ArchivedLogs:Tired

Tired
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Melinda	2014-04-09 Part of the Perfectus TP
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 very late, when there's a flurry of commotion at the safehouse. There's /often/ commotion, really, people going and coming, but it's usually a /trickle/ of it rather than a rush. This time there's a van pulling up, disgorging its occupants in a weary-heavy rush, adrenaline largely worn off to leave just a heavy tromp of boots through the downstairs of the house to disperse through it. One of those sets of feet, limping-unsteady, is eventually making its way upstairs, slow and halting. To stop, first, in the /bathroom/. To pee. Brush teeth. /Shower/. This takes -- a loooong time, reluctant perhaps to leave the hot water. But eventually it shuts off, its occupant, barefoot and still limping, heading -- past Melinda's bedroom, pausing outside the door, here, with a slow sniff, a subaudible click-click-click, then passing on towards the cluttered attic to drag slooowly up the stairs. Dusk is -- clean, now, at least. For all he's been through he looks -- reasonably put-together. His backpack, nabbed back from downstairs, hangs off one shoulder; a pair of corduroys hangs low on his narrow hips. Green-and-grey striped t-shirt. Black hair still damp; his dark scruff of beard yet unshaved. He is a little slow in navigating the clutter of the attic, taking himself off to a back corner where extra futon mattresses aren't so much set up for sleeping on as just /stored/ in a pile; he drops his backpack beside them and /collapses/ down atop them. Habitually face-down before, slowly, remembering. And rolling over, gradually, to lie flat on his back. His hands lift to press palms flat against his sunken-closed eyes. Mel is woken up by the sounds of people in the house, tromping all over, smelling of scorch and wet and blood. The smells lessen over time, but Mel's curiousity gets the better of her long before the tang of ozone leaves. She opens the door to see the returned group, hear the weary exchanges, and see the non-dismal response. She learns Dusk is back while he is in the shower. She wanders back to her room out of necessity and lays back down while she waits. Perhaps there is something in the sound of sniffing and clicking outside her door, or just the unconscious acknowledgement of a presence outside her door, but she wakes again, slow and disoriented, wondering what woke her. She rises and slides her arms back into the arms of her bathrobe, then peeks out into the hall, watching Dusk's departing form head up the stairs. She purses her lips in thought and returns to her room, snatching up a box of cookies from her bedside table. With this box in hand, she follows the person up the stairs to the attic, her foot falls softened by thick and fluffy socks that cover them. Melinda hangs back for a little while, watching Dusk instead as he settles onto the mattresses. Her eyes hover on the shape of his shoulders and the change in his posture before taking a single step forward. She purses her lips again, pausing once more. Her mood much quieter than her typical pregnant mess. Finally, she speaks. "Hey. Mind if I join you, or would you rather be alone?" Dusk's shoulders tense, at the soft sound of feet on the stairs, hard at first but then relax with a slow rasping-pained breath. His head turns, slightly, in Melinda's direction, but he's quiet until she speaks. Quiet /after/ she speaks, too. He doesn't move, hands just pressing down, still, against his eyes. Eventually they fall away to lie against his chest with a heavy thud. Finally he just shakes his head, his shoulders giving a small reflexive twitch that fails to extend any wings along with it. His hand lifts slowly to his forehead, coming away to turn palm-down: don't-know. Melinda nods at the sight of the sign in the dim light, her eyes still adjusting. "Well, I'll just..." She considers this, looking around the room. "How about I just come over and say hi really quick and leave you some cookies." She moves a little closer. "You can say no. I swear I'll just go back downstairs and go back to bed." She keeps her distance for now. "Just... missed you." Dusk's silence continues through this, head still turned up towards the ceiling. His shoulders twitch again, and his fingers curl in a small spasm against his chest, rumpling at the fabric of his shirt. His lips press together, jaw tightening. Slow and heavy, he nods, shifting aside on pile of mattresses to make a little bit more room. His shoulders curl inward again, but then relax at the strain this puts on his uneasily damaged muscles. Melinda nods and wanders over slowly, setting down the box of cookies within arm's reach before settling down carefully -- and slowly and awkwardly onto the ground level mattresses. She lets out a sigh when she settles, more due to the fact that the child is shoved up against her lungs, more so than the exertion of getting to that position. She turns then, studying his face first, and then his shoulder, reaching a hand out to lightly caress his upper arm, her heart beating a little faster for having him here. There's reflexively yet another twitch of shoulder, then a small sharp intake of breath when this fails to produce the desired results. He lifts one hand, again, the farther one from Melinda, his palm digging down hard against one of his hollow-sunken eyelids. The touch of hand against his arm elicits a small twitch-jerk of muscle, his biceps tensing reflexively and his breathing halting. A hard swallow rolls down his throat, uncommonly prominent adam's apple bobbing noticeably. Melinda pulls her hand away when he twitches at her touch. She scoots down a little bit and gets comfortable in a position where she doesn't touch him, but is still there. "The, uh, cookies are 'special,' so don't eat them if you don't want anything mood altering, but they are yours if you think they'll help." And then she turns to her side so she can breathe a little better, closing her eyes and trying to relax. There's silence, for a time. Another round of quiet click-click-clicking thrums maybe-not-even-audible through the room, and fades away. Dusk pushes himself shakily upright, reaching carefully /over/ Melinda and fumbling for the cookies; after a moment he gets the box open, taking two from inside. Lying back down beside her, close enough to feel the faint heat from his shower-warm body but not actually touching. Not eating the cookies, either. Probably soon he will. But for now just lying in silence, his breathing slowing into a quiet steadiness in the dim attic. Mel's eyes open once more when Dusk begins to move, watching sleepily as he goes to seek out the cookies. When he settles down again, she studies the back of his head again, hands staying very firmly where they are, one bent to pillow under her head while the other rests on the swell of her belly, keeping the child company. She tries to angle her head in such a position where the spill of her breath doesn't constantly buffet his skin, but gives up after a little while, just accepting it. After a while, she starts to drift off. She doesn't sleep all that long, an hour or two at most, before the call of her bladder wakes her once more. She grumbles softly and starts to press herself upward, trying not to touch Dusk, lest he has fallen asleep. It's hard to /tell/ if Dusk is asleep or not, really, with his sunken-closed eyes kind of defaulting to neutral position. The cookies have vanished, though, in the intervening hour or two. He hasn't moved, much. Still doesn't move, much, as Mel does. A very small twitch of fingers, a very small twitch of jaw. But past that, still, only silence. It is difficult for someone as pregnant as she is to get to her feet, given the weird center of gravity. Eventually, she gets her feet underneath her and she straightens up. "I have to go downstairs for a little bit. I can come back if you want. You are also welcome in my room, too. I apologize for talking so much. I just... wanted to make sure I wasn't bothering you. I will lie quietly beside you forever. I just... just need to know it's not hurting you." Mel hovers by the door for a while gnaws on her lip. For a long while it still seems like Dusk might be sleeping. Only silence answers Melinda's words, his body just still where it lies on the mattress. But eventually his head turns, slightly, towards her. His shoulder twitches, then twitches again. His breath shivers out, and he pulls his arm in across his chest. His thumb comes in to touch against his chest, fingers splayed outwards -- 'Fine', he signs, 'I'm fine.' And then, 'Just want to sleep. Tired.' Melinda just signs her apologies and nods, giving a little wave, and then leaves.