ArchivedLogs:Exposure Therapy

Exposure Therapy
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Steve, Scramble
In Absentia	2015-12-17 "{I can handle it.}"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Game Room - Lower East Side
Together with the dining room, this is the largest room in the common building, a plentiful expanse of gathering space for people to come and socialize. There is typically a brightly-coloured array of whimsical artwork hanging on the walls, and its wide windows overlook the grounds. Tall cabinets along one wall hold a wide library of board and card games -- there's a sign-out sheet for the use of these clipped to the front of the cabinet doors. The room provides plenty of place to /play/ games in, as well, with several separate wide tables -- three ringed by straight-backed chairs, two nestled amid more casual clusters of couch-and-armchairs -- scattered throughout the room. In the back of the room there's a ping-pong table; over near the windows on the right, an air hockey table, while a pool table stands to the back of it. Doors to either side of the room lead off to the media room and the children's playroom. There's cursing coming from the game room -- occasional grunts, occasional growling, here and there a scream. "-- {Oh, fuck, that one's almost on you --}" Dusk's Spanish sounds a little frantic. "{/I/ see it where the fuck /you/ looking, boy, I don't even /know/.}" The other voice with him is a slightly annoyed contralto, Spanish rougher and less fluid than Dusk's. Over on the couch, a tall dark-skinned woman in black skinny jeans and scoop-neck orange sweater with a cotton-candy cloud of poofy hair is, now, throwing up her hands in exasperation. She tosses her X-box controller aside on the couch, reaching forward to pick up a bottle of beer and gulp from it. Tucking it between her knees, she switches now to a much more glib signing: 'The fuck was that.' With a lift of eyebrows, a gesture towards the screen -- where a number of zombies have just ravaged one of the characters on the screen. Dusk is sprawled on a pair of beanbags on the floor in front of the woman's legs. He is in dark corduroys -- just that, no shoes, no shirt. His jewel-toned wings twitch at his back, and he tips an lopsided apologetic grin up to his companion. 'Oops.' Propping himself up on a wing, he lifts his brows to her. 'I was distracted. You're very --' He doesn't finish his sentence. Scramble plucks a cushion off the couch, throwing it straight at him. The expression on Steve's face as he comes in from the hallway is one of very mild alarm -- brows furrowed and shoulders tensed. He's wearing a plain black t-shirt about a size too small for his muscular torso and indigo jeans that fit perfectly, his shield in one hand but not strapped on. The alarm turns to confusion as he witnesses the /attack/ with the couch cushion. But then he look at the screen and makes an almost-silent 'ah'. "{Sorry to interrupt game,}" he says, his Spanish still rough, but sounding less and less like Italian all the time, "{I heard screams...}" Dusk has curled one wing around the cushion, laughing quietly as he hugs it in against his chest. 'Can't help it! How the fuck am I supposed to kill zombies on an empty stomach?' He chucks the pillow lazily back towards Scramble. She bats it aside, letting it fall to the side of the couch. "Tch." She shakes her head, twisting sideways to glance towards the door and flicking a quick up-down glance over Steve. "{You interrupting nothing. We dead already}." Though her POINT at Dusk is one of ACCUSATION, the twitch of her lips is kiiind of amused. Dusk spreads his hands. So helpless. "{You come to save us?}" he asks Steve with a chuckle. Scramble is getting off the couch, stretching her arms slowly above her head. "From hunger? That's dire." Steve's eyes follow Dusk's signing without comprehension, though he has clearly worked out that there's no actual danger afoot here. He steps inside fully and studies the carnage on the screen. "{I would not be good to save you, in game. Make you dead /faster/.}" He smiles crookedly. "I'm Steve Rogers. {And I don't know if anyone will cook tonight, but have food in the refrigerator, still.}" "{Food?} This white boy for real?" Scramble steps onto the couch and then over the back of it, long legs making the stride with relative ease, and offers a casual hand out to Steve. "Scramble. {/I'm/ gonna need food if you want to eat, anyway.} You want I grab you something?" The clawed tips of Dusk's wings press down against the floor, pushing him up in a slow stretch of back as he rises. A soft growl rumbles in his throat, low and hungry. "Ngh. Yes. No. {I'm finishing your beer.}" He lifts the beer in question. "{Video games are a whole different skillset. Takes some practice. Not that there's -- a whole lot of /reason/ to practice. Except for that it's fun.}" Steve blinks rapidly, clearly not grokking the connection between Scramble getting food and Dusk eating. But he shakes her hand, his grip firm and confident. "{Nice to meet you.}" He glances sideways at Dusk when he growls. Though he doesn't look /particularly/ concerned, there is a curious tightness to his jaw as he watches the other man's wings brace against the floor. "{Fun is good reason. Maybe I learn someday. So much to do, right now.}" Scramble's hand is broad and calloused, her grip firm as well. She claps Steve on the shoulder after the handshake, an absent jostle-squeeze as she passes by. "{Zombies gone, fucking quarantine neverending. The hell we got to do.} Drink /all/ the beer, Darkwing, {I stole it from your kitchen anyway.}" She slips out of the room, letting the door swing shut again behind her. Dusk's gaze focuses on the other two, wings still braced against the floor. His shoulders roll, knees shifting up underneath himself as he moves from lazy-sprawl into a crouch. Not quiite standing. He's getting there. "You good?" His brows have lifted, just slightly. Steve wanders further into the room after Scramble departs. Finally comes to rest again beside the couch, half-sitting on one arm of it. "That's what people keep saying, but I'm guessing you don't mean that in a philosophy or ethics sort of way." He picks up the wayward cushion and replaces it. Sets down his shield. "{I work now. Ash's company.}" Studies Dusk for a moment. His pulse speeds noticeably, and he deliberately shifts his gaze to the screen, where computer-generated zombies still shamble about. "{Also, going to apply to live here. Well. /Rent/ here.}" Dusk turns towards the couch, staying perched in a gargoyle-esque crouch. His wings mantle behind him, claws clicking against the floor as they shift. He takes a swig from the half-finished beer bottle, studying Steve right back. "I meant it in a -- your heart starts racing when you look at me sort of way." The smile that follows is warm, wide and fangy. "{Which is sometimes an effect I /like/ having on people --} but I haven't really gotten the impression it's in that warm /fuzzy/ way." His arm drapes over his knee, beer bottle held lazily in one hand. "{We're not going to get any less monstery after you start paying rent, you know.}" Steve blushes fiercely, pulse speeding up again. "{I'm sorry. You /are/ very good-looking, which doesn't help this uh...}" He bows his head. "Automatic reaction, to people who look extremely different from how I'm used to people looking. {But please believe that I don't think you're /monsters/.}" His eyes look a little distant. "I've met real monsters. Not a one of them had wings or claws, but they sure were into judging people by how they look. I don't hold to that, and I'll work through my own bigotry." He's /staring/ at the screen kind of intently now. "I don't have to do that here, though, if it bothers you." "Automatic reaction. {I'll say.}" The soft growl that thrums in Dusk's chest now sounds close to a purr. His shoulders shake in a brief ripple of laughter. "You seem more bothered than I am. {Come on, man.}" One of the long sharp thumbclaws atop his wings twitches, beckoning to Steve as the other man stares at the zombies on screen. "{You can't even look at me.}" He takes another gulp from his beer, hand returning to its casual drape against his leg after. "You're wrong, though. {Maybe that's why it /is/ so hard for you.}" Judging by his pulse, at least, looking at the zombies isn't making Steve much /more/ comfortable. But his pale blue eyes flick back to Dusk when prompted. His gaze is steady and his heartbeat returning to its usual slow, strong rhythm, though the hand he has braced against the arm of the couch tightens momentarily. "I'm sure I'm wrong about plenty. {But, what do you mean?}" "You say you don't think we're monsters." Dusk's fanged smile curls a little wider. "{But 'monster' isn't something /I'm/ ashamed of. It's just part of who I am.} Not sure how soon you'll get comfortable with /me/ if you keep trying to see me as human and work through it that way." His shoulders flex, brilliantly painted wings stretching out wider and wider until they've reached -- not actually their full span, but as long as his current position in the room will accommodate, bumping against a wall and an armchair and able to go no further. "The freak is sort of hard to ignore, you know?" His tone is light, one shoulder rolling in a shrug. "I don't think we're working off the same definition for 'monster'." Steve's smile is not as fangy or as wide as Dusk's, but it looks sincere. "{Still, I think you are right, that I try to see you as human.} Even though I'm not sure what that even /means/ anymore." His shrug is kind of helpless. "I'd rather see you as /you/. And if 'monster' is a part of that, then...} I guess I need to update my ideas about monsters." His eyes skip back to the zombies on the screen, briefly this time. "Again." Dusk's eyes track along with Steve's towards the television screen, a faint crease forming between his brows. One wing curls back, a claw tapping lightly at a button on the side of the monitor to switch it off. "As me." He nods, finally rising, draining the last of the beer and setting it back on the table. His wings have draped back behind him, lax and languid as he takes a step closer to Steve's arm of the couch. "{Seems like a good place to start. If you can handle a bit of monster in your life -- }" The smile that hangs on his lips is lopsided and easy, a quick warmth lighting his dark eyes as he leans in just a touch closer; one wing curls out past Steve to brace his weight in a casual drape of hooked talons against the back of the sofa cushion not far above the other man's elbow. "I think I'll be plenty glad to have you here." If Steve is relieved to see the screen go dark, his comfort is short-lived. "{I can handle it,}" his voice is quiet, but confident. His pulse speeds up again when Dusk approaches, and he stands up as if to flee, but just remains there, one foot half off the floor. His eyes travel down the long, long limb and fix on the talons where they grip the upholstery. He lifts a hand and reaches, shaking faintly, for the velvety membrane of the wing. "{May I...?}" Dusk's mouth hitches up at one side, his weight shifting to pull upright. Closer to Steve by a step. He lifts his hand, fingers curled loosely up around Steve's wrist, bracing it against its trembling. There's a very faint dilation of his own pupils with this touch. His wing shifts off the couch, wrapping inward -- slowly, very gradually, pressing inward to brush the surface of his wing against Steve's fingertips. Suede-soft, warm to the touch, the faint smell of Old Spice still lingering on its nap. His eyes stay focused carefully on Steve's face as, just as slow, his wing continues to curl in, curving around in a gentle drape against the other man's shoulders -- gradually enough it would be a simple matter to sidestep free of the giant limb. Steve's wrist is tense in Dusk's grasp, but the shaking stills when his fingertips touch the surface of the wing. He exhales, long and slow. His lips twitch, an almost-smile that fades and returns in short order as the wing curls around him. His fingers trace across the warm, fuzzy skin of the wing as it enfolds him, turning to continue the caress with his knuckles as he nears where the shoulder joint. His own shoulders, broad and muscular, relax in the warmth of the embrace, and he finally wraps his other arm around Dusk's bare torso, pulling the other man close. He draws a deep breath, and it hitches as it comes back out. "{Thank you,}" he whispers so softly that it's doubtful Dusk could have heard if it were not spoken inches from his ear. The breath that Dusk pulls in comes matched in time with Steve's exhalation. His wing pulls in more snugly, wrapping gentle but more fully around once the other man relaxes, curling Steve close in against himself. One hand lifts between them, fingertips tracing against the line of Steve's jaw, his face tipped up to the taller man's. A quirk of a smile catches at his lips. "You good?" Steve smooths his hands down Dusk's back, exploring the unfamiliar musculature that powers his wings. If his pulse is racing now, far faster than it had before, and faster than seems healthy. But he does not pull away. Holds his breath for a moment when Dusk's fingers touch his jaw. Leans into the light pressure they exert, maybe not altogether consciously. He nods. It's a few seconds before he manages to speak an answer: "Better than I was."