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Title: Caramel Apples OR Trace Decides to Join the Clergy

Setting: Chez Walker on Moss Street, afternoon.

Log Cast:
Walker
Trace
Benjamin
Jean-Batiste

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When you first got home Walker was in lazy mode, curled in his favorite chair watching a little inane television. Now that evening has come on, however, he's active and busy in... the kitchen? Seems so. Being a hermit these last couple of weeks has given him way too much time to play with and he's currently wrapping the last of the remaining caramel apples he made yesterday - had them tucked in the oven till now to keep dust away - in orange wrap. Problem, though. There's not enough room in the fridge for them all. So he's arranging the wrapped products on the table. How Betty Crocker.

Trace trudges slowly down the steps, clump, clump. Evil steps, but he's being fearless. Or doesn't care. Whichever. But there's activity in the house, and something's drawing him out of his whole twenty minute solitude. He heads right into the kitchen without fanfare, pulling himself right up onto the counter. No hi, how's it going Walker. He watches you quietly. Greedy eyes on the caramel apple.

Walker looks up from his needless rearranging of the apples ringed in the center of the table like a candy-coated bulls-eye. "Hey, Trace," he smiles. Noting the lustful eyes on the apples - throughout history apples seem to go hand-in-hand with desire - he nudges one orange-wrapped treat over toward the blue-haired you th. "Have one?" He's more than happy to cater to Trace's appetite when it appears. Needs to eat more.

A comfy huddle of blankets and pillows on the living room floor is as yet occupied by a drowsing Ben, still fully dressed in yesterday's attire. Though his pile-mates have long abandoned him, one shadow-dappled kitten remains, having found a warm bed on the man's stomach. When he finally stirs, lazy soul that he is today, his half-conscious roll to his side upsets a sleeping kit still with her claws. Little tiny needle-pricks that poke right through his shirt to his skin, provoking a yelp undercut by a plaintive mewl from the upset.

"Hey, Walker. Thanks." Trace's tardy greeting finally arrives and gets its name on the board. He sniffs at the caramel apple appreciatively and then takes a big, messy bite that gets his chin all sticky. "Y'know, Wah-kah.." he says with his mouth full. Okay, Trace. Chew, swallow, then talk. Much better. Completely out of the blue, "Girls really suck. They totally suck, Walker." Chomp. Another more vicious bite. Maybe he's taking out his frustrations on the poor candy-coated fruit.

The gentle noise from the living room attracts Walker's attention, tugging the smile humored. Poor Ben and poor kitten. Not the happiest waking for either. Trace's left-field comment catches him entirely by surprise, earning him a rapid blinking of emerald eyes. "What? What makes ya say that?" He leans to close the gap in his bulls-eye on the table, tidying up the line of apples once more though it's an exercise in futility. The ring undoubtedly won't last through tonight intact.

Quiet mutterings drift in from the living room, the word 'declawed' coming through specifically two or three times. But no one can stay angry at such an adorable ball of fur for long, and soon Ben's sleepy tirade devolves into gentle murmurings and cooings. He emerges from the hall into the kitchen's entry, carrying the fuzzy black-and-white alarm clock in both hands and lavishing affection upon it.

Trace shakes his head. "They just do. They suck. They're all pretty and then they jest play with you and mess with yer head and I'm just gonna be a monk, okay? I'm gonna practice my chantin'. I'd be a good monk, wouldn't I?" He chomps again at the apple, and chews slowly, teeth getting stuck every once in a while on the sticky caramel.

A monk. Walker props an elbow on the back of one chair, catching his wrist with his other hand. "Sure ya would, Trace," he agrees, unable to keep the infectious smile from his voice. "I have a tape-a Gregorian chants f'practicin'... So what girl's been givin' ya troubles?" Has to be a specific one, he's sure. Decisions to join the clergy usually don't stem from whim or a conclusion pulled from the blue. Has to have a specific. "Hey, sleepyhead," he turns the smile on Ben and his fuzzy cargo. "How'd ya sleep?"

Benjamin wanders in with a muzzy smile for both the kitchen's occupants. Carmel apples for breakfast sounds wonderful, and even semi-nutritious. First, though, are morning greetings in the form of sidling up next to Walker and pressing a warm kiss to his cheek. "Great," he murmurs, voice still a bit thick from sleep. "Forgot what it's like to sleep on a hard surface." Crouching, he deposits an anxious kitten on the floor, who immediately goes scurrying for the waterdish. "A tonsure might suit you," he teases Trace gently, retrieving an apple for himself and selecting a chair.

"You'll laugh when I tell," Trace grins faintly. "Everyone does, coz um, we sorta... rhyme." He looks at his caramel apple fondly, not seeing it. "We rhyme, and everyone teases us fer it." Ben better not remind Trace that his wonderfully messy, sticky-sweet treat has a *gasp* nutritious apple hiding inside. Because right now he's thoroughly enjoying it. He pulls sticky fingers away from the stick to wiggle fingers at the professor in a small wave.

And Batiste sleeps on. All that running yesterday must have compounded with the dope smoked last night, and actually given him another long stretch of restfulness. With the warmth-that-was-Ben gone, he mumbles to himself and rolls over a little, trying to nestle close to the missing man. This makes his braids (aka feline chewtoys) flip around his face, and two of the kittens close in for the hunt, pounce, and tumbletackling. A few seconds later, Batiste's eyes open and he chuckles sleepily. "Hey..." he mumbles, sitting up and drawing the kittens away from his braids, rubbing their fur with his nose. "Silly kittens." He grins drowsily at them, setting them back on the floor as he looks around.

The gap left by Ben's taking of an apple is immediately tidied by Walker though it means spacing the confections further apart. Why is he bothering? Even he couldn't say aside from, perhaps, the simple need to be anal today. "Grace?" he asks with sweet innocence. Who else does he know that Trace has been hanging around that shares a similar name? "What's Grace done that makes ya want ta be a monk?" He pulls away from the chair and saunters across the kitchen to the fridge, tugging out a bottle of water which is cracked open before the door has a chance to shut. And further noise from the living room; Bat's awake and providing the remaining furballs with hair entertainment.

Benjamin settles back in his kitchen chair, delicately biting into the sticky mess in an attempt -not- to mat his goatee irreprably. Erf. Girl trouble. He gives Trace a sympathetic little smile. Though he's decided to play for the other team pretty much permanently now, he's had his share of experiences with difficult girlfriends. But undoubtedly Walker is better for advice and complaint on this particular subject, seeing as how the man has a special talent for boiling things down into succinct sound bites. Ben's own ramblings don't particularly suit.

"She jest... she thinks of me as a little brother," Trace gives a little shrug. "I'm not so little." That makes him straighten up a bit. Tall, see? Sigh. He slumps back down again. No use. He's doomed to be a pipsqueak. "She put me in the same catagory as Star an' Scout. Scout's like ten! I'm way bigger'n both'a them." Okay, forget that Star's seen more action then he has by FAR. He's still bigger, dammit. "An' then she goes huggin' on me an' confusin' me totally, an' girls just suck. They're.." He searches for a cooler insult, coz he's overused 'suck'. "They're brazen hussies."

Walker wanders back to the table and slides into a chair next to Ben's, setting the water bottle down on the table. "She thinks-a ya as a brotha?" Ooch. He presses both hands over his heart, wincing deeply in sympathy. "Oooh! Gotta hate that." He chuckles, shaking his head as his hands drop away. "Girls can be confusin'," he agrees. Never mind that boys can be equally confusing; no need to bring that into the equation. "Don' get easia as ya go, eitha. Should, but it don'." He wrinkles his nose and grabs his water again. Hmm... something sly settles in sparkling emerald as he sweeps Trace with a thoughtful glance. "Ya tol' her ya like her?"

Jean-Batiste pauses in the doorway, listening to Trace's trouble with grrlthingies, and makes a bit of a face. Sad, frustrated. He can't offer any girl-advice - how could he? He can't -make- someone fall madly in love with the bluecap, as much as he may wish it for his friend. And he doesn't know anyone he could try and hook the blue-haired boy up with, either. Well, okay, that's not -quite- true. But Lily would eat Trace like a gift-wrapped bonbon before he knew what hit him. He nibbles on his bottom lip for a while, trying to decide what to say, and ends up saying nothing at all. He heads into the kitchen, Trace-wards, and reaches out to gently tousle frizzle braids, planting a sleepy kiss in the top of them. "Mmn," he greets, smiling lazily at the three of you.

Benjamin crunches thoughtfully on his breakfast, the care that it takes to eat such a mess definitely precluding any chance at speech. Though the phrase 'brazen hussies' does earn Trace a somewhat stern glance, not so much because of its derrogatory nature but because it's inappropriate terminology. Walker's finaly question gets a nod and an agreeing "Mmmmhm," before he leans over to pat one of the man's legs and urge it up on his lap, promising footrub. Sticky bite finally chewed and swallowed, he echoes, "You should tell her."

Trace has no idea what brazen hussies really are; he just felt like damning all girls as them for now. "I didn' say it like 'Hey, guess what Grace, I think yer hot stuff'. Not all out in the open like that. But she knows, y'know? I tole' her how cool it'd be t'have a magic girlfriend like Samantha or Jeannie, a girl who'd wiggle her nose or do the boingy nod thing and that'd maybe be a cooler girl than her..." He drifts off, and his eyes find the apple. Brazen hussies. Hrmf. He takes another fierce wildman chomp. Then Batiste makes his way over, and Trace is distracted from attacking the apple and peeks up. The braid-ruffle and braidsmooches make him smile fondly, and he ducks his head and then murmurs, "Hi, Bat." He holds out his ravaged apple. Want?

Bat receives a warm smile from Walker. "Hey, Batty... want a breakfast apple?" He points to the ever shrinking bull's-eye ring of orange-wrapped caramel apples on the table. Speaking of which... He reaches over to take Ben's apple-holding hand, steering the treat toward his own mouth for a stolen bite. "You should tell her ya like her, Trace," he mumbles around stolen apple. "Othawise she ain't gonna see it. Ya nevva know... she might awready like ya an' jus' doesn't want ta say coz she thinks ya don' like her back." Now there's a classic jumbled situation. It seems like no adolescent years can pass without at least one of those situations coming about. "Why don' ya invite her ta th' Halloween pawty... ya can tell her then." Grin.

Eww. Tracecooties. Batiste leans over Trace's chair a little, and neatly plucks the apple away, biting into it with relish. What a symbiotic relationship - Trace gets the caramel, he gets the apple. He lets his free hand dangle loosely on Trace's shoulder, crunching through a mouthful or three before he speaks up again. "I could invite her for you, if you didn't want to ask?" He grins a little, too. Uh-oh. He's not plotting something, is he? He looks to Ben and Walker, considering gods-know-what.

Benjamin's apple is stolen and he give up hand with breakfast dutifully, stealing a petite foot for his trouble. Beneath the table he curls strong fingers around the arch and massages, though with just one hand the ministration will take somewhat longer to complete. Gosh darn. "Shower her with romance," he suggests lightly with a little grin to Trace. "You could ask her to -accompany- you to the party. Like a date, sort of."

Trace looks between the three of you scoldinly. "You guys aren't makin' it very easy fer me t'become a monk." Then he grins a little, "I could ask her, it'd be no problem. Grace is *so* easy t'talk to... I barely ever get embarrassed 'cept when she goes on with her cheek kisses 'n stuff. She gets affectionate like outta no where. It's really... surprisin'." And confusing, obviously. He cranes his neck out to take a nip of his apple Bat's holding, just basically scraping some caramel off as expected. He's quiet a moment, enjoying it, and finally concludes, "I'd like t' ask her though. But I'd need a *really* kick ass costume."

Romance? While Bat's idea might have some merit (who didn't use a middleman at least once in their dating career?) Walker's not so sure about romance. Romance and youth don't mix well, in his opinion. Better to hold romance till they're at least twenty. Another nibble is stolen from Ben's apple before the man's hand is released. Mmm... foot rub. He melts a little in his chair. Slow or not any foot rub is more than welcome. "Mm... a date. That might be a way ta go..." he murmurs, voice sticky and quite suddenly lazy thanks to Ben's lone hand. "I can help ya with ya costume..." Maybe dress you like a monk. The private thought brings a soft giggle. Probably doesn't mesh too well with the suggestion of offered assistance. "If ya want ta wait ta ask her till we pick up the invites we can even make one out f'her f'ya t'give ta her."

Walker is far too easy to please, chuckles Ben's private smile as he watches the man melt. Goodness, what might he be able to do with two hands? Work miracles on the order of bringing Walker to complete silence, perhaps. His apple reclaimed he can go back to biting and crunching and leave off the need to talk and make suggestions. Suggesting that Trace take up the back-half of a horse costume with Grace probably wouldn't be well received, anyway. Quiet minutes of listening in and nodding where appropriate give way to a finished apple-stick and a very relaxed foot for Walker. Promising similar treatment for the other Ben sneaks away, off upstairs to shower and change out of yesterday's clothes.

"A kick-ass costume..." Batiste muses over this for several minutes, nibbling away all the caramel-free spots of apple, giving the sticky-sweet bits over to Trace's tender mercies. He suddenly grins, and rubs his cheek mischievously against blue braids, then announces, "He should go as a poet." How's -that- for romantic? "Like... in a long silk shirt and velvet vest and all fancy. A cap with a feather in it. You'd look great in it."

Walker arches a brow, looking to Trace as he draws up the image Bat's described. If it weren't for the blue braids he'd make quite the fetching D'Artagnan. Hmm. "Think ya might could let th' braids down f'th' evenin'?" Smooth Sharkadelic blue hair would be passable with the costume notion. "Th' costume wouldn't be too hawd ta whip tagetha an' it -would- look nice..." His attention skips over to Bat. "What're ya thinkin'-a doin' f'your costume?" He already knows what he's doing and - with the help of his co-workers - thinks he'll be able to pull it off with flying colors. But the proof will be in the proverbial pudding, so to speak

Trace tips his head to one side, peering at Bat, and then laughs. "Always tryin' t'get me into poet gear." He makes a snarly wildman chomp at the apple without hands, but barely scrapes it, and then just gives a sticky grin. "So if I'm post a dress up like a poet, z'at mean you'll finally admit I'm not one? Coz s'like yer not poseta dress up like somethin' you is, y'know?" His tone grows thoughtful. "Might be fittin' though.. First time I really met her, I wrote her a poem." He looks up at Walker's question, then turns to Bat, curious too.

Jean-Batiste glances away, grinning sheepishly, and murmurs, "Yeah, yeah. I am, I know. I can't help it. It'd look so good on you, I th ink." He looks back at Trace, smiling a shy, fond smile. "I mean...it would. Serious. I wouldn't dress you up to look like a dweeb in front of your girl or nothing." His tone is playfully exasperated, there, as if the whole sentence could be distilled to 'Sheesh!'. Just has a thing for silk and velvet, maybe. He shrugs a little at Walker's question, and murmurs, "I don't know. Maybe I'll just go as a goth, borrow some clothes from you or Marco, Marco's got some pretty wild clothes. I don't have any really cool ideas for myself." He shrugs again, lightly.

Walker sips up a drink of water then pushes up from his chair, heading for the counter where his cigarettes lay. Tugging one out and lighting it he turns, leaning back against the cabinet. "Goth works. Could be fun ta see what ya could throw tagetha. I'm gonna need y'all ta help out with decoratin' an' evrathin'..." Not mention helping with treats and drinks. Party's not complete without those. "Trea's got a strobe light he said I could borrah. Could stick that behind th' stairs." Fun; illuminate the treacherous wind of steps with epileptic bursts of white light.

Trace blushes a little and then breaks into a grin, shaking his head. "Oughtn't go as a goth. I mean, sure, ya'd prolly make a pretty goth n'all, but ya'd jest be one outta like a zillion other gothy punks in N'orlins. Dunno.." He hops up off the counter. "Seems t'me like Halloween's more 'bout dressin' up as somethin' y'never would, y'know? Reg'lar clothes don't cut it. Be more gory, 'r be more wild, 'r somethin'." Seems you haven't met his creative expectations of you, Bat. He grins however, inevitably cheered by the lot of you. Lovelorn moods aren't all that hard to shake around the family. "M'gonna go change. My clothes is icky. Might... dunno. Might even maybe shower after Ben's outta there." How frightening. An event for the history books, surely. "I'll be back later, kay?" He stands up on tip-toes to give Batiste a very sticky kiss ont he cheek, and then wiggles a finger-wave at the rest of the room before striding out and up the stairs.

Footfalls and shower-sounds from upstairs, predictably, as Ben goes about his "morning" routine. At least some things are stable even if they're preformed late in the afternoon. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later he's returning, hair damp and cheeks freshly shaved. And have no fear, fully dressed when he meets Trace on the stairs, slipping past the boy with a grin. "All yours." Then off and down to the kitchen, silent bare feet tugging him back toward Walker. Also predictably.

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