ArchivedLogs:Jet Lag

Jet Lag
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Teague
In Absentia	2015-03-18 "I figure I aimed myself here."
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. It's not quite as rowdy around here during the weeks as it gets on Friday nights -- though with as many stray-homeless mutants as tend to wash in and out, it's never /really/ empty either. A skittish grey-and-white furred girl scrounging in the kitchen for food and immediately dashing back off up to hide in the attic, the sounds of (fighting? sex? sometimes it can be hard to distinguish) from one of the closed bedroom doors on the second floor, an almost skeletally thin older man at the dining room table combing through job posting ads on craigslist. There's a sentry of sorts by the door, not so much Militant Guard as the world's laziest bouncer, woman, older teens perhaps, with yellow-green scales rippling down her limbs, slitted pupils in her yellow eyes, a sharp-fanged smile that hasn't been seen for a while because she's pretty much been curled up in a pool of sunlight dozing. In all fairness to her at least, it's /been/ a while since anyone came in. Until now, anyway. The opening door lets in a draft of frigid air from the suddenly-wintry-again day outside -- enough to prompt one eye open, and just as quickly back closed. Dusk is evidently a familiar enough face not to warrant further scrutiny, neither Potential Threat nor Potentially In Need Of Aid. What he /is/ at the moment is carrying a large box of hot coffee in one hand, an also-large paper bag in the other. Heading straight for the kitchen with these. It's way too late in the afternoon to qualify as breakfast time but that hasn't stopped him from toting in breakfast /pastries/ to set out on the counter for the taking. In attire he looks nondescript, brown corduroys, Vans sneakers, dark sunglasses, a large heavy shawl (that he is soon shedding) draped over a browncoat hoodie underneath. What probably stands out are the taloned wings, not just enormous but vividly decorated, a brilliant red-yellow-orange sunburst pattern designed to look like stained glass. Teague, or Jewel, has become relatively accustomed to the oft slumbering bouncer by the door, the scaredy-cat in the attic, and the skinny, hollow cheeked man job searching in vain day after day. Even the sounds of sex and fighting have started to be a comfort to him, like white noise. Having held up here for a few days while getting his bearings of New York, the young Brit slinks his way down the stairs. As the cat girl scurries her way, he rests his hand against the banister and side-presses his body there to let her pass. It's taken him this long to even get on that level of rapport with her. "Any luck today, eh?" He asks as he drifts lazily by the dining room table, not even batting a lash at the unintelligible grunt that he gets in response. Teague's thin, white tanktop is wet where his damp hair touches it. Evidently breakfast time for him, he still wears baggy, plaid pajama pants and thick, thermal socks. Hooking an arm up into the air and yawning at he enters the kitchen. The act spreads to his whole body, and he reaches up to the ceiling with both hands as the yawn becomes audible. His eyes find the new face, Dusk. It's contagious. Once it's spread through Teague it hits Dusk as well. His wings stretch and shiver at his back, one palm pressing down to the counter to either side of the coffee he's brought and the other arm coming up to half-shade his mouth with the back of his hand as he yawns, too. He gives a very fangy grin to Teague after it has passed. "Man, yeah. I've wanted to crawl back into bed since I got /out/ of it. Coffee?" One thumbclaw twitches down to the coffee in indication. For its part, the fangy smile is not quite as contagious. Teague doesn't smile, save for gentle wrinkle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "Cheers," he manages, still yawning. Nudging his chin up in thanks, he ventures closer for one of the cups. "Jet lag," he mumbles. "Oh yeah?" Dusk is reaching into the bigger paper bag to pull out a pair of boxes; one is labeled VEGAN in bold sharpie across its lid, though on the whole they seem to contain a comparable assortment of muffins and pastries. And cookies. He opens the vegan box to pull out a chocolate-chocolate chip cookie, getting himself a cup of coffee as well to go with it. "Where you getting in from?" "No," Teague admits, a grin finally breaking across his face as he admits without shame, "I always sleep past noon." By his accent, he is at least foreign. Taking the lid off, be smells the coffee before taking a sip. "This is good," despite a general dry tone to everything he says, he offers a hint of surprise in this. This earns a chuckle, another crooked twitch of grin. Dusk leans down against the counter, elbows propped against it and his fingers cradling the coffee carefully. "Feel you on that, too. I rarely get to sleep till the sun's up. Kind of stereotypical, I know, but." One wing hitches up in a shrug. "It's from the place just down the block. Evolve. Cafe. Friendly there. -- You /are/ just getting in, though? I mean, here?" A flick of wing shifts to indicate the house in general. "Haven't seen you around. Before." Friendly there. Teague lets out a murmur of understanding. "Yes," sliding into one of the chairs, the teen folds his legs up under him, "I am." He observes Dusk for a moment, languidly reaching out for a non-vegan pastry. "I'm afraid I don't know if we introduce ourselves or not. It's all been rather er, 'clandestine' up until this point." In another leisurely movement, he brings back both his hands to tie back his long hair into a bun with a black band that he'd had waiting on his wrist. Without hair in his face, his youth is a little easier to pick out. "May I?" He asks of the pastry. "Oh -- man. I think people with manners usually do, I just. Forget mine until I have enough caffeine in me." Dusk nudges the second box of pastries towards Teague in clear invitation. He stretches his hand towards the teenager after, fisted up for a knuckletap. "I'm Dusk. I don't always have food. Try to keep /something/ around here, though. Probably an unhealthy number of everyone around here running just on caffeine way too often." Teague extends his fist, bumping Dusk's, "'Dusk.' I get it. I'd say I'll try not to associate you with free food, but the damage may already be done." He maintains pleasant eye contact, "The Crown Jewel. ...makes me sound a bit like someone's prize race horse. Either way, a pleasure." "Get it?" Dusk looks briefly puzzled at this. He chomps a bite out of his cookie once he has executed Knuckletap, slumping back against the counter. "... /The/ Crown Jewel. Huh. Is the -- the mandatory? Or like an honorific. e Mr. The Crown Jewel be redundant?" "Dusk," Teague pauses in flaking apart his pastry to tap where his fang might be, if he had one. He chuckles under his breath sheepishly but couldn't be all too embarrassed for all his good posture and self-assuredness, "You can call me whatever feels right." "Ohhh." Dusk's grin hooks up at one side again, a small flush in his cheeks as he ducks his head. "The fangs grew in the same year that shitty book came out. I couldn't freaking shake it. And then there were too many Ryans around the people I hang out with so it's just sort of -- permanently stuck. I usually forget to respond to Ryan by now anyway. Been so long now it's just --" His wing hitches up in a small shrug. "Just Dusk." He takes another bite of cookie, the tip of his tongue swiping crumbs from the corner of his lip. "So why The Crown Jewel? /Do/ you race?" "I prefer Dusk. Kudos," the teen purses his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, "No. Nothing like that. I can show you, if you like." Teague's eyebrows hitch up mischievously and he leans in some, "Hold out your hand?" Dusk's eyebrows hitch up, slightly. He tips his head down enough to look briefly at Teague without the shade of his sunglasses -- it'd be an almost suspicious scrutiny if not for the lingering curl of his grin. He polishes off his cookie, brushing crumbs off against his corduroys and then holding his hand out to Teague. Teague lifts both hands and conducts his fingers in a series of choreographed, elegant motions. Above Dusk's open palm, there is a physical wave of warmth and the air begins to shudder and sparkle. It's clear that Teague has to focus, and for a moment, it might seem like that's all there is to the demonstration. Just when one might be tempted to give up, a clean, fat princess cut diamond forms, plopping down into the waiting hand like fruit off of a tree. Teague sits back, sighing audibly from the effort, "Teague," he pants, "is my birth name." Dusk's brows lift higher as he watches this. His head tips, gaze shifting between Teague and the warm air above his hand. With his other hand, he shifts his glasses a little more firmly onto his face when the air begins to sparkle, still watching with a mild curiosity. A mild curiosity that ends in an audible sharp intake of breath when the weight of the diamond drops into his palm. "Holy. Fucking shit, dude." Now he /removes/ the glasses, fingers curling around the diamond to lift it. Inspect it. His dark eyes have opened wide. "I mean, holy fucking /shit/." His free hand lifts to scrub against his scruffily-bearded cheek -- which serves perhaps as something of a /reminder/ to close his mouth from where his jaw is still just a little hanging. "That's -- is this really a -- real -- /man/." For the first time his eyes meet Teague's directly, unshaded by the dark glasses. "... Teague. Which do you prefer?" "I'm not sure, honestly," Teague manages with a crooked, spent smile. He's winded, but meets Dusk's eyes without reservation. "Keep it. I have loads." Heavy lidded, he watches from across the table and picks into his pastry, "The light mess with your vision?" "Holy /shit/," Dusk echoes, this words this time echoed in sign along with his spoken words. "Crown Jewel indeed. And you wound up here? Power like that, a little careful selling, you could afford to buy this entire freaking block." He nods as he slips the sunglasses back on, and tucks the diamond into a sweatshirt pocket. Then pulls it out again to take another quick peek. This time when he tucks it back away his hand stays in his pocket with it. "Yeah. Kinda the whole vampire -- thing. Light gets a little much, sometimes. Usually sleep half the day away anyway so --" Shrug. "Don't worry. It won't disappear," Teague watches Dusk with amusement as he checks the diamond, crinkling his nose, "I don't want to own the block - I want to mash shit up." Eyes twinkling, he mirrors the other man and shrugs. "Just never had a -- I feel like I should be /doing/ something with this. Put it in a bank or -- sell it or -- like before it --" Dusk's grin is a little sheepish. "... disappears. OK or more like before some asshole cop catches it on me and thinks I stole it cuz --" His wings shiver. His smile curls wider. "Mash shit? Just shit in general, or you got specific targets ripe for mashing? Lotta shit gets mashed around here, if you just. Aim yourself right." "Yeah, if you don't have the authentication papers, they'll bury your arse," Teagan hmns over his coffee, "I figure I aimed myself here. My mother was a mutant. Never did a thing with it worth a damn. ...that sounds naive." He scoffs looking down, "Anyway, I ought to start my day." Rising from the table, the British teen's movements are fluid, "Thanks for the coffee ...Dusk." "Mmm. Here's a pretty good place to start." Dusk lifts his cup of coffee, waggling it lazily by way of farewell. "Any time. See you 'round, maybe."