Logs:Saving Grace
| Saving Grace | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2019-03-03 "Holiness is a scam to steal this motherfucker's sleep." |
| Location
Apt 403 - Village Lofts - East Village | |
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. A widescreen television stands against the wall opposite the couch, shelving beside it holding a host of video games from different consoles. More shelving beside the windows on the far wall carries stacks of board games, as well as sourcebooks from various RPGs. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here and one bathroom situated between them, split between the three people who live here. It's late in the afternoon when the door to Geekhaus thunks open. Dusk has his arms full, a wide and slightly whimpery tray in his hands that has his large overcoat draped over it. His burgundy sweater has gotten a little grubby, and his clothes and hair are damp with snow. He is very ginger about setting his bundle down on the floor so that he can shed his boots and scarf. "Yo," he's calling out to the small and cluttered apartment, "do we have blankets?" Following close behind, Steve is carrying a large bundle wrapped in his navy peacoat. He's also dripping with half-melted snow, wearing a red and black tartan flannel, blue jeans, and black combat boots. One flap of the coat moves and the big square head of a dog -- dark brown brindled coat, probably a mutt with a not insignificant amount of pit bull in her -- peers out, snuffling solicitously in the direction of the tray. Steve kneels and settles her gently down beside it, stroking her broad head. "You live with family? Housemates?" "Uhh --" A voice replies from behind one of the half-open bedroom doors. "/Clean/ blankets?" Kind of dubiously. "I could scrounge some up." "Yup," is the answer that Steve's question gets. Dusk kicks his shoes off into a haphazard jumble of others near the door. "Nah, just blankets. We found dogs. They're already filthy." << Poor things were gonna freeze to /death/ out there. >> He pushes his sunglasses up on his head, surveying the apartment for a moment before heading to a corner to clear a space where he can settle the shield and uncover the pups. He goes to fetch a bowl from the kitchen, giving it a cursory wiping down before filling it with water so he can set it down for the mother. "... can dogs eat ferret food?" Steve starts unlacing his boots, gazing around in admirably concealed chagrin. << My God, it looks like a bomb went off in here. >> "Hello there," he calls out, straightening up and going to where Dusk has set down the pups. "So sorry to intrude. There are several dogs, but most of them are very small. Don't ferrets eat...meat? That should be fine, right?" The mother dog noses the bowl of water, sniffs at it, then finally starts drinking in delicate laps. From the bedroom: "Google says it's fine so long as you don't make a habit of it. Too much fat. We aren't, uh, /keeping/ the dogs are we? /How/ many dogs?" The door is opening again. In contrast to his housemates, Flicker looks very put together! Suit and tie, neatly pressed dress shirt, neatly tied tie, his dark coat folded and draped over one arm (his hand, today, matte black with silver snowflakes drifting down over it.) "--There's dogs? We got dogs?" Light, hopeful. In tone, anyway. He doesn't voice his quiet mental doubts about /who/ is going to clean up after Dogs. Only secondarily: "Oh, /hey/." A flutter of memory -- a red cap, artwork scattering on concrete -- "Steve, right? I didn't know you were Dusk's --" There's a beat of pause as he turns to lock the door and start shedding his polished dress shoes. "Date." "Alanna would get jealous." Dusk reaches out a hand and runs his fingers very lightly against the mother dog's head. "I talked to a rescue group Jax recommended but it's going to take them a bit to get a volunteer who can take them in. So they're just here till then." The tip of one wing curls down in greeting when Flicker returns home, and a flush of pink creeps into his cheeks. "I kind of fucked the date thing up again. We got sidetracked by --" He gestures towards the tiny pups squirming on his overcoat. "Five small, one large," Steve reports dutifully. "Though the large one is.../pretty large/ large." The mother dog lifts her head to nose at Dusk's hand. Steve straightens up when he hears the door, tensing and fully ready to fight though there's no /conscious/ thought behind this reaction. Relaxes when he sees Dusk is unperturbed. Then a shock of recognition. "Flicker? Yes, Steve, um...it's great to see you again. Small world!" His eyes dart back to Dusk for a moment, and his cheeks flush hot. << You and me both, buddy. >> The twist of emotions behind that thought are difficult to untangle -- confusion, guilt, overwhelming grief firmly tamped down, and yes, attraction. "I hardly think it's your fault. We had lives to save." Only when Flicker returns home does the bedroom door finally properly open. Hive is in faded and threadbare old jeans, an equally ancient grey-blue sweatshirt that's kind of falling apart, a brown tee shirt underneath featuring a pair of cartoon hedgehogs staring at a third who has upended a tin of blue paint over himself. There's a bundle of blankets wadded up in his arms. "There's always next time, right?" He tosses the blankets. Kind of at Dusk's face. Shuffles out of the bedroom to give the dogs a passing once-over on his way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing. To Flicker, with a lift of chin: "You feeling holier?" Dusk hums, quietly, as he rubs gently at the dog's nose. "-- Amen," the humming shifts into singing. "Take me to church --" It's cut off by a faceful of blanket. Mmph. "You all know each other?" He lifts his hand to scoop the blankets up, arranging /them/ in the corner but hesitating with a great uncertainty over actually /transferring/ the tiny blind pups from the shield into the new nest. "So what is holiness, then?" The song is still playing in his head -- /his/ current mental vision of Holiness involves some very passionate ballet dancing. "Flicker and Hive were the ones who introduced me to Luci. Helped me out of a really tough spot." << Did I even thank them? God, that day was a blur... >> Steve watches Dusk, eyebrows wrinkling just a touch. << Injury, perhaps? >> But he doesn't say anything, only kneels again and scoops up the puppies one by one, tucking them into the blanket-nest Dusk made. "Well, to those who keep the sabbath -- today." He quirks a small sidelong smile at his date. "You just come from church?" he asks Flicker over his shoulder, casual. << Oh, wow, that was astoundingly stupid. >> "How's it going over there? Things working out okay?" Hive leans against the counter, his arms crossing over his chest. "Holiness is a scam to steal this motherfucker's sleep." "I sleep." Flicker's protest is mild. He rests an arm against the back of the couch. Tucks his cheek in the crook of it, watching the puppies settle into the blankets. The flick of his eyes to Steve is brief. As is the brief mental bafflement at the question, measuring his own outfit against those of his housemates. "/And/ I keep the sabbath. They don't have to conflict. Holiness," he finally decides, "is << -- putting aside your 'date' to -- >> taking the time to save a stray litter of puppies from the snow." "He's lying," Dusk informs Steve cheerfully. And then, hastily amending: "About the sleep. /Not/ the church, unless he's been pulling some kind of /very/ long con." His brows hitch up, and the smile that curls across his face is quick and wickedly sharp. "/Really/. I don't think I've been accused of holiness in a long time. So you're saying --" His thumbclaw twitches in Flicker's direction, his eyes wider and earnest, "that these puppies were sent by /God/ himself to help sanctify my afternoon with Steve? We definitely have to keep 'em now." "It's...the Tessiers have been wonderful." Steve's smile is a little faint, and there's a mess of frustration and worry underneath. "I've got a job and hopefully will be able to find my own place soon." << One way or another. >> His cheeks turn pink again, and he dips his head. "Well, I don't know if it's all /that/," to Flicker. At Dusk's addition, he blushes much harder, all the way up to his ears. << Sanctify? Hell, maybe it was a saving grace. >> "God's ways may be mysterious, but I really doubt that's...exactly...um..." << It was a bit easier to deal with this particular sin when I was in near constant risk of being shot, stabbed, or blown up. And he was always so damned -- >> A sharp wordless blow of anguish rocks him /physically/. He covers it by sitting back on his heels -- which incidentally puts a /little/ more distance between himself and Dusk. Hive's brows lift, his eyes skating to Steve briefly. His teeth grind, shoulders tightening up as he exhales slowly. "Your /own/ place." This comes with a small chuff. "Montagues must be paying you well." He straightens, going to scrub out a pair of mugs from the sink. "Don't mind Dusk, man, he's just ribbing Flicker." He dries the mugs, fills them both with black coffee. Picks his way through the living room to offer one to Steve. "You ought to know I've been listening in on every damn thing going through your mind, though, and I really have to ask. /Why/ did you go on a date with him in the first place if you're not even comfortable with it?" His head jerks toward Dusk. "It's not like he tends to be subtle about his intentions. If you needed a -- what. /Saving grace/. You just say hey, no, not interested, I'm dealing with a whole mess of my own shit right now." "I wasn't --" Flicker begins an immediate protest at the idea that the puppies were Divine Gay Blessing. "I only meant that --" But whatever he did mean, it cuts off with a hard clamp of teeth. A bright flush spreading up into his cheeks. He looks to Dusk, with a sharp flash of concern. As Steve flushes, Dusk focuses very deliberately on his breathing. Steady and measured; the undercurrent of hunger in his mind is a growling gnawing distraction, though one that's -- -- abruptly set aside at Hive's words. He rocks back to balance on his heels and the points of his wings, a sudden twist heavy in his gut. "-- Oh. I'm sorry, I --" The jumble spinning through his mind comes in unhappy fragments. << lots of reasons someone might >> << not Hive's place to pry >> << not /my/ place to push did i push >> << was he just scared to say no? >> << fuck was he saying no that first time should i have... >> Unconsciously, his wings curl in smaller against his back, his lips pressing closed. Steve rapidly cycles through anger, confusion, anger, guilt, more confusion, and finally anger again. Outwardly, this mostly looks like confusion slowly graduating to tightly controlled fury -- the furrow between his brows smoothing, his face going blank, jaw setting hard. Even when his thoughts resolve into words, they're disjointed and barely coherent. << What in the name of -- why would you -- I /should/ have told him -- /how/ is this an acceptable -- I should known what he was asking -- but a man's private thoughts -- my God, is /anything/ my own -- >> He rises, very slowly, deliberately straight, clenching his fists and immediately unclenching them. << Stand down, Rogers. Maybe this is -- /normal?/ Now? Maybe he doesn't -- is he hearing /this/, too?! >> He takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Eyes flick to Dusk, noting his posture with a pang of regret. "No, it was -- my fault. I'd meant to explain. Over coffee." He takes another breath. Looks at Hive sharply. "Stay out of my head." He doesn't quite grit it out through his teeth, but it's a near thing. "/Please./" Hive sets one of the mugs down on the floor. the He sips carefully from the other, his hand dropping to rest on Dusk's shoulder with a firm squeeze. "It's not normal, and I am hearing that, too. I can't stay out of your head, believe me, if I could turn it off, I sure as hell would. This isn't like." His teeth grit slowly. "A fun game for me or something. The best I can do is let people know." His eyes drop to Steve's clenched fists. "Which you can imagine, everyone usually takes really fucking well." Flicker is quiet here. Externally, at least, though the moment Steve starts to move his mind has clicked into a rapid and hyper-aware assessment of the other man's stance. Expressions. Posture. Even before Steve's fists have clenched his own posture shifts, levering himself a bit more upright on the couch, though he's not moving; his expression still mostly just quiet concern as Dusk moves. The clench in Dusk's stomach eases at Hive's touch, though the more muted sense of regret lingers. He just nods, getting to his feet and moving off to the kitchen to root kind of aimlessly through the fridge. He turns up nothing, leans back against it instead. "It's --" << Shitty? >> << My fault? >> "It's fine. I just -- don't really get..." One wing briefly hitches up. "Explain what? Why didn't you tell me you weren't interested?" Steve's rage doesn't -- dissipate, exactly, but does lose its force abruptly enough to leave him reeling. << Well. Fuck. >> He raises both hands, palms out, to show he intends no violence. Opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Shakes his head as if that might clear away all the half-formed thoughts and adrenaline and the sense of existential freefall that was already lurking in the back of his mind and has now seized its moment to shine. "Alright," he says, quietly. << He said /listening in/, that is -- No. Stop. Just /try/ to be decent. >> "I -- apologize. For assuming." His expression is blank as he watches Dusk get up. Shakes his head again. << Like hell I'm going to do it with that -- person. Listening. But -- >> He sighs, suddenly tired. << Better a fool than a liar. >> "I didn't know you were asking me out to -- for -- in that way. And when I /did/ realize I --" << Wanted you anyway? /Didn't/ want to sound like a fucking idiot...again? Clearly wasn't ready to function like an actual human being? >> "-- I made it more complicated than it needed to be," is what he finally settles on. "I'm sorry for misleading you." He kneels down to scratch the mother dog behind the ears, loneliness pressing down on him. << Just go. You've done enough damage. >> "And for making a scene in your home. I'll get out of your hair." He picks up his shield, emptied of puppies, and hooks it back onto its harness on his back. It's a monumental effort for him to walk -- not run -- to the door, pull on his boots, and go. The weight of Hive's mind falls heavily against Flicker's. For just a moment it rests there, before curling in tight with a familiar slice of pain that is over nearly as soon as it starts; Hive's habitual slouch straightens to mirror Flicker's more upright posture as his mind weaves itself seamlessly to the other. His teeth don't stop their grinding, though. "Sorry," he says to Dusk, gruff, as he takes his coffee back to his bedroom, "I thought you'd want to know."
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