ArchivedLogs:Jim Gordon and Night-Wing

Jim Gordon and Night-Wing
Dramatis Personae Eric, Peter
In Absentia	2013-06-01 Eric comes with a present for Peter. It is, for once, not his hammer.
Location <WES> Harry's Hideaway - Salem Center
A cozy nook of a bar, Harry's has been run by the same grizzled proprietor for decades. The fare they serve is plain and typical bar food, but solid and well-prepared, and what the alcohol lacks in variety it makes up for in quality. Close proximity and long-developed relationships with the staff at Xavier's means they turn a blind eye to the mutants who frequent the bar. As the afternoon begins to slip and turn into evening on this hot Saturday, the heat has driven more people into Harry's Hideaway even despite the early hour. Sitting not far from the enterence to the door, Eric is sitting in one of the booths with a small black bag next to him. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a dark green shirt, he looks more conservative than his usual dress - after all, the shirt is /almost/ a dress shirt, and is even cut to fit him! (As opposed to cut a size or two too small.) The half-empty beer in front of him doesn't seem to have brought a smile on his face, though one sparks to his lips as people pass by only to fade a few moments after they leave. A menu is open on the table in front of him which he occasionally peruses, one finger tracing down the laminated page. Peter's arrival is veeeeery slow. Maybe, creep-creep? Like a little spider sneaking about underfoot, testing to see if it is safe. He's dressed -- well, the heat is /murderous/ on him, but if he doesn't cover up, he has a tendency to draw a lot of attention on account of shiny, gleaming skin. So he's wearing a loose-fitting white t-shirt -- one with BOBA FETT and DARTH VADER as Vincent and Jules from Pulp Fiction -- a pair of loose bluejeans, and sneakers. He's also /gleaming/, chitinous and black, as he scuttles past an occasional glaring eye or curious onlooker. As Peter enters, Eric /might/ notice that -- yep, he's wearing his funny looking wrist-watches. Again. He's also eyeing Eric warily as he approaches -- but setting on a very tentative, tiny smile. Like, hello! I see you! You aren't going to eat me. He makes his way over, eyes swaying this way and that as he navigates the room. "...hi," Peter says, tone nervous, both his hands thrust into his pockets. Once he's within arm's reach, he's having a hard time making eye contact. Eric looks up from his menu as Peter approaches, slowly. He gestures to the other side of the booth, then looks down at his menu once more. "Hello." he says, a tad of tension working its way through his voice. Perhaps recognizing this - perhaps not - he lifts his hand and takes another long sip of his beer, finishing off half of the remaining liquid in a long gulping movement. Replacing the glass back on the ground, Eric tilts his head to one side and looks up at Peter. "Please, sit." He leans backwards against his seat, eyes locking on the younger man. "I've got somethin' for ya." he says, patting the bag next to him. "But you gotta take it and hide it away at that school of yours." Peter /bristles/ a little bit, before -- plop -- he sits down in the booth, opposite Eric. Frowning a little bit as he peers down at his lap. At the mention of the bag, Peter's eyes flick up to it -- then back up to Eric's face. "Something for...?" he begins, before quickly adding: "--listen, about the other--I just. Um. I'm really, /really/ sorry about--that." This apology makes Eric's lips press together into a thin line. He reaches down and picks the black trashbag up, sliding it over on top of the table. "Here." The police officer says, ignoring the other man's apology. "And don't ask how I got it. It's better if you don't know." he says, leaning back and picking up his beer glass once more. Inside the bag is the contents of a box that had been tucked away safely in the evidence room at the New York Police Department by one of its more corrupt officers after Peter had been taken to the fightclubcamp. "--what? Uh. Okay? Is this--what is this," Peter asks, /staring/ at the trashbag. Like, he's just been given Eric's trash. Then he's opening it -- shoving his head into it, for a moment. Just, open, SHOVE. Inspect. There's a box inside! One of Peter's arms slips in, and there's a slight, hidden rustling, his face and arms briefly out of Eric's view. All of the sudden, the rustling comes to a /sharp/ halt. For about five seconds, Peter is completely and utterly still, just -- face shoved in a bag, along with an arm. When his head comes back out -- veeeeery slowly -- his eyes are big, and wide, and just. /Staring/ at Eric. Mouth slightly open. "You know there are better ways to see what's in a bag than shoving your head in, yeah?" Eric drawls, and there is a trace of amusement in his voice. "You can... ya'know. Open it and look?" He takes a long sip of his beer and then crosses his arms over his chest, eyes twinkling with a faint mischief. "Burn that box when you get back'ta the school. You can keep the stuff inside it. Figure it's rightly yours, anyway." he says, and finishes off the rest of his glass with a long swig. It's actually probably a wonder Peter survived till puberty; the suffocation warning on small bags was probably written with him explicitly in mind. He's still just /staring/ at Eric as he explains this, mouth still open, eyes still wide. And then, as if he's just catching up on this entire conversation: "Y--tha--you got. Oh /man/ that, that," he looks back down at the bag, back at Eric, and. Now he's just SHIMMYING AROUND, up off the seat in the booth and moving toward Eric's side instead, FLINGING arms around him from the side. SQUEEZE. It's a very awkward, misshapen hug. The look Peter gets as he's approaching Eric is slightly confused and slightly defensive. The hug is unexpected, and Eric's spine straightens. He blinks several times, the gears in his brain clashing together angrily before he realizes what's going on. His arm comes up and squeezes around Peter, a smile spreading on his face. His body is strong and muscled, and even the light squeeze that he gives is a firm pressure, pulling Peter against his side. "You /are/ Jim Gordon," Peter says, kind-of-forcefully, but very quietly -- squeezing into that hug. Peter is /quite/ strong; much stronger than his small frame implies -- but he's holding back. So as not to CRUSH BONES INTO POWDER. He actually has no idea that Eric could probably survive a full-force Peter-squeeze. "Thank you," he mumbles, face shoved roughly against Eric's shoulder. After a few seconds, he pulls back; his face is flushed violet as he scoots away -- a bit embarrassed -- and suddenly moves, sloooowly back to the seat across from Eric. "...um," Peter begins, glancing up to Eric only /after/ he has settled back into that chair. One hand very /firmly/ gripping that plastic bag. "About, uh. Shane." Violet flutters into indigo. He is suddenly /very/ interested in the booth across from theirs. PEER. Eric grins at this statement - then laughs. He brushes the side of his head against Peter's in a movement that sweeps his cheek against the other man's forehead. His eyes track over the man's skin for a moment, following that violet and indigo color change. "I guess that would make you Batman." he says, bemusedly. "I think he's a bit richer than you are. Older, too. You're more of a... Robin." He teases, lightly. "Shane. Yes, what about Shane?" he asks, one eyebrow raising with an amused expression. "Do you want anything to drink, or eat?" he asks, looking down at his menu. "I could use another beer." "I'm not -- Robin is, pfft," Peter exclaims, rather forcefully. "/Night-Wing/." But then, back to indigo. "Y-yeaaah, um. I -- maybe something to drink," Peter admits, before adding: "Something cold, because holy crap. Uh." He reaches to fiddle with the edges of the plastic bag. Fiddle, fiddle. "...I remember that you two are -- were -- /are/," Peter recorrects his correction, "close. Um. I just. I, um. We're -- seeingeachother," he finally squeaks, pulling that back toward him, as if to shield himself behind it. "And, I. I just don't want to -- it's okay if you two are -- uh. This is /really/ weird for me." Eric blinks several times. It is, apparently, his turn to stare at Peter. Then, all of a sudden, he bursts out laughing. Laughing and laughing, head shaking slowly. He rubs with one fingertip under his eye, grinning at Peter and tilting his head ot one side. "I... I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry," he drawls, waving a hand in the air in a very apologetic fashion. "Ya d'know he's dating, like... two guys, yeah? Was when we first started fuckin'. I assumed you were alri' with it, or he might not be the best guy for ya t'date." He waves his hand out, trying to catch the attention of a waitress. Peter's head sinks downward into his arms when Eric starts to laugh. When Eric says the f-word, Peter dives /deep/ into indigo territory. "Ohman," he says, kind-of-weakly. "Yeah do you know he brought. Half the school, to the dance? As his dates. And, and, I don't know. Should I be jealous? I don't, I don't even know. I mean, maybe I'm not the jealous type? I -- I want -- to be /special/," Peter admits, his head -- sneeeeaking up a little, to peer at Eric. Still firmly in indigo territory. "To him, I mean. But -- is it weird that I -- don't even know if I care? About him --" Peter searches for the right word, here. Swallowing. "--/doing/ things, with other people. It's not like he's ever been dishonest about it. Oh my /God/," Peter exclaims, now, head snapping up and arms extending toward the ceiling, "if there is /one/ thing he is not, it's /discrete/ about who he's--" Eyes flick to Eric. Hands descend to the table. Peter peers at his thumbs. "--doing things with." "Half the school?" Eric's expression fades just a bit, and he reaches up and scratches a little bit at his head. "No, he's not very... discrete, certainly." he says, faintly. He shakes his head, once, shifting in his seat. A waitress, finally, comes over, and Eric orders a burger, and a second beer. He waits for Peter to order, and for the waitress to leave, before he continues. "I dunno. I'm not a great guy t' ask, ya know?" He says, shrugging once and leaning back in his seat. "From where I sit, as long as you're havin' fun, and they're havin' fun, who cares about the rest, yeah?" Not, perhaps, Romeo and Juliet. Peter orders something /frosty/. Do they have smoothies? He'll have one of those. With a quick little check toward Eric to make sure it's okay, like, 'is this too expensive?'. Once the waiter is gone, Peter /quickly/ nods. "YES half the -- okay maybe not half the school but, like. Twenty people? I don't know. At some point it was like, he just had an entourage. He even would, like, give them out to people who /didn't/ have dates." Peter thinks about this for a moment, /peering/ at Eric. "...you know -- I mean, I guess, I -- maybe haven't known him as long as you," Peter says. "But he's /sensitive/ you know you should be, um. I mean --" Something seems to occur to him; Peter's eyebrows promptly /shoot/ up. "Waitasecond," he says, pointing at Eric -- eyebrows crumpling together. "--how /do/ you -- I mean, he's -- his skin is like -- when we--" And Peter was so close to getting back to his natural metallic blue! Nevermind, STRAIGHT back into indigo. His train of thought promptly vanishes, too. Eyes getting a little wide and promptly /lunging/ his eyes straight down to the menu. "I know." Eric says, eyes twinkling. "Shane's a big boy. He can take care of himself, you know?" A pause, and he shrugs his shoulders. Then he stops, and tilts his head to one side, a perplexed look on his face. "Oh, d'ya not know? I just sorta assumed Shane told you - or Shelby." He glances around the room, tapping his fingers against the table, fingers rattling against the surface of the wood. "I'm a hard guy to hurt, don'tya know." he says, picking up a steak knife. He twirls it in his fingers for a moment, then presses the blade down along his wrist. Not deep, to be sure, but enough to draw a line that splits his flesh and leaves a red line down his skin, staining the tip of the knife red and making him let out a hiss of pain. The wound stays only for a few moments before, just as if an invisible healing-wand was being dragged along his flesh in the same pattern, it knits itself back together. At this display, Peter zips up; he /stares/ at Eric as he brings the steak-knife down against his wrist. A tiny, little squeak that he quickly smothers -- but soon he's staring, watching as the flesh reknits itself, eyes widening and eyebrows /soaring/ upward. "...you're -- oh. Oh," Peter says, and now something seems to click in his head -- though he quickly adds: "Still that would -- really hu-- oh." Eyes kind of flicker with realization. AGAIN, INDIGO. "...oooh," he says. "Um. That's -- /really/cool." Then: "Waitareyou -- do they /know/?!" he asks, staring up at Eric. A mix of -- concern? Worry? And contemplation. "Shane? Yeah. My... employer?" Eric shakes his head, once. "Nah. If they did, I'd not be a cop much longer." he says, softly, and he gives another suspicious look around the room. He sets the knife down on the table, the faint red smear at the tip shimmering innocuously in the light. "I mean, don't get me wrong - a couple'a my co-workers know, but... not many. I lost my job the last time 'round for it, back in Georgia, n'I'd rather not move again. I like the big city." The police officer folds his arms over his chest and he nods his head, once. "Now you know somethin' that could get me fired. I hope I can trust ya ta keep it between us and that it won't get around." There is a light tone of seriousness in his voice as he looks over the younger man. "And... yeah, it is really cool." A wink. "Pfft, you know I'm a terrorist /and/ in possession of illegally obtained evidence /and/ you know I used to run around smearin' my mutant powers all over the place," Peter says -- suddenly /yanking/ the bag off the table, as if to ensure that this description of past events does not somehow REVOKE Peter's right to re-obtaining his webshooters. "I think if anyone's got anything on anybody--" Ah! The waitress is returning. With FROSTY SMOOTHY for Peter. Peter proceeds to snatch it, and /GULP/ it. Gulp, gulp, gulp. SLURP. The whole notion of an ice-cream headache seems well beyond his ability to conceive. "--it'd be me. Mmmph. Um. Thank you," he repeats, again. "I mean -- I was gonna -- rebuild these, but. It woulda been hard, and. And I just -- I know it couldn't have been -- thank you," Peter finishes. "That's true. You're not the best witness, and I think the police might not be ablet'a talk to you long before the feds showed up, lest you were talkin' to them about the same thing." Eric says, watching the other man eat his food with an impressed look on his face. The waitress shows up with his burger a moment lter, and he picks up the burger and takes a large bite. Chew, chew, and then he looks over at Peter, a smile spread wide on his face. "Glad you like it." A pause. "Well. Let's eat."