ArchivedLogs:Guinea Pig

Guinea Pig
Dramatis Personae Parley, Shelby	2013-05-10 '
Location Mirror and Parley's Apartment - Village Lofts
Here is the thing with the psionically gifted: when it comes to passersby outside their immediate homes, doors may as well be windows. Click! "Shelby?" The door is just suddenly /open/. "Hello," Parley REMEMBERS to say, "I need you?" Kiiind of like a question? He's hook-hook-HOOKING for her elbow to swipe her inside like the world's quietest hobo spider. He's wearing a sleeveless brown tank top with a blue and yellow stripe horizontal across the chest; it has the sporty fit of someone considering going for a run, except that he's wearing faded thrift store jeans that someone else has been so kind as to thoroughly break in for him. His glasses make his eyes look /expansive/ and startled and very intense. The apartment interior is -- well. It is 'decorated'. With utterly random knickknack items ranging from bottle labels to news paper pages (not clippings - PAGES) to receipts to a... page from the Yellow Pages? Recipes, printed out pictures of waterfalls and, center point to it all, a MESS of mismatched body pillows all strewn over a gawdy magenta vinyl couch. Meep! Shelby had been intent on making her way to the roof for a smoke--pack o' ciggies in one hand, lighter in the other--when she is waylaid! The weather's mild enough that she too is in a tank top, hers powder blue with some rainbow pony thing on the front. Because there is red in the pony's mane, it /totally/ matches her red skinny jeans, right? Right! Also she's barefoot because she may or may not have been intending to surreptitiously wiggle her toes in the plant beds upstairs. But no! Instead she finds herself in a never-before-seen apartment. Fortunately, she's the sort to take it all in stride. Instead, she pockets the lighter, tucks the cigarette pack under the strap of the bra she's wearing under the tank top and makes a crinkly-forehead face at Parley. "I didn't know you wore glasses," is what she says in lieu of a hello. "What's up?" "-- It took a while to realize I needed them," Parley forgets to behave in an abashed manner, pushing the glasses up his nose with an index finger. Like a Poindexter. His fur is visible spanning the backs of his bared shoulders and the back of his neck, all slightly /chaotic/ and sticking out manic in the midsts of - is this a catfit? He has an expression that's oddly excited for how rumpled and agitated his mannerisms are. He leads her towards the kitchen. Where he has /three/ bowls just... sitting out. He takes the first one, pulls the spoon out of it where there's a large spoonful of -- carmelized strawberries? "Are you allergic?" Parley asks this /very seriously/. Because he's otherwise cramming the spoonful into her face. "They're pretty cool," Shelby assures him, in spite of the lack of self-consciousness. This is what teenagers do. She is still making quirky eyebrows at Parley but when she's drawn into the kitchen, it all becomes clear. Kind of. "Uh." It is a reflex that leads the girl to put a hand up, blocking the spoon. Not the face, dude! Her looks are all she has! "What, to...strawberries? Nah. You making something?" Cooking is an alchemy she's never really mastered--though she scrambles a mean egg--and once she figures out what's going on, she reaches out to /take/ the spoon from him to taste at her leisure. First a lick, and then popping the entire bowl into her mouth. "Do you think so?" Parley plucks his glasses off, shakes out his head with one eye squinting closed, "I'm still getting used to them. They give me headaches so I take them off a lot." He says is kiiiind of like a question? Are these facts normal? He's chewing on one of the glasses' legs, "I'm trying to decide on a filling for a pastry. So I made up three. Strawberry," he nods to the one Shelby has; it's difficult to caramelize a strawberry wrong, sprinkled brown sugar leeches the natural fruit juices up from the slices into a sweet berry-red natural syrup, "blueberry and raspberry." He is not, in fact, indicating the other two bowls when he says this. He's extending the glasses to set them on Shelby's face. "-- what's been going on downstairs?" It's not an idle question. Whether news has trickled up to their apartment or not of the twin's disappearance is unknown, but a group-consensus of agitation amongst neighbors is inevitably going to alarm the radar of an empath. "Sure, glasses are pretty hot right now. I used to know some kids who had them with just plain lenses, right? They didn't /need/ them. They didn't say anything about headaches though, what'd the doctor say?" Shelby is the /worst/ when it comes to determining societal norms. Pastry fillings are /much/ easier. The strawberry is met with rampant approval, including licking the spoon clean and cozying in towards the bowls to scoop out another spoonful. On nom nom! Hopefully he did not need what she's consuming! She pauses when the glasses are shared, however. Spoon in mouth, left to stick out like, she reaches up to straighten them and makes kind of an odd surprised face. Whao. Up, down, up, down... "They really work," she comments after cleaning off the spoon. Then she is studying herself in the tiny, tiny reflection. With more diligence than the answer that follows would indicate--having to /say/ it again leaves her stomach dropping towards her shoes. "Huh...ummm. Oh. More bullshit. The twins're gone. And one of the other kids from school. Like, vanished. Poof. No one knows where they are, it's been like a whole week." "I'm sorry. Where did they go last time?" Parley holds an open palm in front of Shelby's glasses, and then slowly begins to back away, holding up different fingers, and different numbers of fingers, "Strange isn't it? Do they get blurrier for you? The doctor says I just need to get used to them. I'm nearsided. I couldn't really tell until, ah, I started going outside. Small details are interesting - tree leaves and tiles on walls - there are so many. Try the blueberries." "Ocean," is what she /says/. "But they didn't go there this time, I know it," is what she /means/. Frettyworryness lingers through the vision test, though it is diminished as Shelby discovers that yes, yes it does help. She blinks behind the lenses. "Nah, it feels like...I dunno. Like it's squishing my eyes, but everything's sharper. Weird." But then the glasses are slipped off so she can offer them back to Parley. After all, there are blueberries waiting and she has a spoon armed and /ready/ for scooping. "How come you're making pastry?" "I'm making them for my employer. I cause her hard times. Pastries are my penance of the week. Maybe you need glasses, too." Parley offers, taking back his own with little /glee/ endowed in the pluck of narrow fingers. FROWN. He tucks them back on, and the frown remains, though in a different shape, one of... uncertainty? It's slightly softer anyway, and more inwardly contained, as though intending to give Shelby a modicum of privacy. He is just going to ... scoot-scoot-scoot around the side of the table to sweep up the bowl of blueberries next, "You -- would probably know best. I'd only passingly met them." It's not stated patronizingly; more like he's deciding Shelby /is/ the best source of this information. But be warned, inquiring minds lay within, offering in accompaniment of paste of blueberries so slightly cooked down in tapioca and the very noticeable scene of vanilla, "Where did you know one another from?" "Dunno, never had 'em checked." This is said in plain dismissal, complete with a careless shrug--not a thing Shelby intends to follow up on. Sugar takes priority. She is only too happy to dig the spoon into the blueberry concoction. It too finds a happier reception, though perhaps not as over the top eager as the strawberries. Something in the texture leads her to push it around in her mouth before swallowing. "You seriously bake stuff to make up for being a shit to your boss?" Without glasses, her look of bemusement--raised eyebrows, crooked smile--is undiluted. "I'd owe /so/ many donuts if I did that...mm, just from around, y'know? When I was on the streets still. I got Shane threw out of a bookstore. Met B after that. Some asshole wouldn't sell him hot dogs, so I got him some. The shrug returns, this time /deliberately/ rather than distractedly careless. She waves the spoon over the bowl, inviting herself to a second bite. "I don't think they run off this time," she says, with imprecise grammar. It's been a week without school, things slip. "I mean. You don't. Just run off when you get laid for the first time, right?" He's a guy, surely he knows. Parley is shamelessly spying on Shelby's surface-flicker impressions of his FRUITFILLING while he snabbles a few strawberries for himself. "She doesn't require me to," his smile is small, enigmatic, aimed down into the bowl, "but she's kind." So subtly suggested by his tone: this can be /inconvenient/ to deal with; possibly the pastries serve as a slight confectionery /retribution/ to inflict on Claire. They can have a good old fashioned GIFT-off. The most passive-aggressive of battles. "So this is what she gets." He is moving on to the third bowl of red raspberry filling when Shelby DROPS HER BOMB, and he entirely misses the bowl, placing his hand on the table instead. "Ah- oh." /Bowl/. He's got this, turning with it held out towards Shelby and a kind of fascinated-/perplexed/ look for her, "Iiii don't think I'm qualified to say!" He says it almost cheerful? Like it's been startled out of him? Blink-blink? The last bowl has the little seeds one associates with raspberries, but it may also have lemon in it; under the sweetness is a /sharp/ sour bite. "That's - you're meaning Sebastian?" Shot in the dark? The concept of culinary kindness wars is perhaps a little beyond Shelby's scope of experience. What she /does/ get is, "It kinda sucks, owing people stuff, huh?" Ohh yeah. That's a concept she knows. She licks the spoon clean while he goes to fetch the third possibility--and then dissolves into snickering at the reaction to her comment. Smug, at breaking through the polite reserve? Amusement, at getting him to make that face? Or just simple satisfaction--that seems more likely. It is fun, to get people to miss a step. "C'mon, you didn't know? What kinda range you got up there?" Shelby air-taps at her own temple with the spoon. "Guess maybe you weren't home. Yeah, Bastian," she goes on, smile shading towards the pale spectrum as her initial satisfaction begins to fade. Raspberry goodness is scooped up and popped into her mouth but this one she likes the least. The sharp-sour leaves her pursing her lips. "Mmf. How come you can't say? You a virgin?" "It would be /easier/ if I were the one owed," Parley's smile is a little sharp (playful?), tossed at Shelby like a little /dart/ while he slips fingers around the strawberry dish, offering it into Shelby's custody for reward. "But I do what I can to stay balanced." He's then on his way to make coffee, all kind of neatly contained with his shoulders hunched up around the machine as he pours a fresh cup, "I -- well. I think we all try very hard to afford privacy where we can." He's not going to answer whether he was home or not, holding up the first coffee cup with eyebrows raised - cuppa? "I couldn't say, because 'running off' at all is still a rather novel concept. You know. For what all I'm sure you may have heard, there /was/ downtimes, even in the labs. Full of any number of awkward social situations all living on top of one another." His tone is light-quick, as though they were discussing a casual topic over - well, coffee. Or at least Parley is, his eyes curling up into crinkles at their outer edges. Presumably in continued smile at Shelby's last question, but his raised cup masks definitive evidence. "Would you like to guess?" "Tell me about if. If these assholes show up and are like 'yay we just went swimming again', you can bet it's gonna take some more than fucking /pastry/ to make me happy." Shelby accepts the bowl as if it is her due, then wiggles her way up onto the counter to sit comfortably as she consumes. Her heels beat a soft, random pattern against the cabinets beneath. So careless. So casual. But beneath that is the sick sourness of worry...but maybe if she feeds it enough sugar, it'll go away. She tries. The offer of coffee is shaken off for the moment. Strawberries. She is going to eat /all of them/ if he doesn't stop her. But eventually she looks up from the bowl to size Parley up. A bit of syrup is scooped up from the corner of her lips with her tongue--she's trying for thoughtful but that sort of ruins the entire effect. "You and that dude who lives here, huh?" she inquires, eyebrows hoisted up again and a glance going towards the living room, full of eclectic "decoration" but devoid of roommate. On his side of the kitchen - it's not a large kitchen, they could probably high-five across the distance with only marginal stretching - Parley is hiking up his own rear to also sit on a counter, drawing up his feet to sit cross legged. He intends to eat those sour raspberries, pulling the bowl into his lap territorially with coffee cup claimed firmly in one hand. "Ah, you mean-?" The word Parley /says/ is 'him', but it's wreathed in a hundredfold suggested personal touches as to translate to a far more intimate 'name' than Mirror may ever have. "I..." he stares down into his coffee. "-you know. I would have never thought of him? We're - I'm not sure if 'close' is the correct word. Familiar. But no." The twitch to one side of his mouth may invite his impromptu guest try again. Aloud, however, he lowers his cup, watching Shelby's face. "-- what are they like? To you? ...Where do /you/ think they might be?" "Not fucking?" Shelby suggests as a decent alternative. That is a valid category in her mind, at least. She echoes the mouth-twitch before bowing her head to resume scooping up carmelized strawberries. <<{Labs, probably.}>> "...dunno, really. Could be anywhere. Peter's gone too but he...he's probably in more trouble than them, y'know? Last time /he/ was gone, he was in the sewers getting eat by a monster. The twins, they just went off into the ocean. Got sick of everything up here." This is not a sentiment she is entirely unsympathetic with, though it comes with a host of discontented feelings. They all lead her into another shrug. "I dunno what you mean though, what're they like to me?" "People are different," Parley is easing raspberry goo with his index and middle finger, scooping it up and into his mouth in kind of rapid swipes, making /brisk/ little squeaky-sounds to suck then clean. "Mph. Between how they feel," he gestures to his head with his coffee cup, "and how they are." He ducks back to his coffee, "Also, how they are perceived to be. Do you consider yourself a very generous person, Shelby?" While it is not exactly a direct answer to her question, it leaves Shelby looking thoughtful. She studies Parley as she twists the spoon in her mouth to clean it. "I guess maybe you get to see a lot of that, huh? You and Hive...you're not as pissy as he is though." This draws a faint, fond smile--pissy is not a black mark in her book, at least. She has an immediate answer to /his/ question too: "Hell no. I'm being generous if I pay for something instead of just figuring out a way to get that fucker for free. Check it..." She bobs the spoon at him and then sloooooowly, deliiiiiberately drags it through the strawberry mixture before stroking the makeshift lollipop against her tongue. Soooo gooooood. Sooooo free. Mmmmm! Parley creeps up the sidemost curl of his mouth; if a smile were a weapon, his would be neither sword nor dagger; more rather, possibly a poisonous gas. Carbon monoxide. Odorless, colorless, lingering. "Maybe I just don't show it." Coffee-sip. Seeing Shelby smile, fondly, of Hive eases something in him; brushing her mind with the slightest memory-fragment. The rooftop. A cigarette. Hive lying in the sun, his head on Shelby's leg - << (he is also)(kind). >> Not words. They're suggestions. Watching Shelby eat HIS STRAWBERRIES puts him in a place where he doesn't seem yet /decided/ whether he wants to be ambivalent or -- oh, hell, there he goes, he's making a kind of breathy laugh-... sound. It's dry and chuffy. "You're good at that. -- And yet. You bought a stranger a hotdog. You're fickle." HOM. Berries. That...is a happy memory. Shelby looks down into the bowl, stirring instead of eating, and for a moment it seems like the smile is going to stay. Something warm and glowy is threatening to replace organs in her chest. But only for a moment. Not-quite-laughter leaves her looking across the gap at Parley, and the glow is replaced with stronger things. Amusement, as if she'd heard a challenge and is /compelled to answer it/. "Fuck that, man. I thought he was Shane and dude was supposed to call me so we could go dancing." No way is he pinning generous on her! Although fickle is perhaps not a bad adjective to use. She's done with the strawberries, setting them aside. With the spoon in. Welcome to Shelby cooties. "So you're saying you're only fuzzy on the outside?" Parley would LICK that spoon if he was near it, he fears no cooties. Actually, as he's sitting next to the sink, he may as well go about a straightening. And extends a hand for her to hand the bowl over the great kitchen chasm between them to put it under the tap. /Basking/ for a moment in her sense of warm happiness. He drops it of course, not like a stone, nor like turning back to 'business' but in a sense maybe he is. If 'business' is contending with Shelby: "You seem to have forgiven them for it. I /am/ fuzzy on the outside." He agrees with this, head tipping back luxuriously to muse, "... I don't know that I'm anything on the inside, really. I'm a conduit." He creeeeps open one eye, "Would you be offended if I asked whether you were also a mutant?" If handing the bowl over means she doesn't have to tidy, Shelby is all over that too. Then she lounges. Yes, on the counter--it is comfy and the couch out there doesn't /look/ comfy. "Well, yeah. They're my friends, right? Shane's like practically my /best/ friend and B is..." Complicated. He denies even mental or emotional labeling, so she finally just shakes her head. "That's kinda weird though. I mean. You were a person first, right? Before you went all..." She waggles her fingers at him. It can be translated as spotty. Conduity. Fuzzy. All of the y. But there. He's finally succeeded in making her grin. Rather than answer in words, she just waits a moment...and then leopard spots in various colors stream up her chest and throat to dapple her face, her arms. They might have started life as other images but right now, yes, definitely spotty. Fortunately, most of the cleaning has already been done. Parley puts the dish in to soak, hands Shelby a bag of white sugar to put in the cabinet over her head then and props his back against the side of the refrigerator. All while listening, warm caffeine issuing its ribbons of nut-scented steam between quick sips. "I was a person," he agrees, rote response to reasonable statements, though his eyes blank for a moment. He returns behind him only in time for him to lower his eyes. No smiles now. "You're not worried it's your fault, are you? That you and Sebastian..?" His glance up is only intended to seek eye contact. He isn't expecting to see Shelby -- well, become as spotty as he is, and his mouth slips open, then closed, "-that's fantastic. And an aesthetic application. Can it work if you're not looking at it? Do you control each part individually? What /is/ it, exactly? Have they given it a formal title at your school?" He's slipping to the ground, stepping forward to lean shamelessly up into Shelby's grill. Peer. "Some of it's my fault," Shelby admits readily, "some of it's his and some of it's the world being totally fucked up. I should've stuck with older guys probably. They're /usually/ less messed up than me." This she confides with a grin and on the surface it is indeed a joke. Of the rueful sort, underneath. Fortunately there is posing to be done. And buttons to be pushed. When Parley comes forward, Shelby leans towards him. Seemingly to offer up a better view but also to stage whisper: "People keep telling me you don't stop being a person when you get powers." As for /her/ powers, well... "If it's a picture, I can make it move. I guess I'm an animator? Doesn't really have a name. Not like telepaths or whatever. It's kinda...I dunno. There's kids at school who can do some crazy shit. This is pretty B-list, y'know?" As Shelby leans forward, she will find zero boundary of personal space to discourage her, Parley slipping in close, running a finger down the line of her cheek to test the images - to see if they have any slight... texture? Tangible point of termination? Substance? His head tips to the side, gently cupping her chin to turn her head this way, that, letting the light define the shapes as well, ducking his head down to look up at their angle, "That probably depends on what one would consider 'A-list'. An ability that's practical and un-obstructive has its advantages. What about textured surfaces? Fuzzy stickers? Glitter paintings?" It's a sort of intensive FELINE curiosity in the way he eyes, like he wants to extend a paw and... BAT at her spots. Also, a /snort/, "Is that what they keep telling you. How old is 'older' guys?" There's more than a little cat in Shelby too. She tilts her head to present that cheek for testing, lets her head go loose in his cupped hand for tilting this way and that. The marks are in a wild array of color but offer up no difference in texture--they are, to all appearances, colored skin. She only fucks with him a /little/ by having the smaller spots attempt to scoot away from his fingers, with one lone sunflower yellow specimen actually sliding up onto his hand to stake a claim between the tendons. Gotcha. "Any picture. Doesn't matter what it's made out of. I can even do TV but that's harder. Headaches. Y'know. And big stuff, like billboards, those're hard too. Stuff like this doesn't last either. This was Sharpies, colored Sharpies, and it'll fade the way those normally do." As for the question, well. She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling to contemplate an answer. "It depends on the guy, really. Definitely not in high school though. All that shit they say about high school? It's /true/." "I was homeschooled," Parley seems to enjoy being utterly unhelpful, smiling with - "ah!" surprise when he gets spotted by a spot that is not one of HIS spots. "What is it they say about high school? I /am/... mh. More often attracted to maturity, if that's what you mean. So I may understand. Can you move /my/ spots?" He pushes down the side of his short sleeve and turns, showing her the bare shoulder underneath. "They're two dimensional underneath the fur. Even if I shave it off, they're there." "Y'know, all the drama and people having issues and it's even /worse/ 'cause like...we have a /lot/ of issues. Sometimes you just want someone who...I dunno. Someone who's got their shit together more than you do. So maturity, yeah. But like, not so much they got a stick up their ass." Shelby shifts a little on the counter as she confesses some of this It is not a comfortable confession. What follows is /much/ more fluid: "Shit, dude, I dunno! It's kinda different if it's not a /real/ picture. Spots are spots and I haven't ever tried to do stuff that was alive before." When the yellow spot slides over his skin--flowing both above and beneath the fur it encounters--there is a light tickling sensation. Not so when she focuses on Parley overall, with brow rumpled and lips pursed in concentration. /His/ spots don't budge. The single yellow spot sailing over Parley's fur causes ripples like a boat over water, the tickling sending his fur all a'bristle. "Heh." He overlaps his forearms and sets them on the counter next to Shelby, stooping over it to relax under the strange feeling. Experiencing it. The fur at the center of his nape, where the guard hairs dwell, stands up in a punky little ridge. "You and Sebastian both?" have issues, he means. It's not like he sounds disbelieving, just... thoughtful. "Maturity doesn't always mean /rigid/. I work for a very responsible lawyer who I swear has had more /fascinating/ live experiences than I could ever hope to. She swears in French. It's quite classy if you can't understand her." Shelby lets out her breath in a slow gust, disappointed. Organics, it would seem, are beyond the scope of her abilities. But watching Parley go floofy and spiky is not a bad consolation prize. It leaves the girl grinning and directing that lone outrunner to slide up his arm and around his neck, hiding beneath his punk 'do. "We're both fucked up, yeah," she confirms distractedly. <<(messed up)(don't know what we're doing)(broken)(I don't bend)(he doesn't try)>> her mind whispers. "See? You know what I mean, then. When they've like...been places. Done stuff. Figured out how to start balancing the shit with the good, right? I wish I could cuss in French. I know some Spanish though." It's a harmless little /torture/, like being tickled with a feather, and Parley is /braced/ to keep from wiggling, his eyes all scrunched up. All the loose skin of his back has begun twitching of its own volition. If he had but a tail - it would LASH irregularly in budding catfit. Nk- nnhh! His voice is relatively even yet! Except that he's turned his head suddenly to ask, abruptly, "Do you know Spanish swears?" Ah, but he has an issued a challenge and he /didn't even know it/. Shelby's manipulation of the artificial spot ends--where did it go? It is a mystery!--as she grins and marshals herself for the stream of profanity to come. "They have some of the /best/ swears. Like, you /really/ wanna piss off a Latino guy, you talk shit about his mom. Like...Jode tu madre ayer noche," <<(I fucked your mom last night)>>, "or yo cago en la leche de tu puta madre," <<(I shit in your whore mother's milk.)>> "-in your mother's milk," long practiced habit finds Parley reflexively translating Shelby's profane-train, making a small-laugh... noise, kind of like hff! "/Wonderful/." He withdraws from the counter to retrieve his coffee once more, swilling it to encourage the cream to disperse. And asks, more thoughtfully, "- has it ever worked through, to be with an older man? I don't-" He holds up a hand as though Shelby had intentions to /interrupt/ him, "I'm not saying you should or shouldn't pursue any direction. I'm actually more curious than anything. If I'm asking too many questions, you don't have to answer." "It's pretty awesome, huh? They know how to do swearing up right." Shelby leans forward, arms folded on knees, grin remaining firmly in place. Few things serve as so effective a pick me up as pure obscenity. She /does/ draw a breath to interrupt--defensive habits are hard to break--but is placated by the clarification that follows. "Kinda? I mean. Yeah. There was this dude back home. Married guy, right? I almost got suck into some seriously bad shit when I first took off, but he set me up with a place, took me out, got me stuff. It was nice until his wife found out. He gave me the money so I could get /out/ of that fucking place but sometimes I kinda wish it'd worked out, you know?' Over his coffee cup, Parley is considering that final dish of blueberries. He is fingering a spoon, asking offhand, "How old were you?" "Almost fourteen." Just as offhand. Shelby's attention has settled on that cup of coffee and seeing it is enough to lead her to slide off the counter. She goes...for her own mug. Like she lived here. "It wasn't like he was a /total/ perv. He was just nice. He took care of me, you know? You got any of that flavored cream stuff?" "Do you think it would have worked out romantically if there had been no wife involved?" Parley opens a fridge, riffles around with his non-coffee-supporting hand. Then nudges the door shut with a hip, handing over a flavored creamer - hazelnut. "It's getting low. You can use it up." "Probably not," Shelby is forced to admit, but she sounds amused by it. There is less beneath, more of a wistful <<(Oh well)(good doesn't last anyway)>>. "I mean, I liked him and all, but I'm not one of those one person for the rest of my life weirdos." She accepts the bottle and proceeds to the coffeemaker to arrange her cup. Oversweetened, of course. "So if you're not fucking the other guy here, how 'bout you? You're /probably/ not a virgin," she says with a brief but critical glance, "you like getting touched too much." With his head tipped down over his dish of blueberries, Parley offers a sphinx-y smile /around/ the finger he's currently licking clean. "I do enjoy touch," he confirms, oh so mildly, berry by berry. He's eating with his hand. Hang on, he has to swallow - "Mph. Mmm." Okay, he's done. And finally shakes his head, killing the suspense, "No. I am not a virgin. I'm not sure I have much in the way of preferences, though. I've --," he raises his eyes towards the ceiling, drifts them towards the fridge, "-- mmh, a few women. And a few men. I'm not sure I have much thought on it. There's also the question of defining. In the labs it wasn't uncommon... mh. For the psionics--" He taps at his temple with the hilt of his spoon. "-- walls mean little when it comes to mental touch." "You mean like brain sex? Or just listening in? I got some of that when I was..." Oh. Oh oh oh. Wait a moment. Shelby's posture changes as she becomes /charged/ with the energy of an /idea/. This is almost /always/ a bad thing. As she mulls it over, she speaks without much in the way of focus: "That's no big deal. I mean, sometimes I wish I liked pussy better but cock's pretty much...man. You're like...the /opposite/ of Hive, huh? You take shit in, he's always having to fight against putting his shit out there..." "Ah. Mmh. -- Both." Parley is mostly keeping mild, but Shelby's insouciance is master level against his own - a bit of color touches is ears. Though it's distracted from an expression that's mildly impressed, "That's a very /apt/ way of describing it. Normal telepathy is... mmh, only a broad heading, full of subsidiary instinctively-driven psionic talents. I'm sure his whole world would be a much easier place if he could /command/ all the minds around him. While mine..." He licks his thumb, eyes closing. "...Mmh." That's all. "I imagine it's all so many varieties of dispersement. It seems to trouble him to be around /loud/ minds. While I," his eyes snap open again. "Rather enjoy the volume. Have you seen Mr. Holland's illusionary abilities? Do you think you would be able to move a two dimensional illusion?" "Hey hey, small words." Shelby demonstrates, bringing her forefinger and thumb from a wide position to a teeny one. Smaaaall words. That bubbly sense of energy remains, however. She's gotten the gist of it. "If Hive /did/ do that, he'd be gone, y'know? But..." How she can bubble and remain thoughtful at the same time will have to remain a mystery, but she is /doing/ it. While stirring her coffee, no less. Tink tink tink. "It's more how he is with just /one/ mind. Like. Mine. You think you could teach me how to not get turned into a zombie if he tries to fuck me? He's kinda worried about melting my brain when he's all...nnngh!" Yes, she is demonstrating an o-face. With sound effects. Oblivious to--or encouraged by--that tiny hint of blushy color. And his questions, well. "So you're more into the whole gang-bang thing, huh? Lots of minds all pounding away at yours...I can move Jax's stuff, yeah. It's hard but I can do it." BlrblghpPFFF. Parley chokes on his coffee. /Quietly/. He leans himself over the sink with a hand cupped under his nose, "I'd never considered it that way before." He says it - really manic-brightly! Coughing! And gesturing at the roll of papertowels on top of the fridge - waaaant. Shelby, get them for meeee. He wipes his chin with the back of a wrist, "I -- don't think that I can teach you anything. I'm actually weaker to Hive's abilities than most. He's... very powerful. I've only seen him working with many minds already under his command. That's interesting, if it's harder with one. I suppose you aren't meant to thread needles with a broadsword." He can speak easily still. But he's flushed a /nice/ warm color in his cheeks now, his fur all bristle-rumpled. Score! Shelby grins from ear to ear as she secures the papertowels up on tiptoe, then swings them towards the aggrieved young man. "So that's a yes then?" she asks, tone far too innocent to actually /be/ innocent. "I mean, not to helping me get him to thread my needle, but the other stuff." It's so much easier to take a no when it's tempered with amusement. While he tidies himself up, she hauls herself back onto the counter and reaches out to help finger-comb the bristly bits down to something like smoothness. "Kinda sucks. /Really/ sucks. 'Specially if B doesn't...y'know." "Thank you," Parley takes the papertowels, even smiling wryly - he'll allow the point to her court on this one. Total slam-dunk. "--mh. /Maybe/." Ohhh, combing. He leans into Shelby's fingers, head tipped to the side loose-boned. "-especially if... Mmh. They'll find him." He says this /braced/, firmly. "...Hopefully it's all a misunderstanding but." But. No one fresh out of his own position is going to rush to assume people /don't/ vanish into dark, dark places. He does chuff, "Though. I think you have a /strange/ replacement procedure for missing lovers." "I'm not /replacing/ him, Jesus." Shelby scolds via that same touch, giving the loose skin at his nape a ruffle. Pish. "Just. If he /is/ in the labs again and they /don't/ find him...him and Eric are like the only guys who've made an /effort/. Kinda. I mean...Shane kinda bullied him into it, but..." This is quickly edging into uncomfortable territory again. She ducks away from it by dropping her hand to reach for coffee. "Hey, can I smoke in here?" "You know it's never come up." Parley muses, taking that /ruffling/ with a little 'aaaag' sound and leaning harder against Shelby's hands to make her fix iiiit. "Mh. By a window it should be alright..." Even after wandering clear of Shelby, he's kind of just mashing his back and shoulders against door frames and walls to itch-rub /scent-mark/ around. He can be weird. It's his own god damn home. "Do you need multiple people to be making an effort at once?" He is in the living room by now, sounding blandly humorous as he calls back, "-- not Shane's Eric. The policeman?" "Sweet." Shelby did at least wait until the window was mentioned before she hops down from the counter. Then she is trailing in his wake, coffee in one hand, pack of smokes extricated from her bra strap with the other. She is /set/. "Y'know that'd be easier to do," she comments of his marking, "if you were naked." Just a suggestion. A smartassed one. "That's the one, yep. Musclepony. It's not like I /need/..." She trails off, makes a face--<<(why am I still talking?)>>--and angles for the window. "/Anyway/," she says, with deliberate emphasis, "it doesn't really matter." "-Oh. I've... he seems to make efforts rather freely..." Parley is sllliding along a wall while he says it, glancing over his shoulder. "Are you trying to get me naked? It's alright to enjoy the feeling of being... hm. Wanted." "What, you fucked him too?" When there is a chance of gossip, Shelby becomes a master of putting pieces together. "Or he just try? He gets around but man...." She hooks her hands under the window sash and hauls it up, then curls into the sill area and fumbles out a cigarette. The lighter snaps to life and most of the smoke curls outside. Most. "That's not a bad thing," she breathes out, chin up. "You can get naked if you want. S'your place!" "Kiiiiind of you to say," Parley drifts further through the living room, trailing fingers over the brilliant-colored couch arm on route to his bedroom. "But being naked isn't terribly productive. Are you going to laugh at me if I say yes? He makes a very pressing argument." By this point, he's shouting to the living room from the bedroom. Where ACTIVITY can be heard. A quiet whump, the rattling of drawers. “Hey, I don’t ever laugh at that sorta thing. I take my sex /very/ seriously.” Shelby may or may not be trying to mimic the tones used by various adults in her life. It is a lovely and snarky little parody. Throughout, she’s got an eye locked on the bedroom door. What /is/ he doing in there? Teasing her, that’s what she decides he’s doing. Carefully, she balances the smoking cigarette on the windowsill--just a little fire hazard there, pay no attention--and then creeps as quietly as she can towards the bedroom. Sure, sure, Parley would probably not object to her wandering on in even if he /is/ naked but it’s more fun to pretend to be doing something /wrong/. Which is why after a moment, a pair of blue-green eyes and the top of her ginger head poke around the doorframe. “Whatcha doin’?” Except that Parley is GONE. -- or rather. He'd quietly dropped to the floor and crept belly-down around the side of his bed. It's a little twin-size deal. Metal frame. A mattress. Mismatched sheets. A milk crate to sit on over there in the corner. There's precious little in the room to make it feel lived in. “Holy shit,” Shelby says upon realizing that the room is /deserted/, “is that what happens when you take off your clothes? Fuckin’ A, man. I wish I could do that, I would...” Probably get into a lot of trouble. But she doesn’t finish the statement more due to curiosity than not wanting to say it out loud. She steps into the doorway, still glancing around, eyebrows gradualllllly scrunching together. “Okaaaay, you can come out now.” Creep. Sssslither. Parley is eaaaasing under the bed. So that if Shelby explores further, there will be no one hiding behind it. And if she explores the room /that/ far, well. He will eel out the other side. Nearer to the door. Eeeeeeeel. Shelby /does/ explore further. She can’t help it, it’s in her /genes/. Not that there’s a whole lot here to explore. A mattress. Mismatched sheets. A milk crate. Boooooring. “Okay okay, I’ll stop being rude!” she bellows--because apparently going invisible means you are also deaf. Then she proceeds on towards the door--overlooking the creepy!kitty there because truly he is the king of creeps with that damn no-seeum aura. Her cigarette will be waiting for her, at least. /It/ still loves her. Or does it. Parley is in the livingroom. It took a bit of hustle, but he'd made it to the window, and turns nonchalantly to look over his shoulder at her. With her cigarette IN HIS MOUTH. If he had a tail, it would be twitch-twitch-twitch LASHING. You can see it in his utterly composed eyes. Eyebrows raise? Like, mmm? Shelby’s eyes narrow. Then, with deliberate poise, she reaches for the pack--once again shoved beneath her bra strap--and taps out /another cigarette/. It is stuck between her lips and bounces as she says, “So I shouldn’t poke around in people’s bedrooms without an invitation. Sue me.” Finally Parley smiles, a sharp little grin, "I don't actually mind." He then offers Shelby her cigarette back. AFTER she lights her new one. Maybe he'll reach for the new one while he's at it. Take-take-take. Uh uh, no way, she’s keeping the fresh smoke. Shelby waves at him to indicate he should keep the one that’s burned down a little. “Then don’t do the fucking invisible thing,” she says, without heat. Her tone is quite companionable, actually, as she cosies up to the window again and rests her butt on the corner of the sill. “It’s rude to disappear on guests, y’know.” Ha ha, turnabout is fair play! "Is it?" Parley sounds mildly curious, keeping the cigarette then and holding it up against the light of the window to watch the shadow of smoke ripple around it. "The man you knew. Before you came here. Was his attention the same as Mr. Sutton's then?" Yes, he topic hops. Fiendishly quick. And kind of delicately fits the cigarette back into his mouth. The soft feeling of the unfamiliar butt feels delicate and fragile to the touch. Shelby treats him to a puzzled look--what are they talking about again? That? Oh! “You’re not gonna fly out there and beat the shit out of him if I say yes, are you?” She jests. Ash is flicked out the window, the smoke from her next drag directed after it in a careful and aimed stream. “Believe me, it was better than the shit I almost got mixed up in. First chick I stayed with after I left had a pimp and /he/ thought I’d be good business.” Parey leans out the window to watch the small flakes of Shelby's ash pinwheel down, down and away on the wind. He drops just two words after them, "Were you?" “Hell no,” Shelby says with mild scorn. “Maybe I would’ve been but like hell I was gonna turn tricks. /Gross/.” She sees no comparisons between that and the situation that followed. “If I’m gonna sell my ass, it’s gonna be like what that asshole Lucien does. Two grand an hour and /I’m/ callin’ the shots.” "Mmmmmm?" Parley makes this sound with /interest/, his lips compressed because of the cigarette he's just kind of... mouthing on. Sort-of smoking at. "You're very direct." He says it like it's positive. "I haven't met Lucien, though many people refer to him around the lofts. He seems well-liked. Is that his profession, then?" Shelby’s grin creeps slowly back as she watches Parley lip his cigarette. She may or may not be demonstrating when she takes another long, crackly pull from hers. “Dunno any other way to be,” she admits before tilting her head up. An attempt is made for smoke rings but she lacks the skill. Woe. “He’s a dick who thinks he’s better than everyone else even though he sucks cock for a living, yeah.” "Is it better to suck cock for free?" Parley asks innocently. He watches Shelby's technique, copies slowly, even that subtle necessary inhale of clean air /after/ puffing, holding it, and letting it slowly cloud out of his mouth through the window. "What did he do to you?" “Only acted like he had a /huge/ stick up his ass ‘cause the Doc was letting me stay with him for free. Not that it was any of his /business/ and not like I was doing anything /he/ doesn’t.” Shelby huffs, and it is completely unrelated to cigarette smoking. Lucien, it seems, is still a touchy subject. “He’s not always that bad lately but Jesus, that guy...you’d think he shits diamonds.” "You're rather private, aren't you." Parley says this... thoughtfully, leaning harder on an elbow against the window fame and studying Shelby's face. "For how much you talk." He's kind of ruining his cigarette butt. He's licking it. It's damp. "You would make a fine politician. If you stopped talking so much about sexual exploits." A BIG IF. “Huh?” Not what Shelby had expected to hear. Parley is treated to a blank look. “What, you don’t like the sex talk?” "I don't mind it," Parley's column of ash stuck out of the front of his cigarette is /long/ and fragile; it trembles and sways as he watches it. Shake-shake? Ah. It fell off. "But it's not really intended for all audiences. Which I'm sure is the point." He reaches over a finger to /poke/ at Shelby's own cherry smolder at the end of her cig. "You have a natural talent for shocking people. Are you worried you would be bored if you were with a normal generic lover?" Hey, watch it! Shelby yanks her cigarette-bearing hand back before he can burn himself, then reaches out to make more of a grab for the filter left in his hand. “You’re a shitty smoker, dude,” she tells him with a grin. It’s an expression that lingers when Parley clarifies...sort of. “What’s normal? I mean, seriously. You had a look around? Normal’s what people tell their kids about to keep ‘em in line.” "You would know better than I would," Parley admits quieter, pulling his cigarette away from his mouth to turn it over, looking at the damage. "Hm. I should start packing. I'm taking my first business trip." Preen? So subtly? "I bought /luggage/. Would you like to see?" Sometimes, the labrat weirdness shows. /Luggage/! Riveting! His eyebrows are even hiked up hopefully. “Not by /much/.” Take that, cat. Shelby takes a last pull off her cigarette before directing both smoke and butt out the window. Hopefully no one is standing in the alley downstairs. He is then treated to the most dubious of looks--luggage? Seriously?--as she slides off the windowsill. But! She looks towards the bedroom. “Sure, I guess. They flying you first class? You better ask for first class, I hear they give you like, champagne up there,” says the girl who has never flown. "Actually," Parley grins, tossing out his cigarette, too. Someday. There's going to be a puddle of gasoline in an alley. And all those thrown cigarettes are going to go up in FLAMES. "I'll be flying in a private jet." Like small rain drops, trickled out in little bombs - he drops the words. And leads the girl to his room, to show off his LUGGAGE.