meadowlarklogs | open and closed

[ Today marks the fourth day Peter Parker has been trying to kickstart his spider-powers again. He'd noticed the lack of stickiness in his fingertips and his feet, the general weakness in his limbs, the quietness of what is still decidedly not called the 'Peter Tingle' — and it's admittedly been kind of freaking him out. He isn't sure if it's because of the drug they'd pumped into him when he woke up, or it's got something to do with the blue glow in his chest, but he's been embarking on a few personal experiments to try and bring them back out again.

Or failing that, maybe he'll get some cool new powers like making gigantic life-sized ice cubes or whatever.

So, with some of the things he finds at Tony's lab, and a few other substances and parts that he'd saved up on his own to purchase, behold — Web Fluid 4.5 (Patent Pending). It's definitely something of a work in progress, the whole becoming Spider-Man again is, really, but Peter manages to craft a new set of webshooters too, clasped around his wrists like oversized bracelets. They're not wholly unlike his original ones, before Mr Stark (his Tony Stark from home) had helped to upgrade his suit, so he knows they're going to work.

He just hopes that everything else works too.

Catch Peter, uncostumed, unmasked, around the city. Earlier in the day, he'll be on ground level, touching a wall over and over, his nose practically to the brick like he's definitely looking for a very specific result. Later, he'll take his experiments over towards a less populated area where he might try his acrobatics: just the simple stuff like backflips and some light parkour. And before the sun sets, someone might manage to spot Peter at the top of a decently tall building where he's standing at the roof's edge, ready to websling again.

Unfortunately, the latter is not going to go well on account of a lack of spider-strength and healing, so if you happen to see him ... it's good to keep a medic's contact close at hand. ]

[ don't call it the peter tingle, peter, that is... no.

joe walks to and from work because he is an old man used to living before horse and carriages, and also cars, and this morning he spotted the kid with his nose pressed to a building like he was smelling the brick.

ok.

weird, but he's kissed the ground after a particularly annoying flight where andy decided she knew how to land a plane (spoilers, she did not know how to land a plane) so he lets it go. weird kids are weird but joe supports his weird choices. he's on his lunch break with nile when he spots the weird kid doing parkour and they both whisper parkour before they dissolve into laughter and joe thinks nothing of it. he's on his way home when a figure moving on the rooftops draws his eye. again, weird, but joe too loves a dramatic entrance so he can't begrudge this kid—

wait.

joe is dramatic because he's immortal. if he died he'd get back up again, it was a whole thing, this kid is a kid. (maybe? judging age is hard now.) either way, he looks up and shouts, ]

Hey! Careful!

[ It's a nerve-wracking thing, being so used to webslinging that you don't even think twice about it on a regular day, you treat it like breathing — and then going to feeling extremely viscerally aware of what you're about to do. That's Peter right now.

He's mentally pumping himself up, deep breaths, deep breaths, when — oh. Someone's calling out to him, aren't they?

He raises his voice, waves a hand in a wide arc in Joe's direction. ]

It's okay — I've got this! [ He rubs at his wrists, not really needing to recheck to make sure his webshooters are working because he knows they're working. He lifts one foot, then the other, like he's about to run a race, and then to himself, said like a mantra: ] I've got this.

[ He flicks his wrist, lets loose a string of webfluid that solidifies the moment it's exposed to oxygen. Normal. It sticks to the edge of the roof of the building across from him. Also normal. But as he steps off the ledge, feeling the strain in his arm already, he realizes this part ... is absolutely not normal.

But it's too late.

Peter falls victim to his own very human body, its lack of spider-powers, hears the pop of his arm being disconnected from its socket. He cries out because it really, really effing hurts! The rest of his body slams into the brick wall of the building's exterior, web arm first, and then he slides almost comically into a sagging pile of pain onto the nearest fire escape landing which catches his fall. It's a very lucky thing because it saves him from otherwise becoming a Peter Pancake.

So, that was absolutely not. Successful. At all. ]

[ well

shit

a lot of things are happening that joe doesn't quite understand, namely the goo. he doesn't understand the goo. but the "it's okay, i've got this" reminds him so intensely of nicky circa 1101, arm outstretched and about to pet a crocodile and lose an entire arm all because of an unshakable curiosity, he tenses up automatically. (he gets it, nicky wanted to know if the crocodile was warm, completely understandable, but these white boys are testing him.)

down goes the boy and joe can only be grateful he hit the wall and then the fire escape first and not the ground. he's not entirely sure what the mediunits can knit back together, but he didn't relish picking bits out brain matter off his clothes. especially if it isn't his own.

he doesn't think before hurrying up the fire escape, though he does have the absurd thought of not jarring the framework to keep the child-boy-young man still, but that is pushed aside as he lopes up the stairs. ]

Hold still, kid, I'm coming.

[ It started with a question: Are you doing anything right now?

Presently, still not yet employed and wanting to be out of the house and at least marginally more useful, Booker has taken to early morning walks, right around the time when the air is still not quite suffocatingly humid and the skies are not so bright (or hot) yet, when people are generally still in bed or not yet awake enough to cause a ruckus. Some mornings it's because Booker hasn't even gone to bed yet, but other times it's because he's got a whole new appreciation for the tranquility of a soft morning and enjoys the novelty of it. It also means he isn't hungover, which is always a plus for everyone involved.

This morning, Booker stops by the little tea-cart down the street from the Old Guard house, which serves a pleasant herbal brew — scalding hot or ice-cold, depending on ones preference — and pays for two cups, with ice. Knowing that today is supposed to be a particular scorcher, it seems appropriate. The walk to their agreed-upon meeting spot already has him grateful for his choice, too.

How is it not even eight in the morning and he's already feeling the simmer of heat crawl along his skin? This damned city.

When he approaches Wanda, he passes her one of the cups with a polite —] Bonjour. [ And adds: ] I remember you telling me you've never had iced tea before.

[ They've been making a bit of a habit of this lately, and while Booker won't admit it (at least not aloud), the quiet comfort of Wanda's company is part of the reason why he enjoys these morning walks; why he's motivated to spend more mornings sober than not. In between periods of comfortable silence, it's mostly small-talk at first — a comparison of facts between their real lives and the ones they had in the Aerie, disproving which bits of their memories were false. A couple times, they would circle one of the parks and barely say more than a few words, but it never feels out of place or uncomfortable.

It seems like an unlikely friendship, especially given how volatile it had ended before the Aerie crumbled out of existence, but it feels real now at least. ]

[ Booker doesn't really need an excuse to spend inordinate amounts of time in a bar, but it is good to stay out of the relentless heat, even as the day approaches evening. And between Red Wings and other local watering holes across the city, any and all of his stipend has generally gone into funding these places.

Today he's about to head into one of the smaller locales, a kind of 'hole in the wall' type of bar that doesn't skimp on the hard stuff. And given how the city had been overtaken with greenery not too long ago, holes in walls are — as Nile might say — trending.

Generally he's more of the drink-alone type — or if he's got company, more often than not he'll have had no trouble convincing Andy (or sometimes Margo, though things have been ... a little awkward lately with her, so) to come along. But catching sight of Nate just outside of the bar, he recognizes him immediately for the man he'd known in the Aerie, when they were two people in the Volary who felt out of place (albeit for very different reasons), never quite finding the white towers and all of its riches as comforting as it promised to be. Strange how vivid those memories still feel when they've never actually met in this reality.

It doesn't stop him from offering a small, friendly wave. ]

Ah, bonjour. [ He gestures towards the entrance of the bar. ] It's been some time — why don't I buy you a drink, huh?

[ Holes in the wall are exactly the sort of venues that Nate grew up in: tiny remote cantinas, local cafes, small and cheap and a little dirty, but most of all nostalgic. It always takes him back to a time when he would hover at the end of the bar, still a kid, scrawling in his sketchbook while Sam flirted with a pretty senorita three stools over.

He turns to look at this particular hole in the wall where its seating spills onto the sidewalk, only to recognize to face of a nearby potential customer. ]

Sébastien-

[ His gut instinct says no. He doesn't want company, but he needs the company, and valiantly overcomes the insistence that he sit somewhere by himself in favor of the non-judgmental presence of someone he used to know fairly well, in the Aerie. ]

That- ...would actually be nice, yeah. [ They had a companionable relationship there, something Nate remembers with no small amount of fondness in spite of everything else. The smile he flashes is small but genuine, nodding his agreement to enter the building. ] How've you been?

[ It still takes him aback to be called by his old (and real) name these days, but it had been his name in the Aerie — he remembers that — so he doesn't think to correct Nate.

As they enter the bar and find seats, he responds: ] About as good as any of us could be, especially coming back from that. [ His answer is light enough so as to be very nearly casual.

He dreams about it sometimes, even still. Nothing incredibly vivid, and none of it a memory so much as a feeling — with the exception of the explosions that had occurred in the Quarry near the end. Explosions due in part to him because he'd gone rebel and couldn't stand to see his friends killed for sport.

But after dreaming about a woman he'd never met drowning for 500-some years, the dreams of explosions aren't so bad. Silver linings, non? ]

I hope you've been well.

Ehhh.

[ He waves his hand in the universal gesture of unsurety. Nate posts up at the corner of the bar, facing the door, without thinking too hard about why he makes the seating decision that he makes. Once you've done it for years, it's a hard habit to shake.

Once settled he gives Sébastien a more intent examination, because none of them have escaped from the Aerie completely unscathed and anyone who says otherwise is either lying or trying to sell you something. ]

Could be better. We've- lost a few people from it, or after the fact, which isn't great. I've technically experienced it before - had a whole two years in another world before this one - but that doesn't make it any easier. You just get kind of...numb, after a while.

[ It's a laissez-faire statement for an uncomfortable subject but Nate doesn't linger on it altogether too much, waving the bartender over. ]

What do you want to drink?

[ Booker, for his part, doesn't look too much as though he's changed. There's still the same deep sadness in his eyes that holds him together as much as it breaks him apart, and while Sébastien had a little less of that in the Aerie, it's an unfortunate intrinsic part of his character. Sucks to be him.

Truly, he is the epitome of a melancholic French noir film. ]

I was going to ask for the strongest thing they have available, if I'm being honest.

[ A wry laugh. ]

I might not have two years in another world, so this particular readjustment is new. [ A shrug, still commiserating. ] But back home, I've lived through the decades changing around me, which has given me the soft cushion of not feeling the shock too greatly.

Numb, though. That takes some doing.

[ Dude, save some existential depression for the rest of us.

Nate flashes a hand gesture at the bartender and gestures toward the closest thing he's found to cachaça in this world, because it reliably knocks people flat on their asses after a couple drinks and while he's positive Sébastien's tolerance is high he might as well indulge the request. With a quiet nod Nate drops some additional credits into the bar coffer and has the man behind the counter leave the bottle.

While he listens and digests he unscrews the top, pouring a healthy serving in each cup and watching Sébastien out of the corner of his eye. It's a way of speaking he's heard a few times before with other people, who tend not to look their age but say a lot to the contrary.

Nate slides one drink over, tapping his glass against it before casually, over his alcohol, remarking: ]

So how old are you?

[ this is just a casual drop by between friends, there is nothing deep about it, jyn isn't desperately missing the comfort of her brother because she doesn't have a brother and that would be foolish and weak and she still refuses to admit weakness.

but friends drop by. that is a thing friends do, she has it on authority that is how friendship works.

so she is dropping by with a bottle of some truly expensive wine despite that jyn knows nothing about wine and grape juice would taste the same. she did not pay for the bottle, it was a gift from one of her horrid affluent neighbors who has at least stopped trying to proposition for husband for sex.

her knock is sharp and quick, shifting uncomfortably in front of the door, idly scratching at the bandages around her forearm. ]

Séb– Booker! Open up! I'll break in if you don't!

[ she will! cassian works maintenance he has tools for just that and jyn stole a set a week after he started. ]

Edited 2021-03-11 18:11 (UTC)

[ Okay, okay, okay —!

It doesn't take long for Booker to a) hear the threats coming from the other side of the (unfortunately) thin walls of the Guardfam house, and b) get to the door to open up before said breaking-in occurs.

He pulls the door open, thankfully looking like he'd probably just been somewhere in the house reading or napping or something, and not coming directly from the shower. ]

What is the urgency? [ It's his first instinct to study her quickly for any gaping wounds or bleeding, so those bandages don't go unnoticed — not by a long shot. ] Are you okay? What happened?

I'm fine, don't be dramatic.

[ with a roll of her eyes, she pushes her way in with all the self-assurance that she had in the aerie; while jyn there had it from the circumstance of her birth and the belonging built in, this jyn has always made room for herself at the table and little will change that willful assertiveness.

she waggles the bottle at him as she swans about the living area, dropping onto the sofa and kicking her feet up on the coffee table. ]

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Book. Did this come with the house? [ a nudge to the coffee table. ] I broke mine and Cassian's by throwing a man through it, we should replace it...

Dramatic — [ Booker starts to say, with amusement and a scoff, but Jyn already moves forward and past him before he can really get another word in about that. He closes the door behind him and follows her back into the living space.

So this is what it's going to be like, huh? It feels so ... familiar in a way that it shouldn't. He almost thinks to ask if she still likes to drink her tea the same way she did in the Aerie, if she even likes tea at all, knowing too that coffee here is a rarer commodity than it had been in that other reality.

(Which, honestly, is a damned pity.) ]

I don't know. [ Is his response to her question. ] It might have been something Joe or Nicky found when we all first moved in. [ He'd been a little preoccupied with trying not to get in anyone's way or be hardly noticeable when he'd first arrived here, on account of the tremendously shitty things he'd done. ] This man you threw into the table, that isn't how you got those bandages, is it?

Oh no, this was months ago. Illya and I... [ she gestures in a such a vague way that it could indicate some kind of relationship but could also be a signal for an offsides penalty, there is really no way to tell but however she was going to describe her and illya trails off in a chuckle.

destroying the coffee table because they beat the shit out of each other in the living room was a bonding experience. ]

This was from a stubborn raccoon. Cassian's already given me the — [ she makes a face, mouth pinched in disappointment and exasperated concern, a perfect facsimile of an expression she is very familiar with, puffing out a sigh and a ] Jyn, [ drawing out her own name in what is clearly a doleful plea to please at least try to keep all her limbs concentrated in the single syllable of her name. ] So you needn't.

[ a beat, punctuated by the faint POP of pressure as she tugs the cork free and points the bottle of wine at him. ]

Besides, scolding doesn't pair well with day-drinking.

Edited 2021-03-16 05:05 (UTC)

Mm. It isn't my job nor my intention to scold you.

[ Well, not exactly. And if Cassian's already done his duty, then Booker is certainly free from obligation. It doesn't mean he isn't still concerned, though. That one she gets whether or not everyone else in New Amsterdam has voiced their opinion.

His expression is amused enough as he comes over to join her on the couch for his favourite past time: day-drinking. He settles down into the empty space beside her only faintly considering getting them drinking glasses, because that's something a host should do, non?

(He's not very good at having guests over, clearly.) ]

There are raccoons here? [ It's followed quickly by: ] Does rabies still exist?

[ jyn looks at booker, big green eyes rimmed in perpetually smudged eyeliner, mouth full of a swig of wine right from the bottle, looking absolutely like the human embodiment of a raccoon.

she swallows, blinks. ]

What's rabies?

[ Yeah.

That thought doesn't escape him either, but it's kind of endearing too. There is something wild and untethered about this Jyn — the real Jyn, he supposes. But he is finding that he likes that about her.

He shrugs. ] It's a deadly virus that infects the central nervous system, very unpleasant and almost always fatal. Raccoons have always been common carriers, at least back home, so it's best not to be bitten by one.

Hmm.

[ jyn hums, thoughtful, taking the time to drink more wine before she passes the bottle to booker, shaking her head. ]

No, that's a stupid way to die, I refuse.

[ she says it like she has a choice and maybe she does. she could choose to seek medical care next time and not rely on ren to patch her up before she goes home, but will she? maybe if a raccoon bites her, but it doesn't seem necessary otherwise. the over the counter medicine is fine. not as good as she is used to and not as good as the hospital would provide, but it's good enough. ]

[ Hard agree: ] It is a very stupid way to die.

[ So. Maybe avoid fighting raccoons in the streets, Jyn. That's really all he's saying.

Nevertheless, he accepts the bottle without further comment about rabies and takes a good and proper swig, the familiarity of the drink making him feel more comfortable now than he had even five seconds prior.

Forgoing drinking glasses is one thing, but then there's another: ]

I'd offer you something to eat if we had anything. I think Nile might have had the last of the snacks.

[ Worst host ever? Perhaps. ]

[ jyn fishes around in her pockets a second and pulls out: a packet of almond butter, three hard candies, two halves of separate granola bars, a handful of carob covered blueberries a little melted against the parchment paper package, and a mostly crushed packet of oat cheese crackers. ]

Snacks.

[ she dumps it on the coffee table and gestures like voila. ]

Edited 2021-03-30 04:46 (UTC)

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