ArchivedLogs:Safer

Safer
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Hive, Violet
In Absentia	2014-07-18 '
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Garden Plot - Lower East Side
The smell instantly changes here to something greener, herbally sharp and mulchy; paved walkway drifts at angles through raised multi-tiered garden beds, reaching varying elevations of a mere foot above the ground to three feet, each held up by retaining walls of leftover stone from the houses, riddled here and there with spiraling mosaic dragons. While companion flowers of red geranium, fuchsia bee balm, violet petunias, pastel-and-white sweet pea, are sprinkled throughout and alongside each box, it's primarily vegetables; between tall eerie trellis spires of fixed animal bones, clung over with curlicues of lush vine sheets and okra, delicate netting protects lower levels of melon and tomato, kale and tomatoes and a number of other edible foods, with a separate box of sand-loving root vegetables sending up frondy foliage for carrot and onion and garlic. To one side, a compost heap lets of faint shimmers of heat and steam, to the other, a strongly scented bed of myriad herbs, both medicinal and otherwise, flanked on one side by a large healthy swell of coneflower. With a shed nearby housing gardening tools, the whole of it is watered by a network of hidden hosing that gives off faint tickles of mist when in use, ribboned with rainbows, and there are structures in place to suggest the garden can be enclosed in winter months. Once again the day is just /encouraging/ being out of doors, clear and in the mid-seventies to invite lounging in the not-too-hot sun. Hive should be at work at this hour, usually /has/ been at work already for hours by now but -- but. Some days health and going to work do not cooperate with each other; as such he has instead spent /most/ of his morning oscillating between bed and the bathroom. A quieter stretch now, though, has lured him out of doors in the hopes that fresh air might help -- 'fresh' being, of course, all kind of /relative/ in the city. But here in the garden at least the plethora of green growing things helps to filter out cars and pavement; Hive has tucked himself quietly along a wall of an herb bed, draped across the rocks in a half-asleep confederation of skinny bones and loose pajamas. He's barefoot, in soft black cotton pants and a white undershirt, fleecey Theta Tau cap on his head. His laptop -- or, well, okay, he's dismantled the convertable ultrabook to turn it into a tablet, today -- is resting on his chest, thin and sleek and shiny-red, but his arm is curled across his screen and, eyes closed, he is definitely not actually /working/ on it. Just draping in the sun and for all his eyes are closed and expression in repose the sharp alertness of his mind is definitely very much awake as it drinks in the various mind-feels of the Commons around him. There are sensory impressions aplenty to soak in, both outside of mind and within them. In Violet's case, there is a subliminal humming, not unlike that of a hive of contented bees. /Someone/ has come from a recent soak in the sunlight and its left her heat-dopey and tingling, the way others might feel after a deep tissue massage--the inclination towards lazy drowsy living with the potential for energy without conflict, for once. It feels /good/ to pull herself up over the compound's front wall, muscles working in concert, sleek and oiled and /perfect/. And it feels good to anticipate her purpose here--already her senses are prickling with foreknowledge of a certain itch being scratched, the greengreen taste of leaf and buds on her tongue, the tingle of its effects through her body. She almost doesn't need to venture into the garden to enjoy those effects, so real are they in memory...but of course, here she comes anyway, the prospect for real close at hand trumping memory. She's in green and blue today, a gauzy top floating over denim shorts. No shoes, no sandals, just the pads of her feet in contact with warm stone as she negotiates the paths. Progress is lazy, fluid--and then frozen upon spying Hive. Awake?, senses question. No not awake not dead either--sniffsniff--but sleeping, yes, and near the herb bed, THE herb bed. Therefore, stalking mode is activated to maintain silent and she slides easily to hands and feet to creep in closer, orange eyes flicking back and forth between drowsing man and the plants she's come for. Dusk's work schedule tends towards a lot more flexible /anyway/; he's /usually/ home at this hour, though admittedly usually asleep still. But Sick Roommate drags even the nocturnal vampire out of his cave. He is slipping out from the sunroom, minimally dressed as ever in black denim shorts, no shirt, no shoes, just sunglasses on his eyes, a length of white gauze bandage wrapped around one wrist, his everpresent clunky ankle monitor around one leg. And a large mug in his hand, smelling sharply gingery; ginger tea sweetened with honey and tanged with a splash of lemon. There is still a good deal of fresh-grated ginger swimming in the tea; he's stuck a bombilla in the mug to let the straw do the work of filtering it. He is quiet, too, as he slips back into the garden, though it's more out of habit than out of any attempt not to /disturb/ Hive because he is very definitely heading straight towards the telepath with the stomach-soothing drink. Or was; the appearance of stalking catgirl in the garden puts a pause in his step, wings shifting in a little closer to his back. In his mind what sparks first to the surface at the feel of a second heartbeat bear Hive's is /hunger/, tinged in deeper crimson against the hazier red backdrop of his mind. Identification comes /second/, hunger not so much leaving as slipping to the side in favour of a brief consideration. "What's it taste like?" One of his long thumb-claws is twitching towards the catnip patch; internally he's calling to mind Jax's bright enthusiasm for the world of /plants/, some memory pinging in his mind of a mention that catnip is also good for soothing digestive complaints. Maybe less delicious than ginger tea though? Maybe not a good /mix/. Hive's eyes stay closed, through the approaching (returning) feel of minds joining his in the garden. His fingers twitch inward against the screen of his tablet, jaw tensing and then relaxing. "Not as good as ginger." His mind presses up against Dusk's somewhat reflexively, tight mental grip wrapping around and starting to squeeze in firm. His head rolls -- slightly in the direction of the catnip patch though he still doesn't open his eyes. "That shit's not going to run out, is it? Now that Jim's not. Not working his -- not. Got his --" His head shakes, letting the others finish this sentence for themselves. Creeping gets less creepy and more frozen as Duskscent comes to Violet. Very slowly, she turns her head to peer back over her shoulder at the winged man. Here is caution, internally and externally, but when he greets with a question she relaxes. "Like green. Like growin'." Words don't properly encapsulate the taste she means--it's Hive who earns the proper answer, the woodsy mint of cool-soothing-exciting translating far better in thought than speech. And speaking of Hive, now that he's shown signs of consciousness, she slides to her feet and proceeds as a normal would. "His powers took? Should be fine. Th'nip, dunno 'bout his powers. Stuff grows fast. Also, hey there." She doesn't intend to put the catnip patch through its paces though. Not with people /here/ to observe. Circling 'round Hive, she pulls herself up on the herb bed's ledge and flops onto her side, hand supporting head. A single leaf is plucked and folded onto her tongue. "How's it?" is mumbled past a fervent sucking, as if it were hard candy instead of greenstuff. "Mojo," Dusk supplies, when Hive trails off. He slips around to take up a crouched perch on the wall by Hive's head, one wing snaking out to slip under the other man and prop him up, curl in to provide a strong-soft support to lean up against so that he can hold the mug and its straw up near Hive's mouth. "Happened before. The powers shit. It wore off, anyway. If it doesn't kill you to start it'll probably be okay?" He doesn't sound entirely confident, admittedly. "Been quieter." Hive is readily manipulable, kind of floppy-limp and an insignificant weight against the strong touch of Dusk's wing. He curls in, half against the fuzzy-soft wing and half against Dusk's side, eyes still closed as he closes his lips around the straw for a few tiny sips. "Mmm." It might be elicited as much by the mental catnip-feel as it is by the gingery tea. "Quieter, this week." His head drops in against Dusk's shoulder. "Give it a few days, shit will blow up again. Sup with you?" "S'good. Quieter's good. Maybe found a li'l place t'turn into m'own." As opposed to nesting atop shipping containers down by the docks. Now, an abandoned /warehouse/...that's cozy. Violet's eyes go half-lidded gazing at the pair, one part lazy and two parts the fizzy effect of that lone leaf. Her heartrate has taken a leap too but one wouldn't know it to look at her. Listening to her, though, there's a rumble in her drawl, precursor to a full blown purr as she picks another leaf. This one's folded between her fingers to crush it, waved beneath her nose as a full and contented whiff if taken of the released oils. "S'clearin' out here, looks like." There's a slight dilation of Dusk's pupils at the elevation of Violet's heartrate, though hidden away behind sunglasses this mostly is only evident in the spike of hunger flaring in his mind. He pulls in a slow breath, wing curling a bit more firmly around behind Hive. He keeps the cup lifted, close enough Hive can drink without having to shift position very far. "Yeah? S'good. Nice sometimes to have a home base to return to." For a moment his sharp fangs bare, a quick thin slice of smile as he tips his head to look out towards the rest of the Commons. "Yeah. Fff. Do what we can to try and get everyone -- well. Their own homes to get back to. Usually pick up a couple new strays here or there who decide to stay." Though here there's a quiet snort, a ripple of tension skating over the surface of his mind. "Tends to clear out just in time to fill it back /up/." "It's like fostering fucking --" Hive shakes his head, briefly turning his forehead in against Dusk's shoulder before he straightens for another cautious-slow sip of tea. "Rescue. Puppies. Don't get attached they'll be -- moving -- and then inevitably sometimes you fuck up and some of the damn strays --" Here he is /nudging/ Dusk's ribs with a bony elbow. "Just move the fuck in and stay forever. -- A /safe/ place to turn into your own?" His brows crease, here, eyes briefly opening to glance towards Violet. Closing again just as quickly though with a sharp wince against the intrusive sunlight. "Yuck, puppies," Violet rumbles, playing up the cliche a little. Leaf sniffing becomes leaf /nibbling/ next, tiny little bites taken of the serrated edges. She's trying for a clean edge, studying the little slip of green between bites to see how well she's succeeded. "Didn't think ya'll knew th'word safe," is said in lieu of a yes or no. A languid glance at the two is followed by her rolling to her back, half on the wall, half tipped into the soil. One shoulder is rubbed against the stone to attend to an itch prompted by rumpled fur. "No one else there, that's safe/r/. Ya'll doin' what y'do again?" "Oh, we know it. Read about it in a book once. Hff." Dusk's teeth flash again, a brighter easier laugh at Hive's nudging. "S'what fucking happens when you feed us." His wing curls further up, further over, a slight bend in it now providing an overhead /canopy/ to shade Hive's eyes from the sun. "World's only getting shittier. Think as long as that's true we're going to be doing what we do. You hear they're wanting to /arrest/ us now, instead of just. Ticketing. Just straight-up charge you with walking while mutant." "No rest for the --" Hive frowns, eyes easing back open tentatively with the introduction of shade over his face. "-- Suicidally insane," he chooses to end this. "Fucking hell. You know how many cons I met in Prometheus? Stupid shit, too. Get caught with a fucking joint, end up there instead of jail. Swear the fucking cops are their biggest. Biggest." Another frown. His next swallow of tea seems kind of /irritable/ at his inability to finish the sentence. "Dealer?" Okay, that probably wasn't the word that Hive was looking for. But Violet is having a moment with her own drug of choice, it's what springs to mind and lips. The second leaf has been consumed and she's moved on to dragging nip-scented fingertips along the curve of her jaw, under her chin, over her temple. The promised purr has finally made its appearance, buzzing deep and low in her chest. It is the happiest, most content of sounds in spite of the subject matter. It also means she's slower in talking, having to shape words from vocal chords intent on other mischief. "...heard. Two calls on me. Past week. Left 'fore they showed up." Her eyes drift shut. "Fed ya'll. Y'can't move in. My place." "Yeeeah." Dusk pushes out a sharp hiss through his fangs; the rumble in his own chest is definitely /not/ happy-content, a low shiver of a growl. It doesn't interfere with his speaking, either, twinned sets of vocal folds thrumming right along under his words (sort of /weary/ in contrast to the angry growling.) "In theory they're not /supposed/ to tag you for shit you can't help --" The wing not around Hive flexes briefly in indication. "But fuck if that's ever stopped them. Guess they figure most people wouldn't bother with the hassle of contesting a ticket -- but jail time? Fucking --" His head tips down, looking unthinkingly towards the monitor around his ankle. "'ll bring you a housewarming gift, how's about that." "Where the hell do they even draw the line? Having wings okay, using wings bad. Horus can barely get around without his -- he's had like /nine/ fucking tickets by now." There's definite annoyance in Hive's tone, too. He glances down, as well, towards the ankle monitor; his shoulders tense against Dusk's wings. He clicks his teeth against the metal straw, pulling in a longer swallow of tea. "If it goes through and they start legit straight-up /arresting/ folks for being freaks the labs are going to have a population boom." When he pulls back from the drink, his teeth grind. "Say no, the only thing he's got to offer is /trouble/." "Need our own li'l island," Violet decides, launching into a toe-curling full body stretch before collapsing under the weight of sunlight. Then time when she rolls it's onto her stomach so she can resume her languid observation of Husk in their mostly natural habitat. One arm trails down, it and her tail tracing aimless little circles in the dust of the paving stone below. "Saw a documentary 'bout that, making your own islands. Bet y'could build one, Mr. Architect." One visible orange eye shifts towards Dusk. Her smile is the drowsiest. "No, heard you're trouble." Teasing in tone, but behind it, where she presumes privacy there is the batman's own voice in a growl: (.../you have a fucking problem/...) "I don't bring trouble. Just seems to keep /finding/ me." A twitch of smile tugs at Dusk's lips; it comes mentally with wistful-longing images of sprawling woods, a squat log cabin with cheerfully bright-painted shutters, a rocky beach, the city lights seen from a distance across the water at night. "Hhhhyeah. That'd be something. I've actually seen islands for sale. Fucking cheap, too. In shitty parts of the country anyway. Cheaper to buy a goddamn island than a house in Manhattan, that's for sure." Hive closes his eyes again; for a moment there's a peaceful expression breaking through the queasy-headachey tension in his features. His mouth curls up, too, and he settles more snugly into the supportive cradle of Dusk's wing, shaking his head and lifting an unsteady hand to nudge the tea away. Or try to. He kind of misses but the intention is there. His hand drops back down to brush fingers against the sun-warmed stone he sits on. "Already built one." His voice is quiet, but after this the mental Duskvoice growl pulls one eye back squinted open towards -- /Dusk/, actually, in confusion. "Nnh? Who's got a fucking problem?" Aaaand that is Violet's cue to go. Her pulse spikes, her eyes open and in the same moment, she rolls from the supporting wall to land neatly on the path. The feline part would very much like to continue basking on those same stones, there's a /craving/ that curls in the pit of her stomach, but she pushes it aside. "It'd be somethin' for sure," she concurs. "Time for me t'go commit a few misdemeanors," like sunbathing on top of that warehouse maybe, all cat-like, "You fellas mind yourselves, don't get sunstroke." Dusk's brows hike up, equal confusion spiking in /his/ mind. "Eh?" He lowers the mug back to the wall, wing jostling lightly at Hive's shoulder. "Apparently you do, you need to give your brain a frakking tune-up?" Though ths comes with its own twinging pang that determinedly is SO not thinking about badly needed surgery and radiotherapy. The spike of Violet's pulse is almost a welcome distraction, his breath shivering in briefly as he tips his hea dback to look at her. "The Mayor has her way, you'll be a /walking/ misdemeanor just by existing." His free wing is curling in a wave of farewell. Hive scrunches his eyes back /shut, rubbing one cheek against Dusk's wing like scratching an itch. "No, you just --" His confusion is only growing as Violet (wants to stay) gets up to leave, head shaking again as though he can /dislodge/ other-people's-thoughts from it. "Wait, wh -- you don't. Have to." He slumps back against Dusk's side once more, a puzzled frown and a slow lift of his hand to press at one temple pre-empting a proper goodbye. "You stay put 'n take your cuddles like a man," Violet cautions Hive, complete with finger-pointing. "I'll be 'round again, y'keep growin' this stuff and don't tear it out t'put in proper food." She waves via tail, a flick, a flirt, and then she's ambling off down the path...then loping...then finally /vaulting/ over obstacles to spend some of the energy that comes of drug-used and sunlight and maybe a liiiittle adrenaline at private thoughts made public. As she goes, she's rumbling to herself, "Breakin' th'law, breakin' th'laawww..."