ArchivedLogs:Darkness Can Wait

Darkness Can Wait
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Parley
In Absentia	2013-10-16 (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> 603 {Greyhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a small living room. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom. The decor in this apartment is eclectic, an odd jumbled mishmash of found items that seem to bear little relation to each other. Here, a newspaper article is clipped and pinned to the wall with various lines highlighted in pink and orange highlighter, here an advertisement, here the label off a beer can. The furniture is eclectic, too. A milk crate for a table, a soft (orange!) suede ottoman (with no armchair to match), a very /bright/ magenta vinyl couch. Someone has helpfully affixed a sheet of paper to the wall over the couch, with the label 'COUCH' and an arrow pointing downward. A combination corkboard/whiteboard near the kitchen entryway more often bears odd scribbled drawings than helpful information. In the drawn out hours of quiet before the raider's return, there's been long periods of silence with small moments of wild activity. But mostly silence - Parley is sprawled upside down on the Highly Noticeable magenta vinyl couch, a bare dusting of faint ash of presence by comparison, with his legs braced up on the back of the couch, his head hanging off the front, his shirt cast off and a ferret crammed up under his armpit like a large furry croissant. His eyes are closed while all around him is evidence of some sort of CATFIT - a roll of gauze has been unraveled all around the apartment like drunken crepe streamers, pooled in small shredded nests here and there on the ground. Some, you could blame on a ferret. The parts fastened to the walls and ceiling by thumb tacks, however, would require the contribution of someone with thumbs. Knock knock knock. For Anima somewhere this late-night interruption probably comes in the form of a /mental/ touch from Hive, but Dusk is here in the /flesh/ to tap restlessly at Parley's door. His mind is easily noticeable, a /frazzled/-wired exhaustion too manic to yet stop for /sleep/: still things to do, still people to settle. The adrenaline of the /raid/ has long since faded; he's running now on blood and /fumes/ and a determination to see everything through to the end before he sleeps. Wired through it all there are mixed emotions, heavy and worried and tired and guilty-sick. Physically he /looks/ alright. He's shed his bulletproof vest down to just cargo pants and dark t-shirt, sweaty and tired but whole. Wings quiver restlessly against his back, his arms crossing against his chest after he knocks. To the summoning knock, Parley's eyes snap open. On instant, before movement, before voice, there rushes out the faintest dove-gray touch to Dusk's mind, a soft rapid fluttering that can be felt circling him in a quick restless looking-over before it fades, with a soft tug-tug-tug to beckon him in. "Come in," he calls out at the same time, trying to... get his legs shifted around off the back of the couch without disrupting the small puddle of warmFerret at his center. Dusk opens the door, slipping in with wings habitually pulling in tighter to occupy as little space as possible as he moves through the doorway. The touch to his mind elicits a soft melting of relaxation, sort of accepting but sort of just /puddling/ under the contact like he might melt under the petting his wings so often receive. It firms up a moment later, resolute not to give in to exhaustion quite /yet/. "Hey. We're um. Back." In case that wasn't obvious. He blinks at the ferretheap on Parley. "-- You guys got a ferret?" Puzzlement works its way into his mind. And a reflexive, d'aww. Parley isn't going to be much help with Dusk's resolution; pressed close, the faint relaxation in Dusk's agitated mind can be felt sparking, faintly, a responding breathless relief. And it gently presses in, fortifies and grooms along the far outskirts while -- well, externally he is finally rolling his legs over and standing, "Actually." He gathers up the ferret, limp as a dishrag when he tucks it under an arm, "It's yours. Well. Ours as well. But also yours." He's coming forward as he murmurs it, movement like a tawny drift of mist and comes up... short. In front of Dusk. Like he doesn't really know what to do now that he's here. Slowly, his palm places itself to the front of Dusk's chest, looking up into his face, "...how was it." "Ours?" This doesn't help the puzzled. Dusk looks down at the ferret /critically/, before just denying this: "... That's not Alanna." A faint /shiver/ passes through him, mentally and physically both, a very tentative tick-tick-tick of relaxation permitting this slow grooming. His hand lifts when Parley's does, resting over Parley's hand as his wing curls around the other man, almost automatic in a habitual extension of /contact/, soft wing brushing slowly against Parley's back. He draws in a slow breath, chest expanding and then deflating again under Parley's palm. "Jax might die," the sick wash of /guilt/ is almost crushingly hard, here; he forces it back down to keep his tone just /level/, relating details, "and we were too late to save a friend. And Joshua's missing. But given all that it's the best it's ever been. Every captive got out and home alive. Barely even hurt." "No, your other... ferret." Too easily, the unhelpful answers, a weary twitch briefly visiting the left corner of Parley's lips as though Dusk were being /impossible/. Staring somewhere at the level of Dusk's clavicle, far corners of his eyes faintly twitch, fixed glazed for a moment as the news is delivered, then they close, the thumb of his hand rolling faintly as though he could help massage Dusk's exhale into some increase of ease. He does - try to respect the level boundary of how far the other man /wants/ to relax, and is already settling into a recycling, combing up the surface agitation, washing it through like cool clean water, and giving it back again. Until, gradually, he introduces something else to it << (you're wrong)(on one account.)(look)(here?) >> Sleeping or awake, a ferret's mind is, even to those that have never felt it, probably familiar to someone that's been around them; vibrant dreaming, loose muscled snoozing, smell-colors and zigzagging movement... but this one has a complication beneath it, a secondary texture more complicated and methodically human against the primal brain. And familiar, too. << (he's not missing.)(just) >> He hoists up the furry bundle where it can be better seen. << (came home.) >> "I don't /have/ another ferret." Dusk is too weary to even manage annoyance at these unhelpful answered, only a continued bemusement and utter incomprehension at Parley's insistence. But also there's /ferret/, and that makes it near-impossible for a ferret-lolver /not/ to reach out to curl a finger in tiny-petting against the back of sleeping-ferret-head. His breath stills momentarily, fingers squeezing Parley's tighter when that mind is introduced to his. At first just drinking in its flavour but then, slowly, comprehension dawns. "Wh --" There's shock and disbelief that melt into a sudden exhilirated rush of relief. "Holy. Fuck." "I was hoping you could tell me," still forming a bridge between either mind, feeding warm blushes of faint endorphin like a hot pack on a sore muscle, Parley leans nearer, his hip resting alongside Dusk's, holding the ferret where optimal petting can occur, "--why is my roommate a ferret?" Dusk is still largely incredulous, finger stroking along Joshua's head and neck with a wide-eyed sense of /surreality/. His wing curls slowly wider around Parley, draping there like a warm cloak, rubbing in absent slow stroking against the shorter man's shoulders. Dusk's lips part. No words manage to form. "There's a girl downstairs who can turn into a ferret," he explains. "There was a -- someone. Makes people lose control. And he vanished, we had no idea -- what --" Pet. Petpetpet. "... he makes a really cute ferret." "Doesn't he?" Parley doesn't say it in any crooning manner - he sounds kind of upset and /frank/, like Dusk has managed to put his FINGER on something that had been genuinely BOTHERING him, holding up the ferret for a better god-damn-view. The softer outer layer of back fur makes faint tickling ripples against the buff of wing membrane, warm from the indoors, and past the prolonged frown of puzzlement he's tipping his head to the side to nudge his chin against the bone ridge of draped wing. Nudgenudge, compress. So quietly, he's pressing in and awkwardly - fits an arm? Around the back of Dusk's... lower back? Sneaking it in under the (wing) radar while there's a distraction of ferret. "Yes. I don't know if he'd appreciate being cute, really." Dusk exhales slowly, his wing contracting to pull Parley into a warmer /nestle/ at his side once Parley's arm slips around him. "This is good. If -- your roommate helps out," he doesn't sound a hundred percent /certain/ on this 'if', "if Jax makes it," another crushing press of /guilt/, here, "-- this'll be our first run with no casualties." Though here is a twinge of pain, a sharp mental tightening. "At least not while /we/ were there." There's an unhappy note to this. His hand rests against Joshua's soft fur, his wing stroking in slow downward presses against the ruff at Parley's back. "He seems to appreciate -- many things," Parley's attention is fixed on the loose pink-noosed robbermasked face of his roommate, where a bit of pink tongue and the very edge-most tip of a sharp tooth can be seen beneath his chops, "... a lot more. Like this." Though the mental image he pours into Dusk's mind, of Parley on hands and knees, perplexedly swatting around the roll of gauze to send ferret!Joshua spazzing-out after it with an arched up back might not be a normal definition of 'appreciation'. It makes other things, the supporting press of arm, the soft acceptance (offering?) of loose shoulders under Dusk's arm peripheral, subtle in development where he pulls him hard and close. He caresses a touch, silk-soft, openly over the tightening in Dusk's mind - and notably he /doesn't/ try to alleviate it. Not to comfort it nor soothe; protecting it's painful existence with an attention that doesn't allow itself to bruise for all the contact it shares. << (...dusk.) >> It's a blood-red ruby shimmer, this name. "...what happened." "They are more -- exuberant. Than he usually --" Dusk's lips twitch, thoughts of Joshua's dry sardonic wit ghosting through his mind in contrast to this boisterous mental image from Parley. The tightening of arm draws a soft breath out of him, warm and stirring a flutter of desire that can't so much be called lust as just his default searching for the /tactile/ closeness that comes so naturally to him. His wing traces more slowly against Parley's side, one upper ridge of bone brushing softly along the other man's cheek. His mind echoes these caresses, melting itself in to the touch of Parley's, nestling there with a slow acceptance of this soft touch. He draws that soft breath back /in/ in time with the blood-red shimmer, swallowing down a note of hunger that is ever-present inside him. "-- I fucked up. And Jax almost died for it." << (we might all) (die for it.) >> Soft exhale, Parley's mind opens to it, like some gray rose, giving in beneath the weight of Dusk's mind like a well-worn hammock, closing in around it as he settles. It's a much more familiar, nimble process than the far less certain - /squeeze/ he uses, pressed hard to Dusk, tactile-uncertainty running fingertips up and down the other man's spine. MnhghPET? There's still a ferret caught up between, a different type of fur-smell between Parley's spiky guard hairs, the downier under coat, ferret-pelt, wing fur. Animal smells that make the uncertain little bite he places against Dusk's chest less out of place. "Anima /will/ help with that." There's a faint edge of teeth to it that somehow implies 'I'll see that ze does'. << (no one) >> he says, the soft gray a haze over some nebulous hard stone in his center << (is dead yet.) >> He doesn't need to add 'this time'. << Dusk closes his eyes, his own head tipping down. "Yet," is the word from here he chooses to echo, with a sick twisting wrench inside him. He doesn't so much force it back this time as deliberately choose to focus on other things; the softness of Parley's fur, the musk-scent of ferret, the feel of teeth closing against his chest. His head nuzzles down against Parley's neck, and the kiss he presses there has no uncertainty to it. Just soft, gentle, and then punctuated with the harder scrape of fangs. << (yet) >> continues to echo softly in his mind, a chiming undercurrent refrain over which more present things are /clung/ to. << (all made it) (home) >> next to the simple savouring of Parley's warmth against his. Fur against his wing. Skin against his lips. << (yet.) >> Agreed, in a single word, firm. It stands up like a single thorn against what otherwise so easily lies down. The rest is a flood of Dusk; of trickling, vibrant red, of hunger and heat and a throb of life that is almost cruel for how /readily/ it pulses on against the terrible dark. Pulses 'made it'. Pulses 'home'. And with his head tipping onside to permit breath and lips and teeth, Parley says -- "Tell me." It sounds like << (feed me.) >> It sounds like << (feed.) >> It sounds like << (tell me what happened) >> and it sounds like << (tell me what you need.) >> It sounds like many things. An offer. A demand. Pulling him near. Dusk shifts back, a little bit away when Parley pulls him closer -- but only so that his flexible-thin wing can scoop between them, can relieve Parley of his soft ferret burden, can lower Joshua to the floor. Can press back in, body flush this time against Parley's without the danger of crushing small boneless weasel-body. His mouth presses again, with the silent permission of Parley's shift of head, tongue tracing to skin with his next kiss. Teeth pressing down harder. The answer he gives comes in a jumble, not so much consciously /answering/ so much as letting the chaotic swirl of his thoughts surface unfettered. << (gave an order) (important order) (disobeyed) >> << (left him) (in the dark) (with the dark) >> << (in the hands) (of a monster) >> There's darkness, here, swirling like shadows around Dusk's thoughts, but it's laced through the brighter redder throb of life, throb of blood. Throb of heartbeats, his own pressed up close against Parley's. His wing tightens against Parley's shoulder, and he takes a step back towards the couch. << Need -- >> << (this) (you) (life) >> these three sentiments blend together into nearly the same thing. There's a moment of distance as, entirely needlessly but present all the same, Parley tracks Joshua's route to the floor, not /fighting/ Dusk for him but... careful, held breath, fingers tensed. It makes the return of warmth, the soft heat of breath and the sharp press of ivory to his skin trigger little jumpy nerve-spasms in his back muscles, that primal-trigger feel of teeth-teeth-/teeth/ at his throat-blood-life - In return for what Dusk tells him, what does not /have/ a response that can be said, he instead shares these things unvarnished, the spike and shudder(anticipation)fear - and softness. It gives. It wants. When Dusk backs towards the couch, he comes with him, with a roll of /muscled/ force, pushing, as though he were hunting, taking down a retreating creature. It makes it absurd, then, that one hand lifts, to cup along the side of Dusk's cheek. To pet gently with a thumb. Dusk's muscles tense and roll against Parley's pushing, hard and lean and -- /restrained/ as well, for all the fierce warm hold of him, there's a sense of holding back. Of knowing how /much/ brutality he could be capable of, with as well-fed as he's been lately, a superhumanly /strong/ vitality fueled by blood. It makes it all the more noticeable the care he takes in easing them down to the violently magenta couch, his wing a softly curled blanket between Parley and the vinyl. Head rubbing softly against Parley's hand. His own hand stroking beneath Parley's shirt to skim up firm and warm against his side. His body presses warm to Parley's, mind sinking in against Parley's own with a bloodred well of hunger. /Teeth/ sinking in with no audible warning but a mental one all the same, his tongue lapping at the hot tang that wells up. Mouth sealing against Parley's neck as his hand skims downward. << (this) (you) (life) >> All one and the same. And for a time that is all there is. The darkness can wait.