ArchivedLogs:Plumage

Plumage
Dramatis Personae Doug, Parley	2013-04-06 An exchange.
Location <NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building.  A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan.  In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generallly littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages.  The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools.  Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom.  Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. The knock on Doug’s door is mild, rapped by the first two fingers of a right hand - knockknockknock? Doug is slow to answer, rousing slowly from his supine position on the couch and rubbing at his eyes.  The blonde, dressed in a pair of rugby shorts and nothing else, stretches sleepily before he pushes to his feet and moves towards the door. As he goes, he scoops up Alt, tucking her under his arm as he heads towards the door, peeping through the spy hole blearily before he swings it open.   Standing outside the door are a pair of dark curious-peering eyes, weaving slightly back-for-up-down to glimpse reflexively past Doug to check out his apartment. The eyes are connected to Parley, who has broken the routine of showing up 1.) when Doug ISN’T home and 2.) with the intention to eat his food, seeing as he’s brought with him a casserole with real CASSEROLE in it; ricotta and asparagus and egg. “Mr. Ramsey,” he smiles, a little small, and explains with nod towards his pan, “I’ve been cooking.” What have /you/ been up to today? Doug has a wide, sleepy smile for Parley when the door is open, his own blue eyes sweeping over the smaller man before landing on the casserole. "It's Doug," he reminds Parley, lifting his hand from the knob and waving his visitor inside. "Mister Ramsey is my dad. My friends call me Doug." Not that it's a /long/ list. He grins a grin that's claimed by a yawn as he leads the way back into the apartment. "That smells good," he says, gesturing at the casserole and tossing Alt onto the couch lightly. "Do you enjoy cooking?" Parley’s smile is vaguely apologetic, “Doug. Mnh. Alright.” He has enough genuine discomfort that it practically radiates ‘if I sound rude, it’s /your/ fault’. “My mother was traditional; it wouldn’t sound so awkward if I were using ‘-san’, save the glaring language barrier.” Which... his little secret dart-smile he makes over a shoulder during the invasion process acknowledges, is a barrier neither of them particularly struggle with. The other man’s limited clothing doesn’t seem to trouble him, glancing Doug over as well; he’s currently wearing a neat gray overshirt, shortsleeved, unbuttoned over a black t-shirt, jeans, loafers; it’s a little more towards the latter side of business-casual, but it’s versatile. “I used to cook a lot,” he says, setting the casserole pan on the counter in the kitchen, “I’ve been trying to get back into it. Which does mean...” He stands back, crossing his arms and /looking/ at the dish, “...I have more than one house really needs. This is ‘I’m sorry’ food for how much I took from you when I first got here.” "Ramsey-San," Doug echoes, his eyes crinkling as he lowers himself onto a stool at the counter. "I actually kind of like that. It's kind of sexy sounding."  He offers a wide grin. "It's the 'Mister' that throws me. I'm still a teenager, after all." He lifts a shoulder, and leans on the counter. "I'm tempted to look for my father when I hear it." The comments about cooking are observed in thoughtful silence that's tinged with a tiny bit of sadness for the idea that Parley was denied something he liked for so long. It's broken by the blonde's lopsided grin and sudden amusement. "I love this building," he says, and it's only half a lie. "There are so many neighbors who bring me food."  He waves a hand at the apology. "You didn't take anything that wasn't happily offered," he says earnestly. "And I liked --/like/-- having you around." He lifts his eyebrows. "So there's no need to apologize." He grins. "But you can totally keep bringing me food, if it makes you feel better." “What,” Parley muses, helping himself to Doug’s cabinets with the familiarity of a person that’s /already/ been through them a few times, “Lllamnzi-saa?” He really pours on the Engrish to say ‘Ramsey-san’, grinning small. He sets out two plates, slices into the casserole; Doug gets a normal-size human portion, while Parley serves himself a small polite sliver; when you’ve been cooking all day, the snacking on ingredients alone tends to render one not-hungry. Forks are set out as well. “-like having me around?” Parley sets out the plate in front of Doug, “You’ve hardly met me.” Though he says it with a faint laugh, sitting down beside him with ankles crossed and feet tucked up beneath his chair. He pulls own plate close, using the fork to start worrying loose a bite. Doug winces at the exaggeration, and his upper lip curls a bit. "Maybe not," he capitulates. "Doug is fine."  He watches with a faint trace of amusement as Parley sets out, noting the familiarity with his kitchen with a small smile. "Is there a standard of time required to know someone before you're allowed to like them?" he asks, lifting his fork. "You're quiet, and nice," he explains, poking his fork into his food. "We have similar abilities, and..." he trails off, digging at his food before taking up a forkful. "I had fun, when we went around the city that night. So, yeah," he says, jamming the fork in his mouth. "I like having youohmygod." He pauses, chewing slowly. "That is fantastic." “And...? Oh,” Parley smiles behind his fork, the slight bags beneath his eyes curling up to turn them into crescents, “I’m glad you like it.” He takes his own bite, and the process of chewing finds his smile erode, face dropping back down to a thoughtful neutral. He looks down at his plate, nudging at it as though seeking a specific piece. Dissect-poke. “How is your family?” He asks, after a long moment. Doug happily digs into the food, taking larger than average forkfuls and shoveling them into his mouth. The noises he makes indicates that either he's really hungry, or the food is hitting the pleasure center of his brain. "This is really good," he reiterates, nodding at Parley. "You can cook for me anytime." There's a small frown at Parley's question, and Doug tilts his head. "My family?" seems a bit confused, and his eyebrows knit. "They're all right. Mom's working on some fundraiser that's next month, and Dad's just Dad."  He juts his lower lip out thoughtfully. "Did you meet them at the gala?" he asks. He doesn't sound like he believes that to be the case. "After we talked?" Parley’s head shakes quietly, eyes still set down on his plate. “...No,” he verbalizes a beat later, softly. He’s silent again then, mouth compressed. Poke-nudge. His casserole slice is getting sliced into a number of perfectly acceptable bite-sizes, none of which he seems to remember to eat. Doug seems to have forgotten his own food as he watches the other man. He swallows the last bit of food in his mouth, and wipes a corner with his thumb. "Why do you ask?" Parley hears - the pensive-slow lick of his upper lip affirms this - but takes another long moment to answer. But he takes the time to have another bite, teeth clicking on fork tines, chewing, the dual upward-and-downward twist of his throat when he swallows, before answering. “I have been doing some research on some of Oscorp’s other projects. His mutant counter-measure program is multi-faceted in both defense and offense. Which I’m not opposed to, in concept.” Whether Doug has actually read his opinion piece or not is probably immaterial; he’s a moderate voice by default. There’s a ‘but’, though. Even if he doesn’t say the exact word. He sets down his fork and folds up his hands together, hooking his chin over them like a hen roosting over eggs,  “--But I’m concerned with something.” “On paper, a lot of things sound good,” Doug says, sliding from his stool to pad into the kitchen.  “But they rarely turn out that way.”  He opens the refrigerator, and extracts two bottles of water that he brings back to the counter, pausing on the way to tear off a couple of paper towels.  He frowns at Parley’s sudden seeming pensiveness, and sets down a bottle in front of his plate.  “What are you concerned about?” he asks, in a carefully neutral voice.  There’s a twitch of his eyebrow, though, and a wash of cold dread as the teenager starts to sew the pieces together. “More than just on paper,” Parley contends, absently. “Some mutants /are/ dangerous. And even for mutants like you and I, the access to /practical/ levels of technology that could aid in public defense is being badly mismanaged. Mr. Holland can’t be everywhere to defend people whenever hostility arises.” When Doug sets down the water by his plate, Parley lays a gentle hand on top of Doug’s forearm, thumb only lightly curling around to the inner side of the other man’s wrist, “I genuinely don’t want you to think all mutant research is the same; you’ve only been hearing about the negative. And it isn’t. We just need to be /cautious/. Push for strict regulation and transparency. Do our research.” He pulls in a slow breath, lets it out, “Right now, what I’m trying to look into is Oscorp’s anti-telepathy research. It could be harmless - and if it isn’t, it could still be salvageable. But.” His thumb slides restless-light along the inside of Doug’s forearm, his eyes meeting Doug’s apologetically, “--I’m not really sure how to ask you this.” “Oh, I know there’s good people trying to do the right thing out there,” Doug says with a small smile.  “I’d like to think my dad was one of them.  But I’m not naive, either.”  He lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head with a shrug.  “Even the best-intended things can be corrupted and perverted.” The unexpected contact evokes a bit of pinkening in Doug’s ears, and there’s the smallest freezing of his muscles before he relaxes under that slow slide, the fine hairs on his arm lifting slightly.  “Oh....” Doug chews the inside of his cheek, furrowing his brow briefly.  “Well, I’ve learned recently that waiting to ask important questions never works out the way you want it to.”  He offers a small, encouraging smile.  Nervous apprehension cools his skin under Parley’s palm, though.  “It’s better to just ask, and get it out there.” For the freezing of Doug’s arm, and the cool apprehension crawling over the tongue of Parley’s empathy, he slips loose his hand from Doug’s arm, just in case it’s making it worse. Still quietly meeting eyes to eyes, he takes a moment to think. And finally lays out, carefully, “Your father, Phillip Ramsey, might be part of the research team that I’m trying to look into. It could be nothing. I /hope/ that it’s nothing. But I need to be sure.” His expression pinches, so near to apologetic, but also apologetic because he’s going to ask anyway, “Can you help me with something?” Doug blinks, confused for a moment, before the pieces are sewn together enough that he recovers.  “Oh -- Oh!” he chuffs a shaky laugh, and bobs his head with an almost relieved expression.  “Oh, it’s a fairly safe bet that he probably is,” he says, moving back around the counter to reclaim his seat.  “My dad has some pretty dubious business connections.  I found that out when I was looking for -- well, you, ultimately, I guess.”  He scrunches his nose in thought as he pokes his fork into his food.  “What do you need help with?” “I need to get internal access to the facility,” when Doug moves away, Parley lowers his attention back to his plate. “Any information at all, that could get me on the right /course/, or who might be working there - I want this to be as quiet and bloodless as possible for everyone involved. But the more I /know/ the more delicate I can handle it.” “You want me to swipe you my dad’s access card?” Doug asks, fork half-raised to his mouth.  There’s a twinge of disappointment that’s lost in a surge of conflict, and he frowns, lowering the untensil back to the plate thoughtfully..  “Or was there something else you have in mind?”  The corners of his mouth tug tight, and he THINKS a moment.  “I mean, I’m happy to help, but I’m not sure exactly what I can do for you.” “-swipe your...,” Parley looks at him, his eyes startled wide, then exhales a shaky laugh, “You say it so casually.” He pushes his plate to the side, placing elbows on the table and ducking down his head to massage at the back of his neck, where tawny fur and faint rosettes stir from from the pressure, slowly working his fingers down from his nape and then under the collar of his shirt to knead his shoulders. “Mnh,” he muffles wearily, “I’m not sure. I don’t really want to ask you to do anything that would get you into trouble. Or possibly cause you conflict with your father.” Doug chuckles, and leans over to bump his shoulder against Parley’s dipping his head to smile at the man.  “Believe me, I’ve done more than enough to get me in trouble already,” he assures him.  “And I’ve been lifting stuff off my dad for ages.”  He leans back, watching Parley for a long moment as he considers just what he’s admitting to, and there’s a rush of guilt for having abused his father’s trust for this long.  “Not anything like /this/, but a little spending money and car keys and stuff.”  He taps his chin thoughtfully, and tilts his head at the other man.  “Are your shoulders bothering you?” he asks sincerely as he pushes to his feet again.  “Would you like me to rub them?”’  He smiles encouragingly.  “I’m told I give great back rubs.” “They’re not bothering me in a bad way,” Parley chuffs, “I’m not in terribly good shape, so I’ve taken up a gym membership. I’m -- feeling it, a little.” He taps his fingers for a moment against his spine and then shrugs loose his shoulders from his overshirt, setting it aside. More of his fur is visible without the higher collar, the center ridge of his hackles slightly coarser and less glossy where guard hairs line up. The rest is softer, thinning into non-existence and normal human skin the further around the sides of his neck they dwell. “Rub away.” He folds his hands up between his knees so /cooperatively/ for it, too. And only in the quiet that follows does he even tangentially return to: “...tell me about your father.” Doug scrunches his nose in sympathy.  “Oh, man.  That’s rough,” he says, sliding behind Parley and gently -- almost tentatively-- puts his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders.  “You’ll probably feel it for a couple of days, until you get used to the routine.”  He smiles, and runs his thumbs along the neck vertebrae, working them into the soft fur there before pressing into the muscle and gently beginning to work them loose. There’s just the smallest tremble to his hands, as if Parley’s muscles are going to be too much for his poor thumbs and fingers. “My father?” he echoes, and he frowns over that dark hair, searching his memory.  “He’s all right, I guess.  He loves me, so I can’t think that he’s all bad.  But he’s kind of...” hands slip down over the curve of shoulder muscles, kneading gently.  “I don’t know if ‘pompous’ is the right word.  But he likes to be right.”  He smiles a tight little smile as an embarrassing memory of being called out sweeps through him.  “He also likes to talk about his projects to most anyone with clearance who’ll listen.”  He chuckles hollowly, his hands moving less massage-y than they are explorative.  As if testing the muscles underneath them.  “He’s supportive of people he cares about, but if he doesn’t care about you, there’s nothing he’ll do for you.”  He shrugs, the motion traveling down into his hands.  “But, on the other side of that, there’s nothing he’ll do /against/ you, either.  Once you’ve crossed Phillip Ramsey, you’re a non-entity in his world.” There’s a pause before Doug’s hands seem to recall their Prime Directive and begin kneading again.  “He’s also a pretty smooth liar.” For Parley’s part, this is all good; shaky fingers or no, they’ll only /sink/ into pliant welcome, where fur ripple and adjusts in its follicles beneath lighter touches, and smoothes to its grain when compressed. But it’s not a strictly enforced grain, the skin it’s attached to is noticeably loose where it layers over his shoulders and nape, coming up in in easy handholds like a scruffed feline at no noticeable discomfort - and possibly a mild little “mmm” purr. The budding knots of muscle are easy to find; little walnut tangle-clumps  in his upper shoulders, a few smaller snarls in his mid-back, tighter bundles as they reach to the small of his back. He melts all too cooperatively over the table, inch by surrendered inch. “Do you worry you compare yourself to him?” The unexpected loose skin at Parley’s neck seems mildly fascinating to Doug, when he returns to it, and he massages it in much the same way he would on Alt or Delete -- although not entirely.  His movements are slower, and more deliberate.  As his fingers locate those knots, they play across them with practiced ease, until they melt away under the assault. “I don’t know that I compare myself to /him/ as much as I compare myself to my mother,” Doug says.  “Although, I think I get my determination and single-mindedness from him.  I don’t think I’m as ruthless, though.”  He says this with a healthy amount of doubt, and his hands pause for a moment.  “I mean, I do like to talk about my projects, but I don’t think I’m as skilled a liar.”  He grins, and slides his hands back up to that loose nape, kneading absently.  “Unless you count lying to computer systems.” There’s a long pause, and the kneading becomes more of a smoothing gesture along the bow of Parley’s shoulders and down his spine almost to his waistline.  “Do....” Doug’s voice is as hesitant as he is when he speaks again.  “Have you contacted your family, since...?” “Mmmmmh.” Parley oozes over the tabletop like heated butter, his plate elbowed aside to make room for his chest and folded arms, laying his cheek on top of them. Also loosening, though far less absentmindedly and with some care, are his mental channels, opening wider to swallow in Doug’s sentiments, his feelings, the flavor of his intentions. As they pour in, they then pour /through/ to the other side. It’s a sense of comfortable surrender, of Doug’s own presence being the strongest in the room. He might be easier to misplace by this event, if Doug’s hands were not actively /on/ him. It’s a subtle, peripheral sensation, deeper in the animal hindbrain where instinct would normally recognize ‘I’m not alone in this room’, and instead there’s a sense of privacy. Also, and this part /is/ openly openly projected to the forebrain: << (purr). >> For all these other weights, his answer is distant and flat, “Mh. I’ll get to it. I’ve been busy. Hfff.” His palms compress against the table, and push down - it press his back harder into Doug’s hands, filling them up with the round shape of ribs, the points of shoulderblades that stick up amongst sinew that constricts to accommodate the motion. “You compare yourself to your mother?” Doug’s intentions, sadly, are becoming less noble as Parley becomes more compliant under his hands.  There’s conflict on top of that, something uncertain as he slides his palms across the t-shirt’s rough fabric.  His movements slow, though, as if the smaller man were somehow becoming fragile under his touch. Parley’s comfort and ease only seem to heighten Doug’s awareness, and perhaps that animal hindbrain will register the slight stiffness that enters the teenager’s spine.  When Parley presses back against his palms, there’s a flare of sudden /desire/ that’s quickly tamped down.  “W-would they be glad to hear from you?” he wonders, his voice cracking just the tiniest bit.  The question, though, makes him chuckle, and some of his tension melts away.  “I only compare myself to make sure I don’t turn into her,” he clarifies.  “Someone who’s so driven by their ambition that there’s not much more left to them.”  His fingers work into that scruff again, absently pulling it gently back and forth in a silken slide.  “I love my mother, but...” He lets it trail off, a trickle of guilt preventing him from passing into Ungrateful Son territory. Parley rolls his skin mildly out from beneath Doug’s hands, turning in his seat to face the younger man. He doesn’t grab Doug’s arm, but he does run the back of his knuckles up the inside of his wrist to one side, brows slightly furrowed, “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Doug seems a bit startled when Parley turns to face him, and he begins to step back until the other man touches his wrist, and then there’s a jolt that rocks him physically.  He doesn’t pull his hand back, but his elbow jerks.  “Oh, no,” he says instinctively, shaking his head.  “Yes.  Maybe.”  He ducks his head, sorting it out.  “Sort of.”  It’s no answer, and his emotions are a stormy sea of hormone-driven desire, fear -- a lot of fear, and hesitancy as he keeps his head bowed, looking at Parley’s hand.  “I just don’t want to make any mistakes, with you.” The ease around Parley’s mouth hardens minutely, his eyelids settling down to half-mast, while his brows, conversely... ease, unfurrow. “I can tell you right now,” very slowly, something clenches in his jaw, and he closes his fingers slowly, one after another, around Doug’s wrist like a spider. And forms a tight, sharp smile that crinkles up the sides of his eyes; it ages him, hardens. “Your biggest mistake, Ramsey-san, would be in treating me like I am a /fragile/ thing.” He pulls Doug toward him. Hard. Doug watches Parley’s face intently, his lips curling in a faint echo of the other man’s as fingers close around his wrist.  His breathing catches, and hesitancy slides away in the sea, relief spilling in to fill the gap.  The formal address gets a wider smile that disappears in a widening of his eyes as he’s pulled forward. “Oh,” is about the best he can manage with his breath suddenly caught somewhere in his throat, and as his unclaimed hand catches the counter at Parley’s side, he exhales shakily.  “Oh, /good/.”  Then he’s leaning in, pressing his lips against the other man’s in a kiss that begins soft and tentative, but soon deepens, Doug’s hand raising from the counter to loop around Parley’s back and pulling him against his chest. Sunlight slants diagonally through the bedroom window; clothes scatter the ground until a pair of jeans are snagged up, pulled up over a gray pair of briefs, covering the thin rosette-broken tawny fur that thins out and terminates just above the starting of thighs. Parley sits down on the edge of Doug’s bed to pull on a sock. “I was thinking about what you said,” he says, quietly down to his feet, “about getting your father’s access card.” Doug is not being so quick to get his shorts back on, preferring to stay in the residual heat of the mattress, covers pulled up to just over the swell of his buttocks as he watches Parley get dressed.  When the man sits on the bed, his hand slides across the sheet to stroke along the small of his back, a wash of contentment and pleasure coming with it. There’s a small, lazy smile at the quiet words, although there’s a small pang of apprehension as he shifts to roll on his side, pulling the covers around him as he does.  “Oh?” is all he offers immediately, his gaze falling intently on the tawny fur that graces the back of Parley’s neck.  His hand twitches, and he begins to reach for it, before stopping himself.  “That’s flattering,” is offered wryly, although there’s real doubt seeping in around the edges. If Doug’s hand dips low enough, it will find the half-dollar sized snarl of waxy scar tissue at the base of Parley’s spine; inevitably, it causes him to suck in a short breath of air, arching, though in no pain or discomfort for it. Nor complaint. It’s actually Doug’s words that render him silent, pausing his motions and staring at the far wall. After a moment, he resumes action. And pulls a small plastic curry comb from a back pocket to begin combing smooth the rumpled fur at his neck and shoulders. “What were you thinking?” Doug prods gently, pushing up to his knees and attempting to take the comb.  If he’s successful, he’ll take over the task of smoothing ruffled fur with soft, slow strokes.  “Are you already formulating a plan?”   “Mmh.” Parley demurs, allowing Doug to take the brush, shifting his shoulders to adjust the trajectory if it still feels skewed. “-you said he lies a lot.” He seems to be thinking to himself, tipping head to the other side for a better angle, “What did you mean?” Doug makes a humming noise at the question, a thoughtful sound that peters into silence.  The brush continues its slow movement, followed by the warm skitter of Doug’s fingers behind it.  “Well,” he says finally, taking a deep breath.  “I guess a lot of my experience is in him promising one thing and doing another.  But telling me that they’re working on Stark-level medical technology, and instead they’re....”  He lets the sentence fizzle out.  “And I’ve been at those parties when he’s been back-slapping, and he’s told some /amazing/ lies, to impress people.  I can only imagine what webs he spun to get the contracts he has.” There’s a quiet snort of amusement, Parley’s guard hair’s bristling up slightly when they’re stroked. “Like what?” Doug chuckles, his fingers lingering on that loose scruff of fur at the nape of Parley’s neck.  “I heard him tell someone once that he’d turned down a cabinet position to focus on his work,” he offers, stroking the brush along the curve of shoulder.  “Which was an out-and-out lie. If he’d been offered any sort of cabinet position, the press would have been all over us.”  He presses his lips together, mild disappointment washing through him, briefly.  “I think he wants to as important as he thinks he should be.” “Hmhm. In a world where power and influence are a matter of survival,” Parley’s head drops to the side, shoulders rolling loose when he’s /scruffed,/ speaking on casually with his eyes so neatly closed, “lies serve somewhat as... defensive plumage.” He delicately shrugs loose to stand up, turning around in a sudden decisiveness. “Get me his access card.” He leans down to place a casual peck on the side of Doug’s mouth, plucking his curry comb back into his possession. “And try to listen when he speaks to his business associates. Any names, addresses, dates - project aliases. I’ll look into it. We can at least confirm if he would be dangerous if he found out about you, hm? But I’m hoping this is all going to be nothing.” Doug smiles up into that quick peck, then frowns as he leans back.  “Do you just want my files?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.  “I have a lot of his business contacts on a thumb drive, already.”  He lifts his shoulders.  “You know, from when I ransacked his computer and copied the stuff I thought was pertinent to finding...you.” “To finding /all/ of us,” Parley reminds softly, picking up his shirt and slipping into it and, “And -- that would help. That would help immensely.” He smiles, a little strained and tired but with no hard edges, over a shoulder. “Thank you.” “All of you,” Doug repeats, although he’s only looking at Parley, at the moment.  He slides from the bed with a nod, and leans in to the other man, ghosting a kiss along his ear.  “It’ll take a few minutes to make a copy.”  Then he’s moving out the door, and into the living room. By the time Parley leaves, he’ll /have/ all of that sensitive information, including the hacked Osborn files from a certain kid’s cell phone. And a heart-felt invitation to return soon. Parley's eyes are set steadily on some blank midpoint between himself and the wall, when Doug's lips brush his ear. And the sides of his mouth twitch-move upwards, then drop again. He'll kindly thank Doug, smile into his eyes when he is handed his copy of this information, shrugging into his over shirt and slipping on his shoes at the door. Standing in the hallway, he'll laugh shyly at the invitation to return, ducking his head, and then slip quietly along his way -- to get to his own apartment. A careful tucking away of the borrowed flash drive, a long shower, a check in on his two roommates (both laid up, yet, from their recent /brainsurgery/ and de-hive convalescents, he'll maybe FEED them or just possibly make sure the light isn't shining too brightly into their rooms.) Then, he tucks in at his computer with the flash drive and a comb. And, his sharp-faced narrowed into a blank, he rapidly begins to read. And goes about combing his fur to the alignment /he/ prefers with rough-quick, dispassionate strokes.