ArchivedLogs:Sticking Around

Sticking Around
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shelby	2013-05-14 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The weather has been nice lately but one wouldn't know it given the mood in the Lofts. Worry has gone systemic and as day follows day, that little dark cloud hanging overhead just gets a bit darker. Shelby is /not/ helping. Or rather, she has been happily contributing to the pervasive gloom by having spent last week at Jax's, and returning back each evening /this/ week. Every little bit helps, right? With smoking banned in the Holland household, she's retreated to the roof with her backpack and made an attempt to at least appear to be doing homework. The book is there--remedial algebra--on the plastic table, opened beside a notebook. She has a pencil in hand. An empty Coke can with a little water added serves as an ashtray while she stares at the words and numbers littering the page. Instead of math problems, however, she is running through a jumble of unrelated chords, thoughts, impressions and general blah in her mind. Fragments of memory--the twins naked in mud beside a lake--slices of song lyrics--what is she going to record next?--the habitual but disinterested temptation to start rearranging the page... Meh. Meh, she would say. If she were speaking. Smoking is not banned in Hive's home though Ian's asthma discourages it enough that he is a frequent rooftop visitor. It is easy enough to assume that is why he is heading up here now. He looks much as usual. Scuffed and frayed faded jeans. Heavy workboots in place of his falling-apart sneakers. A grey-black t-shirt reading 'resistance is futile (if <1 ohm)'. His hands are shoved into his pockets, though, not actually moving to withdraw any cigarettes as he heads out onto the roof. He doesn't seem surprised to see Shelby there, and he doesn't wait for greeting or invitation. Just saunters over, slumping down into an adjacent chair. "What /are/ you going to record next?" Shelby does react with some surprise, seeing as how she lacks the brain mojo to pick up on his approach. She straightens up in the chair and tips him a look over her shoulder. Her smile is faint; the oh-so-happy to see who it is is much brighter on the inside. "Hey," she greets while he gets settled. The pencil is set down so she can dip a hand into the pouch of her zipped up hoodie. A hard pack is produced. Set on the table. Left. Like bait. "I take requests." << Should write something of my own but whoever said hard times makes for creativity was lying their ass off. >> "Hard times," Hive says, reaching for the pack, "make for creativity. The trick is you have to get /through/ them. Nobody's got fucking creativity in the middle of a war zone. You live through it, then you take that and make something of it." The baring of his teeth is a thin thing, a slight sliver of smile as he taps out a cigarette, slipping it in between his lips before offering Shelby a second. "Living through it's the hard part though. And these days you're just as likely to stay in crisis mode for-fucking-ever." This is the cheery pearl of optimism he offers as he digs a cheap plastic lighter out of his pocket. "Be nice though. When there's a lull between storms. See what /your/ work sounds like." "Yeah, I guess. Every time I think maybe we're getting there, it's like the universe decides to flip a table. I'm kinda tired of my hair fallin' out in clumps every time I brush it." TMI! Shelby reaches for that second. Sweet, soothing nicotene. The filter's popped between her lips, the cigarette wagged at him like a kid with a sucker stick. << It's in my head. Down there. Dunno how to get it out yet. How you been? >> "...saw that big ol' hole you're calling a building." "Stress is a bitch. Want I should get you a wig?" Hive might be teasing. It's hard to tell. His expression doesn't much change as he flicks the lighter, offers the flame to Shelby before lighting his own. "It's a bigass hole, isn't it? None of my friends have a hole that big." He draws in a deep drag of cigarette, his eyes closing. "I dunno. OK? Busy? Shitty? Kinda blends together. Jax is dragging me to go talk to cops tonight." His eyes open and slant sidelong to look Shelby over. "Do I have to ask how you're doing?" "Yo mama has a hole that big." Pure reflex, that response. Shelby leans over to dance the tip of the cigarette through the magic fire, then slumps down in the chair. "Maybe I should go brunette," she muses, free hand toying with the ragged ends of her hair. She studies those splits, capturing a lock between her fingers. It's just an act to hide the low-grade note of concern when she hears tonight's plans. "Maybe ask me again after you guys get back? It's...it's like. Being in. I dunno." << being in the middle of everything - being out there alone again - all at the same time >> "Jeez, probably, the number of kids she's popped out." Hive rocks his chair back onto its back legs, hand curling against the edge of the rickety plastic table to brace himself. "You want to go brunette? You look great as a -- whateverthefuck that color is." The shake of his head to flick hair away from his eyes, the tip back to look up at the sky, these might also be just to hide the worry-edged tightening of his expression. "Might not have shit-all to tell you when we get back, who knows what the fuck the cops know. But Jax says we're going and he says he wants a telepath so, fuck, I guess I'm eating some /pig/ brains tonight." His palm rubs against his forehead, and then his fingers trail against the side of his head, brushing back his hair and then letting it fall back into place. << It's like shitty, >> comes his whipcrack-hard mindvoice. His chair drops heavily back to all fours, his hand shifting to rest over against Shelby's knee, kind of unthinkingly. << Not alone, though, >> is a little more distant, concurrent with his spoken: "When we find them," not if, "some motherfucker is going to die." He sounds oddly calm about this, distant here, too. "Ginger," Shelby supplies. << Brothers'n'sisters? How many? >> "I don't /really/ wanna go brunette but it's fun to fuck around with the way you look sometimes. Y'know?" Her eyes cut towards his hair rumpling. Maybe he doesn't. "Is it bad, your--" Ohfuckow. She was /just/ reaching to fold her hand over Hive's when He Speaks. Instead, there is a rubbery little clench of bony fingers against bony fingers, while she scrunches her eyes shut. Some of the sentiment expressed is, unfortunately, lost with the method of transmission. "...mmgh. Yeah. When. Having you there's a good idea. Maybe I can help with the dead part, since I can't do anything else." A pale sort of joke, made while she rearranges her hand properly over his knuckles. "How's your head?" "A fuckton," is Hive's unhelpful answer, though more helpful: "Seven. Seven /others/ than me. Jax fucks around with the way he looks daily, it'd probably be pretty simple for you to constantly recolor, too, huh?" His teeth clench slightly when her fingers do. "S'what bad?" His fingers shift, slightly, turning just enough to curl slightly up against hers. "Head's fucking amazing. If that man plays bodies as well as he plays brains I get why they pay him the big bucks." He reaches his other hand forward to tap ash from his cigarette into her coke can. "Wouldn't actually advise helping with -- /being/ dead or making anyone dead, it's not actually," he says wryly, drawing in another long pull of smoke, "all it's cut out to be. Tempting, though." "They all as nice as you are?" Another joke, this one with a little more oomph! Briefly, beneath the jesting, Shelby considers coloring her own hair but the idea is set aside--her hair would be so /chalky/. Or markery. Or painty. Not quite the same as a wig or a box of color. "Your head. You touched your head where that scar is, I think...wasn't sure what he did had taken. S'good it did." She's looking down at their joined hands--idly curling a finger to stroke it down the center of his palm--while tapping /her/ ashes to the side. Onto the patio. No hippies here. "Do you think it was the labs?" "They're charming." Hive says this with a thin twitch of his lips upward. He shrugs a shoulder, cigarette left between his lips as his hand lifts back to the side of his head. "Habit, I guess. Thing's been with me so fucking long --" He shrugs. His fingers curl upwards, cupping hers gently. "... I always think it was the labs," he admits, quietly. "They're good at the sudden disappearances. Be weird, though. The twins right /now/, that seems dumb. And Peter's got a family that gives a shit about him, that's sloppy for them. But -- but. They're the government. Maybe they don't have to be careful." "They wouldn't just take off. Not right now after they just got back. I mean, I dunno about Pete, dumbass got himself lost in a /sewer/ that one time. But...me and B, we'd just...y'know." Elaboration probably is not needed with a telepath, though if Hive cares to look the full explanation is there below the words--Bastian's V-card was taken. Shelby's still focusing on their hands though instead of gloating about it. After a last puff on her smoke, the butt is pushed into the Coke can so she can curl both hands around his. His fingers are toyed with, curled towards his palm, gently extended. Hers are calloused, not soft girl hands. "Maybe they're just that pissed off. The government. You guys did a number on 'em." "Yeah, I," Hive says, his gaze tipping uuuuuup to /focus/ kind of intently on the sky, "heard. That." His next puff of cigarette is hard. "Does kinda seem like it wouldn't be the time for him to skip out, though." His fingers dance lightly back against hers and for all his skinny-twinky gamer-geek build his hands, too, are calloused-rough. "They're pissed off, alright. I keep expecting to find myself on a plane back to fucking Thailand any day. Jim, though? Peter? They weren't /part/ of this shit, this is fucking vindictive. Going after our --" This sentence cuts off into an irritable hiss. He stubs his cigarette hard against the table and shoves it into the can. His fingers curl tighter against Shelby's. "Sorry." She is...sort of. Rueful, at the very least. Then Shelby is just quiet, inside and out. Listening. Toying with his hand. Then, finally, staring at him while her brain fills with white noise. "...wait, what? /Jim/?" And like that her heart is in her throat, returning a tighter grip with the same. "/Jim's/ gone too? But he just...we just...we were just down in the park about a...a...oh fuck. Oh god." Even if she were to try now, there would probably be no way to quiet that riot of emotions--shock, horror, fear, grief, more fear. Instead of trying, she pulls his hand to her chest and bends over it, clinging. << Don't go don't you go too just don't stay right here... >> "Jim's -- " Hive's voice, it is clear, is none too steady even on this one short syllable. He swallows. "Yeah." Just that. Then the harsh scraping of plastic on cement as he drags his chair closer to hers, and leans in to curl half against her, his other arm coming up to wrap around her shoulders. His lips press down against her hair, and he is, for the moment, just still. Quiet. Squeezing her shoulders with a slowly tightening pressure. Shelby shifts his hand to her lips, pressing them against his knuckles in much the same fashion. There, just holding. Keeping. Her head turns eventually but only so she can bump her forehead against his shoulder, cat-like. Bonk. "It figures," she says once the seething mess of angst has quieted to a simmer. "Finally find something I wanna stick around for. People. And it goes to shit. Should...put a goddamned bell on the rest of you. Or something." "We did that with Flicker for a while," Hive admits with a small curl of smile. His hand shifts, up against Shelby's back, curling into her hair. "Freakish as fucking hell, though, you suddenly have a little chime right behind you." His face stays pressed to her hair, and his continuation is wry: "Jax always talks about implanting Spence with GPS. He should do the lot of them." "I'd probably wet my pants," Shelby admits, "my nerves are shit lately." Maybe she meant shot. Except probably not. She closes her eyes, breathes as deeply as her recent heavier smoking allows. Then she opts out of this two chair nonsense by trying to ooze over to share Hive's chair with him, via lap. It can't be comfortable but she will stubbornly fold herself up as needed to pull it off. Thankfully neither of them weighs much. "...do you need to see someone to Hive them?" Hive doesn't seem to mind the discomfort. He holds Shelby close, squeezing a good bit tighter. There's a bit of a tremor in his thin frame, though it's pleasantly warm outside. "... no. I've just got to be close enough to feel them. Hear them. Whatever. If I'm really trying I can hive pretty much anyone in the building though, uh, it's -- not. Pleasant to really try." Shelby settles her arm across his shoulders and adjusts the set of her head. This time she rests forehead to temple, quiet breaths touching his ear. One tremor is echoed by another but the emotion behind that is drowned in unhappier mental mud. Uck. "Hurty not pleasant or beat yourself up not pleasant?" No, wait. Don't answer that. She tenses her arms around him as well. "Maybe. I dunno. If they'd still been...if you could...if we could /bait/ whoever's got 'em. But that...I mean. If they're..." She won't say it. The words are stifled by touching lips to cheek. Nope. Not even going to /think/ it. Hive doesn't answer that. He doesn't answer the rest of what she says, either, though perhaps /he's/ thinking it because another tremor runs through him. His fingers curl in a tight grip against her shoulder. He squeezes shut his eyes. "You have no idea how fucking tempting it is to just crawl my way through every mind in this fucking city until I find them." It isn't instinct or reflexive to offer up any sort of soothing, but Shelby does what she can. Her unoccupied hand lifts to curl over his cheek, holding his head against hers, and the other closes tightly on his shoulder. "I can guess. It's probably worse you /could/ do it," she says, quiet and glum. "But you wouldn't really be you. I mean. We'd...be losing you too." And that's a thought that leads to another glancing kiss, near his temple. "But like...if we knew /who/ had them we could...have you sit in one person's head. Someone they'd grab." "I wouldn't be me," Hive agrees. "And I get too far out and I don't think I'd -- I don't think I'd be /anybody/." Slowly, his grip on Shelby's shoulder loosens. He runs his hand gently down along her arm, his eyes opening again. A little tired, a little distant, but eventually they focus up on her. "... bait. Shit. There's probably like a million and two kids at your school who are perfect freak-thief bait. But." But. His muscles are tightening up at even the thought. "But it'd be dangerous," Shelby finishes for him. That /is/ the expected answer--and yet as Hive's eyes open, hers are fixed there and she's not looking as if the idea is off the table yet. "Rasa'd do it. I mean, hell, /I/ would do it if I knew you guys had a team and were ready to come after me. But...she's probably more...y'know." Visible. And the ginger teen isn't /really/ volunteering herself because hell no, she's a coward. But ideas, she can handle those. "Or you could get...someone older. Kurt, maybe." "Tsss." This sharp hiss and a slight reflexive tightening of his grip is Hive's only response to the thought of Shelby-bait. "Kurt," he agrees after a slow delay of thought, "would be a hard-ass motherfucker to keep caught. His teeth clench; a muscle jumps in his temple. "Fuck," he says eloquently, after a while. "... I could. Maybe come back from it alright. If there was another telepath around to -- keep an eye on things." His hand lifts, scuffing the same habitual path through his hair and then falling back to circle her waist. "The big guy's a telepath. Or Parley? I dunno if he's the real deal though. Rasa'd probably be a bad idea, last time it was..." Disastrous. Shelby's eyes close and she reciprocates that touch by gently curling her fingers, stroking his temple, the fine hair in front of his ear. "The twins...they had to be pretty close when they got grabbed. Maybe have Kurt walk around the neighborhood, see if anything weird happens...you know I'm not going anywhere, right?" "I -- don't think I'd want to put Rasa through that shit again, no." Hive winces slightly. His head leans in towards that touch, temple nuzzling up against her fingertips. He turns his head the rest of the way afterwards, eyes closing again as he brushes his lips against her palm. "You'd better not. I /would/ hive the whole fucking city and that is eight million gorram people's worth of headache." All it takes is that tickle of warmth for the happier feelings to begin edging in on the unhappier ones. Shelby is no saint. She's all too willing to take that threat at face value and /like/ it, thanks muchly. Still, she tries for the right answer: "Fuck that, wouldn't wish that on someone I /didn't/...y'know." Like. Want. Maybe other, stronger words but damn if she's even going to think them. Instead she dips in close to nuzzle his ear. "You want me to stick around? Until after? Jax can get me to school in the morning." Hive's fingers trail up against her spine, and it takes a while before he answers. "Yeah. I mean, I'll be heading out in -- a few. Talk to the fucking cops. But I'll be -- I mean, if you stick around, that -- would be good." His head turns, cheek brushing against the side of her face. Then tips forward; the kiss he presses, at the hollow just behind her ear, is very light. "Think you could take it? Me staying over?" That is as close as Shelby is willing to get to promising good behavior. There's little "good" in the way she tilts her head on her neck to make a more tempting path for kisses. With her breath held, thought takes over. << Could go back downstairs. Sleep there. But...don't need to...there's other stuff. To do. Cuddling. >> It's such a ridiculous word: cuddling. Breathlessness fights with the urge to grin. "I'd like it," Hive admits, quiet. "If you stayed. If you don't mind that we don't -- I mean. I'd like." His fingertips press harder against her back, and his next kiss is still soft, though less light, less brief. He dots a slow line of them down the side of her neck. "Cuddling." His tone is wry. "It'd be nice." That held breath goes from her. Whoosh. Shelby gets a good handful of his silly nerd shirt and hangs on through the shiver that follows. "I'd like it too," she admits, and her voice has gone funny. Distinctly un-Shelbylike. Recover is quick however, followed by her turning her head to bump his gently to the side so she can nip his earlobe. Just once. Nip. "Maybe even /snuggle/. Whatever the fuck /those/ are," she says before sliding her feet down to get them grounded. It isn't that she's fleeing his lap. It's just...she's fleeing his lap, red-faced and needlessly smoothing down her hoodie. "Oh, I bet Dusk could demonstrate /snuggle/ for you. His wings were fucking /made/ for it." Hive's grin is a little crooked. He runs his fingers through his hair, a flush in his cheeks. He stands when Shelby flees, exhaling slowly. "Alright. I should find Jax and go deal with this shit. Hopefully you'll still /snuggle/ with me even if I come back smelling like pig." "You take too long out there maybe I'll /ask/ him to," Shelby says as she drops back into her original chair and hikes it close to the table again. Where'd she put that pack o' cigarettes. "Good thing for you I love bacon." She pauses, purely for dramatic effect. "Bring me back a BLT? No T." "Pfft, you say that like it'd bother me have you seen my roommates and I, it is like the gayest fucking snugglefest twentyfour-seven." Hive has left her pack of cigarettes on the table, and he nudges them towards her when she starts looking. Sometimes telepathy is actually helpful! To... people besides him. He shoves his hands into his pockets afterwards, snorting. "I'll see what I can do." He leans in, pressing a kiss for a moment to the top of his head. And then trudges back off towards the door with as little by way of farewell as he gave in greeting.