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Log Title: Dinner with Grace
Log setting: 319 Gov and Charters
Log Cast:
Trace
Grace
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Trace knocks on the door.
A woman shouts from somewhere nearby, "Come in!"
You step up onto the porch, open the front door and move into the house.
Seated upon the infamous Couch O' Dysfunction is one of its charter members. No, not Lloyd -- he's passed out on the recliner. It's Grace, and she's wielding a mighty scary lookin' remote. Powerful little bugger flipping through the channels on the television like nobody's business. BAM! MTV. BAM! NBC -- the fun never stops here, really. A bowl of cap'n crunch, sans milk, sits on one of her thighs, while a glass of milk has been placed, now half-empty, on the coffee table. Her gaze darts from watching the latest Backdoor Boyz video to see who dareth cometh here without prior approval. "Trace!" Is exclaimed with a grin; though somewhat garbled. Well, when your tongue is twice it's size - it'll do that to ya.
The door opens just enough for the blue-haired waif to slip on past and close it quietly behind him. Then he turns, eyes already seeking you out. His stance is shy already, hands hooking in his pockets. The boy is actually cleaned up, it seems. We ain't talking dope, either, though that also applies. But.... soap! Shampoo! What novel concepts. But it seems the bluecap has put them to good use. "Hey, Grace," he murmurs, and then grins and demands "Say ahh for me!" Lets see your latest supercool steel, baby.
Obedience? Grace? Well, for now at least. Jaws slide apart, pinkish tongue darting out to wiggle for examination. "Es ah w'il 'wollen, 'ut s'nah 'ad." Eh? Well, perhaps if you were fluent in gimp speech, you'd be able to figure that out, too. Tongue flips back in as Grace bounds from the couch to, in a nearly impulsive gesture, sling both arms around the delicate sweep of your shoulders. "Trace, man. Do you know how much I adore you?" Brows hitch as her head drops to the side fractionally; apparently this being a valid question, and not some rhetorical 'Well I'll tell ya!' type of thing.
Trace oomfs quietly as he's locked up in your hug, and he slips his hands out of the pockets to curl arms around you briefly and hug back. The boy breaks away to grin, but it flashes startled at your question. "Uh. I, uh." That'd be a no, apparantly, though he finally gets out, "Yeah, I mean. We're friends. And yer comin' t'dinner with me tonight, so y'gotta abandon yer Cap'n Crunch, m'fraid." He smiles and blushes a little, though doesn't avert his eyes. "Z'at okay? S'cool if you have plans." But then he went and showered for *nothing*! What a tragedy.
"No, that sounds great," Grace intones with an emphatic bob of her head, lips curving into a grin. "I do owe ya dinner, and well - I'm sure that anything is gonna beat Cap'n Crunch, really." Lips purse as she breaks out of the hug to cast a quick glance down at her clothing. The regular uniform of black jeans and black shirt not exactly appropriate for anything other than a diner or the Raven. "Do you think I should change?" One hand raises to plow through her hair, finger-combing the plum-coloured strands back from her face. "I mean, I'm kinda sloppy right now."
"Well, uh." Trace looks you over, then looks down at himself and shrugs. "Ain't like I'm much better. All my good clothes got left at..." A glance down. "Well, at Walker's place. So all I got is t-shirts and jeans and stuff. Well, and this purple silk poet's shirt Ali made me, but um. Y'know, it ain't really fancy neither. Better suited fer a Ren Fest..." He finally just grins. "Fuck 'em, y'know? I don't spect t'be gettin' no escargot tonight anyway, so les' jest go someplace we kin relax..." He grins and says, "Maybe someplace with good milkshakes. Bet that'd be good for a poor abused tongue."
That settled, Grace flashes yet another easy grin, fingers digging into her pocket to yank out a few crumpled bills, back turning a bit as she sorts through them. "Great, I'm loaded." A chuckle escapes as she turns back to you, brows lifting. "We are so set. Milkshakes sound great. I think I want a Milkshake, and.. a burger. A cheeseburger. With lots of grease and french fries." This be the same chick who wouldn't get a drink for fear of caloric intake? Oy. "So, being that you're my date for the evening, you will pay." The cash in her hand is pressed into yours, mouth quirking into a crooked smile. "It would look like I was some lecher if I paid, of course." Head nods sagely. "You're the man."
Trace giggles as you shove money at it, and takes it, but murmurs around a sardonic grin, "Yeah, coz I'm such a Promise Keeper, right? Can't have no woman paying my way f'nuthin. She's got her place inna kitchen, dammit!" He shakes his head with amusement and pockets the money. "Anyway, cheeseburgers an' shakes an' fries sounds great." He glances around, then shrugs and looks to you. "Y'ready? An' what burger joint you like round here?"
"I'm not sure," Grace murmurs, sliding one thin arm in the crook of your equally slender one. "But, I'm sure we can find someplace if we wander around enough." A quick glance is cast over her shoulder, surveying the nearly empty room (cause who really counts Lloyd anyway?) with a tip of her head. "Yep, all set." Teeth flash white between pinkened lips as she tugs you towards the door. "I mean, do you have a favorite place? This is for -you- ya know."
Grace's fingers curl around the doorknob and pull it open, exposing the outside world to the House O' Dysfunction. "But I will not go to the Lost Raven. I don't know if I necessarily feel like bumping into that many people, ya know?" Nose wrinkles a little. "I'm a little tired of dealing with drama." Su-prise, su-prise. "Yeah, the Raven sucks," Trace agrees easily, shuffling after you. "An I doan' gotta favorite place. I eat anything, seriously." He chuckles. "Well, that ain't true. Can't stomach too many veggies all at once, and no milk, neither. But just about everythin' else." That said, he waits patiently behind you until the door is opened. "Guess we could jest head down the street til' somethin' jumps up and grabs us as bein' a good place to stop."
"Sounds good to me," Grace murmurs with a grin tossed over her shoulder, as she hops down the stairs from the porch; taking the last in a childish leap. "So how's your neck? Lemme see." Hands move to her hips, fingers splayed on the expanse as she impatiently awaits the sight of your, most original, piercing. "I can't believe ya got that pierced. I mean, that's really cool. Cooler than my tongue, I swear. Well, cause I got the nipple one too -- but it's still cooler than both of 'em, I'm serious." The toe of her boot slaps against a dormant puddle, sending ripples across the filthy surface of the water.
Trace grins and hops after you, off the porch and into the grass. He pauses at your question, but quickly blooms into a flattered grin as he pulls the braids up off of his neck and shows off his latest barbell. The braids fall back into place and he frees his hands to shrug and say, "Dunno, I jest want somethin' new. I'm runnin' outta impressive places tho, with first my at the collar 'n now this one. Oh well, I'll think'a somethin." He starts to walk alongside you again, though looks over with a tilt of his head and grins, "Though don't you dare knock yer nipple 'n tongue ring, hear? They're... well, they're awesome."
"Well, fat lot of good they do me since barely anyone can see 'em." A pause, rethinking that answer with a rueful grin. "Well, okay. People can see my tongue ring, but not the nipple one. It's not like I go around flashin' anybody, and well -- ya know." She slides her arm back into the crook of yours, slowing down to a casual stroll. "So does it hurt? I mean, your neck. It must be really tight, huh?" Teeth catch her lower lip between them, chewing absently as her gaze drops to contemplate the ground as it swishes by beneath her feet.
"Naw," Trace plays it off with an easy shrug, though one-shouldered to keep from detaching himself from his arm. It's all good. It jest burns a little when I don't think about it and pull a shirt on 'r off, or brush it with my hand by accident 'r somethin'. But it'll take... I ain't had a piercin' reject yet." He chuckles softly and admits, "Will tell ya this, though. I did useta have my tongue pierced once. I took it out though, coz I chomped down hard on it once, right? And it hurt my tooth bad so I yanked it out, and didn't get it back in fore it'd gone and closed up again. So that's like my advice t'ya. Don't go an' bite down on yer steel."
A grin springs to Grace's lips, after the requisite wince from the story. "I'll make sure I'm careful with it. Although, I can't imagine it ever healing to the point that I forget it's there. I mean, there's a piece of metal stuck through my tongue," Which, if you think about it, is kind of odd. Imagine if someone in the fifties thought of tongue-piercing? And it became mainstream? It would have been anarchy. "But I'll be careful." She leans to the side a bit, resting a parcel of her weight on your arm. Just for that closeness. "I think it's sexy anyway. The neck thing." She bobs her head, just to emphasize the point. "I mean, definitely a stud thing to do."
"I didn' do it t'be a stud," Trace laughs embarrassedly as he walks alongside you. "S'jest somethin' I like t'get done every once in awhile. Fer a long time all I could get a place to do was my ears, coz I was so young." His free hand lifts to gesture at the row of spangled studs and hoops lining one ear. "But now I got a cool ID what says I'm eighteen, so s'all good. Not like Nadine really sticks t'that anyway, but still. She asked me t'see it fer the first one she did on me, anyway." A McDonalds comes into view, and his lips twitch with slight distaste. "Y'wanna go there? S'alright I suppose... Dunno though; I kinda been avoiding Mickey Dees ever since I got kicked outta once once fer makin' sculptures on my table outta my food. Sucked, I mean I paid fer the food an' everything! I woulda cleaned it up, really!"
A giggle erupts from Grace as she shakes her head, one hand waving in abject disapproval of McDonalds. "No, definitely not. We're gonna go someplace nicer than that." She cranes her neck a little, peering down at a row of restaraunts across the street. "How 'bout that diner over there?" Her hand ceases it's mad waving and gestures towards an midscale diner. "I mean, they have waiters and stuff." Because, ya know, not every place has waiters? Whatever. "We can sit down, get some food, and it'll be cool. You can have anythin' ya want." She alters the general path to cross the street towards the place, not really expecting a negative response to her suggestion. Why wouldn't they eat in a nicer place than McDonalds? They're both clean, and they got cash -- and that should be enough, dammit. "I have a thing against McDonalds anyway."
"Cool, then we can go an' get waited on, and thumb our noses at McDonalds t'gether," Trace decides firmly with a grin. "Anyway, the diner sounds cool. Hope it's one'a them ones with a juke box. An' I hope the milkshakes come in straw'bry." He pads along beside you, quiet for a minute or so during the walk to the diner's door. When he reaches it, he tugs it open and holds it for you, dipping his head in a brief mock-bow. "After you, milady," he grins.
How could she let an opportunity like this pass by? She was crowned a Queen last night, anyway. Er, long story. "Thank you, M'lord," she murmurs in a relatively haughty tone - as much as one such as Grace -can- affect, and sweeps into the diner with a regal tilt of her head. Once inside, she heads towards the maitre de (or however you spell it) and leans forward. "Two for dinner, please." Actually managing a decent English accent, despite her New York origins. "Smoking, if you've got it available." The man's brows raise a little, though he grabs two menus from the rack and gestures for the duo to follow him towards a booth. A grin cracks Grace's lips as she turns back towards you, arm extended to point at the jukeboxes. Ya know? The kind where there's a different one at each table. "Excellent." Let's hope they have quarters.
Trace follows the busser and slips into the assigned booth, immediately pulling his silverware out of the rolled napkin and arranging them. He's actually a bit relieved that they've chosen a place with just one fork. He'd be so lost with more. Then the menu is flipped open, glanced at, but eyes flicker to the jukebox as he points out, "Milady gets first pick. I insist."
Grace's own napkin is unrolled with a flourish; silverware shaken free and allowed to, haphazardly, roam the table at will. Though, you know those little buggers, never really taking advantage of their freedom. "Oh, I couldn't. It's your night, m'lord. Please, please, take your pick." The napkin is placed carefully in Grace's lap and her elbows immediately seek purchase on the checkered-cloth covered table. Fingers curl around the edge of her menu, pulling it open to reveal the first page. "I think I have a quarter, too," she murmurs absently, dropping the English accent for the moment. Back arches to push against the cushion of the booth, hand digging into her pocket to come out with three quarters, and a dime. The dime is cast aside, and the quarters are pushed towards you. "Go wild." She drops a wink, and flicks her gaze back to the menu.
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