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Log Title: Blood Brother or The Evil Stairs

Log setting: Chez Walker, directly after returning home from the party “Hell”.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Walker
Glass

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Log start at 05:17am on 11-13-98

Benjamin strides in, shrugging out of his jacket as he does and dropping it on the nearest convenient banister. He glares down at his shoes, warning them, they're next to go on his quest for comfort. But first, he simply must have something on which to flop and drape upon artfully. Furniture, statuary, inhabitants, really anything will do.

Walker trots his drink into the sitting room to be left on the coffee table. He immediately puts in a CD, adjusting the volume to a warm-n-fuzzy level. "Have at. Bring me a watta too?" He should gets some of that in to stave off dehydration. "What's wrong with Ben's hand?"

Jean-Batiste closes the door and double checks it, then raises his voice, "I'll get water for everyone..." Playing Batiste the Super Houseguest again, he is. He heads for the kitchen.

Alisynde grins. "Mr. Hand made an escape attempt from Mr. Wrist and met Mr. Closed Window, likely gracing Mr. Hand with Mr. Bruise." She follows after Jean, protesting, "I am not /that/ stoned. I know where the water is.."

Trace sighs softly and surveys the room. He starts for a couch, but reconsiders and stands uncertainly for a moment. An idle hand, with nails lovely painted, delves into his braids and scritches gently. "I.. I'll be upstairs, okay?" He turns towards the stairs.

Jean-Batiste glances back over his shoulder, and waves Ali back towards the sitting room. "I'm getting it to be nice, not because you -can't-. Go siddown." He grins at her, then hurries towards the fridge in case she doesn't listen.

Benjamin picks up his left hand and peers at it. Whoa, how'd that get there. Indeed, a nice round bruise is forming on the back of it. For a few long moments he just looks, trying to trace back the events that led -up- to that.

Alisynde skulks back out to the living room, and flops in a chair.

Walker lifts a brow in Trace's direction. "Ya feelin' okay?" No objection to his wanting to go up; simply mild concern at his desire to be alone. He pulls on his cigarette, ash dropping into the lead crystal tray on the table.

Trace nods faintly without glancing back, half-way up the stairs. "Will be."

You head up the steep stairs.

Upstairs - Grey House

[ Several minutes pass, as Trace moves about quietly, setting up his gear.] Jean-Batiste clomps quietly up the stairs, bearing two bottles of water, one drained about a third of the way. "Trace...?" he calls, voice soft and younger than his years with worry. "It's me...I brought you some water?"

Trace sits by the waterbed, his back leaned against the head board. His shoulders are hunched slightly. Set beside him is a water bottle, his battered, old one from back at the fort. Not for drinking, clearly. He's lighting the familiar white candle set front of him. The canvas bag has been abandonned, hanging from the back of a chair now. He glances up briefly and flickers a smile. "Oh, thanks..." The wick catches and he tucks the lighter into a pocket.

Jean-Batiste pauses, smiling down at you. Maybe it's just the X, but he just seems so...worried about you. So protective, so guilty, like it's somehow his fault things didn't go right tonight. "You okay?" he asks, moving towards you, settling down on the edge of the waterbed. Before letting you answer, he asks softly, "You sure you..." A pause - he corrects his wording. "Sure you won't get sick if you fix right now?"

Trace peers up at you with surprise. "What? Why, I didn't do practically nothin'... An' my drink was virgin. Right?" He shrugs and gets up, moving to a drawer where Walker had said he could deposit his belongings for the time being... He digs around. Nope. Didn't find whatever he was looking for. Looking flustered, he peers about the room. Oh. Wait. He moves towards his discarded jeans, crouching down beside them and going through the over-sized pockets. Ah-ha. Spoon. He starts back towards the candle, his black vinyl squeaking softly with the brush of his legs when he walks.

C'mon, Batiste, come up with a reason... "Well, I just..." He shrugs weakly, letting out a long sigh. "I thought it wasn't good to mix X and junk, that's all...?" He looks down at his knees, mouth pursed up, shrugging weakly again. "I mean...if you have before...it wouldn't make you sick?"

"X and junk mix fine, specially after how long ago I took the X..." Trace asserts flatly as he fishes a small packet out of the pocket of the sleek, black pants before settling himself down cross-legged. His head bows slightly, fingers worrying the edges of the plastic. "Why don't you want me to...?" he asks softly, eyes hidden by blue braids and his slender chin lowered.

Jean-Batiste doesn't say anything for a long while, then sinks down off the edge of the waterbed, back against the side, and looks over at you. "I just didn't want you mixing and it going wrong, that's all..." He insists, sounding truthful about it. "And...if you don't really need it right now, we could...share a fix?" He looks over at you with round, earnest, guilty eyes.

Trace nods, glancing over at you gratefully. "Yeah... Yeah." He keeps his eyes with yours. "I didn't bring the bleach. But..." Now he looks away, picking up the spoon and toying with it for a moment before easing open the packet and sprinkling out some pure, white powder. It might almost be mistaken for coke, but a closer look proves the white to be courser... Tiny crystals, rather than dust. "I'd be blood brothers with you," he offers softly. "I haven't shared a needle in, god... almost as long as I been mainlining. Just a few times in the beginning. And at this one thing, this health convention thing they had in the park, I got a free test... I mean, I'm safe. And I don't know, but if you think you are too, I'll share with you. I trust you."

Jean-Batiste bites his lip very hard for a second, almost hard enough to make blood flow, then smiles at you with a look of intense shyness or sadness. "I trust you, too..." he breathes. "But I don't know if I trust myself. You go first, or...would you...let me do you?" So shy and reverent, as if this was so very much more intimate than sex. "But you should go first, either way. Okay?" He tries not to stare at that crystalline powder. -Tries-, but...God. Even a shared fix...he can feel the X settling in, tight and warm and fluttery. Maybe this night will end well, after all.

Trace smiles a little, faintly amused. "Yeah... Yeah, okay. But you better go for my right. It's like with my left... heh, good luck! It's my arm, and I can barely sink it there lately..." He's already mixed in the few drops of water, and hands you the spoon. "Here... hold that." Once his hands are free, he struggles to get the vinyl up over enough of his shin to work the syringe and tournequet free. It's not impossible, because he's still plenty more slender than Jordan and has more room in them than he might've otherwise. He vaguely wonders if Batiste knows white is much purer than brown, and half a spoon -- while typically unsatisfying -- is plenty if you're cooking white. He figures that Batiste must know, and stays quiet, working the tournaquet and needle free at last. He tugs the pant leg back down to meet the top of his sneakers.

Like a guy on a first date, that's how nervous Batiste seems. It doesn't stop his hands from being steady, though - waste junk? Never. He balances it carefully, looking down at it, then to the candle. He breathes in, then out, and starts to cook it up. Waiting, waiting - it seems to take forever, seems to take no time at all. He looks around for the cotton...or is it far too pure and good to need it? He draws the junk up into the syringe, fretting over a tiny bubble until he flicks it out, catching the tiny drop on his finger and cleaning it off in his mouth. Looking back at you, he smiles all nervous and tender and murmurs, "Okay."

Trace unhooks the clear, purple button and peels back the loose sleeve, letting it bunch at the shoulder. He ties himself off quickly and efficiently, one clenched tight between his teeth. He tugs at the knot, and when he's satisfied, lets both ends fall free. Taking a deep breath, he lifts his eyes to yours. "Alright. So..." He holds his arm out shyly, and while silent, his eyes still say much -- they are bright with hunger, but also affection, and even subtler.. trust.

Jean-Batiste leans over, and blows out the candle - remember to do that now, or he'd forget later. It'd suck for Walker's house to burn down. Then he moves over next to you, slipping in against you, turned to face you with one leg tucked beneath himself. He grasps your arm delicately, smoothing over the vein, then peeks up into your eyes again. He shares that look, his own made a little shimmery with nervousness, then just smiles at you. If one of you or the other was a girl, he'd probably kiss you, just a quick 'everything's okay' kiss, but such things aren't meant to be. He looks down, concentrating again. "Tell me if it's good..." he murmurs, seeming to take a small eternity before he slides the needle into the vein and looks up to see your expression.

Trace blinks in surprise, because honestly, he hadn't expected you to get in on the first try. Any tenseness that he'd held on his face has smoothed away, already touched by a sligh rush of pure anticipation. "Sss..." he hisses softly. "Yeah.. yeah, that's it. Go ahead..!" he pleads softly, eyes flickering up again to lock with yours.

Maybe it's like riding a bicycle. Or maybe Batiste has been practicing on Marco so he wouldn't flub it up when he finally got the nerve to ask you. Of course, that'd be telling, if he ever admitted to that. Naked relief flares on his face - he looks up at you and smiles the most incredible, tender smile, then bows his head to watch as he depresses the plunger. There, that's half...no. -There-, that's half. He slips the needle out, just as carefully, and wipes off the first bead of blood, popping it into his mouth without thinking, as if he'd just shot himself up, not you.

Trace holds his breath at first. There's that five or six seconds before the rush starts to hit, but it's a beautiful few moments actually, his head ringing with 'it's coming..!' And when it does he gasps, and the pleasure of it spreads across his expression, parting his lips slightly and flooding into his eyes. He leans his head back against the waterbed. "Ohh..." His eyes fall closed, smile ticking at the corner of his lips. "White is... unnhh.. really good," he explains softly. Duh. He doesn't move, but lifts heavy lids to look up at you lovingly. "Thank you..." Numb, clumsy fingers tug at the tournequet.

Jean-Batiste laughs softly, and reaches over to help with the tournequet. "You're melting..." he murmurs, grinning affectionately at you. He helps slip the rubber tubing away, then balances the syringe in his lap to start the process on his own arm. He doesn't bother pulling up his shirt - it's mesh, there's already plenty of holes. The rubber snaps into place, and he looks back at you. He can't resist - you just look so warm and dreamy and happy - and reaches over to brush his fingers down your cheek. "Hey," he murmurs, almost a whisper. "You're welcome." And then it's his turn. He's not as nervous, but he's also not as careful - it takes him two tries to hit the vein, but once he does, oh God, once he does...he watches the blood bead up as he slips the needle away and lets it roll to the floor in numb fingers, grinning that same heavy, lazy grin. "God," he murmurs, eyelids heavy and lethargic.

Trace giggles thickly and leans his cheek to the wood, murmuring, "You think... we can make it way up there?" He cranes his head back to where the waterbed spreads out behind him, a vast, mysterious land of soft, rumpled black and white mountains and a plain that delightfully wobbles when he reaches up a slow hand and presses down on its surface. It all looks *so* soft and comfortable.

Jean-Batiste giggles with you, breathless and drowsy, and turns his head to look to the staircase, slowly rubbing some braids away from his face. He stares that way a while, not realizing his eyes lose their focus until he looks back at you and you're all fuzzy. "Whaddabout Walker, and...everyone? We should..." Should -what-? "Shouldn't we?" He looks at the floor, as if it might suddenly help him upright.

Trace blinks. "You wanna.. go see Walker?" He turns and peers at the stairs. That's a long way to walk. And stairs, wow. "If we tried together, we could probably make it," he murmurs with drowsy uncertainty. "Just..." He steadies his hands on the end of the bed and tugs to get himself more upright, struggling with it a moment before finally getting up to his feet. He sways in place, but he's up. The hand he holds out is hesitent, and finally he reaches down to brace himself against the end of the bed so that should you use his hand to help yourself up, you won't end up just pulling him on top of you.

[ The two boys eventually get themselves up and moving, and head for the winding staircase.]

You head down the steep stairs.

Grey House - 1st Floor

Walker lowers his chin coyly, giving you a crooked grin. "Where evva ya want. Th' couch... th' floor... where evva you're comfy." He grabs his murky drink and gulps down another swallowing, following it with water. At least he seems to X safe.

Glass has a swig of the water when you put the glass down, then goes over to sit on the couch, smoking lazily.

Walker is perched on the edge of the easy chair, alternating drinks as he grins at Glass. Ben... um. Passed out?

Shuffle. Shuffle. Trip. Sleepy giggle. These are the noises Batiste and Trace make, as they amble in their numb, boneless way towards the staircase. Batiste leads the way, clutching tightly to the handrail with one hand, looking back over his shoulder to keep a hand on Trace's shoulder as he tries to help guide his friend down the steep steps as well. Whether he's actually being helpful or hindering remeains to be seen.

Walker sets his water bottle down on the coffee table and in a heartbeat is parked on the sofa next to Glass, clothes creaking softly as he moves. The cat stays in his hand as he settles himself, eyes flicking to the doorway out to the hall upon hearing soft giggles and steps on the stairs.

A dull thunk, as Trace smacks his elbow against the handrail by accident. It just makes him giggle, and he lets go to rub at it, taking another step... Mistake. Always use the hand rail, kiddies. He oversteps it and gasps as his foot skids off the step and continues to slip down. He wildly turns and grabs for Batiste's hand that had been clutching his shoulder, a slow movement even in his mild panic.

Glass says something in a Romance language you don't understand.

Jean-Batiste giggles drowsily at Trace, mumbling, "Careful, you'll hurt yourself..." several seconds after he's already smacked his elbow. Smacked his elbow. Hey, that's funny. He giggles more, exclaiming, "Whoa, hey, be careful..." in slow motion as Trace missteps. A half-second later, and he realizes Trace really -is- falling, and he grabs for him, ham-handed, numb-fingered. Use the hand rail when rescuing people who don't use the hand rail, kiddies. "Whoa, shit-!" he yelps softly, as he stumbles forward as well, flailing, unbalanced.

Walker seems to consider that for a moment. He mutters to Glass, "... when it... longer... it... Even in death... decomposition... discorporation," he murmurs.

Glass looks over at the falling pair. He says something in a Romance language you don't understand.

The only really bad moment for Trace is when he flings himself sideways in an effort to get his feet back beneath him again. The handrail catches his forehead, and then he's curled up and just tumbling forward. He finally lands in a wholly ungraceful sprawl, almost at the bottom of the stairs. He moans and lies still, except for a flinch and a hand that flutters up to fret at the dull annoyance at his forhead. Tickles. The blood trickles from the gash there, pools in close to his eye, and continues on down his cheek. He rubs at it slowly and just ends up smearing it about, mostly.

StumblecrashthumprollrollrollbangclangWHUMP. Dying camels have more grace than these two in their cluster-fucked roll down the spiral staircase. Batiste ends up in a gangly sprawl to the side and half-atop Trace, moaning in tandem with his friend.

Glass says something in a Romance language you don't understand.

Walker hops up at the sound of Trace and Bat hitting the floor, intriguing conversation put on hold for the now. "Y'all okay?" He calls out, moving to the doorway to survey the heap.

Glass takes an actual cloth handkerchief from his pocket, wads it up and throws it to Trace.

Walker trips for a moment as a handkerchief From Beyond flies over his shoulder into the hall. Wow. That looked neat. But wait; there's blood. "Aw, crap... Trace, hold still while I get m'medical kit." He zips across into the kitchen, returning briefly with an oblong white box.

Glass giggles, "You guys have screwed up our plans."

Trace doesn't even notice the offered handkerchief. Something's making it hard to see... He rubs again at his face, and then nudges whatever's sprawled over him, mumbling, "Squishin' me.." He nudges again, leaving bloody handprints through the mesh on Batiste's pale skin beneath. Then he cracks an eye open and realizes. "Oh. Batiste, hi. Hey, move, kay...?" It's a soft, plaintive voice, and he's still got that flinch. His face is a bloody mess, and a few braids have gone slightly purple where it's smeared into his hair.

"What happened...?" is Batiste's witty reply, as he struggles to untangle himself from Trace's limbs. He licks slowly at his lip, and makes a face. "Fuh, cuh my lih..." He slurps his bottom lip into his mouth, laying back on the floor, still tangled up around Trace. Oh, wait. He's squishing Trace. He starts to wriggle again, trying to pull himself away. "Ow, what happened...?"

Glass sighs and squirms a bit.

Jean-Batiste makes another brilliant observation: "Shit, you're bleeding..." He kicks his legs free of Trace's, and rolls over onto his stomach, leaning his forehead down against the floor. "Ow," he repeats, licking again at his bloodied lip. "Shih...mmmn." He crawls over to Trace's side and looks down at all the blood, paling, trying to figure out where the cut started. It might help if he wasn't so out of it, currently.

Walker bustles over to the sprawled youths, dropping to a crouch nearish them to open the box. He extracts a pair of rubber gloves which he slips on, alcohol pads, gauze and medical tape. Once Bat's out of the way he closes in. "Hold still so I can clean ya up, Trace," he murmurs. Head wounds; always bleed so much.

Trace pouts at Walker's hands and murmurs, "Batiste trusts me..." He turns to look up at his friend, disobeying the order to hold still, and scrubs at another trickle on his cheek. "Wait... *you're* the one bleeding, look. You're getting blood on me." He giggles a little. Heh. Kinda funny, that Walker'd clean him up when Batiste's the one with the cut lip.

Glass says something in a Romance language you don't understand.

"Trust you not to fall down the stairs..." Batiste mumbles, giggling loopily for a second - his face abruptly falls, and he sighs. "Trust me to catch you..." He rubs the back of his head, wincing for a second, then looks around with glassy, pinpricked eyes - he spots Glass and beams a radiant, if woozy, smile at him.

Walker's lips press together, trying to get at that cut. "Trace, hold still! Ya've got a gash in your forehead th' size-a Montana!" Wow... the world feels so weird through rubber gloves...

Trace giggles. Montana. No way, coz Montana's pretty big. He reaches up slowly to wipe some blood away from Batiste's chin. "Here... I'll get it. You're okay. We just fell a little, but we're o-- hey!" He blinks at Walker with offense. "Stop doing that, okay? Go help Batiste."

Glass smiles back at Batiste.

Walker rolls his eyes. "Fine. Suit yourself." He looks up to Batiste, surveying the damaged lip clinically. Wow, those gloves sure feel weird. In a nifty sort-of way. "Need some help?" He drops the mostly unused alcohol swab into a baggie fastidiously, privately enjoying the feel of the swab as it drops from his covered fingers.

Glass says, "I think I'll go out."

Trace scrubs at his face some more with the unbuttoned sleeve of Jordan's pretty shimmery violet top, leaving red-brown streaks to match the splotches that have dripped off his chin and onto the front of it. He shifts his gaze to Glass and mumbles, "Bye.." Then thinks. Wait. Glass is here? He waves a bloodstained hand.

Jean-Batiste blinks out of his soft, fixated smile at Glass, looking over at Walker. "Huh, what? Why aren't you-" He looks back over at Glass, face falling, bottom lip jumping a little as he keeps licking the blood off it. "But we were just coming down to see who was here..." he insists plaintively.

Glass says, "Yeah? That's cool. But it's just me."

Trace nods a little in agreement, trying to push himself up a little because that step there is starting to feel pretty uncomfortable against his back. "Yeah, we were gonna come see you."

Walker looks up to Glass, pout beginning to form for the second time tonight. "Aww... ya can't leave yet. Ya only just got here." He peels the gloves off, marvelling at the feeling. Now he knows what Irene feels like when she sheds. He's convinced.

Glass says something in a Romance language you don't understand. Jean-Batiste beams a positively gooey smile at Glass, nodding to him. Only one nod - ouch, that hurt. "It's not just you, it's -you-..." He frowns at himself. Did that make sense? "You shouldn't go..." he insists plaintively, then looks back at Trace. "Sit down, you're bleeding..." he says, looking around for the medical supplies.

Glass smiles a little at Batiste, "But you make me jealous."

Walker grins as he drops the gloves into the baggie, eyes lighting with mischief. He zips it closed and rises, heading toward the kitchen. His long hair sways in a satin ribbon down his back from the leather bad as he disappears into the grey room.

"Are you sure?" Trace peers down at his hands. Well, there's the blood, yeah. But didn't he just wipe Batiste's chin? So that'd explain it... Hmm. "Glass, don't be jealous. It kinda sucks to be bleeding, you know?"

Walker says something in a Romance language you don't understand.

Glass says, "So? You don't feel it. I remember giggling as the cops beat the shit out of me, once."

Trace giggles a little. "I bet that pissed the cops off pretty bad, huh." He lays his head back down against the stairs. Batiste told him to, after all. But he doesn't quite get how this helps. His cheeks and nose still itch.

Glass smiles, "Yeah."

No rubber gloves, but there's the alcohol swabs - Batiste starts with those, cleaning off Trace's face first. Wipewipewipe...he looks back at Glass, frowning for a moment. "You should stay," he repeats again. "Please? It'll be fun, the four of us, together..." He smiles warmly, then looks back at Trace and starts wiping his forehead. Mmm. Alcohol on an open wound. "Wow, you're really bleeding..." he comments to his friend, giggling a little. "Bet it..." He wipes through a trickle of it, and tastes it, then giggles more.

Glass stands up and heads over to the group by the stairs. He pauses to pick up his handkerchief. Glass says, "The four of us, together, doing what?"

Walker slips back out of the kitchen to take up a lean in the open doorway. He props a foot on the doorjamb, eyes roaming over Glass. The corners of his lips quirk into a hint of a smile, eyes glimmering. He makes no comment on the amount of blood he knows from experience head wounds can gush without being major, silent in his warm scrutiny of the fellow.

"Nothing, just... being together," Trace supplies helpfully, and that flinch is back again, as Batiste dabs with the alcohol. "That kinda feels..." he begins, eyes flickering up to his artist friend.. But what does it feel like? "It's kinda like what atomic gumbo would feel like, if your skin could feel like a tongue feels." He giggles, and where it creases his cheeks, the blood runs to hide in the cracks.

Glass grins, "Yeah? I was thinking I'd find my girlfriend. I'll see if she can tell I'm Xing."

Trace's words will work - Batiste nods to them, smiling softly to himself. "Yeah, just...it'd be nice." He's out orbiting Pluto about now. Look, pretty comets. He wipes up Trace's face, then the cut, then switches to a fresh alcohol swab...and turns back to see more blood on Trace's face. "Stop bleeding," he scolds his friend, and giggles, then reaches back to rub his head. "Ow." He finally gets a gauze pad pressed to the cut, and tells Trace, "Hold that..." while looking around for the medical tape. -This- ought to be funny.

Glass blows a kiss to Walker.

Trace plasters a hand against the gauze pad, beaming past his wrist at his friend. "You're so nice. You'd be a good nurse, you know? Coz you're just... really nice." He glances over at Glass and murmurs another, "Bye..!" before looking up to see medical tape headed his way.

Glass heads to the door. He pauses to blow kisses to Trace and Batiste, calls quietly, "See you."

Glass has left.

Jean-Batiste sighs heavily, and says to Trace, "He shouldn't have left...everyone's gone and Walker shouldn't be alone, it's not fair..." Like Walker's not in the room, or something. "Shit." He frowns for a moment, dreamy-drugged face pursing up, holding a second, then melting away again. He starts ripping off pieces of tape - pieces of tape -way- too long to fit neatly over the gauze pad.

Walker's lips pull into a wry line, him feeling very much a luckless fisherman. Ah, well. Fits with the rest of the evening. He slides back across the hall to retrieve his cigarettes and water, then back out to the hall, leaving the stereo to play music to an empty room. Then he's picking his way toward the stairs through the small congestion to be found there. "Shouldn't be left alone?" he echoes, a brow arching. "What'm I, by m'self an' suicidal-r somethin'?"

Trace chuckles. "Yeah.... yeah, what d'you mean? I mean... Walker's got *us*. Can't be alone with three people, y'know? Alone is one people. Person." He holds much more still for Batiste, looking up at the tape with interest and wondering if that's going to tickle his forehead even *more*...

Jean-Batiste adds another gauze pad to the first one on Trace's forehead, then carefully attaches the first piece of tape. It stretches across most of his forehead. The second one does the same - quite goofy looking, truly. The vertical ones are bitten in half before they're applied, and voila! First aid by the stoned. He looks back at Walker, blinking a couple of times. Oh. He's here. Wait, it's his house. "No, I meant...it's just too bad, that Ben had to go, and Glass did, too...just..." Well, he doesn't know how to say it. He starts trying to clean up the first aid kid, fumbling with numb fingers, leaving a couple bloody fingerprints behind.

Trace reaches up and fingers the messily applied bandage clumsily. "Wow. Hey, thanks." So he must've really been bleeding, then! That's the only time someone gives you a bandage after all. He cranes his neck a bit, peering up the length of the stairs -- or as far up as he can see before it turns and blocks the rest of his view -- then shakes his head a little. Wait, ow. That didn't feel nice. He turns back and looks towards the main room. Less intimidating concept, making it out there. He sighs and states his wishes somewhat plaintively. "I don't wanna lay on these steps anymore. I... don't like 'em."

Walker leans briefly against the bannister, giving a soft chuckle as his one of his fingers slips over the grooves to be found there. "Seems like that kinda night," he murmurs. "An' besides, Bat... I'm more'n used ta bein' alone." He then begins to drift slowly up the stairs, moving like the stairs were made of molasses. Which is just what they feel like right now. He simply can't seem to make his legs move faster no matter how hard he tries.

Jean-Batiste -moans-, looking up at Walker. "No, don't -leave-..." he begs plaintively. "We just got down here to visit you..." He shoots his very best, forlorn, glassy, stoned-puppy-eyes at Walker's retreating back.

Walker draws to a halt about three steps up - not hard to do, gooey as they are underfoot - and peers back down. He blinks rather owlishly at Bat as though the notion were an incredibly novel concept. "Oh..." Back down the flypaper stairs he comes, each one a labor. It's no wonder Bat and Trace fell; these stairs are possessed.

Trace has decided that if he's not getting any immediate help, he's gotta get himself up off these stairs on his own. He dizzily gropes for the handrail and lugs himself upright, then stumbles down the last few steps and towards the couch, a crash course.

Solid ground never felt so wonderful. Walker casts a suspicious look back at the stairs, so innocent and presuming they are. Swigging some water down he weaves his way back toward the living room and his favorite chair.

Is he gonna make it...? Is he? Yes, another perfect landing! Trace flops onto the couch. Umph. And lays there, face down.

Jean-Batiste fumbles with the medical kit about fourteen times, then gives up on the latch and just leaves it there. He struggles up to his feet, wobbling on melting kneecaps, and stumbles towards the couch. Mmm. Sprawling, soft, good couch. He doesn't sprawl, instead sitting on the very edge of it and looking towards Walker. "You could come stretch out with us? It'd feel good, all heavy and warm, all of us..." He's already heavy and warm, but there's never too much of a good thing, right?

After a few moments, Trace sloooowwwwly pushes himself up a little, just to get his cheek against the cushion so that he can look out at the both of you, and resettle himself comfortably. He drags his legs in closer to give Batiste more room.

Walker perches on the chair's arm, setting his cigarettes down on the table next to his water to free his hands to start unstrapping his boots. "'d love ta. Just let me get these off first." He bends to fuss with them, slowly but surely beginning to make some progress on the total of twelve buckles. "I'm glad Ayita's all right..." he sighs softly as the first boot drops. That was a pleasant surprise; to see her there in that lovely dress..!

Trace nudges at Batiste with a gentle prod from his sneaker. "Lay down, you," he smiles.

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