Headrest for my Soul [LRK and Silvio Leon]
Aug 24, 2020 11:38:20 GMT -5
mystifyingoracle, Mitch 'The Broken' Heart, and 2 more like this
Post by Lab Rat King on Aug 24, 2020 11:38:20 GMT -5
There's a leak in this boat;
How the hell will I float?
With this headrest for my, headrest for my soul.
It occurred to King on the third day following his Rat Cage encounter with Mitch Heart that he may have done a real number on his body. Despite the unnatural healing factor granted by his fast-clotting blood, and other elements working inside his mutated body in his favour, he was just absolutely exhausted. It seemed as though the initial adrenaline rush and unabated joy the mutant felt following the fight had begun to ebb away, leaving behind an insurmountable, heavy feeling that dragged him toward the dirt like nothing else. His body worked fast and hard to repair the damage, and an external glance would certainly suggest as much--but he couldn’t keep up the caloric intake his system was demanding now, no matter how much he ate.
As such, it was almost impossible not to constantly sleep.
Unfortunately, as he was currently holed up in a motel, he needed to be out of the place for at least a few hours every day. This meant that he really had nowhere else safe to go but the warehouse that was currently sustaining his employment.
Ergo, the Lab Rat had found himself a quiet spot in one of the backstage break rooms, and had promptly fallen asleep sitting with his back up against the wall on the floor (the couch beside him wasn’t big enough for him to fully lie down on).
No one seemed to bother him, anyway. It never occurred to him to wonder why.
His chest moved in slow swells, the young wounds on him looking far older than they really were. The man’s massive hands were limp in his lap. Asleep like a petrified log beneath a dormant volcano, King did not so much as twitch as the phone in the pocket of his fatigues pinged with texts again and again.
WE DO NOT THINK THIS WILL WORK. WE DOUBT HE CAN EVEN READ IF THE BIG ONE IS IN CHARGE.
“It was worth a shot,” Silvio muttered, tapping at his phone and making a face. He’d been trying to get a hold of King since his match. Talking with Mitch had been a relief - especially after he’d been looking after Penny. But try as he might, the Oracle hadn’t managed to find Zane and check in on him. He’d swung by Carnage to get some practice time in - Kohaku and he had a helluva match coming up for the next card and he could use all of it he could get.
In the end, it was the call of Silvio’s sweet tooth that led him to his erstwhile friend. Deciding a bag of Swedish Fish would be a fine reward for his efforts that morning, he rounded the corner into one of the break rooms and stopped short at the sight of King passed out in his seat on the floor.
“Zane! Holy shit, dude, I’ve been looking for you!”
The sudden voice cut into the mutant’s dead sleep and snapped him awake instantly. In the span of about three seconds, he growled and bristled like a bear woken from hibernation, lurched as though ready to attack the source, and then stopped dead like he was being held back by an invisible rope around his neck. His amber eyes were wide, locked on the tarot reader with wavering intent.
“Rrr… rrgh--! Let-- me--!”
His head snapped downward.
“Piss off, it’s just Leon--”
His shoulders wrenched forward.
“DO NOT DISTURB…!”
It took a solid few more seconds, but he began to calm as Silvio’s strange presence settled in, his ragged breath slowing as the wheel was cranked back onto the road from the inside. Eventually, he lifted his head, weary as though he’d just won a mental game of tug-o'war.
“... Hhhn. Fuck. That… sucked. Damnit, kid, don’t startle me like that.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Silvio said apologetically, spreading his hands. “I’ve just been worried about you after that match. You and Mitch beat the living daylights out of each other.”
He felt the first euphoric tingles courtesy of Big Boss Spookitude’s feasting on King’s madness as the other man spoke. Approaching, he knelt to get on his eye level, brow knit in concern.
“You look...a lot better than I expected all things considered.”
As King got himself settled back against the wall again, fighting back a yawn under his muzzle, he took in the sight of the younger athlete. He could have said the same thing. While he himself knew exactly why his recovery had been expedited, he was less sure of how Silvio was looking so well-rested after only a short amount of time following WAR. While the Tarot Terror hadn’t been dragged behind a motorcycle in chains and treated like a bloody harvesting ground courtesy of Heart, he’d taken some serious bumps… which he was healing from nicely.
Huh.
Opting to leave it at that brief observation, Zane shook his head, his line of sight moving away from the noted injuries back to Silvio’s face.
“I’m alright. I’ve been sleeping, mostly… I’ve got a knack for getting back up pretty quickly when I’m knocked down.”
“Sleeping here at the facility?” Silvio asked, raising a brow. “Crap. Did they kick you out of the motel?”
Considering his own recent sleepover in the locker room - unplanned or no - Silvio was hardly in a position to criticize. During their first conversation at the diner, while the tattoo artist was glad to find out the Lab Rat King had a roof he could sleep under, a motel was hardly ideal. All the same, the thought of him being on the street was even less palatable.
The big man shook his head, sighing and letting the back of his skull rest against the wall. Despite the incredible progress he'd made recovering from the brutality he'd both inflicted and endured, his whole body ached with fatigue.
“Nah. But there's a few hours during the day I have to get out so they can maintain the place… This is the safest place I know where I can get some sleep besides the room. I figure I'm not bothering anybody. Why are you here? Don't you have a little troupe you're usually with now…?”
He grinned. “Yeah, kinda! Nothing official yet, but we’re working on it. Team Starfox is also scheduled for a fight with Amber Ryan and Mac Bane for the next card, so I’m trying to get in as much practice as I can before that. Ko and I would have our work cut out for us no matter what, but after WAR? I can’t imagine either Bane or Ryan is in an especially sunny disposition.”
Physical exertion was also an opportunity to clear his head. Silvio knew better than most that you started your fight in your opponent’s mind long before you threw your first punch. He just hadn’t really faced anyone yet that had tried it with him; wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of psychological warfare.
Fashionable, fashionable, fashionable--fashionable people…
Fuck that fucking fucker and his fucking tom-fuckery.
King snorted softly; he remembered that much, at least. Titles changing hands. Alliances being made… His own fight was a blur of rust and ruin in his mind, but that was typical in the Big Guy's most violent moments. He was used to coming around again with little memory of the details.
“I think they must've benched me this week deliberately,” he muttered, rubbing at the bandages wrapped around his elbow. “Probably for the best.”
His memory jarred by the conversation, bits and pieces were coming back to him in a slow trickle, like syrup through a sieve. What he'd done to Mitch. An unexpected exchange with him in the locker room. And… an unusual encounter with Adrienne Levi, the details of which now slipped through his fingers, except that she had been terribly, terribly sad.
“Is she ok?” he asked suddenly, only really half-aware of why he was asking at all. “Levi?”
“Yeah, last I checked,” Silvio assured him. “I’m really proud of her. She was incredible in our match. She’s facing Eli Goode at 97, so that’s pretty exciting, too.”
He clicked his tongue, raising a brow.
“You wanna go get something to eat? I know you’re usually pretty hungry. I wanted to ask about something, anyway.”
Zane nodded slowly, both in approval and agreement; for some reason it comforted him to know that Levi was doing well. They rarely crossed paths, and when they did he was well aware that he mostly traumatized her by existing, but he felt certain that he had a good reason to worry.
Little vibrations through delicate glass.
“I can't eat fast enough to keep up with my own stupid metabolism,” he admitted, rubbing the exposed part of his face. “Food sounds great.”
“Cool! You in the mood for anything in particular? I get the feeling the Big Guy doesn’t let you actually enjoy your food. Anything you’re hankering for?” Getting to his feet, he offered Zane a hand up.
Zane took the hand as a formality, more or less lifting most of his own considerable weight off the ground. Still, it was an appreciated gesture--he was still getting used to the idea of having a friend here. Hell, with the way the Big Guy was getting on with Mitch Heart (much to Zane's shock), maybe he had two.
“You know what…? I don't remember the last time I had a real farmer's breakfast… Bacon, sausage, ham, eggs, fried potatoes…”
“Farmer’s breakfast it is! We can go to the same place as before. I could do with a post-workout meal, myself. We are hard working idiots who hurl ourselves at danger for the sake of applause and giant belts. Do we not deserve a greasy breakfast?”
That gets a thin smirk out of Zane, at least. “Sounds like as good of an excuse as any. Let’s get going before I fall asleep on my feet again.”
“How does anyone think pancakes are better than waffles?” Silvio pondered aloud, peeling the film off of his third packet of marmalade. His breakfast waffle was a hodgepodge of whipped cream and fruit preserves; it seemed as if he was intent on filling each ‘cell’ with a different flavor. There was a hoddle of coffee, cream, and sugar between him and Zane in their booth. Silvio had requested a more sequestered part of the diner in an effort to minimize any staring at his friend. “I mean, the texture alone makes them superior.”
Opposite the Tarot reader, Zane’s plate was a stark contrast--it was piled high with proteins and starches. A steaming pile of scrambled eggs made for a pillowy bed next to a stack of bacon and sausage that would make any meat-lover drool, along with a generous helping of homefries and a tall stack of buttery toast.
“I’m not really big on sweet breakfast,” the mutant admitted, generously salting his eggs. He once again had to hunch over the table a bit, giving the impression of a vulture guarding his food. His muzzle had been set aside next to the window. “But if you eat like this all the time, it’s no wonder you’re a ray of goddamn sunshine, kid. Your plate looks like an edible rainbow.”
“I like all the preserves - I can never choose,” Silvio explained.
He started in on his breakfast, making an appreciative sound as he chewed.
“Always had a sweet tooth. Growing up, I thought being a fruit bat would be the coolest thing because you got to fly and eat mango all the time.”
Balancing out the sweetness with a swig of black coffee, he raised a brow at Zane.
“So, I wanted to maybe talk to you about your living situation, if you’re cool with that.”
Zane’s subtle grin faded, his thoughts moving away from fruit bats and mango back toward his less than stellar reality.
“Sure,” he said, though he did sound a little bit apprehensive. “If you’re worried about how I’m paying for the room every night, it’s really not that bad. I don’t need help with it…”
“I wanted to know if you might be interested in staying with me, actually; do some couch surfing at least for now,” Silvio said, taking another sip of coffee.
Zane stopped mid-bite, staring at Silvio with bewilderment as though he was sure he’d misheard him.
“S--... mm.” he swallowed a mouthful of scrambled egg, coughing lightly. “Stay with you? Are you sure about that? You don’t need to put yourself out on my behalf…”
“You wouldn’t be putting me out,” he assured him. “I got room. Heck, if I really need space, I have a little office in my shop downstairs, so that’s not a problem. I just don’t like the idea of my friend being in a motel like you are. It’s gotta get lonely; especially for you. And what if something upsets the Big Guy and he attacks one of the proprietors or staff members? Christ, could you imagine the cops coming after him? There’s no positive ending to that scenario. It just feels like putting yourself in a dangerous situation when you have a better alternative. At least if you were living at my place, you’d have more time being lucid.”
The Lab Rat opened his mouth to counter, and then slowly closed it, realizing that, one: he hadn’t thought of that scenario as a possibility, and two: that Silvio had an extremely valid point bringing it up.
He sighed through his nose, drinking down a mouthful of hot, black coffee before making a conceding nod.
“I can’t… really argue with you. I think I’d be an even bigger dick to turn you down after everything you’ve done for me. It’s just…”
He grimaced, looking down at his plate.
“There are some… people, out there, who might be looking for me. I don’t know who exactly, except for the name of the prick running the operation and that the Big Guy hates his guts with good reason. They’re dangerous. The last thing I’d want is for them to come knocking down your door looking for me, and get you tangled up in it. You don’t deserve that.”
Silvio hesitated for a moment, running a fingertip along the lip of his coffee mug.
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he started slowly, “that I may or may not possess certain knowledge about security systems and devices. Knowledge that may or may not have been acquired from engaging in certain activities that may be considered less than legal in some of these United States. Knowledge I can neither confirm nor deny I may have used to make my apartment a bit more difficult to break into, yet will surely cost me my security deposit upon my departure.”
The Oracle took another long sip of coffee, giving Zane a meaningful look over the rim of his mug.
Zane was quiet for a long moment, giving Leon a level stare over his breakfast with one eyebrow ever-so-subtly cocked.
“... You little shit,” he said at last, voice raspy as he lifted his coffee mug to his scarred lips with a shrug. “Ok then. I believe you.” He paused, and with a scrunch of his brow added, “Not asking for details. I’m the last person who’s gonna be a fuckin’ narc.”
“Fuckin’ knew you were cool,” Silvio said with a grin. “And thank you. I don’t mean to be patronizing here or anything, I just figure it’s a better option for everyone. I’d hate to have to tell Mitch his punch buddy got arrested.”
“Heh. Thanks, Silvio.”
Zane's shoulders relaxed. It was impossible not to admit to himself that having a comfortable place to stay--especially with someone he knew, who he could actually talk to--was nothing short of a huge relief. Maybe if he could spend more time lucid, he'd be able to figure out what the hell he was doing. Who she was. Maybe even work on establishing more of a joint corporeal custody thing with the Big Guy.
“Don't worry. I'll foot my own grocery bills.”
“Oh, thank God.”
[written in collaboration with Silvio Leon! Thank you as always.]
How the hell will I float?
With this headrest for my, headrest for my soul.
It occurred to King on the third day following his Rat Cage encounter with Mitch Heart that he may have done a real number on his body. Despite the unnatural healing factor granted by his fast-clotting blood, and other elements working inside his mutated body in his favour, he was just absolutely exhausted. It seemed as though the initial adrenaline rush and unabated joy the mutant felt following the fight had begun to ebb away, leaving behind an insurmountable, heavy feeling that dragged him toward the dirt like nothing else. His body worked fast and hard to repair the damage, and an external glance would certainly suggest as much--but he couldn’t keep up the caloric intake his system was demanding now, no matter how much he ate.
As such, it was almost impossible not to constantly sleep.
Unfortunately, as he was currently holed up in a motel, he needed to be out of the place for at least a few hours every day. This meant that he really had nowhere else safe to go but the warehouse that was currently sustaining his employment.
Ergo, the Lab Rat had found himself a quiet spot in one of the backstage break rooms, and had promptly fallen asleep sitting with his back up against the wall on the floor (the couch beside him wasn’t big enough for him to fully lie down on).
No one seemed to bother him, anyway. It never occurred to him to wonder why.
His chest moved in slow swells, the young wounds on him looking far older than they really were. The man’s massive hands were limp in his lap. Asleep like a petrified log beneath a dormant volcano, King did not so much as twitch as the phone in the pocket of his fatigues pinged with texts again and again.
WE DO NOT THINK THIS WILL WORK. WE DOUBT HE CAN EVEN READ IF THE BIG ONE IS IN CHARGE.
“It was worth a shot,” Silvio muttered, tapping at his phone and making a face. He’d been trying to get a hold of King since his match. Talking with Mitch had been a relief - especially after he’d been looking after Penny. But try as he might, the Oracle hadn’t managed to find Zane and check in on him. He’d swung by Carnage to get some practice time in - Kohaku and he had a helluva match coming up for the next card and he could use all of it he could get.
In the end, it was the call of Silvio’s sweet tooth that led him to his erstwhile friend. Deciding a bag of Swedish Fish would be a fine reward for his efforts that morning, he rounded the corner into one of the break rooms and stopped short at the sight of King passed out in his seat on the floor.
“Zane! Holy shit, dude, I’ve been looking for you!”
The sudden voice cut into the mutant’s dead sleep and snapped him awake instantly. In the span of about three seconds, he growled and bristled like a bear woken from hibernation, lurched as though ready to attack the source, and then stopped dead like he was being held back by an invisible rope around his neck. His amber eyes were wide, locked on the tarot reader with wavering intent.
“Rrr… rrgh--! Let-- me--!”
His head snapped downward.
“Piss off, it’s just Leon--”
His shoulders wrenched forward.
“DO NOT DISTURB…!”
It took a solid few more seconds, but he began to calm as Silvio’s strange presence settled in, his ragged breath slowing as the wheel was cranked back onto the road from the inside. Eventually, he lifted his head, weary as though he’d just won a mental game of tug-o'war.
“... Hhhn. Fuck. That… sucked. Damnit, kid, don’t startle me like that.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Silvio said apologetically, spreading his hands. “I’ve just been worried about you after that match. You and Mitch beat the living daylights out of each other.”
He felt the first euphoric tingles courtesy of Big Boss Spookitude’s feasting on King’s madness as the other man spoke. Approaching, he knelt to get on his eye level, brow knit in concern.
“You look...a lot better than I expected all things considered.”
As King got himself settled back against the wall again, fighting back a yawn under his muzzle, he took in the sight of the younger athlete. He could have said the same thing. While he himself knew exactly why his recovery had been expedited, he was less sure of how Silvio was looking so well-rested after only a short amount of time following WAR. While the Tarot Terror hadn’t been dragged behind a motorcycle in chains and treated like a bloody harvesting ground courtesy of Heart, he’d taken some serious bumps… which he was healing from nicely.
Huh.
Opting to leave it at that brief observation, Zane shook his head, his line of sight moving away from the noted injuries back to Silvio’s face.
“I’m alright. I’ve been sleeping, mostly… I’ve got a knack for getting back up pretty quickly when I’m knocked down.”
“Sleeping here at the facility?” Silvio asked, raising a brow. “Crap. Did they kick you out of the motel?”
Considering his own recent sleepover in the locker room - unplanned or no - Silvio was hardly in a position to criticize. During their first conversation at the diner, while the tattoo artist was glad to find out the Lab Rat King had a roof he could sleep under, a motel was hardly ideal. All the same, the thought of him being on the street was even less palatable.
The big man shook his head, sighing and letting the back of his skull rest against the wall. Despite the incredible progress he'd made recovering from the brutality he'd both inflicted and endured, his whole body ached with fatigue.
“Nah. But there's a few hours during the day I have to get out so they can maintain the place… This is the safest place I know where I can get some sleep besides the room. I figure I'm not bothering anybody. Why are you here? Don't you have a little troupe you're usually with now…?”
He grinned. “Yeah, kinda! Nothing official yet, but we’re working on it. Team Starfox is also scheduled for a fight with Amber Ryan and Mac Bane for the next card, so I’m trying to get in as much practice as I can before that. Ko and I would have our work cut out for us no matter what, but after WAR? I can’t imagine either Bane or Ryan is in an especially sunny disposition.”
Physical exertion was also an opportunity to clear his head. Silvio knew better than most that you started your fight in your opponent’s mind long before you threw your first punch. He just hadn’t really faced anyone yet that had tried it with him; wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of psychological warfare.
Fashionable, fashionable, fashionable--fashionable people…
Fuck that fucking fucker and his fucking tom-fuckery.
King snorted softly; he remembered that much, at least. Titles changing hands. Alliances being made… His own fight was a blur of rust and ruin in his mind, but that was typical in the Big Guy's most violent moments. He was used to coming around again with little memory of the details.
“I think they must've benched me this week deliberately,” he muttered, rubbing at the bandages wrapped around his elbow. “Probably for the best.”
His memory jarred by the conversation, bits and pieces were coming back to him in a slow trickle, like syrup through a sieve. What he'd done to Mitch. An unexpected exchange with him in the locker room. And… an unusual encounter with Adrienne Levi, the details of which now slipped through his fingers, except that she had been terribly, terribly sad.
“Is she ok?” he asked suddenly, only really half-aware of why he was asking at all. “Levi?”
“Yeah, last I checked,” Silvio assured him. “I’m really proud of her. She was incredible in our match. She’s facing Eli Goode at 97, so that’s pretty exciting, too.”
He clicked his tongue, raising a brow.
“You wanna go get something to eat? I know you’re usually pretty hungry. I wanted to ask about something, anyway.”
Zane nodded slowly, both in approval and agreement; for some reason it comforted him to know that Levi was doing well. They rarely crossed paths, and when they did he was well aware that he mostly traumatized her by existing, but he felt certain that he had a good reason to worry.
Little vibrations through delicate glass.
“I can't eat fast enough to keep up with my own stupid metabolism,” he admitted, rubbing the exposed part of his face. “Food sounds great.”
“Cool! You in the mood for anything in particular? I get the feeling the Big Guy doesn’t let you actually enjoy your food. Anything you’re hankering for?” Getting to his feet, he offered Zane a hand up.
Zane took the hand as a formality, more or less lifting most of his own considerable weight off the ground. Still, it was an appreciated gesture--he was still getting used to the idea of having a friend here. Hell, with the way the Big Guy was getting on with Mitch Heart (much to Zane's shock), maybe he had two.
“You know what…? I don't remember the last time I had a real farmer's breakfast… Bacon, sausage, ham, eggs, fried potatoes…”
“Farmer’s breakfast it is! We can go to the same place as before. I could do with a post-workout meal, myself. We are hard working idiots who hurl ourselves at danger for the sake of applause and giant belts. Do we not deserve a greasy breakfast?”
That gets a thin smirk out of Zane, at least. “Sounds like as good of an excuse as any. Let’s get going before I fall asleep on my feet again.”
“How does anyone think pancakes are better than waffles?” Silvio pondered aloud, peeling the film off of his third packet of marmalade. His breakfast waffle was a hodgepodge of whipped cream and fruit preserves; it seemed as if he was intent on filling each ‘cell’ with a different flavor. There was a hoddle of coffee, cream, and sugar between him and Zane in their booth. Silvio had requested a more sequestered part of the diner in an effort to minimize any staring at his friend. “I mean, the texture alone makes them superior.”
Opposite the Tarot reader, Zane’s plate was a stark contrast--it was piled high with proteins and starches. A steaming pile of scrambled eggs made for a pillowy bed next to a stack of bacon and sausage that would make any meat-lover drool, along with a generous helping of homefries and a tall stack of buttery toast.
“I’m not really big on sweet breakfast,” the mutant admitted, generously salting his eggs. He once again had to hunch over the table a bit, giving the impression of a vulture guarding his food. His muzzle had been set aside next to the window. “But if you eat like this all the time, it’s no wonder you’re a ray of goddamn sunshine, kid. Your plate looks like an edible rainbow.”
“I like all the preserves - I can never choose,” Silvio explained.
He started in on his breakfast, making an appreciative sound as he chewed.
“Always had a sweet tooth. Growing up, I thought being a fruit bat would be the coolest thing because you got to fly and eat mango all the time.”
Balancing out the sweetness with a swig of black coffee, he raised a brow at Zane.
“So, I wanted to maybe talk to you about your living situation, if you’re cool with that.”
Zane’s subtle grin faded, his thoughts moving away from fruit bats and mango back toward his less than stellar reality.
“Sure,” he said, though he did sound a little bit apprehensive. “If you’re worried about how I’m paying for the room every night, it’s really not that bad. I don’t need help with it…”
“I wanted to know if you might be interested in staying with me, actually; do some couch surfing at least for now,” Silvio said, taking another sip of coffee.
Zane stopped mid-bite, staring at Silvio with bewilderment as though he was sure he’d misheard him.
“S--... mm.” he swallowed a mouthful of scrambled egg, coughing lightly. “Stay with you? Are you sure about that? You don’t need to put yourself out on my behalf…”
“You wouldn’t be putting me out,” he assured him. “I got room. Heck, if I really need space, I have a little office in my shop downstairs, so that’s not a problem. I just don’t like the idea of my friend being in a motel like you are. It’s gotta get lonely; especially for you. And what if something upsets the Big Guy and he attacks one of the proprietors or staff members? Christ, could you imagine the cops coming after him? There’s no positive ending to that scenario. It just feels like putting yourself in a dangerous situation when you have a better alternative. At least if you were living at my place, you’d have more time being lucid.”
The Lab Rat opened his mouth to counter, and then slowly closed it, realizing that, one: he hadn’t thought of that scenario as a possibility, and two: that Silvio had an extremely valid point bringing it up.
He sighed through his nose, drinking down a mouthful of hot, black coffee before making a conceding nod.
“I can’t… really argue with you. I think I’d be an even bigger dick to turn you down after everything you’ve done for me. It’s just…”
He grimaced, looking down at his plate.
“There are some… people, out there, who might be looking for me. I don’t know who exactly, except for the name of the prick running the operation and that the Big Guy hates his guts with good reason. They’re dangerous. The last thing I’d want is for them to come knocking down your door looking for me, and get you tangled up in it. You don’t deserve that.”
Silvio hesitated for a moment, running a fingertip along the lip of his coffee mug.
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he started slowly, “that I may or may not possess certain knowledge about security systems and devices. Knowledge that may or may not have been acquired from engaging in certain activities that may be considered less than legal in some of these United States. Knowledge I can neither confirm nor deny I may have used to make my apartment a bit more difficult to break into, yet will surely cost me my security deposit upon my departure.”
The Oracle took another long sip of coffee, giving Zane a meaningful look over the rim of his mug.
Zane was quiet for a long moment, giving Leon a level stare over his breakfast with one eyebrow ever-so-subtly cocked.
“... You little shit,” he said at last, voice raspy as he lifted his coffee mug to his scarred lips with a shrug. “Ok then. I believe you.” He paused, and with a scrunch of his brow added, “Not asking for details. I’m the last person who’s gonna be a fuckin’ narc.”
“Fuckin’ knew you were cool,” Silvio said with a grin. “And thank you. I don’t mean to be patronizing here or anything, I just figure it’s a better option for everyone. I’d hate to have to tell Mitch his punch buddy got arrested.”
“Heh. Thanks, Silvio.”
Zane's shoulders relaxed. It was impossible not to admit to himself that having a comfortable place to stay--especially with someone he knew, who he could actually talk to--was nothing short of a huge relief. Maybe if he could spend more time lucid, he'd be able to figure out what the hell he was doing. Who she was. Maybe even work on establishing more of a joint corporeal custody thing with the Big Guy.
“Don't worry. I'll foot my own grocery bills.”
“Oh, thank God.”
[written in collaboration with Silvio Leon! Thank you as always.]