ArchivedLogs:All the Hugs

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All the Hugs
Dramatis Personae

Peter, Shelby, Hive


All of them.


<NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - 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. 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, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own.

Knock knock knock knock... knockknockknockknockKNOCKKNOCK. Knock. ...knock.

Peter Parker might be outside of Hive's apartment. And he might be knocking continuously, on loop. Also, he might have come baring a gift -- a few remaining gummy spiders that have /not/ been ferreted away by others. Clad in his red hoodie, blue jeans, 'TEACH THE CONTROVERSY' shirt (complete with devil burying fossils), ridiculous glasses -- and backpack -- he isn't hard to miss.

"Hive are you dead, I heard you're dead," Peter's voice soon comes up from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. << You aren't dead RIGHT I mean you can hear me don't be dead. >>

There's a long silence, from behind the door. And then a kind of -- scrabbling noise? Scrabblescrabblescrabble. Something scraaaapes against the door. And then Hive's voice sounds in Peter's head, not strange-manyperson-echoey but just /Hive/. Kind of irritable. Kind of cranky. Kind of painful in his hard-sharp mental /stab/ of a mindvoice. << No. Fucking dead. You have no idea how dead. >>

Peter /grimaces/ on the other side of the door. As Hive scrapes, Peter jingles the knob. << oh my GOD Hive Hive you're not dead, >> Peter says, and this is accompanied with a pang of relief and joy. << I thought you were -- like everybody was in the medlab and they just all went 'HIVE'S PULLING OUT' like you were pulling out of a /warzone/ or something and then they all had a synchronized stroke it was /crazy/. >> "Hive? Can I come in? I brought you gummy spiders." << Also if you were dead you couldn't talk to me -- unless -- are you a zombie, Hive? >> This may or may not be a legitimate question. << Do zombies like gummy spiders? >>

More scrabbling. Frantic. Even after this it takes a moment before Hive opens the door. Lying on her back just inside the door (and partially getting pushed back by it as it swings open) is a small black-masked ferret, apparently engaged in a FIERCE BATTLE with the door. Scrabblescrabble BITE. Her claws scrape against its base. She was perhaps originally /trying/ to get through and see who was on the other side but now that it is open she is still quite engaged in war.

Hive looks bleary, kind of his shabby usual. Perhaps somewhat bonier than before. He has faded jeans, socks that each sport large holes in the toes, and a black t-shirt with a large image of (MAYBE?) a moon on it that reads 'ceci n'est pas une lune' underneath. << Might be a zombie. >> He holds out his hand. Gimme. Like an entry /toll/.

Except behind him against the couch there is a very large trashbag. Also some candy wrappers. He might already have /been/ gummying. His whole apartment might already have been gummying.

"OhMAN you have a /FERRET/," Peter says, eyes widening as he looks down at said ferret. "I did not know you have a ferret, ferrets are /awesome/," and the gummy spiders are promptly jammed into Hive's hands, just a wad of them, although Peter's eyes linger a moment on that trashbag, and then << Oh man Jackson's -- is he just giving all the bags of candy away? Doesn't he like candy? I thought he /loved/ candy -- >> He's not irritable at this realization; rather, he's just curious -- it's coupled with the jumbled thought of Peter and Ivan already stealing one of the bags to give to Rasa. "You look kind of like a zombie," Peter admits, then adds: "Are you okay? You don't look okay have you been eating--" ALL THE QUESTIONS. ALL AT ONCE. Peter's already crouching down to see if the ferret is open to belly-scritches and belly-rubs.

<< Dusk and Ian have a ferret, she's their baby. Alanna. Is her name. >> Hive nudges the door back closed with a toe and meanders back to the couch, with fistful of gummy spiders clutched tight. He shoves two in his mouth at once. Thankfully (for him, perhaps less so for Peter's brain,) he does not need his mouth for TALKING. Alanna is eager for belly scritches, or maybe just eager in general. Still in WAR MODE, she curls up around Peter's fingers, making excited little huffs of breath as she WRESTLES his rubbing hand. << Jax loves candy. Dude practically mainlines sugar. Needs it to live. Uh, more than most people I mean. But dude's a fucking hippie treehugger, he can't eat most of this. More for us. >> Jackson's loss HIVE'S GAIN. He is sort of limp-sprawled on the couch, the rest of the gummies kind of dropped in a wad onto his chest. << Tell me you didn't quit school too. >>

<< They should rename her Logan, >> Peter says, and then he's crouched, hand flexing, /wrestling/ with Alanna as his eyebrows crumple together in intentful work -- fingers poking tiny feet here and there, thumb working to pin her head! Gently, of course. << Tree-hugger? What he can't eat the candy because it's made of trees? >> Peter-confused. He might not even know what vegan /is/.

But at the mention of quitting school -- Peter's voice is a little softer, a little sadder, his wrestling with Alanna growing a little slower. <<, I wouldn't -- I mean. >> A surge of -- frustration? Anger? Sadness? Associated with the image of two blue TOOTHY kids. << ...we all want to bring them back. If we can. >> There's secrets, there, too. That Peter's keeping. << We want... >> Blurry, less images, more concepts -- Ivan, Rasa, Shelby -- Sebastian and Shane. Together.

HuffhuffWRESTLEhuffsquirm, Alanna is ferocious in her handwrestling. Her claws are not really the sharp variety, trimmed short moreover; it makes her VICIOUS GRIP somewhat less threatening. She also is more /mouthing/ and less biting when she chomps against Peter's hand. Gnawgnaw? Nibble? << He can't eat the candy cuz he's vegan. Doesn't eat anything that came from an animal. >> Hive takes another gummy spider to shove in his face after he eats his first mouthful. << Just checking. I've noticed a pattern for kids at your school doing /exceptionally stupid/ shit. >>

Peter appreciates the lack of /sharpness/ in the ferret's grip. He fights with Alanna rather steadily for a few more moments, pinning her briefly -- letting her wriggle free and pin /him/ -- then reversing, all the while, staying crouched near the door. << Anything from an animal -- but candy isn't -- oh, wait. Gelatin? Gelatin comes from animal bones, right? Ohman I didn't even /know/-- >> His mouth is drawn into a thin line when he goes on: << ...he doesn't -- he hides... stuff. >> The concept Peter's trying to get across doesn't come across well with words; it's more of a fuzzy idea. << is this hurting him? I don't know (so cheerful) >> This has the flavor of a first-time realization; as if, up until recently, Peter just presumed Jackson was emotionally /invulnerable/.

<< We do stupid things. I told Shane, 'morons with deathwishes' should be our school motto. Write it in latin, put it under the Xavier seal. I dunno, I just... didn't /you/ do stupid things? When you were our age? >>

Did someone say stupid? The timing is /incredible/, given that there is a thumpthumpthumping at the door immediately after, Shelby's toe connecting with the bottom. She is /not/ dressed for the damp weather, in a Mona Lisa t-shirt (Lisa's got a curly mustache etched under her nose in Sharpie), cut-off short shorts and fishnet leggings--with high-top sneakers!--but at least she's remembered a hoodie, for some warmth. The skateboard she picked up from gods know where is tucked under one arm, leaving one hand free. Why she isn't knocking with /that/ hand...

"Guuuuys, let me in, I'm freeeezing, I hear you in there!" she whines plaintively. Maximum pathetic effect is attempted for the resident telepaths by making her mindscape into a miniature cartoon, complete with stick-figure Shelby sadface skating through the most DIRE of thunderstorms. There are jagged thunderbolts. Roiling dark scribble clouds. Woe.

<< Gelatin is from -- yeah I dunno. Hooves or some gross shit. >> Clearly not gross /enough/ to not eat the gummy spiders. Hive is scarfing them. Omnom. Alanna is wriggling out from under Peter's hand to WAR DANCE backwards, hop hop hop -- oh wait no, hop hop trip-over-feet-and-tumble-backwards. Close enough. << I've never done a single stupid thing in my life. >> This is wrrrry enough that it is not just blatantly untrue it is /blatantly/ blatantly untrue. << Jax is pretty cheerful, isn't he? -- Oh my fucking /god/ I am /not/ getting that. >> Because movement. Getting up from the couch. Noooo. Hive kicks a foot lazily in the direction of the door. Like maybe hopefully it will answer itself?

<< Oh my fucking god I'm being invaded by teenager. >> Hive's voice slams whipcrack-sharp into Jax's mind. BOOM. << You didn't tell me this assload of candy was from Peter. >>

Peter /puffs/ at Hive, before promptly reaching a compromise -- under his sleeve, one of those goofy wrist-watch looking things proceeds to make itself known. And then -- THWP! -- the doorknob is webbed. And pulled. Sufficient torque generated to... actually, no. Peter's on the wrong side; the doorknob doesn't open. Peter /scowls/, then proceeds to get up (leaving Hive with a webbed doorknob) and reaches to open it manually. As he does: << Yeah I dunno if I believe that I think you might be pretty dumb sometimes but I mean I like you anyway-- >>

"Hey Shelby," Peter says, greeting her -- red hoodie, devil-burying-fossils, goofy glasses, hesitant grin: "Um, was just seeing if Hive is okay --" A glance behind him, at Hive. Who is lounging. Next to a garbage bag. Full of /candy/. Also there might be candy-wrappers everywhere. "-- also there is a ferret watch out?"

Wut, Peter's here? Not the person she was expecting. Shelby is rendered momentarily speechless, blinking first at her classmate before squinting in the direction of the couch. << ...what the fuck /I/ was gonna check on him to see if he's okay damn it... >> This bit of teenage pique vented, she sighs, rolls her eyes, and saunters past the skinny lad. "Yeah, whatever," she says by way of greeting, pushing her board at Peter to hold while she toes out of her wet sneakers. The hoodie is shed next and she deliberately drops it on the ground as an Alanna-hideyhole. "Hi. Are you dead or diabetic?" Hive earns this slightly more traditional greeting as the girl climbs onto the end of the couch and then over to sit. On his legs. And reach for the candy bag.

Perhaps Hive is okay. Perhaps he is DEAD or a ZOMBIE. He's lying on the couch sprawled limp (and probably a slight bit bonier than he used to be) with one bony arm draped over his eyes. Probably not dead, given that he's slowly chewing. Because mouthful of gummy spiders. << Everyone's dumb sometimes. You guys just break the curve for /epic/ dumb. >> This goes to Shelby and Peter both because HI SHELBY. His voice is not echoey-chorusy anymore, unfortunately for them, a painful-sharp stab of mental noise that is much like his old self. Except perhaps considerably more exhausted. << Dead, >> he answers Shelby. Alanna zooms off when Peter gets up, ricocheting around the entryway and then crawling her way into Shelby's hoodie-sleeve.

"He's not dead," Peter amends Hive's statement without even hearing it -- answering Shelby's question as she walks by -- closing the door, now dangling with spider-string. "Just, um, I think he's kind of cranky though." Then: "Diabetic, though. I think, um, he might go into a diabetic coma. I think everyone might, except Jax?" Then, a little quieter: "How is Sebastian doing?" Not Shane, though. Because -- actually, just because he doesn't think Shelby knows how Shane is doing.

"Ow, jesus, Hive." Shelby presses a fist to her temple, wincing. The fist is full of gummies, but they do not appear to help with the spike of pain. "Talk out loud, I only just got over the /last/ headache," she instructs. "And don't be a bitch when people are here to be nice at you." Even if one of those people seems more intent on stealing couch space than being nice. Shelby shifts around until she's on her hip, back against one of Hive's legs, elbow wedged in beside his hip to prop her up. This puts her within prime reaching distance of the bag, so that more candy can be taken when she's finished her current handful. Om nom nom, gummies. "...'e's good," she mumbles through the gooey mouthful, "kin'a. Fink he'd come home if Shane wasn' bein' dum."

<< We've all built up sugar immunity. Except Dusk, I guess. He might die of diabetes but he'll die happy. >> Hive's arm doesn't move from his eyes, and /he/ doesn't move, letting Shelby fit herself on the couch as best she can. << I'm gonna kick both their asses, >> he says of the twins. And, with, at least, a note more concern (although his continued mental speech does not likely /help/ matters), << -- how /are/ you feeling? >>

"Jax should --" Peter begins, but the words go unspoken -- physically, at least. << --talk to them >> is the logical conclusion, broadcast rather clearly, even though he doesn't /intend/ to say it. "-- I don't know it is all sorts of confusing and bad and I guess -- maybe we can get them back if we keep -- I think they kinda expect people will stop /wanting/ them back? But, like, if nobody stops wanting them back maybe..." Peter's head is a mess on this subject. He's not thinking very clearly. He's also up to something, but what /else/ is new; there is a particular thought -- elbow-pads, soon to be spray-painted black. For STEALTH. Also there might be a lizard crawling around in his thoughts somewhere, nibbling at the corners and being all... lizardy.

"--maybe you could just punch their brains or something," Peter mumbles, but this isn't something he /really/ wants to see; the thought of Hive going all Hive on them actually makes Peter grimace, a little.

Shelby's eyes settle into permanent slits from the dagger-stab of every sentence. Fortunately, an echoing hammer-thud does /not/ answer the mind conversation. Yet. "Ugh, dude...y'know what, you should just hive me again, okay? Seriously. You're gonna give me an aneurysm." She doesn't even know what that /is/ but it sounds impressive and has something to do with heads. Another gummie worm is chomped. "Gonna have to beat me to it," she mutters on the subject of kicking the twins' asses, while Peter takes the opposite route and goes all /constructive/. "I think I could get B to talk to Jax. I think I got him /thinking/ about it, anyway." Fortunately, only the older of the two is treated to the brief snapshot of motel room hijinks. Mustn't scare the little ones. "But Shane keeps showing up and being all could maybe work. Like. An intervention. We can /love/ them into coming back, bam, straight to their brains."

She pauses once to reach up and give Hive's draped arm bicep a squeeze. Bony. "But maybe like after he's back to full strength, huh?" What, did she forget to answer the question? It's tucked in the back of her mind, behind standard medical issue curtains and the smell of antiseptic.

<< Peter, what the fuck are you up to. >> Hive ignores the rest. He focuses on /stealth/Peter, asking the question perhaps just to see what thoughts it stirs up. It's kind of blank-tired. << I'll punch all your brains if I gotta, >> sounds entirely too lazy to actually be a threat. His arm shifts a little bit, at the squeeze, down off his arm so his hand rests closer to Shelby. << Oh my god I so don't need to see that. >> Grumble. His eyes are squeezed shut tight. << Love them. But I don't think anyone wants me in their brains. >>

"I--nothing," Peter squeaks, maybe just a smidge /too/ quickly, and like some ancient pile of clothes disturbed by a foot, some suggestive thought-moths are /bound/ to flutter out. A blurry, unsure image of a much older-Peter, seen as a dog-eared photograph; no, Peter-FATHER. Something to do with being /sneaky/, and hunting clues. A vague flicker of Parley. But also, other thoughts, so deeply entanged it's hard to tell if they're related or not -- a green teenager changing color. Picking up trash in an abandoned lot. Asking Jax about new students.

"Been -- just thinking about -- there's this kid I met? Green? Maybe he could come to the school. Also been thinking about, being a little stealthier, the kid he had camoflauge I think and maybe I should too --" This is a mental dodge -- but it's a /tricksy/ one, because it's also true. It's just not the /whole/ truth.

"I don't mind you in my head. You're loud and your voice kinda hurts but, but," and now Peter hesitates, watching Hive next to Shelby closely, perched on the floor. Rocking on his heels, thinking. "It's weird but it's okay." Of course, Peter hasn't had his brains /eaten/ before, so.

Alas, Shelby's solution to Hive not wanting to see that is to swap him out for B. What? It's not like she can /stop/ thinking about it now that he's grumbling. At least it's playing in the background, now that she's been distracted by his threats to Peter. The other teenager is given a critical look--only to announce, "Man, you are so lying. Why do you need to be all camo if you're not gonna do shit with it?" Why, Peter? /Why/? She shifts around until Hive has become more of a pillow than a prop, absently reaching for the now nearby hand to draw it over her shoulder, fingers laced together. << I liked it. You were there. Close. All the time, >> she supplies silent, while Peter /also/ tries to change the subject. Out loud, she remarks, "It hurts /less/ once he's in there."

<< Ow. >> For a while this is all, from Jackson. There's a vague stew of feelings that come through here, a twitchy exhaustion, a tight pulse of ache, a suppressed-unease revolving around Parley standing in his house questioning him about Peter. About telling Peter to be careful. Somewhere beneath the surface of his mind there are images to answer this question; memories of Peter showing up with his sorry-you-got-tazed FOUR BAGS of candy. And then another stirring of unease, that rises in conjunction with Parley's presence downstairs, and an echoed questioning: Peter's there?

<< Yes. Being cagey as fuck about some shit, what's it got to do with Parley? He wants -- stealth -- I dunno. Camoflauge? What the fuck is with these fucking teenagers and their stupid deathwishes? >> Hive is still stab-sharp. Cranky. Mngh.

The question about Parley isn't quiet answered; it just comes with a sense of confusion: don't know. More memory: Peter's texts, Peter mentioning that Parley didn't want Jax to know. /Parley/ coming to ask Jax why he doesn't trust him, bright-fresh-new memory coloured kind of heh-heh wry on this question. More what-on-earth-is-Peter-getting-up-to unease.

<< Something sneaky, >> is Hive's unhelpful answer. Vaguely coloured with concern.

'Something sneaky' draws nothing out of Jackson so much as bland unsurprise, but Hive's concern is echoed in his mind. A strong twinge of it, tired and /protective/: don't let him /hurt himself/.

<< Bullshit, >> Hive says, and he doesn't /pry/ further mentally but he is sort of paying more attention, now, rousing slightly out of his general cranky-sleepy-laze. << What suicide-wish shit are you up to /this/ time? >> His fingers curl through Shelby's; at first it's just reflex, but a moment later his lips curl up, slightly. << -- and what's it gotta do with Parley? >> The smile fades into a frown at this statement. << Hurts less, >> he says as an afterthought, << but only till I pull /out/. The talking-pain's temporary. >>

Peter frowns a little. Continues rocking: "Going to look for my dad," he finally responds. This admission comes with a harsh undertone -- a screeching /crackle/ of emotional static that is very unfamiliar in the landscape of Peter-Brain-Meats. Needless to say, things are complicated at the intersection of Peter-And-Daddy. "Somebody told me..." << anti-telepathy tech >> << haven't seen him in years >> << worried >> << have to make sure he doesn't get /hurt/ >> << need to know >> "...don't tell Jax? Don't tell /anybody/. Please? Keeping secrets around here is impossible but, but," and Peter flails his hands out, as if attempting to snatch up all those fluttering thought-moths. "I don't want to worry anybody and I'll be fine. He's my /dad/."

Shelby is apparently done with candy. She holds onto Hive's hand and lifts her other to rub absently at her temple. That conquered headache is creeping back in, making her a little twitchier every time Hive's voice slams up against her brain. Okfineyeahsowhat is the basic summary of her answer to the matter of hurt less?/hurt more?. But one eye is pried open so she can spy on the rocking, flailing Peter up there on the couch. She might not be able to catch the braintalk but she can certainly cue in on the unfinished statement and then the importance of his request. "...dude, maybe it got lost with all the fucking swear words'n'shit but telling this bunch /not/ to worry is like...what'sit. That saying about bulls."

<< anti-telepathy what -- look for him /where/ -- what's happened -- Peter, if there's something -- I mean you don't gotta do this shit on your /own/. And I don't think you'll be fine, dude, if you haven't noticed you're like the biggest fucking trouble-magnet there is. >> There is concern meshed equally with the irritation in Hive's voice, a worried-protectiveness that is there ALREADY. TAKE THAT, not wanting to worry anyone! "-- thing you gotta learn about superheroes, dude," he finally manages aloud, but kind of rusty-croaky-slow from disuse, "is in the real world they work best as a /team/."

Peter rubrubrubs at his nose, as if he's attempting to scrub it /off/. He thumps back on his butt and /sighs/, this verbal and psychic /whoosh/ just rolling through him completely. "I know," he tells Shelby, a little quiet, then: "That's kind of why -- man what the heck was I thinking visiting a /telepath/?" He doesn't quite glare at Hive, but he kind of /does/; it's half-way between 'why-do-you-read-minds' and 'why-do-i-keep-forgetting-you-read-minds'. "...but no, I should tell someone, I just don't want to tell /Jax/ because I know what he'll say, and I know what you'll say, but it's my /dad/."

Then, out with it: "One of the things the Oscorp labs are working on -- anti-telepathy tech. My dad's involved. Some people are going to break in after hours, to steal files and see where they're at. I -- I've been there before," Peter explains, and then: "And I'm worried. I don't know. What if my dad's there and they freak out and hurt him? Or, what if he's -- totally evil. Like what if he is Doctor Mind-Bender?" He rubs at his nose, again, still intent on its removal.

Hive talked! For real talked! Yes, Shelby is glad to no longer wear the biggest fucking trouble-magnet badge but, priorities! She gives his hand a squeeze and rocks her head back in order to flash Hive a look that is two parts gratitude, one relief and one concern. "Man, you sound like shit," she comments before it's /back on topic/. Up her head comes, carefully to accommodate pounding, so she can eyeball Peter. "You already /got/ a team, douchebag. Even /I/ remember that and half my memories are in /Hive's/ head." Clearly, she has no respect for paternal figures or the effect they can have on normal people. Coooold. "If he /is/ an asshole, you wanna find out close up and personal? Uh uh, that's a good way to get smacked around or /worse/, Pete."

"Some people." Hive sounds dry. "You know, Parley's down in Jax's place /right this minute/ badgering him --" That is apparently the extent of his ability or willingness to make his mouth form words. << I don't think the kind of people you /trust/ are the kind of people who /sneak around/ taking teenagers to places they could end up arrested or dead. I mean, you kinda need people at your back for that sort of shit. >> His jerk of thumb towards Shelby in indication of 'yeah, what she said' is lazy because oh god movement so much work. << If your dad's in shit maybe he needs help. And if he /is/ totally evil /and/ working for Oscorp you'll maybe need a lot of help. >>

There's another whipcrack-sharp flare of painful voice for Jax, here: << Fucking cocksucking dickbag /weasel/, >> is heavily flavoured with the image of Parley's face. Despite the words it's -- not even really angry. Just kind of blandly SIGH. TEENAGERS. WHAT CAN YOU DO.

Peter didn't even /realize/ Hive spoke with his /voice/; it's only when Shelby points it out that he looks up, glancing from her to Hive. A little shocked! But then: "I just don't want anyone to get -- hurt," Peter mumbles, and there's a flash of Ivan/Rasa/Shelby/concern. Less so around Parley; not that Peter doesn't care, but he gets the vibe that Parley will take care of Parley. When Hive mentions Parley badgering Jackson, /that/ gets all of Peter's attention: "Wait, what? He's -- what's he talking to -- about /what/?" he asks, before adding: "If he's -- evil -- I don't know. I think I'll," and there's a flash, now, swelling up from the static of Peter's mind -- an image of Peter's fist colliding with the fuzzy man in that photograph.

Hard. Really hard. /Rock/-breaking hard. Peter shows no /obvious/ sign of violence; his mouth just goes straight and his fingers clench against Hive's floor. But beneath all that niceness and cheer and yay-superhero confusion, hiding in that sea of static, there's something else pushing Peter: Hot white /rage/, bundled up so tight Peter may not even realize it's there. About ten years' worth of it. Peter's concerned, maybe. But under the fuzz, he's also angry. /Really/ angry.

"I don't know," Peter admits.

"Hey, Parley's nice. He's not fucking evil." But that too is the limit of Shelby's ability to stick up for anyone or anything. Hivevoice is back and her head thumps back against the man himself, eyes closing. Bleurgh. It is possibly a good thing that she is unaware of Peter's thoughts on his father, it would likely not help the pressure in her head. Pressure, it should be noted, she is /bravely tolerating/ to continue using Hive as a pillow. Though she does let his hand go to copy the arm over the eyes posture. "If your dad's a bad guy, we take him down," she says as if this ain't no thing, "but probably he's just like...super boring dad. Most dads are. I mean, the /bad/ ones, you kinda know right off the bat." Because they have fists. Or take off. But she is Not Thinking These Things /very hard/ on purpose. "Hive, you should drink something. Help your throat."

<< You talked to many of the other people pulled out of that place? Parley's /not/ fucking nice, >> this comes blunt and not really an accusation so much as bland statement. Bland statement weighed down by a looot of guilt. << He's as much of a bastard as I am. >> When she releases his hand he returns his arm to drape over his eyes. << Badgering Jax for telling you to be careful, I guess. But you /should/ be careful. Oscorp's not a place to fuck /around/. >> He shifts his arm slightly, just enough to crack an eye open towards Shelby. Towards Peter. His arm drops to curl lazily around Shelby's shoulder, his /other/ taking its place across his eyes. << If your dad's a bad guy we figure out what we gotta do. But you don't have to fucking run off and figure it /alone/ just to live up to your school's fucking teenagers-with-death-wishes quota. >>

"You're not a--" Peter doesn't finish the sentence /or/ thought, despite it being directed at Hive; he just wrinkles his mouth at Shelby's comment. "Probably. Super-boring, I mean. I don't know. Anything. About him. I don't remember, I mean." A look toward Hive, then: "Jax was /right/ to tell me about careful with Parley. I should be more careful with /everyone/. And I know. I know I shouldn't do things alone, it's just," Peter looks away, now. "What should I do." Like he's /asking/ Hive for instructions, now. But there's still that buzzing fury in his brain, swimming around the idea of his dad. Soangry.

Shelby is quiet for awhile. On the outside, she is quiet. On the inside she is putting forth the idea that she maybe has a thing for bastards, /duh/. Beneath her arm-shield, she gives a light snort--and nestles into warmbony arm as she mind-buries the negative daddy issues that likely prompted its presence around her shoulder. Only then does she speak up again. "/I/ don't have a death-wish. Fuck that noise, I wanna /live," she comments, just for the record. Then, "I think maybe you let everyone get back up to speed and then we figure it out, Pete. don't have to run off to do all the things right away. Weird, huh?"

<< I'm telling Jax, >> Hive says, and though it's worded as a statement it comes with a quiet note of questioning: OK? << I think you should take a deep breath and have some gummy spiders. And remember that whatever is /up/ with your dad you've got a fucking family still >> This miiight be a little expansively directed, towards Shelby and Peter both, << and we'll kick your ass if you go tearing off to get yourself fucking killed again. >> His fingers squeeze lightly against Shelby's shoulder. "You should be more careful with /everyone/," he manages out loud again. "If you haven't figure it out yet, the world can be kind of fucking shitty. Takes a bit of sorting to find the good."

"I'm sorry," Peter says, then, and it's mumpy and /grumpy/, almost the equivalent of a psychic puppy-dog giving big wide eyes after pissing on the carpet, except Peter stops just short of that because something tells him Hive would just kick that puppy dog right in its puppy /face/. "Okay. Yeah. I'm sorry, I didn't mean -- I /don't/ mean -- to scare anybody. There's so much stuff going on and I don't want to add anything to the mix and oh my /God/ I haven't seen this person for, like, ten years, I don't think a few days or whatever is going to matter." Peter scuffs, now, standing up. "But, I can wait, and, uh, I won't -- I won't do anything -- I'll behave," Peter finishes; that's the best he can figure to say.

<< Ugh shutup >><< I don't do death-wishes OR family bullshit stoooop. >> There is a fumblefumblepushpushing away of the all-enveloping sentiment, though Shelby is wise--or lazy--enough to leave it silent, a direct line to Hive without Peter involved. Because, "Dude, I think you need a hug. Hugs now, ass kickings later, huh?"

Hello, it's Hive again! Slamming-stabbing into Jax's brain. << Parley's planning some kinda breakin at Oscorp. Looking for anti-telepathy tech or some shit. Had Peter signed up to go /with/ him because man it went so well last time Peter broke in there. Guess Peter got roped in because his dad might be involved. >> This is irritable-gruff, a twine of sharp /disgust/ that echoes more in sentiment than in words: fucking predators messing with /our kids/.

And then a sheepish retraction of sentiment when he catches himself at that.

<< --- >> That's all. No words, just sharp protectiveness spiking from Jax: /our kids/ is definitely echoed here. Fiercely.

There's a moment of silence, Hive's face scrunching up for a moment, perhaps at some further unseen communication. But then, << Yeah, think Shelby's right. >> His arm lifts a little, away from Shelby. Gesturing towards Peter. It's the only concession he makes towards getting up because clearly the hugs need to come to /them/. << Also I need so much fucking coffee before I can even /think/ about Oscorp. Jegusfuck. >>

Hive agreeing with Shelby. Shelby suggesting /hugs/. Hive making /overtures/ for HUGS. What has poor Peter stumbled into. He blinks owlishly, looking from Shelby to Hive, as if trying to figure out if he has not somehow stumbled deep into the Twilight Zone. But then -- ohmygod asking Peter for hugs is like asking a rhinoceros for /gorings/. He /springs/ forward (perhaps a mite too fast!) to deliver hugs to HIVE, dipping right underneath his arms and SQUEEZING around his waist. There might even be a little sniffle, head /shoved/ against Hive's shoulder. But probably not, because Peter's way too manly for that.

And then, just in CASE Shelby thought otherwise, Peter spins around to hug /her/, too. From the side, and a bit more carefully and briefly (because, well, BOOBS) but no less tightly. Half-mumbled as he escapes from Shelby-hug: "You guys are, um, all really nice." SCUFF. That's all Peter can think to say.

<< Man, he's so squishy. >> Oho. The hugs were /distraction bait/. Shelby, you sly dog. When Hive shifts, she makes a face and levers herself up a little to make it possible for him to offer up all the hugs for poor Peter--what, they expected she would play nice with her own suggestion? Hell no! She's got to balance out having suggested it at all, d'uh. So eyes are rolled towards the ceiling while she oh so casually pretends not to notice sniffling and head-shoving. Then /she/ is grabbed, prompting the girl to release a squeak. "Nuh uh," she says crossly, "just wanted you to be all grateful so you'd go make some coffee to say thank you." Nevermind that she sort of...squeezed Peter before being let go. Maybe a hard squeeze. "If I gotta take the late train back to school, gonna need caffeine too."

Hive's hugs are bony. A sharp squeeze, a rough sort of backpat, and then he returns his arm to eye-draping. << Someone should make coffee. >> Someone not-him. << Ian'll be home in a bit, he could probably drive you guys back to school. >> Yes, he is just /volunteering/ his roommate for this two-hour round-trip. << Or you could go pester Jax and Ryan. >> Who don't actually live together but apparently count as a unit. << /I'm/ going back to fucking sleep. >> Although there's a trace of reluctance with this, accentuated with Shelby's shift away.

"I could /web-sling/ you," Peter offers to Shelby, and accompanying that is an image that is nothing short of /horrifying/ -- Shelby, clinging to Peter for dear life, as Peter proceeds to PROPEL THEM THROUGH THE AIR VIA WEB-SHOOTERS. Peter immediately thinks better of this: "Actually, um, I think I'm gonna -- I mean I'm still gonna /practice/ but maybe not do it all the way from Xavier's anymore I think Jax was telling me it's too dangerous so maybe I'll just take the trains -- or, uh, a ride," he adds, before glancing to Shelby. " you want me to make you coffee? I could make you coffee." Peter's GRATITUDE. This is how he shows it. Although there's always the risk he might drink some himself. But, y'know, he's already moving toward whatever passes as a kitchen in this apartment, moving to do just that. "You should sleep too Hive you look really sleepy," Peter adds, nattering away as he slips off to the kitchen. "So, uh, yeah sleep I will make coffee."

Shelby's absence from Hive-pillow is only temporary. Once Peter has vacated immediate hugging range, she sinks down again and gets cozy, eyes stubbornly closing. No. << No. >> "/No/," is her response to Spidey's proposal there. She's already had a task of being slung around like a sack of potatoes--just add murderdone explosions and that was practically her /introduction/ to Pete--and has neglected to develop a taste for it since. "Coffee sounds great though. I'd totally be up for coffee. Anyone ever tell you you're crazy?" That's apparently for the poor teenager in the kitchen, called out while she tucks an arm around Hive. There's something about proximity, and that hint of reluctance, that leads to a silent bit of speculation: << ...could catch the early train. >>

<< Coffee's -- there. >> There. Vaguely over there. It comes with a blunt infodump of KITCHEN, highlighting the locations of coffee, coffeegrinder, coffee press. Hive nestles down into the couch, getting cozy right alongside, his fingers curling around her shoulder. << -- there /are/ early trains. >> He says this like a revelation. A pleased one. << -- Have to get up /mad/ early for them. >>