ArchivedLogs:Keep Thy Heart

Keep Thy Heart
Dramatis Personae Hive, Martin
In Absentia	2014-01-25 '
Location <NYC> Home - Greenwich Village
Nestled into the heart of the Village, Home is an unobtrusive place, with an unobtrusive name to match. A nondescript storefront opens up into an equally nondescript cafe, plain tiled floors, an assortment of veneered tables with plain wooden chairs or booths with cracking vinyl benches. What it /does/ have to recommend it is the food, hearty solid breakfast and brunch served twenty-four hours a day, with a wide variety of menu to cater to specialized diets as well. Well-known to locals and little frequented by tourists, its friendly serving staff tend to remember their regulars, giving the place a warm feel that lives up to its name. It may be the middle of the night, but being a weekend means that even this late hour finds the diner half-filled. A of parties scattered through the booths dressed as though they are going to (or in a couple a little-too-loud, little-too-rowdy cases, coming-from) the clubs, a cheerfully well-dressed couple possibly en route home from the theatre, a college-aged trio with winter gear draped over their chairs though what they've pared down to now is just pajamas. There's still plenty of empty space, though, which means Hive is free to have commandeered a table all to himself and filled it up with food and laptop, though he's currently ignoring both. The telepath is slumped forward in his chair, fingers scrunched up into the sides of his choppy-messy dark hair and elbows propped on the table, eyes lazily half-lidded in an expression that makes him look perpetually /sleepy/, deceptive given the keenly /alert/ state of his mind that filters incessantly through the myriad surface-fragment thoughts of the minds around him. His palms press in at his temples, far-too-bony shoulders tightened up beneath his hoodie (dark blue, with a blue raincloud raining small blue raindrops and read hearts from it.) His eyes kind-of-sort-of focus in on his laptop screen, designs in very early stages on it of some kind of neighborhood plans being blocked out. His hand gravitates between mousepad and coffee indecisively. Do work, caffeinate. Do work, caffeinate. He never really makes it to either, half-closed eyes moving unsettled away from /either/ of these options at intervals to instead flick around the room towards the other patrons. Though not quite the bitter, frigid cold that the city has seen this winter so far, outside the night is still in a freezing state, with the wind chill making it feel as if it is in the lower teens. As such, the man that makes his way in through the door is bundled up even beyond his usual, wearing heavy boots and jeans, tan jacket, a simple wool scarf that's wound to protect his mouth and nose as well as his neck, black knit cap pulled down far enough to cover the tops of his ears, and thick brown leather gloves. Once the door closes, Martin shrugs his shoulders in the warmth of the cafe and starts to pull off the unnecessary bits of clothing, even while moving to a two-topper table to claim. The scarf is the first thing to go, and then his hat, and then his gloves. Funny enough, though, he wears another pair of gloves underneath, thin and black leather. He does not take them off. Instead, stuffing the other bits into the pockets of his jacket, he then unzips that and strips it off to hang on the back of the chair he settles into, an Xavier's zippered hoodie revealed. When the waitress comes by with a menu, he thanks her and asks for coffee and then starts to peruse his food options, though his icy blue eyes do lift from the menu after a few seconds to consider the other occupants in the place. Hive's lazily half-lidded eyes finish their lazily half-lidded sweep of the room and return to his screen, though his mind is just as open as it ever was to the others around. His hand finally falls back to his coffee to lift it for a deep gulp. His other hand stays knitted up in his messy hair. In the half-filled room it's hard to really pick any one person out among the rest as they go about their business; it could be anyone when suddenly a voice speaks to Martin. Though from the somewhat excruciating way Hive's unfortunate sledgehammer of a mental voice /feels/ it'd be more accurate to say, when suddenly a voice bludgeons Martin over the /head/: << -- Xavier's, like the freakshow? >> For all it's possible to /tell/ beneath the unsubtle mental /assault/, he sounds amused. There's an accent to the words -- not New York, but really past that it's hard to place, a bastardized hybrid that's too washed out to identify -- again, for all it's easy to pick /out/ beneath the heavy /hammering/ that typically makes up Hive's heavy-fisted mental pounding. Martin grimaces at the initial intrusion, and then his eyes narrow, attention lifting up from the menu to the rest of the cafe again. He's not entirely unaccustomed to having a voice pop up in his head; he does work for one, after all. He's also had some training in defense against unwanted intrusions, and there is a real consideration for an attempt at building up some walls, or else doing something along those lines. Curiosity, however, gets the better of him, even as he inwardly bristles at the idea of Xavier's being anything like a freakshow. In his mind, a question surfaces: << Who wants to know? >> << You guys are /totally/ a freakshow. >> Hive replies, << Nobody could live with that many teenagers and come out sane. >> His hands curl around his mug and he rocks back in his chair, taking another slow sip of coffee as his eyes close. More helpfully he floats an identifying mental image of himself, across the diner, scruffy hair, scruffy frayed jeans, heavy workboots, laptop, coffee. << Recognize the logo, I know which Xavier's you are. Friend of -- >> There's a slow /shiver/ of a mental pause here, a psionic ripple like a shudder of breath. Hazy half-formed thoughts, half-formed feelings that don't quite resolve themselves into words, sterile-bright lights contrasted with warm-bright sunlight, warm-bright smiles. A blur of person moving too fast to track. << -- Some of your. People. >> Martin manages to thank the waitress again when she fills up his coffee cup, and also manages to order an amount of food that would probably even quietly impress a fireman coming off of a 12-hour job: a spinach and cheese omelette, two orders of bacon, ham steak, hashbrowns, a stack of pancakes, order of rye toast, bowl of yogurt with granola, and side of fruit salad. Once the waitress is on her way, his mind flicks right back to the other, more silent conversation at hand. With the explanation that the freakshow moniker comes from what he didn't quite expect, Martin pauses to consider it, and consider the rest of what he gets. He squints one blue eye slightly at the half-formed thoughts and feelings, puzzling through them, turning them this way and that for consideration. << I understand. >> Sipping his coffee, he looks for the person to match the initial mental image and finds him, gaze as icy as ever. Hive doesn't look back. Not exactly. His palm rubs in at his temple again, hand absently moving against his mouse to continue sketching out plans on the screen of his computer. His mine hones back in on Martin's, though, in a sharper focus that can be /felt/ like a heavier squeeze of pressure clamping uncomfortably inward. << Jegus. >> /This/, he's commenting on the order Martin's placing. << See, like I said, freakshow. Swear to fucking Rah, I've lived with a half-dozen different Xavierites and they /all/ eat like food's going out of style. >> His brows draw together and eyes briefly close in that telling expression of one attempting to ward off the early signs of a headache. Martin wills himself to focus on other things--the taste of his coffee as he takes a sip, the warmth of the cafe and how it feels compared to the cold he was just in, the smell of cooking food--instead of the feeling that comes along with the voice in his head. At the comment of his order, though, a few, quick, scattered flashes of things are triggered: an alley way, a knife, a vicious stab of pain in the side, a priest in a church. They're memories, nothing more. The pain certainly is not a thing for him now. He shuts them away and refocuses on the words. << Interesting choice to swear to. Rah. >> << S'all the same to me, >> Hive answers with the dismissive mental equivalent of a shrug, << pick one fictional deity or another. I like to mix them up. Frith sometimes. I'm fond of sun-gods. >> There's a brief respite, not in the squeezing but in the hammering voice, at least. << -- Kinda like this by default. >> It's not /exactly/ an apology, though it's somewhat rueful in tone. << Who do you swear to? >> As Martin grows used to the voice, presence, kicking around in his mind, he relaxes as much as he is able to with the hammering. He sips his coffee again. Considers the mention of sun-gods with a thought about various ones from different cultures: Helios vs. Apollo, Surya, Tonatiuh. He seems to know a decent amount about religion, in any case, and a light curiosity exists in him for it. As for the question of where his own faith lies, his response is << God >> with a very clear Catholic association and interpretation. The Lord thy God. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. All of it. << Ah, >> pounds back into Martin's mind in casual acceptance, << right, that guy. >> Hive drains his coffee, knuckles digging hard against his eyes. << Know some others who play on his team too. He's got a big one. Well-funded. >> His hand moves back to his mouse, but then falls away shakily, eyes scrunching shut tight. His other hand just clenches fingers back into his hair, palm rubbing to his temple again. << Kinda -- far from -- >> His words trail off, briefly. The squeezing, too, lets up and doesn't /resume/. His mental voice does hammer back in after a pause, though it sounds more distracted now. << -- Far from. Home this time of -- time. Aren't. You? >> The waitress has to take two trips to bring all of Martin's order. He thanks her, even shows her a smile to go with it. For a moment, his attention completely turns to his food, gaze roaming over each item to consider them and find them all good. He adds salt and pepper to his omelette and his hashbrowns, and then looks back up and over to his conversation partner. << Home is where the heart is. >> he thinks in a too-casual, deflecting sort of way. Then, with a modicum of concern, he wonders: << Are you all right? >> And then starts to eat in serious earnest. Hive exhales heavily. He leaves his hair a tousled mess when he drops his hand to save his work and shut his laptop. << Where do you keep yours, then? >> << In my chest >> is the immediate, tongue-in-cheek thought in response to that question. Because that is where his heart is, of course. His humor at the idea is a quiet overall warmth that lingers, even as he works on his omelette. Though, after a few bites, he does pause in that endeavor to butter and syrup his pancakes. << Dangerous. >> Hive tugs his wallet out of a pocket, leaving money on the table to cover his food before tucking his laptop into a backpack as tatty and old as his jeans and the battered old jacket he shrugs into. << That's the first place everyone'll look. >> Martin's humor is rekindled by that warning, insomuch that his conversation partner was not in the least bit thrown off by his earlier thought. Proverbs 4:23 springs to his mind: << Omni custodia serva cor tuum, quia ex ipso vita procedit. >> Keep thy heart with all diligence: for out of it are the issues of life. With pancakes properly syruped, he looks Hive's way again, and notes the usual activities that preceed someone about to take their leave. << Have a good night >> he bids, though where a name would usually follow that line, he of course comes up with a blank and a question mark. << Maaaaaan, it's cold as fucking balls out there, >> Hive grouses in grouchy parting that does his grumpy-bear sweatshirt justice (save, perhaps, that /probably/ a Care Bear would not resort to that /particular/ turn of phrase) << how am I supposed to have /that/. >> He tips his chin up sharply in a nod to his waitress -- her faint flinch but crooked smile and return nod heavily implies both that he's wished her good-night /too/ and that he's a regular enough customer that his silent method of doing so is entirely expected. He slings the backpack on over his coat, tugs a hat on down over his messy hair, nudges the chair back in with a toe. His shoulders hunch up, head ducking down, and he heads back into the night at a pace more shuffle than walk, feet scuffing against the ground without ever really lifting off it. Martin watches him go, rubs a gloved thumb against his nose in thought, and then tucks back into his overlarge meal, enjoying the warmth of the cafe for a little while longer.