ArchivedLogs:A Little Taste of Home
| A Little Taste of Home | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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14 July 2014 Shane brings home another stray. (Set just after seeking help. Part of zombieplot.) |
| Location
<NYC> {Lighthaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
Bright and sunny-light, this house lives up to its name. With a plethora of enormous windows flooding the place with light and an open layout, the ground floor feels more spacious than it is. The small entryway has a closet space for shoes and coats, and doors at either side leading to the neighboring apartments. Past this it opens straight into the living room, a wide expanse of space bordered on one side by a curved set of stairs leading up (with colourful glass tiling on the risers between each stair) and next to these, the half-wall into the kitchen. Cool pale tile underfoot and many dark cabinets with a small walk-in pantry, plentiful custom granite countertops, black and speckled faintly with rainbowy flecks, lots of hanging space overhead for cookware, a large double-oven. There's a strip of rather detailed mosaic-work in the kitchen backsplash, colourful glass tiling depicting strange fantastical herbs and small faeries and firelizards darting among them. In back of the kitchen, a door opens up to a small sunroom, wide and two-stories high with a balcony overlook from the second floor; two of the windows here have cushioned windowseats, and there's a wealth of herbs growing in hanging pots and small window-boxes. The back wall of the living room is nearly entirely dominated by windows, huge and allowing a view of the river beyond with bench windowseats lining the sills. There are plentiful paintings on the wall, surreal and fantasy-inspired, mostly in shades of blacks greys with bright bursts of colour that are mirrored in the decor -- monochrome upholstery on the couch and armchair but colourful throw-pillows, black and white huge corduroy beanbags (and one large red doggie-bed,) soft throw rugs also in mostly black and white with splashes of rainbow woven in. The hand-built furniture -- tall chairs by the kitchen/living room counter, dining table and chairs in the kitchen, low coffeetable in the living room -- has been hand-painted as well, black with bursts of colourful abstract designs. Along the living room's other wall, doors branch off to a full bathroom -- in white and deep blue with one wall of the shower done in colourful intricate mosaic too, an underwater scene full of strange mythical water-creatures; tiny water-sprites have been interspersed at random points in the rest of the wall tiles, as well. There's a small studio space beside the bathroom, large windows as well and a gratuitous amount of shelving and cabinets along the walls; this room has very /little/ colour in it, just white walls and black furnishing.
/In/ an hour, Lighthaus is smelling good and properly like dinner. It's bright in here, lit more by dint of the myriad lamps Jax has seeded the apartment with rather than the huge windows -- /outside/ the world is grey and rainy and the windows are sheeting down water more than letting in light, meaning that for once Jax has reluctantly gone around and closed them all. In preparation for a /Georgian/ stray there's a solidly Southern repast finishing up on the stoves -- not that Jax ever really /needs/ much incentive to whip up black-eyed peas, collards, baked yams, cornbread finishing in the skillet. In the kitchen things are /even/ brighter, a dancing flutter of tiny winged lizards in various bright-metallic colours flitting and twirling through the air around him as he sings along with music playing off his laptop -- "Little Bit of Life", to which the tiny dragons are moving in time. He's not /quite/ done, really, with food preparations; there's a glass baking dish in front of him already spread with a goopy mixture of peaches and basil and he's stirring with a wooden spoon at a bowl that soon /enough/ will be cobbler topping. Barefoot save for the very brightly rainbow tie-dyed cast still on his leg, he's sitting at a high stool at the counter as he mixes rather than standing. He's dressed, today, in a dark purple canvas skirt, ribbed black tank spotted with pink and silver stars that match his sparkly nailpolish; despite the rain and being indoors there's a large pair of mirrored dark glasses covering his eyes. Micah made it home, but not with /much/ time to be helpful. There is evidence of his dash up the stairs as soon as he got in, the way his messenger bag was left by the door and forgotten paired up with the fact that his auburn hair is now spiky-wet from a swift shower. There is simply no handling food 'til the /hospital/ is washed off first. He is also changed from work clothes into jeans and a TARDIS-blue T-shirt with a Nouveau interpretation of Doctor Hooves sprawled over its front, feet bare (the left one clearly prosthetic). With the food all but done (save the baking, which he is likely /disallowed/ to touch), he has busied himself with setting up the table and placing a fresh pitcher of sweet tea out for the group. Shane is SO very helpful, in that he is helpfully bringing home extra mouths to feed today. One extra mouth, anyway; he's likely hitched a ride over from the Red Cross office back to home in Noah's truck -- it's not a /long/ subway trip, really, but there's easier parking space outside the Commons anyway than there is in Clinton. He's still dressed in neatly tailored grey trousers, salmon-pink button down, equally well-tailored vest -- his clothes carry a distinct /campfire/ smell of burning-down-house, coming as he is off of a disaster run (his shiny reflective-taped Red Cross vest is draped over an arm, still.) "SO," he's telling Noah as he pushes his way into the house -- and slips off his shoes by the door -- "This is home -- well okay this is my folks' home I live just next door -- I mean, okay, it's /all/ home. Hi!" This end is chirped brighter as he skates in on socked feet against the wood floor. "Pa, Ba, this is Noah. He just got into town -- Noah, my dads." Did he mention there were two dads? No? Because there are two dads. "The cyborg is Micah and the glitterbug is Jax. And if you see a really hyper smallthing running around anywhere that's my brother." Noah kept silent thought Shane's speech, glancing around the apartment and uncomfortably rubbing a bare arm. He's dressed in old, faded jeans, and a button down shirt that once had sleeves and color. They could do with a washing, and his socks were revealed to be a bit holey once he had stumbled out of his boots after Shane. "S'nice place," he said, once he felt to was his turn to talk. He wanted woods desperately. And grass. "Thanks so much for havin' me. Shane's been- real nice. Really helped me earlier." "Noah?" Jax leans over the counter to poke his head out of his kitchen -- one of his tiny lightshow-dragonflies slips out along /with/ him, shifting as it moves to a distinctly more /puppylike/ appearance -- there's a hint of luckdragon about it now with its friendly face and floppy ears. A sunny bright smile warms his (very /scarred/) face, and he waggles his spoon in greeting. "Evenin', sir. It ain't no problem we kinda been used t'cookin' for -- actually okay no even when I /don't/ got a crowd, I cook for a crowd." There's a hint of a blush that creeps into his cheeks with this admission, a sheepish note to his molasses-thick Georgia drawl. "Think Spence flitted over to the big house, Taylor's visitin' an' he an' Dai whisked off for some video games." Which cannot be played over here -- at least, there is no television anywhere in evidence in the house. "Anyway welcome t'New York what's brung y'up here?" "Hey, sugar," Micah replies to Shane's greeting with a quick-bright smile, leaving off his fussing over the table to wrap the teen in a /tight/ hug. Yes, in front of his friend...apparently he's /that/ kind of parent, on top of looking not /too/ long out of his teens himself. "Nice t'meet y'Noah." This comes with an extended right hand for shaking, though the forearm has a small stretch of highlighter-yellow crosshatch pattern across it. Fibreglass cast dye doesn't come off in just one washing, after all. His smile pulls a little lopsided, the faintest hint of pink rising in his cheeks. "He just means m'leg by 'cyborg'," he clarifies, tapping his left foot just a little. A little roll of a chuckle comes at Jax's talk of cooking. "Yeah, long's there's one of us home, s'always more'n enough food. An' Jax's got it smellin' like /home/ in here t'night, on top of it." Though Micah's accent doesn't have the deep-South drawl of his Georgian husband, it does have a decidedly rural Southern flavour—more just a lack of enunciation in the vein of cow-and-corn-country Virginia. Assuredly all those letters in the words were just vague recommendations, anyhow. "S'good he's been friendly for you. Y'wanna have a seat? Somethin' t'drink? Got a pitcher of sweet tea on the table, but there's other things we might be able t'fetch if y'prefer it." "Sharks get a bad rap, we're the friendli/est/. So long as you don't /mind/ a little biting." Shane is not bothered by the hug, returning it in a tight squeeze -- though admittedly it /does/ come with a small press of teeth in against Micah's bicep. /Tiny/chomp. "/I/ met him down at the Red Cross, he was -- he /is/ -- looking for his folks." Shane notably entirely lacks any of his fathers' Southern twang to his words, blandly unassuming Hollywood-American that could place his roots just about anywhere in the country. Given that /both/ the men he's introduced as his dads look barely much older than him it may be a safe enough bet that he /doesn't/ entirely get his roots from them. "I know sweet tea is like. The official beverage of your people but Pa makes this basil lemonade that's pretty much to die for. Though it's better when it's hot and not pouring down outside." He is drifting over to the large windows that overlook the Commons courtyard, thunking his head against the glass to peer out through the wet at the grassy expanse beyond. Noah almost looked a little dizzy from all the talking. He returned Micah's handshake, and even though he was shy, it was a strong one. "I ain't really had proper sweet tea since I left home. And everythin' smells real good." His accent was close to Jax's bit maybe a little rougher, little more backwoods. He gave Jax a small smile with the compliment that faded and left his expression grey once Shane mentioned his parents. "They was up here for vacation when things happened," he explained quietly, arms folding over his chest. "I think they'd be okay. They're tough people." Jax feigns a small gasp at the mention of not having proper sweet tea in a while. "We'll fix you /right/ up," he promises, finishing stirring at his batter and starting to spoon it in gloops atop the basil-peach cobbler filling. Around him the flitting dragons start to shimmer and fade, blurring together into just a swirl of pale soft colours as his smile fades into a more serious expression. "They -- oh. Oh, things -- yeah, that's. Things was --" He draws in a breath slowly, lifting his hand to press the back of his wrist to the center of his forehead briefly. "If there's anything we can do t'help you let us know, aright? Things -- got pretty chaotic but s'a lotta folks around who know New York /pretty/ good." Micah looks surprisingly unperturbed by the shark teeth attached to his arm. His handshake is firm, hand well-callused in the way of a person quite familiar with manual labour. "Can always do a touch of both. Tea now, lemonade with dessert. From the smell of things, it'll go right along with what Jax's bakin'. An' the damp'll just make the baked foods taste better." His hand is barely free before he's back at the table, glass poured and ready for handing off to Noah before condensation even gets a chance to bead on it. "Y'got missin' folks?" His smile dulls a few shades, eyebrows bowing in toward one another. "Should e-mail some pictures to one of us if y'got 'em. Know enough folks as get around an' could tell if they've seen 'em." "/Pa/ knows New York pretty good he kind of gets around -- /uh/ not in the fucking-everybody way," Shane helpfully clarifies, "just like a lot of street art and helping goddamn /everybody/ and -- and through the worst of it he was out there a lot. Actually a lot of us were. Dusk might be good to ask too or --" Though as his eyes slide over towards Geekhaus something a little bit darker crosses his expression. "... I mean. Hive would… know if." He shakes this thought away with a quick exhale, gills fluttering afterwards with a soft whicker of sound against his collar. "Oh and Jim's a PI and -- hey maybe if he's /got/ something of theirs --" Thankfully for Noah this stream of chatter /does/ eventually taper off, mostly so that Shane can zip over to the kitchen and steal a few black-eyed peas from their pot, eyes squeezing shut blissfully when he pops them into his mouth. "... Oh /man/ I don't know how you do that it's like food-magic." Noah sipped his tea throughout Shane's talking, a blush covering his cheeks at a bit of language. The tea wa comforting and tasted like home, and maybe helped him speak once there was a break in conversation. "Thank you," he said sincerely to Jax. "I got a picture of 'em with me. Don't really know much 'bout email and all that." He pulled a folded and worn around the edges picture from his back pocket and handed it out to Micah. The couple in the photo was young for Noah being in his early twenties, maybe in their late thirties. The woman was a little over five and a half feet, dark hair in a messy braid and still wild, and the man next to her seemed to be as broad shouldered as a barn and about a foot taller, his hair almost red in the sun. A quiver was slung over the woman's back, a traditional bow in one hand, and he held a hunting rifle. Both were dressed in nature toned neutrals with the bare minimum of camo and hunter orange. "Their names are Helen and Wyatt. You woulda remembered 'em if you met 'em. Real big rednecks, but not... Not the bad kind." "I ain't sure those memories is nothin' Hive wants to dig through," Jax says in a very low murmur when Shane comes over to pilfer the beans. "But if Jim's up for a challenge, might be a good --" He trails off, sliding off his chair so that he can slide the cobbler into the oven and set the timer on it. There's a definite blush also in his cheeks at Shane's turn of phrase, and it lingers as he slips a crutch underneath his arm to make his way out from behind the counter and examine Noah's photo. "An' if you /do/ got any belongings'a theirs on you, we might -- might --" He drifts back into quiet, studying the photograph in front of him. His brow knits together slowly, and around the edges of the room there are hazy curls of shadow shifting and growing that start to take vague shape. A few half-formed silhouettes of human figures; eventually one solidifies into the form of a woman -- the woman from the picture, it becomes clear, as her features come more into clarity. Hair a good deal more /mussed/, different clothes filthy and blood-spattered, a bow in her hand. Jax's teeth sink down against his lip, and the images vanish. "I don't forget no faces from home. I run into them -- it was late. Late --" His hand passes against his scarred cheek, brows furrowing deeper in thought. "November. They done help me get some folks' -- building cleared'a biters. Get them t'a safehouse t'pick up their cure." Shane's colourful language earns a wince and a fiercer blush, Micah's cheeks darkening to a rosier hue. "Horus'd be good t'ask, too. Not so much for /durin'/, but if he's seen anybody since. He does fly about quite a bit an' just /watch/ what's goin' on." Taking the picture delicately, Micah studies it for several beats before his head shakes. "Can't say as I've seen 'em that I recall. Though I did spend one half of the Plague bein' guinea pigged at over the Clinic an' the other half hidin' out huntin' in Westchester, so I didn't really...run into folks much. Mind if I scan this? Can circulate things a lot better with a digital copy." He nods along with the others' suggestions. "We know lotsa folks as can help. Jim's an honest-to-goodness P.I., so he'd prob'ly be the best place t'start." His teeth dig into his lip as shadowy figures appear in the room. "Jax, honey... Y'might wanna start warnin' new folks 'bout the projectin' 'fore y'do it too much? I mean, dragonflies is one thing, but... An' you about scared Violet out of her skin with that princess illusion frippery." Admittedly, the corner of his lips tugs into a smirk at the mention of that. "Um...right. Noah, that's just light play. Makin' pictures. S'a thing Jax does." He quiets as Jax relays actual /news/. "Horus does see a /lot/. Maybe after dinner some time we can rustle him up. Or email him if you scan the picture. He likes getting emails." Shane's gills ripple open and closed a little faster with the silhouette-images that haunt the periphery, evidently slightly unsettled even /though/ he's well used to Jax's spontaneous projections. There is at least a very /faint/ tug of smile that briefly touches his lips at Jax's words. "It's Georgia," he announces, slipping over to transfer the remaining food to the table for eating. "They breed them tough down there." Noah tensed as the shadows grew, his grip tightening around his glass. "What-" His words died in mouth as his mother, or a vision of his mother, whatever it was, appeared. Relief nearly made his knees give out, and he passed his hand over his eyes. Alive. In November, Jax had said, but he knew now more than ever they would still be okay. It was a moment before he said anything. "/Thank you,/" he said to Jax, meaning it more than he had ever meant anything in his life. Without thinking, he moved to kiss Jax's unscarred cheek. "Thank you." Jax's blush deepens sharply, his head bowing at Micah's reminder. "Apologies, I jus' -- I don't always think on it much when --" And then there is a /kiss/ and that blush creeps outward to tinge the air around him faintly pink. "Oh -- oh. I --" His pierced lips curl up into a small smile. "C'mon. Let's eat." "I've got a portable scanner for work. S'long as y'don't mind, I could send it out t'Horus an' Dusk an' Jim... Or just use the Commons group e-mail. Can't hurt t'have more eyes on it," Micah offers, though his words quiet and soon trail off into nothingness at Noah's emotional reaction. A sad smile comes at that kiss and the gratitude expressed. "Y'all sit. I'll bring things to the table. Could all use a little taste of home just now." | |
