ArchivedLogs:Not a Date

Not a Date
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shelby	2013-01-31 Shelby and Hive's ships have yet to come in.
Location <NYC> NY Public Library - Midtown East
Guarded by two lions nicknamed Patience and Fortitude, the main branch of New York's public library system provides a space for New York residents to do more than just check out books. The reference library holds thousands of works, and the reading room is a majestic work of architecture in its own right. The computer lab and free internet access is available to all who need it. One would think the library would empty out after a certain hour but with the temperatures dropping again, that is not true. The reading area is busy enough that finding a seat becomes a challenge if you want to leave the customary one chair between yourself and other patrons, there are a couple of ragged and smelly dudes camped out at the computer stations--one of them is checking out porn whenever the librarians aren't looking his way--and a number of students are roaming the stacks looking for that last reference they need to complete their paper. Then there is Shelby. She's not difficult to find if you're a -telepath-. Just follow the strand of gloating thoughts, replete with "Fuck yeah!"s and "Damn I make this look good". It's a little scary, really, because what can she be doing that requires thoughts of that nature? If one were to wander down to the art section, they will find the teen in an aisle. She's shed her upper layers of clothes down to a couple of ratty, layered tank tops and has a coffee table style book open so she can steal the arts. On display is one pale, freckly, -spindly- arm with a cherry tree branch winding up it, serpent-like, from the hand she has pressed against the page. Her head is craned at an awkward angle so she can study the effect of the blossoms against her skin. Pink, it seems, is her color. "Modest, too." This is issued dryly from somewhere in the aisle neighboring Shelby's. "That's not very traditional. Wonder if they'd let you show it at the tat conventions." Hive is fairly ratty himself, tatty old jacket, shabby jeans, though at the moment not much of him can be seen behind the shelf of books in between them. "How's the hand?" She drops the book. It lands loudly, opened to other now blank pages, and the sound elicits a, "SHHH!" from a different aisle. "Son of a bitch! God damn it, Hive, whafuck sneaking up on people!" Poor grammatical sense but Shelby gets her point across. She crouches to pick up the book, fixing a glare on...well, the shelves. It doesn't take her long to compensate for the lack of line of sight and the need for quiet: << My hand is fine. Stitches need out. Why are you spying on me? >> Of course, having to concentrate on mind-speaking makes her sound like a robot. "Spying, dude," Hive says, low and amused, "You were thinking loud enough to hear from the other fucking side of the library. I had shit to return. You sound like a robot." He says all this out loud, despite responding to her unspoken thoughts. "S'neat, though. That whateverthefuck. Can't your doctor take 'em out? Can't that clinic?" He's scooting down, now, circling around the end of the row to come into view. He leans a shoulder up against the shelf, peering down the row towards Shelby. << I do not. >> Oh but she does. A resentful robot, one who fails to see the humor in the situation. Shelby is busily shoving the now emptied book back onto the shelf when Hive appears. Her shoulders and the other arm are decorated too--there's some water lilies, a few stippled ballerinas, and the top of a bald head between her shoulderblades that hints at a stolen Munch. << Dr. S is busy. Haven't been back to the clinic. Might just pull them myself, they are kind of gross...hey. >> Spotting him, she frowns--then decides it's all cool. Cue the casual hair-toss. "So, like, what're you up to?" "Dude, don't do it yourself. I know so many people who can do it properly." Hive ambles closer, hands shoved in his pockets as he peers down at Shelby's arms. "Huh. Neat. You keeping those? You seen Jax, he's /sleeved/. Guess it's easier if you can wipe your canvas clean and change it." He stops a few feet away, leaning again against the shelves. "Dunno. Working. Procrastinating on working, had to stop looking at my fucking computer for a while. Library's a good excuse." "I know but...I dunno." Oblivious to having just contradicted herself, Shelby is focused on presenting a good view. She draws herself up and turns a little so that more of the purloined prints can be seen. Check out my back, is the instruction (as well as "ohmigod he's checking me out! shut up shut up he can hear you!") as she helpfully lifts her hair and shows the top of baldy there. "I'm just stocking up. Figure if I can swap out whenever, gotta have plenty tucked away, y'know? Jax gave me some originals too but they aren't like, colored or anything." She lets her hair drop and turns back around, crooked smile appearing on cue. "The clinic, huh? Yeah, you're not careful, you're gonna end up like the doc." Couldn't even set him up with someone. So sad. Hive's lips twitch, brief and amused, but he tips his head down, obligingly looking over the designs. "Sweet. You pull those all from books or --? You do any drawing yourself?" He's looking at the water lilies, thoughtful. "Bet he'd give you colored ones if you wanted. His shit's good. You gonna sell those? Pain-free ink?" Her last words -- last thoughts? -- make him snort. "Yeah, the clinic. I wouldn't mind ending up like him if it meant paying the fucking rent on time for once. You were trying to play matchmaker for him?" This seems to amuse him. "Thinking about it. Maybe apprentice with him if he's cool with it and doesn't explode my head. I'm better at drawing than I am guitar," she admits, too invested in being socoolsocasual to fret overmuch at this confession. Though Shelby does flex her left hand--decorated with a band-aid--at the thought of playing again. The wistful is well hidden beneath the...everything else. "I could hook you up if you want? Free ink, matchmaker..." Or hook up -with- you. Except for what Mel said, shit. "Hey...got a question for you, answer honest, okay?" "Jax? Explode heads? Dude, Jax is like a fucking Care Bear. You got any of your own stuff?" Hive gestures towards Shelby's arm, indicative. "Heard you play. Be interested to see your art. I don't have any ink." He looks down at his arms, or at least at the sleeves of his jacket. Which have no tattoos because, sleeves. "But I don't know what the fuck I'd get anyway." He leans more heavily against the shelf, breathing out a snort of laughter. "Mel --" But he just shakes his head, and raises his eyebrows. "Yeah? Shoot." Shelby holds up a finger. One thought at a time and she's trying to mask this one until she blurts it out. There is mental static layered over...over...god help Hive, it's like looking at a 3am porn showing on a blocked channel in the 80s. "Are you gay for the old guy?" Pleasedon'tbeohmigod. That thought just slips out while she fumbles at the buttons of her jeans--hey, he asked if she had any of her own stuff. Apparently she's going to show him. Or try to turn him Not Gay for Jim. Hive doesn't, immediately, answer this -- he's pressing his knuckles to his lips to stifle his sudden laugh, snorting against them. There's a brief and not quite /comfortable/ mental pressure back against Shelby's mind, but it soon withdraws as he -- "What are you doing?" He's looking down, now, as she fumbles at her jeans, "is that, uh, appropriate? Here?" There's still laughter in his voice, though he calms it to deadpan: "Oh, yeah. Tooootally gay for Jim. You have no /idea/ how much cock was sucked in my apartment last night." "I'm serious! Stop trying to distract me!" Because Shelby is seventeen and her mind -goes- places when shit like that is said. Or maybe she's referring to the push that makes her skull feel two sizes too small--that may well be it, because her eyes narrow and she lifts a hand from unbuttoning to press fingertips to her temple. At least her pants are staying up for now? "It's not funny, either. Mel said you were gay for Jim and you're like...totally giving out mixed signals, dude. You wanna see my art or what?" Caffienated weasels have better attention spans than she does--and when one feels awkward, it's always a good bet to change the subject. "/Yeah/, I want to see your art. What signals am I giving? I didn't realize I was signalling, mixed or not." Hive's dropping down to sit on the floor, still a few feet away where he had just been standing. "I mean is that a /problem/? The gay thing. Not the wrinkly old man thing cuz, yeah, okay, that'd be a problem for anyone." "-Fine-." Which means Shelby goes back to wrestling with her pants. Wrestling is practically required because there are sweats, yoga pants, a pair of shorts and tights on beneath. Her underwear is of the plain cotton variety, white faded to grey--but they can be overlooked when she bares her thigh. Running from hip to knee is a charcoal and chalk drawing of a Victorian-style lamp post casting a pool of light on a daisy rising from cracks in the sidewalk. Both are curved towards the other, straining one for the other without being able to reach. With her many pants scrunched around her knees, she sets hands to hips and waits for the assessment. "It's totally a problem, you flirted with me," says the girl with her panties showing. "I did?" This is clearly news to Hive; he says this a little perplexed but then is, perhaps, not /helping/ matters by scooting closer to the underwear-clad girl to lean in and ogle her thigh. Or, at least, the drawing on her thigh, with a quiet, "Damn." For a while he stares and then nods, approvingly. "Fucking sweet. You could /totally/ cash in on that. Draw people some /sweet/ art, stick it on them." "You did! So I thought. Like. Maybe we could go out sometime, y'know?" This is thrown out with bravado and a heightened sense of interest when Hive scoots closer. Compliments? Hell yeah, Shelby can take a compliment--the pleasure she puts out, hearing it, its untouched by her usual crass and unpolished overtones. "Except if you're gay. I mean, s'cool if you are and all. I'll even still ink you up if you want," she says with compliment-inspired generosity. She touches a finger to the daisy and it slides on up over her knuckles, leaving the poor lamp to be offered to Hive...except he's probably not going to want it on his nose, which is the level where her hand is hovering. "You -- oh." Hive is reaching towards Shelby's hand as the daisy slides up, but then he stops, looking at Shelby with a sort of deer-in-headlights wide-eyed stare. "Out like -- right. Uh. Out." His hand drops to his knees, his head ducking slightly. "Man. I mean. That'd be -- cool," he hedges uncertainly, "if I were -- I haven't really been doing the dating thing," he says apologetically. Sort of apologetically. Sort of awkwardly. He looks at her, then down at the daisy. Wait, I don't know what that means. And for Hive, that means the daisy is withdrawn out of reaching...reach. For the moment, while Shelby squints at him. "Okay," she says slowly, while her mind does an excellent replay of what was just said, trying to decipher it. It isn't any more clear after a second run through, except she's made his voice squeakier because awkward Hive is kind of funny Hive, and squeaky goes with that. In her world. "So...are you...gay or just off the market or what?" With this request for clarification, she pushes her hand forward again and re-offers the daisy. It bobs its head at him. "Can you take it back, if I take this? I dunno if I want a tat forever I can't even make up my mind about how long to keep my freaking hair." But Hive's reaching anyway, towards Shelby's hand, tapping knuckles against hers. One side of his mouth hooks upwards, his smile lopsided. "Off the market," he says, shrugging a shoulder. "Life's just been too wicked fucked /up/ for dating." The daisy makes a Disneyesque hop from Shelby's hand to his knuckles, then zips around to take up residence on the inside of his wrist. There's a slight tickle associated with its movement but once it settles, there's nothing at all to be felt. Without the lamp to strive for, it spreads its base leaves and seems to sigh out into a droop. "Oh...oh. Well. Yeah. I get that. I mean...not like I could take you anywhere cool anyway, right?" Shelby rolls her shoulders back to adopt a posture intended to broadcast lack of disappointment--then remembers that her pants are down. She begins to the process of dragging them on back up. Fuck, it was probably the underwear, need to lift something better. "Maybe after you're a hotshot architect and I'm inking basketball players, or whatever." Hive watches this transfer with intent fascination. His eyebrows raise, impressed, when the daisy settles in at his wrist, and he rubs a thumb against it curiously. "Shit, cool," he murmurs, and then shoots Shelby a wry smile as he leans back against the shelves. "Won't that be the day." His head tips back against the books behind him, one leg crooking up towards his chest. "Yeah. Man. When both our ships come in -- I'd settle for just being able to eat seven days a week, yeah? But, shit. When I'm a hotshot architect, I'll take you out somewhere. Like. With real silverware and everything." "Yeah?" It's a date! Or will be. Shelby buttons herself up proper and then opts to pull up a patch of floor beside Hive, settling comfortably back against the shelves. Legs out crossed at the ankle, fidgeting with the place of the cherry blossoms around her own wrist, she recovers quickly enough from being denied. "You seriously don't eat every day? Shit, man...you gotta come out with me sometime. Not like that way but down in Little Italy, after about eleven? It's like a Vegas buffet down there you time it right. They throw away good stuff." There's a veritable shopping list of The Right Dumpsters To Visit reeling through her mind--until she tosses a sidelong glance at him, thoughtful. "Hey, did I bum you out?" "Not if I want to pay my bills ever," Hive admits with a shrug. "Some days it's just a loooot of coffee. I'll totally hit up dumpsters with you. We can bring shit home and have a feast." He flashes Shelby a quick smile, shaking his head. "Nahh, no, s'cool actually. I mean, it's been a, uh, while since anyone was interested. That's like the opposite of bumming me out." He rests his arm across his knee, glancing sideways towards her, too. "-- How long've you been around New York? You seem to. Know shit." "I hear ya. S'why I always scope out the restaurants first, you wouldn't believe the shit they throw away. It's crazy. Grocery stores too but those assholes sometimes'll dump bleach or whatever on top of their stuff so you can't eat it." Shelby lets her head rest on the shelf but keeps her eyes trained on his face. Must be weird, hearing everything but no one can hear you. But I'm totally not buying that. "Seriously? You can be kind of a dick," is what she says, however, "but it's not like you're hard to look at or anything. Um...I dunno? Couple of months now. Why?" "Not buying wha -- oh." Hive shakes his head, one hand turning upwards as he shrugs a shoulder. "It's just the mindreading thing, you know? I guess it'd be easier if I lied about it but fuck /that/. And most people aren't exactly keen to hook up with a dude who's hearing everything they think." His lips quirk. "-- Aaand sometimes I'm not exactly keen to hook up with people if I've heard everything they're thinking. And yeah. It's sort of weird." He looks down at the flower on the inside of his wrist, and eventually just shrugs. "I dunno. World's just getting fucked up. I read too much news. Wondering what this city's gonna do with --" He frowns, eying the daisy some more. "Us, I guess. Makes me kinda hope everyone's got, uh, safe -- shit to fall back on. Most people I know are --" He gestures, absent, between himself and Shelby. "Kinda just on the fringes." "I guess." Shelby's reply is prompt but after giving it, she actually -thinks- about it--and then it dawns on her that yeah, that'd probably suck, actually. No wonder you think my little pictures thing is cool. The daisy nods sad agreement, or just bows in an invisible wind. More so, as the conversation takes a turn for the speculative and gloomy. "My kind of shit isn't the kind most people'd want to fall back on, dude," she says wryly. "And hell, I can pass when I'm not fucking around with people making them think they're tripping or whatever. If shit goes down..." Jax, Shane, Bastian...how're they gonna pass? "I dunno. I mean, that guy who fucked me up, he was nuts, right? But..." Someone comes after me, hell if I know what I'd do. "No, it isn't," Hive says with a slight grimace, "and I know too many people in the same boat -- I just, man." His hand lifts, scruffing absently through his hair, fingers curling against the side of his head and then dropping. "That's what I'm talking about," might well be referencing what's /not/ said rather than what is. "I dunno if you're planning to stick around here or whatever but if things /do/ go to shit, you should. Call us. Me. Jax. Hell, I bet even fucking /Jim'd/ do what he could if anyone was in trouble." Frown. "Though /god/ if I have to listen to him thinking /terrible shit/ at me one more time --" Perhaps it is this thought that bothers him or perhaps the caliber of conversation but he's getting to his feet rather /abruptly/, standing and then offering a hand to Shelby. "Hey. I got a couple bucks. Let's grab some burgers, I'm fucking starving." "I guess," Shelby repeats, though silently she's thinking Jim? Ugh. Maybe he would since he's like a freak and all but goddamn. Fucker would never let me live it down. "Word on the street is there's a bunch've us down below in the sewers, y'know. Kind of the last place I'd want to go, it's creepy as hell," and she's taken shelter in a few tunnels in her time, they're there in vivid darkness, "but if worse comes to worse..." And then she segues. There is art, traipsing through her mind. Manet, Monet, Degas, and then her own pictures, built from the ground up in chalk and charcoal and paint--colors bright enough to sizzle. Her hand falls into his, used to heave herself to her feet. << So this is Not a Date, right? >> "He's a freak. But we're all freaks. The sewers?" Hive's brief grimace shows his distaste for /that/ easily enough, even without mindreading. "I mean, safety in numbers, I /guess/." His hand clasps in hers, firm as she heaves herself up, and then drops to his side with a quick hook of a grin. He buttons his coat back up, shoving hands in his pockets and turning towards the exit. "This is burgers." Shelby has a coat too--and a couple of sweaters--which she grabs for when released. They go on in quick order, the process down to a fine and rapid science. Bam, bam, bam, and now she's no longer reflecting the florescents. "Dude can turn himself green, have you seen it? S'freaky. Should've asked him if he could grow up some pot, -that'd- solve our money problems," she says as she falls into lockstop with Hive. She's rummaging in a pocket. Change rattles. "Then we could totally spring for the -fancy- not-a-date burgers. Oh, sweet...the Coke's on me." Two straws, no cooties. "-- Y'know, I think Shane asked him that," Hive says, smirking. "Wouldn't go for it, for some reason. Maybe he likes shitty burgers." His smirk turns into a proper smile, cheerful even at the rattle of change. "Caffeine. Score. I needed my fix. See, look," he's saying, as they approach the door, "dinner, drinks, sweet new ink. We're coming up in the world."