Logs:Communication Gap

Communication Gap
Dramatis Personae Clint, Damien	2024-06-12 "And did you say 'salad'? It's not a salad." (set after Rocket goes to get his ship back.)
Location <NYC> Clint's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen
Though small, this studio has tall, stately windows that let out onto a fire escape with a commanding view of the streets below. The entryway is flanked with a closet on one side and a bathroom on the other, and is the only uncluttered space in the whole apartment. Brightly colored banners adorn the walls and all manner of puppets and stuffed animals line the shelves such that the entire place looks like a carnival in miniature. The floors are covered with busy Central Asian carpets and littered with plush cushions, except in the kitchenette, where the narrow counters are crowded with jars upon jars of custom seasoning blends and locally roasted coffees, all with ridiculous names. A tight spiral of floating stairs leads up to a loft half taken up by a big, fluffy bed and an armoire, the remainder of the space there given over to an L-shaped workbench below a pegboard laden with tools. There's a quiet rattle of keys at the front door before Clint trudges in, looking just a little bit wilty. He's wearing a navy blue tee shirt with the sparkling silhouette of a train curving out of the distance above the (also sparkling) words "STARLIGHT EXPRESS", black jeans, and gray-white sneakers, a boring black sling pack over one shoulder and a canvas grocery bag over the other printed with a graphic of Disney's Robin Hood grinning roguishly. "Rocket, I got picked up some..." He frowns, closing the door behind him and drifting out toward the kitchen. "I'm not sure, the guy was probably speaking Chinese but it's a fruit." He sets the tote down on the countertop and goes to pour himself a whiskey, frowning deeper behind his thick-framed glasses. "I think." Rocket does not answer, but there is answer all the same. There's a lithe individual slipping down from above (where several of Clint's trick arrows have been disassembled on the workbench), dressed quite eye-catchingly in cropped red jacket with intricate gold embroidery along the cuffs and hem, worn open over a violet charmeuse shirt, framing an oval mirror pendant in which the reflection always looks just a little off, and gold leather trousers tucked into black riding boots. Arrow is trotting at his heels like they are good friends, now, only moving away to say hi to his actual housemate when the strange man pats amiably at the dog's flank. "Oh, Rocket has gone back to space," the man is -- reassuring? -- Clint, and heading toward the countertop like he belongs in this space. He plucks one of the items from Clint's tote, teardrop-shaped and covered in reddish-brown scales and about the size to nestle comfortably in his palm. "Salak, no? In Bali they make the most delectable wine of it." Clint is mid-pour when he realizes that is not Rocket descending from the loft, and probably ends up with far more whiskey in his glass than he'd intended. He blinks at the stranger, blinks at Arrow, then looks back toward the stranger again. "Excuse me, who are you? And why are you here?" These demand do not sound hostile or even surprised so much as just resigned. He crouches to scruff at the dog's ears in proper greeting, though his eyes are still trained on his uninvited guest. "And did you say 'salad'? It's not a salad." "Salak," Damien replies easily, as if this is the most important of these questions. "I believe in your tongue it is also called snakefruit." He's drawing a slender finger down the (indeed, kind of snakey) scales indicatively, and then leaning himself up with elbows propped on the counter. He squeezes very gently at the fruit, sniffs at its husk, and then deftly begins to peel the hard covering away. When the pale cloves of fruit inside are exposed he works them gently slightly apart with one finger and a small roll of his palm. "Are you a friend of Rocket's? He has such a lovely home." He holds the fruit out nestled in his palm, offered back (so very magnanimously) to Clint, the peeled cloves now easy to pluck from the small base of shell that's still left at the bottom. "It's probably not 'slack', either." Clint gives a very small sigh as he straightens. "I'm just going with 'snake fruit.' I don't know if we're friends, but I'm his...housemate? Host? This," he clarifies, gesturing expansively as he raises his glass for a large gulp, "is my place. Unless you mean Rocket's ship, he's always talking about it. Who are you, again?" He reaches out kind of tentatively to pluck a clove of ~~salad~~ ~~slack~~ snakefruit and pop it into his mouth. His expression never strays far from slightly perplexed neutrality, and his eyes never stray far from Damien, not even when he washes down the fruit with more whiskey. "You want a drink?" "Your place is lovely, then. I quite enjoy the puppets." Damien is setting the fruit carefully down on the counter and taking a clove for himself, crunching into the sweet flesh. "Apologies for my manners. You can call me Damien," he's making this introduction with a small bow, "and I would love a drink. I promised your housemate I would reunite him with his ship, he seemed to be missing it quite badly. Is your other friend also from space?" Now, he is gesturing towards Arrow. "They are a very entertaining companion." Clint seems more mollified by the compliment to his puppets than the introduction he asked for. "Glad you like them, a lot of people find that sort of thing creepy." He takes a second glass down from the cabinet and pours a generous measure of whiskey. "I'm Clint," he adds as he sets the drink down on the counter in Damien's reach. "Guess I never told Rocket he couldn't invite people over. Glad you were able to get him to his ship, however you managed that. You one of Xavier's...people?" He gives Arrow a long, searching look. "Was about to say he's not from space, but who the hell knows? I wouldn't be shocked if you told me you were from space." He lifts his glass again, then pauses with it halfway to his lips. "Wait, are you from space?" "Have you never asked him? I am not from space. What is this Xavier's." Damien takes the glass with a dip of his head in thanks. "A lot of people are put off by many extraordinarily wonderful things. At least few people are hurt by finding puppets creepy." For a moment his brow furrows, small. "Probably few." "Xavier's is a school upstate. It's a long story." Clint blinks at Damien again. "I don't speak dog and he doesn't speak English. I mean we communicate but--" He breaks off, pushing his glasses up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "It's kind of disconcerting how fast I got used to explaining this kind of thing. I guess he knows a bit of sign, but it's more on the level of like..." He clicks his tongue to get Arrow's attention, points at a red and purple ball in the living room, and signs 'bring me the ball.' The dog obligingly trots over, picks up the toy, and returns to drop it at Clint's feet, tail wagging slow and expectant. Clint pulls a bone-shaped cookie from a ceramic jar labeled "Magic!" (the lid is styled like a red-and-white circus tent) and tosses it to Arrow, who snatches it easily out of the air. "This isn't going to work for questions like are you from space?" He signs while speaking this last question, to which Arrow just cocks his head and licks his chops. "Mmm." Damien is sipping at his whisky and watching the exchange between Clint and Arrow quite intently. "As long as a language suits its needs. He seems content enough with this pidgin you two have worked out." There's a small amusement that touches his lips when Arrow snatches the treat out of the air. "And with that bit of magic. Can you show me again? I did not get very far in learning dog and could use a stopgap." Clint is frowning and mouthing something indistinctly, though his brows clear a moment later when he evidently puts it together. "Sure, I guess? But seeing as how 'we built this city on rock and roll' keeps getting spliced into everything you say, I think Rocket left the music on and it's fucking with my..." He gestures vaguely at his temple. "...okay, it sounds insane when I put it like that. Anyway I'm gonna turn it off." He crosses the room and makes his way up the stairs, raising his voice probably more than is necessary to be heard across the small distance and the not particularly loud music. "How did you get him back to his ship, then? And why didn't you go with him? Is his ship really tiny? Like a raccoon-sized star--" He finds the dismantled arrows before he gets around to the music, and the backdrop of Starship's energetic chorus steals some of the gravitas when Clint shouts, "'Rocket!'"