not sure," he says, genuinely surprised by the question. "I'm sure it would be a very educational experience. And it /would/ be a way I could monitor stuff from the inside." He furrows his brow. "What do you think about it?" "Hmm. Do I look," Parley doesn't seem to mind the hand on his shoulder, though he looks down at it curiously when it moves away again, "nervous?" The pure flippancy fades to something a little more worn while he climbs up onto the arm of the couch to perch, "I do mean it when I say /stop/ poking, though. If Mr. Osborn is interested in calling and talking to you, he's letting it be known that he's interested in seeking resolution. The situation can be salvageable right now, as long as there are no more complications." He bobs his teabag against the bottom of his cup, "--I think that you should pursue your own goals. I don't feel comfortable telling you what you should or shouldn't do, but I will give you this to consider: you've /seen/ the sorts of projects they also work on. And to work for them will, to some level, put culpability also on you, for helping them to further their agenda. Knowledge is a terrible burden." "You don't look nervous, no." Doug's mouth presses into a tight line, briefly. "But you don't seem all that flappable, for the most part. So I don't know if you /are/, or not." He closes one eye at the perched man thoughtfully. "You're a hard read on most things. Maybe that's why I like you so much." He smiles a bit, and moves forward, holding up a hand. "I promised you I would not poke any more, and I meant it. My hands are clean, and all my stuff on Oscorp is safely saved and tucked away somewhere secret." His cup gets swirled around gently, and he watches the water as it colors. "I asked what you thought because you're my friend, and I value your input," he says earnestly. "But you're right -- I don't think I could live with myself putting that kind of stuff out in the world." He lifts his eyebrows. "Given the option, I'd be much happier working for Stark Industries." "That is of course you decision to make," Parley says this, semi-distracted, while pulling his laptop up off the couch cushions. Taking a first sip of tea, he opens it one handed, punches in a rather long password, and scans a document of writing. "You like people that you have difficulty reading?" Not lifting his eyes, the side of his mouth twitches up, "That's the opposite of what you said you wanted last time in your company." It's a tease, his non-tea-cup hand typing a few words. "Anyway. I should be getting back to work. You're welcome to take the cup with you; we have many. I went garage sale-ing. I'm sorry again this happened, Mr. Ramsey. Good evening." There's a flicker of disappointment that crosses Doug's face when he's so casually dismissed, and he hides it behind a smile. "Sure," he says, and immediately beelines for the door. "Let me know how it goes." There's no farewell offered; just an echo of that disappointment -- keen as a knife's edge, that dissipates as the door closes behind him. Once outside, he sets the cup carefully on the threshold untouched, and disappears silently, moodily down the hall.