ArchivedLogs:Common Pastimes

Common Pastimes
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Steve
In Absentia	2016-05-30 "Does nobody fucking sleep around here?"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Rooftop - Lower East Side
An open-air escape especially popular with smokers and fliers, the Common House rooftop makes good use of its limited space. The railing that circles it has child-resistant gates where walkways can be extended to connect to the other buildings in the development. A colorful and ever-changing table with sometimes-matching benches provides an ideal spot for an urban picnic. There are two garden boxes on the south-facing side, one for vegetables and the other for herbs and flowers, a tool shed and small patio table with chairs between them. It's early -- early, early, early, the sun not quite risen over the city. Somewhere off to the east there is a glow, deep and red-orange, though its intermittent shifting flicker and the darker haze of grey-black above it leaves it not so promising: once again, the Lower East Side is burning. Silhouetted against the grey not-dawn, the darker billowing cloud, the reddish glow, Dusk is perched: gargoyle-posture and gargoyle-still, though far more colourful with his iridescent dragonfly-painted wings half-mantled above him. No shirt, no shoes, just ragged cut-off black denim shorts, one hand gripping the railing between his feet. The other holds a cigarette, half-spent, its ember's glow paling beside the deeper one in the background. Steve's footfalls on the steps are quiet, and he emerges onto the roof in a light blue athletic shirt, black shorts, and white sneakers, his gym bag and shield both slung over one shoulder. He is flushed and damp with sweat from his workout, heart still beating faster than is usual for /him/, swigging water from a squeeze bottle emblazoned with the same motif as his shield. Pauses briefly, then continues, coming to rest against the railing beside Dusk, though his eyes are watching the plume of smoke, his expression blank. It's several seconds before he says, "I didn't hear any sirens." Dusk doesn't shift, at the sound of footsteps, though his fingers tighten faintly against the railing. One wing curls out when Steve joins him, draping loosely against the other man's back. His hand moves, bringing his cigarette to his lips for a long drag. The words he speaks come out in paler grey reflection of the murk guttering up towards the sky: "Haven't been any." Steve turns his face in against the side of the wing draped over him, the stubble along his jaw rasping against Dusk's softer, more colorful fuzz. He doesn't exhibit any signs of surprise at the reply, though his shoulder tense when he looks back at the fire. "At this hour...if it was occupied, there might well be people trapped." His eyes skip down the courtyard and he lowers his gym bag to let it drop to the roof by his feet, though he holds onto the shield. "I'm going to check it out." Dusk's wing squeezes in a little more firmly, one phalanx rubbing slowly against Steve's shoulder when it tenses. "Always the hero." There's no trace of derision or teasing in his tone -- though there is a faint wisp of something heavier. A little tired. "Joshua and Ion and the pups are down there already. Bikers gonna have to start their own auxiliary of the FDNY, this shit keeps up." "{Good -- that's good.}" Steve started in French, then corrects to Spanish. "{That they're there now.} And volunteer fire squads for neighborhoods like this wouldn't go amiss, but the mongrels alone wouldn't be enough, no matter how much energy Ion has." He lifts one hand, fingers rubbing firm and strong at Dusk's back, then drops it reluctantly to shrug on the harness for his shield. "Could probably tap some zombie patrol contacts about that." He hops over the railing himself and leans out into the air, ready to drop down to the courtyard, but then stops suddenly. "Oh, gosh. Zenobia! Could you -- text Savannah and ask her to take the dog out for me, {please}?" He blushes. "I was about to take her for a run, but this might take a while." "He does have a whole lot." Dusk's lips have compressed, something pinched in the lines drawn in at the corners of his eyes. "Text her -- /now/?" His brows lift, but if there's incredulity in his tone, it's mild enough. "Does nobody fucking sleep around here?" He's tucking his cigarette between his lips, though, pulling his phone from his pocket. His wing, though, is dragging Steve back in towards himself even as he's sending the message. A lazy swipe, pull, arm hooking securely around the other man instead. Kind of /fondly/ as his wings spread: "Goddamn ridiculous, you are." "I /have/ heard that some people around here sleep," Steve says earnestly, "but it doesn't seem to be a very common pastime." He yields easily to Dusk's tug, curling one arm around him. "Ah, right, that's much --" Ducking his head with a sudden blush as he tucks close to the other man. "I guess I am, a bit. {Thank you.}"