taxonomites | System Glitch: In The City: Ship Ahoy! [location: Osten]

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System Glitch: In The City: Ship Ahoy! [location: Osten]

The day of July fourth was spent dealing with annoying, static-ridden transmissions from the tablets. Hisses, bleeps, pops, and occasionally what might have been an indistinguishable voice saying something unintelligible. The interruptions ceased in the evening, and the city went back to being quiet and empty.

The fifth brought more of the same, but shortly after noon something curious happened: if one consulted the map, they'd note a dot out in the ocean. Zooming in on the dot showed that it was not one but many dots, each with a familiar name attached, and observation would show that the dots were headed toward a never-before-used ferry terminal on the Osten waterfront.

Go meet your people, Taxon, and send them to get showers post haste!

ooc: The ferry terminal is a proper building so our vampires aren't in danger of going foom.

And that's that! Thanks everyone, this plot's been ridiculous fun, now back to your regularly scheduled hijinks.

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The more immediate of his fears evaporate when Paul doesn't, and if there was any little hint of doubt and paranoia left, the muffled curse more than confirms it for him. Paul's Paul and he's here and anything need fixing can get fixed.

Like letting go as fast as possible, murmuring sorry, I'm sorry, and a "Hi," that sounds too brittle to his own ears and fuck it if he's choked up, it's just nerves. It's just the tension leaving him torn between mania and depression all at once.

"Hi."

Owwww. Paul lets out a hissed breath between his teeth as arms stop putting pressure on his sunburnt shoulders. Thank god.

Paul bares his teeth at Wyatt in a chagrined sort of smile. "...sunburn. Sorry," he breathes. "Hi yourself.... cowboy."

God, but it feels good to say that. Paul steps back in, closing the distance. Hugs aren't a great idea right now, but he thinks he can manage resting his forehead against Wyatt's broad shoulder.

Testing... yeah, okay, it's a little uncomfortable but it's doable.

"Good to see you, you big ass."

Cowboy. Cowboy, of all things, is the feather that sends the scales in favour of laughter. At least for a split second, until Paul leans in and Wyatt's hands hover. "Don't make me cry, dammit," he grouches, wiping at his eyes before settling them on Paul's unusually light mop of hair. They can fix that too, it's just dry and sun bleached and that's fine.

"Big guy, big ass, big deal." This murmured over the top of aforementioned sun bleached mop before his mind once again goes into defiance mode (against the godsforsaken aliens and their ideas of good wholesome fun, to anyone at all who might object, (even Paul)), and his lips find his hairline for a row of soft, dry kisses.

"Big shmuck," Paul mutters. He closes his eyes. Jesus he's tired.

"That tickles," he says, muffled, to the kisses Wyatt's dropping on his hairline. But he doesn't move to pull away, or anything.

"You might get sea lice on you."

Yeah, maybe schmuck's right. Sounds just about right, but more importantly it tips the scales in favor of smiles rather than tears. This is no doubt vastly preferable for both of them, being the kind of men they are.

"I don't care. If I have to shave my head, then fine. It's just hair, it'll grow back."

Another soft press of lips to the top of Paul's head, then Wyatt reaches for his hand to give the relatively burn free palm the same treatment.

"Let me just find Glitch, and we'll go do something about your burns, okay?"

Wyatt for one doesn't want to linger, not when Paul's in such a state. Sunburn might not be the end of the world, but it's still a hassle.

"You're not allowed to shave your head," Paul grouses, putting up with being manhandled and kissed with no bitching for once. "I like it how it is."

He lifts his head from Wyatt's shoulder, gives him a nod. "Yeah. Go for it. He will never get on a boat again. Can't say I'm in a hurry to either but at least I wasn't getting seasick. Poor son of a bitch."

The 'putting up with' comes a long way towards easing the lingering tension in Wyatt's shoulders, and he steps away with a fond little hum to go find his friend.

In so many words, it isn't Wyatt who finds Glitch. It's the other way around, and what follows can only be described as a bit of a scene.

However, Wyatt doesn't stay long - just long enough to make sure Glitch is okay, and that he's in safe hands. Azkadellia more than makes the cut in his book, and it's with an easy step he finds Paul.

"Let's go."

Paul watches the 'scene'-- yeah, it qualifies as that-- leaning gingerly against a wall of the terminal building, eyes half shut, no expression on his face.

No DG, the girl who's present bears a resemblance but isn't her. Paul wonders where Glitch's peppy little girlfriend happens to be, dully recalling their first meeting and her taking him to task for being a foulmouthed SOB towards Glitch himself. Yeahhhh.

He thinks about this because it's a little better than thinking about the bullshit reaction he feels threatening at the sight of Cain just laying one right on his bestest buddy.

It's an Outer Zone thing. Probably. Just yet another instance of the cultural rocks he keeps tripping over-- fuck, running into at full speed. Guys can kiss guys and it doesn't mean that, whatever, shit, even on Earth you can do that if you get out of America. The Mideast, for instance. Totally acceptable.

Doesn't mean that.

And if the stupid bullshit voices whisper that it might, well, so what if it does? This is something that he's accepted the possibility of for a long fucking time now, with the obsessive bracing for life-fucking-you-over that he does out of second nature now.

So Paul just watches. It feels a fucking lot like standing in a certain doorway and staring at another family, which he knows isn't fair, and in any case it's a damn sight better to be watching three people hugging it out like the Brady Bunch than to watch them murdering a judge.

Still. Family. Someone's always gonna be the guy looking through the door.

Cain turns, though. Comes on over to him, and Paul pushes it all out of his head. Too tired for that nonsense, yeah.

"Right behind you, cowboy. First priority is we stop for some fucking cigarettes."

Wyatt comes on over, gestures in the general vicinity of the exits, all focus on the other guy like the really rather pathetically relieved, lovesick schmuck he is.

And speaking of the above, the look he sends Paul's way at the mention of cigarettes...

...and then his hand grabs at his coat pocket, bringing out one of Paul's packs and Wyatt's own trusty ol' match box. He taps one out, lights it up (stealing a lungful while he's at it), then hands it over. The matches and the pack go back from whence they came.

"I...may have been distressingly sentimental about these things, but I think I can get a free pass just this one time."

Paul stares a little, brain a bit sunbaked for a quick snappy response.

He takes the cigarette in lieu of a smartassism, since his brain needs a few more seconds to get into gear. The first drag is quite possibly better than a lot of the sex he's had over the years.

Paul's eyelids flutter and he leans his head back to exhale the smoke at the ceiling. Yeah, he'll die of lung cancer probably. Totally worth it in this moment.

"Any other day I'd give you such shit about this," he mutters, words somewhat belied by the quasi-blissful look on his face.

Wyatt grins. He ducks his head, giving a wry shake of his head as much at himself as Paul's very unique vernacular.

It's taken him a long while to come to terms with the kind of man he is - layman's psych evals aside, friendly though they may have been (masculinity complex, boy scout syndrome (and he wonders where Glitch got the latter from, if not the Other Side)) - and though he knows for a fact he wasn't nearly as tactile an annual ago, or as emotional during this kind of stress, there's nothing in the world he'd rather have than this. Exactly this. Snark and banter and not-hiding-from-anyone.

"I know," he murmurs, soaking up the sheer, utter bliss courtesy of one lone cancer stick. Goodness knows they helped him through a lot of bad, bad nights while Paul was away.

"I, um, might need to get a free pass for a few days. For a lot of things." He glances at the other man, not entirely able to keep his eyes away to start with.

"If that's okay with you."

Paul lowers his head until he can side-eye Wyatt through the slight curling haze of his (blessed, lovely, gorgeous) cigarette's smoke.

"Yeah. Well. Watch out for the fucking sunburn and we can probably do business," he grunts, and rubs at a jaw that hasn't seen a razor in multiple days.

"Come on. Let's get the hell out of here, I've spent way too much time around most of these people lately."

Edited 2012-07-11 23:06 (UTC)

As the initial haze of disbelieving elation settles somewhere behind his breastbone, Wyatt wastes little time leading his man out of the terminal and toward the tram station.

He doesn't say much on the way, apart from a brief but heartfelt promise of drawing Paul a lukewarm bath when they get to his place, with oils and stuff.

The scruffy half-stubble, half-beard thing can stay. It's less important than a myriad other things, like getting Paul into a clean set of clothes and comfortable and maybe coffee or something would be nice, or food.

But the first thing he does when stepping through his front door is get to the hatch. "Aloe, was it? Green tea works too. You brew it strong, then let it cool and soak a compress in the stuff. Wring it out, let it sit for fifteen minutes, half an hour."

"Whatever you say, boss. I've rarely let myself get deep-fried before, the worst I've had is chemical burns from screwing around in the labs."

Paul makes a faint noise of relief once they're inside. It's cool. It's out of the sun. There's no fucking sand.

"I'll place myself in your competent fuckin' hands. And pass out on your bed."

Now, what he wants to do is hover. He would very much like to fret and worry and potentially smother the poor guy half to death (but look how well that went last time, his mind supplies). So he gets the aloe (bottle says it's a gel, but he's not so sure), then shrugs out of his coat and sets the pack of cigarettes on the chair by the coat rack in case Paul wants them.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," he says, heading upstairs. "I'll get your bath started."

Lukewarm water, with a more than hefty application of the aloe...gel...liquid...thing.

Note to self: get an aloe plant from the Sanctuary greenhouse, because this thing's just weird.

At least it dissolves nicely, and the rest...

Well, the rest is just him fixing stuff.

Paul tarries downstairs long enough to investigate the fridge. God bless Wyatt, there's still vodka in there. He's really sick of rum by this point.

Paul pours himself a glass of the vodka and puts the bottle back, then makes a ginger way upstairs to where he can hear the water running. There are benefits, it seems, to ~~dating~~ ~~fucking~~ sleeping with a boy scout. Total caretaker syndrome, yeah.

He peels off clothes, carefully, as he goes up the stairs. A trail of discarded shirt and loose trousers behind him-- he's nude when he finally steps into the bathroom, although for once sex is the last thing on his mind.

Paul knocks back half the glass of vodka as he moves his sunburnt self for the tub.

"I fucking love plumbing."

As schooled as his features can be in the most dire circumstances, he can't help but send Paul a sympathetic look. Bright red in places and patchy is not a good look, but that aside, it looks downright painful.

"Yeah, don't I know it, Crusoe," he says dryly, because when in doubt: smart ass.

And, as previously noted, he's trying not to hover. "Need a hand getting in?"

...well. Trying was the operative word, there.

"Where were you when I had to climb the goddamn palm tree," Paul grouses.

He gets into the tub without taking Wyatt's hand, although he does use the towel rack on the wall. A little hiss at the water closing around his skin-- it's lukewarm but everything feels like an irritant really.

Paul sinks down carefully into the tub, fingers seeking out the sides.

"This water's gonna be grey by the time I get out," he threatens. "Maybe black."

"Fuck if I know," retorts Wyatt, getting out a fluffy towel from the linen closet, hangs it on aforementioned towel rack. They're just not gonna talk about anything of the sort right now. It's not Paul's problem, if Wyatt coped or how (though Paul might disagree), but more importantly it isn't relevant right here and now.

There's aloe in the water, there's a wash cloth within easy reach, and a choice of soap or shower gel. All bases covered: just the rest left to see to. Paul's clothes, and the green tea - or maybe lettuce, he thinks that might work too - hatching him some new clothes or just rifling through his own drawers, find him a soft, worn t-shirt or something. Yeah, that'll do. Something cotton, breathable and loose fitting.

He crouches down beside the tub, leaning his arms on the edge of it, chin on the back of his hand. "Black, huh. Then drain it and draw a new one. See if I care."

Left hand slinks into the water, trailing carefully up the center of Paul's torso. Just touching, as much to reassure himself that he isn't dreaming, and Paul that he's not going anywhere. At least his chest isn't too badly affected, meaning he doesn't feel like a bastard for needing tactile feedback.

"More vodka? Smokes?"

Paul manages to get down into the water. Oh-kay. Adjusting. Groovy.

He leans his head back against the tile wall, eyes shutting half-way. A tired, amused half-smile plays over his chapped lips at Wyatt's Fuck if I know, see if I care...

To Paul it reads as if Wyatt's trying to navigate The Minefield of Paul Smecker again. Having learned excessive caring gets tennis balls thwocked against a floor, Wyatt's attempting to see how the other direction works for him, maybe? But the fingers on his chest, careful, tender, sort of give the lie to it.

Paul raises a hand from the tub, touches his fingertips briefly to the back of Wyatt's hand-- just in passing, gone the next second-- and then back into the water. He closes his eyes.

"No. Thanks. Just going to sit here and let aloe-y goodness leach into my skin."

If Wyatt never hears one hundred and one thwacks accompanying Chopin ever again, he'll very likely die a happy man.

Testing waters. Yeah, that's just about it. And if he's real damn honest with himself, sunburn just doesn't compare to a GSW. He knows it isn't, rationally speaking. Only problem with that is he's having a hard time staying on the rational side of things.

Truth of the matter is, he's been on the verge of breaking for a little too long, and he's ready to crash.

"Okay." He nods, bottom lip folding inwards behind a small grin. "Just gimme a holler if you want anything."

"Will do," Paul murmurs, slouching down a little further in the tub, laying his head back carefully against the porcelain edge of the tub. "My very own dutiful cabana boy, hm. There's worse things...

"Good to be back." Good to be back with you.

Slowly, he lifts his hand out of the water, running it gently up the side of Paul's neck and very carefully avoiding the comparatively pale twin scars (he knows all about scars that you can or can't touch, and he's particular about obliging unspoken rules like that).

His thumb brushes Paul's uncharacteristically stubbled cheek, eyes moving over his face for a moment. Then he leans in, might even be taking liberties here but he can't be damned, pressing his lips to the cheek opposite.

There are so many things he could say right now. But there's only one thing he really wants to.

"You'd better start abusing lip balm or something so I can give you a proper welcome." Good to have you back.

He doesn't object to the kiss, doesn't pull away.

"Had I better, then?" Paul says with a throaty, tired chuckle. "Why don't you hatch some for me? Cabana boy."

"Right away, Sir," he murmurs over the tickle of stubble, indulging in the smell and feel just a little tiny bit longer. Then leaning back he gives a salute that's not very neat at all, hand sliding up and off as he pushes off the floor.

"Moment you're done, I'll have the aloe vera ready. Anything else you want, just say the word."

He moves away, not wanting to hover like some manner of bird around a rare flower, glancing over his shoulder before disappearing behind the door jamb.

Stuff to hatch, things to sort, maybe breathe for a while in the kitchen where Paul can't hear. Yeah, that sounds just about right.

[Wyatt's place]

smecker - 2012-07-25 08:26 (UTC) - Expand

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System Glitch: In The City: Ship Ahoy! [location: Osten]

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