~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Log Title: India

Log setting: Upstairs in Walker’s home

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Walker
Trace
Jason
Ben
Alisynde

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The activity sends small waves through the water mattress, exhoing the restless motions. The thick blanket twitches just a little then gives a large heave as Walker surfaces from the soft cocoon, eyes wide and a bit disoriented as they dart about the large room, suspiciously taking in each corner. Whatever it is he -doesn't- see apparently settles some of the uneasiness of his waking. He flops back to the already-moving mattress, causing more waves and a soft gurgle as the water sloshes.

Another muffled sound from beneath the pillow, sounding like a nervous, sickly giggle, followed by mumbling. A sudden twist brings Batiste over onto his back, pillow covering most of his face. He kicks gently at the covers again, skidding them down the mattress, fingers tangled in the sheets. After another indistinct mumble, he turns his face to the side, then back again. Restless. Words come through with sudden clarity: "No, I said-" He sits up, pillow falling back, and blinks around at the room, still half-asleep. Wha? Who?

Trace lifts his eyes to peer over at the waterbed and smirks faintly, though his eyes are warm. "Evenin' Walker... Batiste." He stretches himself into a long, languid arch, and yawns. His head cranes back, chin pointed at the ceiling, and his braids just barely brush the wooden floor. Then after his yawn ends, he just hangs partly upside-down for a moment before struggling himself upright again and alternately peering over at the both of you and scrubbing at his eyes.

Walker turns his head into the tangled nest his long hair's become to look at Bat, a dry smile hinting at the corners of his lips. "Mornin'..." he murmurs. It's always morning when Walker wakes, regardless of where the sun is in the sky. It's never tomorrow till he sleeps; whenever that occurs. Lifting himself a little at the sound of Trace's voice he props himself with his elbows. "Mornin', Trace..." The tone is decidedly lack-luster. Flat and unlively. He gives a body-stretch and sets about untangling himself from the wrap of blanket swaddled about his legs.

Jean-Batiste shivers, and starts to cough, throat itchy from snoring. Once he finishes, he rubs his face hard and looks around again, coming up with a muzzy but fond smile for Trace. "Hey...how long you been up?" he asks, voice sounding scratchy. He starts to get up, then suddenly realizes something and tugs the blankets back up. He looks forlornly towards his jeans, way over there on the other side of the room. This ought to be amusing.

Trace tosses his sketch book to the floor half-heartedly and folds his arms on his knees, tucking his chin in the fold. "Long time. Woke up sometime after you guys'd left. Couldn't get back to sleep, so I wandered around a bit... Not too long. But when I got back you guys were here and zonked out." He shrugs lightly, the movement limited by his folded arms, and faintly grins. "You guys save me some catfish or whatever you ended up cookin'?"

Walker completes the task of unwrapping his legs and slides to the side of the bed. He gives another invigorating stretch to get the blood flowing again as he swings his bare legs over the side of the ebony-laquered bedframe. And a-one, and a-two... he swings up to his feet, fingers running through his hair to snarl in the tangled mane. "Yeah.. s'in th' fridge," he murmurs, casting his hair a very disapproving look where it's meshed over the fingers of one hand. Extracting the hand he moves toward the bathroom. "S'also some cereal down there... Hope ya like Crunchberries..." The door snicks shut.

Jean-Batiste stares towards his jeans for a small eternity, then summons up some hidden reserve of courage and struggles up off the bed with the hugely oversized T-shirt draped down nearly to his knees. He still plucks modestly at it, though, as he hurries to his backpack and starts to struggle into his jeans. "Yeah, we all went to Ayita's to swim for a while. It was..." He trails off, frowning in confusion. Evidently there's no simple way to describe the night at Ayita's.

The sound of a shower being turned on filters from the bathroom. Beneath the hissing sound of falling water surfaces all manner of bumping and bustling. Then all is still save for the sound of the shower.

Trace politely looks away while Jean-Batiste works the jeans up over his hips, rustling an idle hand through his blue braids. "So are you guys wiped out coz it was such a good time? Or... I mean, neither of ya seem to cheerful. Somethin' happen?"

Jason comes upstairs.

More bumping from the bathroom; the sound of a heavy bottle hitting the bottom of the tub and rolling. The shower hisses emphatically from behind the closed door, not quite smothering the sounds of humming.

Jason comes trotting up the stairs (amazingly quiet, actually). He pauses on the last landing and peers over to see what's going on. But when he sees everyone (well, most of everyone, and hears the shower), he grins brightly and thumps up the stairs the rest of the way, tossing his head so that his hair flips back over one shoulder.

Trace is seated on the beanbag, a sketchbook and pencil beside him on the floor, delicately averting his eyes while Batiste pulls his jeans on. The younger artist looks subdued, a little wiped out, and ultimately *gasp* sober. His knees are drawn up, his arms folded atop them.

Jean-Batiste tries to slide the jeans up over his baby-bare butt without moving away the huge T-shirt, and...well, mostly accomplishes it. Trace is looking away, at least - that saves Batiste a bit of embarrassment. He quickly does his jeans up, and leaves the T-shirt draping down in all its clean cottony glory. There's a large lipstick mouth done in white on the front of it, as if a giant ghost smooched the shirt and left ectoplasm behind. "Well, the party started out really great, but..." He's talking to Trace, looking thoughtful or frustrated. "It sort of went to hell in a handbasket."

Jason lets out a low whistle, teasingly, and pads into the room, hands in his pockets. "Hey, yeah, where were ya last night?"

Trace looks over at Jason, slightly confused. "Fell asleep up here. I mean... When I woke up, nobody was here." He unsnakes an arm away from the fold to briefly scritch at the back of his neck. Flickering his gaze back to Batiste, he murmurs, "Well, how'd it go to hell? Yer bein' pretty goddamn vague, y'know." Why is he being snappish with Batiste, of all people? He tries to smooth it over with a small grin, and gives himself the excuse that he's just not a morning person. "So... I mean, did somebody else catch ya in the pool and get pissed 'er something?"

At long last the shower is shut off and more rustling and bustling takes place in lieu of the water. A blowdryer whirrs for a good long moment, muffled by the closed door. Then more rattling. A lot seems to go into morning ritual showers for Walker.

Jason shrugs and wanders over to Trace, flopping down beside him. "Nah, some guy whipped out a gun and started threatening people s'all. Usually happens at a party sometime or another." He gives Trace a bright grin. Believe him? Probably a bad idea.

Jean-Batiste looks down, doing that 'puppy whapped onna nose' look for a second. "Um," he says, tugging his shirt down a little further. "Well, it just..." He moves over towards Trace's beanbag, and sinks down beside it, near Trace's feet. Hopefully he won't start licking toes in apology, or anything. He looks sharply to Jason, eyes widening. "He had a gun?"

Jason blinks a little, then ohs. "You had yer back turned or something. Didn' ya see it when he was talkin' 'bout the Feds or whatever?" He gives a little shrug, blase'. "Wasn' payin' that much attention at the time..." He just gets a crooked grin, and flops over on his side beside the beanbag, propping himself up on an elbow.

Trace chuckles. "Yeah, right. Coz you had to rescue the Dallas cheerleaders when they fell in the pool or some bullshit. No seriously, c'mon, what happened?" He changes positions slightly, turning more to lay on one shoulder and bringing himself down closer to Batiste. He reaches out to play with braids and make peace.

Jean-Batiste looks over at Jason for a second, letting his worried expression ease into a momentary grin. "Yeah, I guess I missed it. Shit..." Like knowing the guy had a -gun- makes him feel better. He frowns to himself, then looks up at Trace, still contrite. He bows his head to let Trace play with the frazzled blond braids a bit easier, explaining the whole sordid night to his knee. "We went over with Ayita, and then this Killian guy showed up with his...girlfriend? Maybe, I don't know. Her name was...uh. I don't remember. Anyways, Killian and her had this huge fight, and Ayita left as well...and then a little while later, Killian came back, furious, wanting to know if Walker knew where Ayita would take someone to hide them...then he called Ayita, and said if she didn't bring whoever back in fifteen minutes, he'd call the FBI and report a kidnapping. I guess he meant his girlfriend or whatever, but...it was -seriously- fucked up."

The door opens, letting out a burst of humid air and a variety of scents with it. Out comes Walker, garbed only in one of the black bath towels. His makeup's already in place, long hair brushed out and glossy-dry. His left shoulder bears three rather painful-looking yet thin gashes that are a deep contrast to the pale skin surrounding them. He makes a beeline for the dresser, digging a t-shirt out of the drawer. "Hey, Jason," he murmurs as he continues to pull out clothing. Though he must've caught at least some of the conversation upon walking out, he doesn't seem very inclined to add his two cents.

Jason adds, unecessarily, "We left." And then scootches forward closer to the two of you. He changes his mind about his posture as well, sitting up straight, and - oh, look, Walker! He lets out another whistle, all playful-like. "Hey, whassup, Walks? Got a hot date're sumthin?" You know, /normal/ people don't take showers in the morning.

A frown lightly touches Trace's features, tugging at his brows and the corners of his lips. His hands twined in the braids, which had grown still throughout the telling of the story, now begin their gentle fiddling again upon Walker's reappearance. "Yer right, that's fucked. So Ayita hid Killian's girlfriend? Maybe s'like... he wasn't bein' good to her. Ayita wouldn't kidnap somebody just for no reason." He looks over at Walker. "You saw all this too?"

Walker gives a dry chuckle, enough required to acknowledge the humor and little more. "Not till tamorra..." He drops the pile of clothes onto the bed and digs his kilt out of one of the two closets before returning to the bed to slide into his underwear, towel keeping everything PG rated as he wiggles. The towel drops away as he reaches for his kilt, offering a flash of dark blue briefs and then tartan is being wrapped. "I saw it." Oh, that's enlightening. A fine font of information.

Jason sticks his tongue out at Trace and swats at a blue braid. See! He wasn't lying! Well... mostly. Benjamin pages Walker, Jean-Batiste, you and Jason: Benjamin simply must cheer. "I have an apartment!" Walker pages Jean-Batiste, Benjamin, you and Jason: Walker cheers with Ben! "Another house-warming party!!"

Trace rolls his eyes. Goddamn vague people. He gives up and moves on, deciding that he's learned all he's going to, and if he digs for more, he'll probably just end up with more of Jason's tall tales. Which, of course, he'd be entirely in the mood for, if this had all been brought up at some other time. "What're we doing tonight? I can't sleep, and you guys already slept, so now I'm bored."

Jean-Batiste watches Walker get dressed, concentrating on his shoulder but not commenting on it. He looks almost guilty for a second, then sighs and lets it seep away. He leans back towards Trace, bumping into his friend's knees. "When the two of them were fighting...Killian and his girlfriend, I mean...he just picked her up and carried her off when she wouldn't listen ot him. I...I don't know. I mean..." He sighs, seeing Trace roll his eyes, and looks down at his knees. "I told you all I saw..." he promises in a mumble.

Jason mmphs and lowers his eyes as well. Grumpy people make tall tales no fun. He gives a half-shrug towards Trace, obviously not having any ideas on-hand.

Walker drops lightly to the edge of the bed to begin tugging his fishnets on. Looking to his business, he comments: "Killian an' Xaviera got inta a fight. Ayita's been havin' a rough time an' I guess Xav was tryin' ta cheer her up. It didn't work an' Killian said somethin' ta Xav that musta been in bad taste coz she got pissed off. They started fightin'... He hauled her off." Almost worthy of a statement given by a witness to a police man. "Next thin' we see is Killian cuttin' across th' pool, all angry. He leaves again, only he's got a gun stuffed inta th' waist of his pants. Saw it plain as day where I was. He leaves... then Ayita's phone rings..." He heaves a sigh as he finishes tugging at the mesh, falling back on the bed.

Trace nods a little at Walker's invitiation, faintly chagrined because wow, there actually HAD been a gun. His distraction from a full blush comes easily, however, when he leans down to breath in close to Batiste's braids. He smiles faintly, a more real smile than he's shown so far, however slight. "Ya smell like... a summertime in India, with dark skinned girls in silk lyin' on hot rocks by steamy pools...." he comments, entirely from the simple scent of chlorine and clove smoke. With an embarrassed laugh he chuckles and straightens.

Walker rubs his face with his hands, trying to rub out the irritation, unease and worry. He continues blithely, needing to get it all out now that he's started. He doesn't even really care if anyone's listening; he just rambles. "I don' even rememba now what he said at first... It was Killian. He was tryin' ta reach Ayita. When he figga'd out it was me an' not Ayita..." Only Walker would have a problem with being mistaken for Ayita over the phone. "He wanted ta know th' numba of this guy Ayita an' I know. Guess that didn't help none coz he came back inta th' pool, even more pissed sayin' that Ayita'd kidnapped Xav... which couldn't happen." He sits up again, shaking his head. "I know them too well. If Xav went off with Ayita, she did it willin'ly..." Jee-zus. What about her babies? He grabs a cigarette and reaches for the phone hidden under a few magazines on the headboard.

Jason glances up at Trace, blinks a couple of times with... a disturbed expression, then coughs to clear his throat and gets up suddenly, wandering to the other side of the room. Hey, Walker's stuff. He absently starts rummaging.

Jean-Batiste leans back against Trace's knee when Trace whispers to him, and grins a little at the imagery. "Little silver bells on their ankles, and a tent with a huge brass hookah pipe inside of it, too?" he murmurs, smiling more. Then Jason looks over, and Batiste's grin drops at the odd expression. "What..." he starts to ask, but Jason's already over at the other side of the room. He rubs his eyes, frowning hard, and climbs up to his feet. "Be back in a sec..." he murmurs, heading for the bathroom.

Walker dials a number somewhat hesitantly, rolling to his front on the bed as he listens to the ringing. His legs lift, ankles crossing to sway gently. "Hey... s'up?" he murmurs into the receiver, doing an excellent job of sounding cheerier than he looks.

Trace looks after Jason and Batiste as they rise and move away, then mumbles to whoever more to himself since everyone else looks pretty distracted, "You think... I mean, she really left her babies alone there? Maybe we oughta... I donno. This Killian guy sounds like such a bastard!"

Jason makes his way to the computer desk - usually all the interesting goo-gahs are lingering around there amongst coffee mugs and soda cans. His heart's not really into the searching, though, as one hand's stuffed in his pocket as the other just picks stuff up for brief inspection before setting the things back down again. It's like he's more using the tour as a distraction while his mind chews on something.

Walker looks over at Trace, deadpan expression unchanging. He cups his hand over the receiver. "If Ayita don' show up sometime taday where I can get a hold-a her, I'm gonna see what I can do. There's a nanny ta look afta them..." his voice hints that he doesn't find that very comforting. He starts to say something else but quickly angles his attention back to the phone. "Art? What kinda art? Umm... nothin' much here... just got up." Okay. That statement pulls a faint smirk from him.

Jason pulls out a magazine and peers at it, then opens it up. The centerfold that flops out actually elicits a faint smirk, though it's tinged with more disdain than amusement. Oookay, where /is/ this kid's head?

Walker actually giggles, eyes rolling. "Yeah. All three-a them," he responds. "Guess what..?" His tone drops into a more sly, know-it-all tone as he rolls to his back once more. One foot props on the edge of the bed, the other leg dangling.

Trace muses softly, again more to himself, "What if... I mean, what if we took the babies, and kept 'em just til' she got back so we knew for sure they'd be okay? I mean... " What the hell? Of course they'd be in better hands with a nanny. But the blue-haired kid's got wheels turning in his head that aren't entirely geared towards logic, and well-intentioned parental instinct, however good a quality in theory, probably should be quickly quelled when coming from a fifteen year old junkie and concerning someone else's kids.

Walker's lips part in a small 'o', eyes widening a little. "Ahh... no. But that *is* creative..." He looks over his shoulder at Jason, then to Trace. Some of the growing merriment diminishes a little as he nods to Trace. Then, once more to the phone: "Nah... Betta. I got you an invitation." Gloat-smirk.

Jason tosses the mag back on the pile he found it in and wanders over to the closets. Ooh, closets... He tries one... and gets a big frown, looking back over his shoulder at Walker. /Locked??/ From Jason??

Walker smiles sweetly at Jason, brushing his hair off his still-bare chest as he rocks the mattress. "I know... an' ya do." My that's a rather large grin for one who was only moments ago so pinched. Don't like Walker's attitude? Wait a moment; it'll change. "Question is.. *what* d'ya owe me..?"

Jason rattles the door once more to make his immense displeasure at this abomination to nature known, then moves on to the other closet which is, blissfully, unlocked. But, you know, it's not quite as interesting as what might be in a closet that someone feels the need to lock,

Trace curls his arms around himself, still considering his idea. "I mean... well, what do you think, Jason?" He peers over. What's he doing in that closet? "Do you think... well, do you think the twins will be okay around the Killian nut with just the nanny to keep 'em okay..? I'd hate for him to get pissed at her, and then realize her babies are there, and..." His expression is fiercely protective.

Jason huhs? and looks back over his shoulder at Trace, blinking a little. When'd he get here? At least that's what his look is like. But he errs, then shrugs one shoulder. "Sure, bring 'em over. Bat'll do diaper duty." He shuts the closet behind him with one last forlorn glance at the locked one. He /will/ find out what's inside. Oh yes, he /will/.

Walker chuckles into the phone, expression positively wicked. "Does that mean I get ta put ya on a leash and tug ya around th' party?" He tucks a finger into the phone cord, winding it around slowly. "I seem ta recall mentionin' somethin' ta that effect ta Erick when I paid him a visit. An' let me tell ya my lips're chapped from kissin' that notable's ass." Walker's mood seems to be improving as he talks into the phone, mood waxing playful. He seems to have tuned out, wrapped in his conversation and oblivious to Jason's longing to know what skeletons he has hiding behind that locked door.

Jean-Batiste returns from the bathroom, looking awake and mostly un-muzzy. His eyes are still a little red and itchy-looking, and he's drying his hair with a handtowel as he ambles out.

Walker lowers the phone for a moment to murmur to Bat: "There's Visine behind th' mirrah in th' bathroom..."

Trace smiles. Wow, yeah. Babies. It all seems so noble to him, rescuing his beautiful friend's children from the gun weilding psycho Killian. "So what do you think, Walker?" he asks somewhat eagerly, uncaring that he's interrupting Walker's phone call in the face of a matter of such import. "It's like... well, you don't trust those babies in the same house as that guy! You know what he's like, right?" He talks as though he were there too, and not just going on the images the three of you painted in his head.

Jean-Batiste looks towards Walker like he's about to write ooey gooey love Haiku to the man. "Thanks..." he murmurs, smiling gratefully as he turns to head back into the bathroom. "Is Ben coming over?" he adds, voice echoing around inside the bathroom while he locates the Visine and starts indundating his eyes with it.

Jason just look at Trace. For a long time, actually. He's staring. Like it's not Trace who's talking, but someone else. And that disturbed look comes back in full force.

Trace glances over to Jason, and his fervent look melts off his face to be replaced with defense. "What?" he demands. "It's like... it's what we gotta do!" His defensiveness parts for a moment, and uncertainty slips through the curtain of his expression. "Don't you think?"

Whatever's being said to Walker over the phone must be juicier than any gossip heard in a sewing circle. He laughs, the sound low and soft as warm velvet. "Now I'm positively intrigued... Want ta come ovva? We can hash ovva what you're gonna wear an' maybe ya could tell me a little more about yur experience with creative chapstick application..." He looks over at Trace, holding a finger up to let him know he'll address that matter in a minute. No need to launch into a dissertation while on the phone, inflicting the individual on the other end with it. He mouths an 'I'm trying' to Bat and listens some more.

Jason does that blinking thing a little more, expression shifting from disturbed to confused and then again to 'I really got to sit down before I fall down.' Which he does, rather quickly. That sort of sitting that one does when their knees just give out and they're plopped unceremoniously on the floor. Then, after a few moments, he rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand, looking away, mumbling, "No, no.. babies, great idea."

Jean-Batiste puts two drops in each eye, blinks about a dozen times, then puts in two more before putting the Visine away. When he steps out of the bathroom, it looks like he just had some soulwrenching conversation with the mirror, eyes all watery and bright with eyedrop tears running down his face. He rubs his cheeks and...pauses, looking from Jason, to Trace, and back again. He misses the damnedest things, sometimes.

Walker shakes his head - bad habit he has. "Nah..." His expression tightens minutely. "I'm at home... 613 Moss Street. Near th' park on Esplanade." He gives the bed another shove to start the waves moving again.

Trace sighs frustratedly, wishing that Walker'd get off the phone, Jason would stop being spacey, and that Batiste didn't need to have the whole situation explained to him still. The kid's quick to be annoyed right now, it seems. He tugs at his braids and rocks a little in the bean bag, appealing to his fellow artist, "Batiste? If you thought Ayita's kids were in some kinda danger, like let's just say for instance they were left in the house with this rich, abusive nutcase who was really pissed at her and might wanna get back at her somehow, wouldn't it be, y'know, the right thing to do gettin' her kids and just keepin' em safe for a bit til' she got back again? Y'know?"

Walker uses the momentum of the waves to push him to an upright position, nodding with the phone to his ear. "All right. See ya soon. If nobody answas just come on in." Apparently some wishes do come true as Walker nods once more and hangs the phone up. Of course during his distraction his cigarette burned away to nothing in the ashtray. With a one-shouldered shrug he grabs the small fish-bowl like bong off the headboard and sparks it. A little stale from sitting out all night but good none the less.

Another angle occurs to Trace, and he tosses it out to Jason as a sly afterthought, "Y'know, you'd have to help us break in prolly.. Could you handle that, big place like Ayita's?"

Jean-Batiste peels dead skin off his bottom lip, peering tentatively at Trace. "Uh..." He rubs his eyes, squinting for a moment, then looks to Walker and Jason before returning his attention to Trace. "He's also a rich, abusive nutcase with a gun and a willingness to call the feds. And how would Ayita know -we- were the ones who took the kids? She could get back, and think it was a baby-napping."

Walker exhales slowly, the pungent scent of wacky weed scenting the air anew. Propping his pillows behind him he nestles back, bed rolling beneath him. "Break inta Dunross? That'd be a feat. They've got more security on that place'n Fort Knox." He waves the bong, a general invite to anyone who might want a toke. "I'd be happia ta get a-hold-a Ayita first. But I don' know where she might-a gone."

Jean-Batiste thinks a few seconds longer, then decides. "If she had enough time to take Xaviera away to be protected...if she thought her babies would be in trouble, she would've taken them too, I think."

Jean-Batiste detours for the bong, sitting himself down carefully on the edge of the waterbed to take a very long, very deep hit from the mouthpiece. He smiles silent thanks to Walker as he hands it back, then looks between Jason and Trace for their reactions.

Jason murmurs quietly, head hanging so that his hair conceals his face, "I coul' get in easy 'nuff... Dunno 'bout you guys.."

Walker snickers as he takes the bong back. "I couldn't sneak inta a spook house. I can't help but draw attention ta m'self." He takes a long pull off the bong, smoke swirling in the clear base.

Jason lifts his head, one hand parting the red curtain in front of his eyes so that the smirk can be seen. "I'm pretty forgettable..." And then suddenly he asks of Trace, "Tell me 'bout India..." A plea, almost.

Trace deflates a little, sinking back into the bean bag. Ah well. He shakes his head somewhat sullenly, peeking up through his braids, lips pursed and strain in his face. It's not weed he wants. "Not like we'd all need to go stompin' in there, one or two could get 'em out...." he mumbles, then looks up at Jason's words, caught off guard. It pulls some of the tenseness out from between his brows. "I... I never been to India, 'cept when I smelt Batiste's hair just that once and it got painted in my head." The ghost of a smile.

Jason shakes his head and reiterates (as if it'd make it clearer), "Tell me 'bout India, Trace." His eyes are intent, like he was looking to get a fix of something. "Jus' tell me, ya know?" A smoldering fire, that's what he looks like right now. "Like... what do ya see?" Where the /hell/ is this kid coming from?

Somewhere nearby, From downstairs, a voice wanders up curiously, "Helllllo?"

Jean-Batiste exhales, and looks back at Walker, waiting for his turn on the bong again. He looks just...confused. Lost. Maybe everyone's suddenly speaking in tongues, except for him. He stays quiet, a strained frown tightening his face as he tries to figure out why everything isn't making sense all of a sudden. Walker pushes the bong back up onto the headboard as he tugs another cigarette out. Lighting it, he melts a little further into the bed. He looks over at Jason and has to wonder if it's a full moon tonight. Everyone seems off kilter. He blinks, sitting up at the voice. Oh! And he's up and gone down the stairs.

Jean-Batiste sighs from all the way down in his stomach, and flops back on the waterbed, pulling blankets over himself until all that can be seen is a Batiste-shaped lump and his dangling legs from the knees down. He rubs at his eyes a little, then is still.

Trace keeps his eyes locked with Jason's, uncurling a bit from his shrunken position on the bean bag. Relaxing slightly. He starts out slow, as though grasping again for the concept. "India... it's where... wise, wrinkled dark men wrapped up in cloth colored like.... embers and sand... they... sit, and charm snakes out of baskets with magic fruits --" A very brief pause. He'd meant to say flutes, but leaves the error, liking it "They, they charm them out of the baskets, twisting, and skinny bald children watch with big, moon eyes, real white on their dark skin, and they all want their own snake baskets, and they love him coz he sings like a gypsy raven and he tells his stories so well...." And he blinks. And looks down. Where did all that come from? He has no idea, as he stares at his lap, cheeks flushing.

Jason just nods at Trace, drinking up the words. Yeah, a fix of some sort, that's what he was looking for, breathing deep as the words flow from the other boy. And when he's finished, Jason just gives him a small smile. One of those smiles that doesn't say much, but where his eyes say it all, the green seeming to dance with sated pleasure. "Yeah," he says softly. "India..."

The Batiste-shaped lump on the bed is silent and still, listening through the comforting weight of the blankets, imagining silk saris the colour of embers and sand and those skinny bald children with big moon eyes transfixed on flickering little snake-tongues. He doesn't move, except to breathe.

Trace looks up through his blush, and is surprised by his friend's expression, eyes widened and startled for a moment. His face reads like a child before his teacher, waiting to hear that his answer was wrong and being delighted to hear otherwise. His smile parts his lips slightly, puts a crease in his gaunt cheeks as it stretches into something bright and grateful. "You see India now?"

Jason languidly brushes a hand through his hair, his entire demeanor having changed. He murmurs softly, nodding slowly, "With you, yeah..." His smile grows, the lopsided smile that is more Jason, his eyes sparkling to mirror the expression. "Thanks," he adds, very softly.

Jean-Batiste makes some low, soft sound and rubs at his eyes again, beneath the blankets, leaving his palms dug into his eyesockets. A few seconds later he throws the blankets aside and sits up, smiling faintly at the both of you. "Everyone feeling better now?" he asks, voice softer than usual, eyes bright through their redness. "Let's grab something to eat."

Trace lowers his eyes again. "Nah, thank Batiste. He's the one first showed it to me." A laugh. "Carrying India around in his hair like that. Ought've known he had to share it a bit..." He looks over at the suggestion to eat, and makes movements to rise from his chair, nodding. "Yeah, yeah... I'm really hungry. Besides that, I got an idea, and I didn't really wanna say it before around Walker, coz it's really just about us... C'mon, I'll tell you over some food. I wanna try that catfish."

Jean-Batiste stands up, and crosses over to the two of you, offering a hand out to each. "Good. Let's eat while you're hungry, then." Catching Trace hungry is a rare thing, it would seem. "The catfish is great, too. You'll love it."

Jason tilts his head, his curiosity immediately piqued by both the concept of one of Trace's ideas and the catfish. It takes him a moment to pry his eyes away from the blue-haired boy to notice Bat's hand, but when he does he grins and takes it happily, using it to pull himself up. "Food." is all he says.

Trace takes the hand he was offered as well, smiling faintly up at Batiste as he gets to his feet. "I bet it is. I ain't got to try yer food yet, but I trust it." He meanders eagerly towards the stairwell leading down.

You head down the steep stairs.

Grey House - 1st Floor

Ben’s Desc:
Wandering through the world with foggy eyes and a furrowed if curious brow,this twenty-something young man bears the slightly dazed half-smile of one foreign to his environment. Although his thick, floppy brown hair is supposed to be styled out of his eyes, it often breaks free and settles impertinently arbout his forehead and temples. Thin brows frame large, girlish brown eyes, set in a face that could almost be feminine if the jaw wasn't a little too strong. Perhaps in an attempt to age his youthful face, a carefully-kept mustache and goatee cling close about his mouth and chin.

Hovering between styles, this man creates a look all his own. Tight, ink-black jeans cover his legs, ending in mid-thigh black boots that lace up through bright silver eyes. A white t-shirt is similarly clung to his torso and tucked in, a silver ankh on a chain hanging mid-chest.

The holes are there in Ben's lobes, when you look more closely. But he quirks a soft, sheepish smile, sipping his drink for the moment, head still slightly bowed. "Yes, I got it done when I was still in prep school." Prep school? If all those stories about naughty private-school boys are true, that might explain a few things. "But my last job didn't appreciate me wearing them, so I got out of the habit."

Walker is leaning *real* close to Ben, a bottle of water in his hand. His face is practically touching the other's.

Benjamin is busy gazing at Walker's feet, a wine cooler dangling in one hand. And holding very, very still even when he murmurs.

Jason tromps down the stairs after Trace, pausing to look into the living room where the two are seated. He can't help but let out a cute little giggle, but then scurries after the other boy towards the kitchen. Ohhboy, mischief will undoubtedly ensue.

Trace is the first to emerge from the top of the stairwell, his dirty sneakers skipping the occasional step as he launches himself down towards the ultimate goal of the kitchen.

Jean-Batiste trails down after Trace and Jason, rubbing at his eyes. He's barefoot, and wearing a huge black T-shirt with a white lipstick print emblazoned across the front. "Maybe he's got some potatoes, and I'll make panfries to go with the fish..." he calls softly towards his friends.

Walker leans back, nodding. "Ya still have any jewelry? An' anythin' like a crystal pendant-r somethin'?" He glances over at the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and the giggle, a grin springing to his lips. "Hey, guys..."

"Yeah, yeah... panfries, sweet!" Trace croons, but halts rather abruptly to blink and look amused when he sees the two men huddled together. Could be a pile-up, folks...

Jean-Batiste looks over at Walker and Ben and just offers them a shy, sunny smile. "Hey..." he calls, voice softer than usual. "I'm going to make breakfast, Walker, okay?" He doesn't linger too long - not wanting to intrude upon the two men - and detours for the kitchen.

Benjamin mmhmms quietly, thoughtful. "Still in boxes, from my vegetarian days..." Guys? Ben quickly lifts his head, startled into attention as if he'd been static-shocked. He turns on one toe to see the boys tramping down the stairs and offers them a light, offhanded smile. Trace gets a closer look, less familiar than the other two.

Yes, pileup was just coming to mind. Jason, having already gotten his amused fill of the two older men, runs /right/ into Trace, knocking whatever words he was about to sing out into a gush of forced air. Eek!

Trace had been about to mumble a greeting too, but stumbles forward when Jason bumps him from behind. "Er, sorry.." he laughs, the apology directed at all three, before giving a wave and hurrying after Batiste.

Jason bites his lip and grins sheepishly at Walker and Ben, then rushes off after the other two, ducking his head so he can hide the blush from making a fool of himself behind his hair. Yes, Jason still blushes from time to time.

Walker nods to Bat, still grinning. "Yeah, sure. Have at. What's food for if not ta eat." Right now, anything in there is fair game for whoever's energetic enough to cook. He looks back to Ben, head tipping a little as he sips some more from his bottle. "What kinda stuff d'ya have in those... boxes?" A brow quirks playfully.

Benjamin shifts his eyes sidelong at Walker, with a soft, knowing little smile. Awww, they're embarassed? Isn't that -the- most adorable thing? Walker's teenage followers are a neverending source of delight! He breathes in for a moment, then flutters his hair back with a shake of his head. "Mm. Crystals and hemp things and tie-dyed t-shirts. I -swear- I went through every alternative trend the early 90's could come up with."

You can hear from the kitchen, Jason's innocent question to Trace of, "So if he's not a vegetarian anymore, does that mean he eats chicken?" He quite obviously spoke that question in a tone that was meant to be overheard.

Jean-Batiste looks back to Walker, nodding gently. "Okay...you guys want me to make enough for you to have some, too? Toast and eggs and panfries?" He slips into the kitchen before he can get Walker's answer, though - must be figuring Walker will answer Ben first.

Walker drifts around Ben and into the sitting room. He makes a pitstop by the stereo, dropping fluidly into a crouch to plow through CDs. "Sounds great," he calls. Sounds more than great; sounds absolutely irresistable. He drops a random CD in and wanders back out of the room towards the kitchen once more. Quiet rummaging sounds immediately commence, once Batiste's in the kitchen. He starts checking cupboards and drawers, pulling out a couple pans, spices, ingredients from the fridge. Scarily enough, he looks like he's familiar around all this stuff. All this, and he can cook, too.

Trace just chuckles in response to Jason's question. "Dunno..." He settles himself at the table comfortably, only to hop up again and help paw through more drawers looking for some silverware. To Batiste, "Uh. You need help... cutting things, or... things?" He'd have no clue what he was doing, obviously. Doesn't even have the vocab to explain how he might help with the mysterious production of panfries and leftover catfish.

Benjamin makes sure he's out of the way, wandering toward the kitchen-ish area and peering in at Batiste. One shoulder he slumps against the entry frame and leans there, idly watching the preparations as he swigs from his wine cooler. "Yes," he says eventually, with an idly friendly glance toward Jason.

Jean-Batiste gently takes the cutlery out of Trace's hand, sliding it onto the counter. "Go sit down," he says firmly, then grins. "I'm going to make breakfast for you guys. Do you guys want orange juice or milk?" Be damned if -he'll- let a chance to get nutritional food into his friends pass him by. Potatoes, onions, butter, milk, eggs...well, mostly nutritional. He bustles around, getting everything ready.

Walker foregoes the table, instead hopping up lightly to perch on the edge of one of the counters. His ankles crossing, he thumps an unshod heel against the cabinet in time to the growling beat of KMFDM pouring out of the other room. "I don' think I can let y'all move out now," he puts forth innocently. "I'm gettin' spoiled havin' Bat around ta do th' housework." A glimmer of mischief sparks in his eyes as he allows the grin out.

"Dun' like milk, so orange juice's cool," Trace mumbles with a grin as he heads back to his seat across from Jason at the table. To Walker he calls, "Just so's ya know Batiste's the one who'll do that shit, just coz he's so nice -- plus cook for ya -- and all we're gonna do is just play and sit on our asses!" He giggles.

You hear a knock on the door. (from Moss Street -- Bayou St. John)
A woman shouts from somewhere nearby, "It's the plumber. I've come to fix the sink!"

Walker slides down off the counter and heads over to the door, rising up on his toes a little to peer out. At the call, he grins and tugs the door open.

Jean-Batiste looks over his shoulder at Walker, giving him a crooked grin. He mumbles something about earning his keep, still grinning, and fills up three glasses with orange juice. He gulps down half of one, then carries the other two over to deliver to Trace and Jason. Back to the sink, where he washes off a bunch of potatoes and sets them down. Knife. Knife. Where's the knife...he starts rummaging again.

Trace peers towards the door. Then at the sink. Then at Walker with confusion.

Benjamin regards Walker with a thoughtful smile, his vague-smiling expression beginning to fog over again as an obviously comfortable repartee settles into place. Not that he's outside the scene, or at all distant from it. He observes, he considers, but most of all, he ponders. Now and again his attention will single out a detail, and then drift back into contemplation again.

Alisynde opens the front door and steps inside.

Ali’s Desc:
A loosely plaited braid of pale blonde hair swings down to the slender waist of this woman: a few tendrils have worked their way loose, framing her face. Wide-set hazel eyes are hidden behind a truly odd pair of glasses: silver rimmed Lennon specs with one lens tinted red and the other blue. The rest of her face is pleasant enough, but unremarkable - save for a lone dimple that appears when she smiles.

Dark blue flowers scatter across the paler blue of this halter-top, the front and straps made out of lace that matches those flowers. A multi-colored ribbon skirt swirls about her legs: tightly woven to just above her knees, then loose to her ankles. Over this is a lighter, summerweight vest in pale cream: knee length with the requisite many pockets. A hemp choker - with a brass tree as the centerpiece - is worn around her neck. And not unsurprisingly, there are a pair of leather sandals covering her feet - the selfsame pair that seems to be worn year-round.

Alisynde drawls, "Damn, Walker. Y've got to stop answering the door like that. Ah may faint."

Benjamin leans his weight on one shoulder, at the entrance to the kitchen. Slowly pulling on a wine cooler, and watching the scene with an attention that seems only about three-quarters there.

Walker giggles softly, reaching to pull Ali into a close hug to encourage fainting prospects. "S'up? We're just havin' breakfast.. Bat's cookin'. Hungry?" He gears her gently toward the rather full kitchen.

Alisynde returns the hug, and then lets herself be steered. "Well, yeah. Old habits die hard, y'know. And that eating habit's one of the oldest.."

Walker chuckles, realeasing his hold on Ali to reclaim his seat on the kitchen counter. "I got Ben an invite ta Hell," he remarks as he settles himself, wishing his cigarettes would suddenly get up from the headboard upstairs and wander his way. "Gotta go shoppin' an' get him some appropriate clothes..." He casts Ben a sly, tight-lipped smile, eyes lingering on his face for a moment before his attention returns to the kitchen at large.

Benjamin flutters his lashes to clear his vision at the sound of his name, and flashes a rare, brilliant smile. Lingering is a talent and trait of the languid, and his attention sticks to Walker for the moment. "I'm forever indebted," he mumbles amusedly, ostensibly for Alisynde though he hasn't quite looked her way yet.

Alisynde smiles warmly to the group as she enters the kitchen. "Hi Trace, Jean, Jason, Ben..." Ben? She tosses a look over at Walker. A look full of raised, questioning eyebrows. Then..."Shopping. Wooboy. Ben, you're in for a rare treat. This man has excellent taste."

Trace looks over at Ben curiously. So he's going to Hell too? Huh. To him it seems like nearly the whole party's going to have gotten an invite through Walker. He tries to catch Ali's eye for a brief wave, then turns slightly in his chair to watche Batiste do mysterious cooking things with slight fascination.

Alisynde goes on to say, "You should see the one he picked out for me.." She looks over at Trace and Jean. "Oh dear. You do realize, Walker, I'm going to give these poor boys heart failure, don't you?"

Walker simply smiles in return to Ali's look. The mock-oblivion in his expression wilts away quickly at the compliment. "Aww... Thanks, Ali. I try..." His chin lowers coyly, enhancing the dark-lipped smile which immediately slides home into devilish. "That's what I'm hopin' for..." He waggles his brows at her and scoops his water bottle back up. That brings something to mind. "Help yourself ta a drink..." He motions with his bottle to the fridge.

Benjamin flicks his hand toward Walker's current, inspired ensemble, fingers flickering out to indicate him. "I can see that," he murmurs, softly amused. "And if he's going to dress me, I hope it'll be as warm as Hell is rumored to be." He quirks a teasing brow at the man's shirtless state, and settles the amused smirk quite firmly on his lips.

Alisynde pulls open the fridge. "Have any juice fresher than Nixon's presidency in here?"

Trace hefts his own glass of orange juice, recently poured. "Yeah. Walker actually went shopping! Weird, huh." He beams and takes a noisy sip from the glass.

Jean-Batiste looks rather oddly at some of the contents of Walker's kitchen cupboards, but doesn't snoop more than is necessary to produce proper cooking utensils. He straightens up with a chef's knife, and smiles shyly at Ali. "Hey, Ali...d'you want some breakfast, too?" He sets out a cutting board, and starts to slice up potatoes. Chop-chop, to remove each end, before julienne strips start appearing with impressive speed.

Alisynde pulls out the orange juice, and nods, even though Bat can't see it. "Please."

Jean-Batiste is leaving the potato skins on the fries, for everyone's notice. If anyone doesn't like it, they'd better speak up fast - he's chopping his way through the potatoes pretty quick. If nobody speaks up, he starts on the onions next, mincing them into little squares.

Walker giggles. "I got a sneak peek at th' club when I went ta grab ya an invite," he says to Ben as though there wasn't a lot of browbeating, 3rd degree and general ass kissing going on to get it. "An' it's gonna be..." His eyes roll to accent the wide grin. "Somethin' else." He swings his legs a little, then squints at Ben. "Ya do know what th' party's about, right?" He's been assuming that since Ben was at Avril's place that he knows the lowdown, which may well not be true.

Alisynde finds a clean glass, pours herself a hefty dose o' sunshine, and sticks the bottle back in the fridge. She indulges herself in a drink, then sighs. "Mm. Weather must be getting warmer. Cold drinks are starting to taste...just fantastic." She mentions not skins on potatos. They're good for you, after all. Then again, she's drinking juice again and not going into the relative merits of tubers.

You hear a knock on the door. (from Moss Street -- Bayou St. John)

Walker blinks as his door's rapped on again and slides off the counter again. Over to the door to peep out once more. Damn. Grand Central Station today...

"Mmmhmmmmm. I think Mr. Engler said something about the depths of human depravity?" queries Ben nonchalantly, over a swig of wine cooler. "I wasn't shocked at the leash idea, now was I?"

Jean-Batiste slides a skillet onto the stove, and drops a sinful amount of butter into it, turning the element on. While he waits for it to melt, he starts cracking eggs into a large bowl. No chefly flourishes or anything, but there'll be no crunchy surprises in the eggs, either. A splash of milk, some salt and pepper, and he starts to beat the mixture up with a fork. Ben gets a -look- from behind his braids when a leash is mentioned. Whozzit?

A man shouts from somewhere nearby, "Doug!"

Walker opts to call though the door, unable to see whoever's on the other side. He smiles as he hears the name and tugs open the door.

Glass opens the front door and steps inside.

Glass smiles a bit, "Hi."

Walker grins at Glass, stepping aside to let him join the fun. "Hey! S'up?" If things keep up like this he's going to have to get larger furniture to hold all the drop bys. "We're just about ta have a bite ta eat."

Trace smiles at Glass' arrival, "Heya.. What're you doing here, just stopping by?"

Benjamin winks idly at Batiste, his smile soft and good-natured. Perhpas he was only kidding with that comment... perhaps not. Care to ask further? He drifts a glance toward the new arrival and inclines his head in greeting. Forgets to lift it again.

Trace gets up from his table and moves over to Batiste's side. "Cool, you left the skins on," he grins. "My favorite part. So you gonna be able to cook fer all these people? I mean, did Walker buy enough groceries even?"

Glass nods, "Yeah, pretty much. I got something cool."

The butter starts crackling softly, and Batiste swirls it around in the skillet, bringing the mound of raw potatoes over to the stove. He waits until it's crackling louder, then dumps the potatoes in, stirs them all around, and sets the lid down on top. Bustle, bustle, bustle - and be damned if he doesn't look delighted to be doing it all. Another skillet is started with a smaller amount of butter, the bowl of eggs set beside it. Batiste even hums to himself a little, looking around to make sure everything's under control. After peering at Benjamin for a second and making a mental note to ask -later-, he grins at Trace. "Yeah, sure. We'll have to buy him another bag of potatoes and a carton of eggs, though, but...hey, grab me the loaf of bread, will you?"

Walker heads for the stairs this time instead of the kitchen counter, needing a cigarette. He disappears upstairs only to reappear a few heartbeats later, smokes and lighter in hand. He launches off the third step up, landing lightly to prowl back over to his spot. Hefting himself up onto the counter he lights a cigarette and peers at Glass. "What did ya get?" Curiosity can't be quelched. And Walker's got a lot of it. "Don' worry 'bout replacin' th' groceries, Bat... they'll only rot on me without somebody around ta cook 'em," he grins.

Alisynde arches eyebrows again...this time at Benjamin, but for all of about...oh, 2 seconds. Then a simply devilish grin appears on her face. Then, of course, she...has another drink of orange juice, followed by a wave to Glass and a cheerful, "Mornin', Lord Douglas."

Glass says, "Happy Baklava!"
Glass grins at Alisynde, "Hello, Droog Alisynde."

Trace dutifully moves to the fridge and digs around for a moment before coming up with a loaf of bread, wrapped in colorful plastic. He carries it over, but does happen to ask on the way, "So.. you gonna tell us what you got, Glass?"

Benjamin breathes out shortly, perhaps a soft laugh, kept well to himself. Just the looks from Batiste and Alisynde satisfy him immensely, and he gazes off at some point on the kitchen floor to mull them over. Jean-Batiste nabs the leftover blackened catfish, and slides it into the crackling butter. It doesn't take very long at all to heat the fish through on both sides and slide it back onto the plate. He finds a fork, and sneaks two small forkfuls of the fish, chewing with a grin as he hands the plate to Trace. "Here you go. Eat up, it's great." Back to the potatoes he goes, taking the lid off to stir them all around. Stuff starts smelling good - fried potatoes, butter, onions, general breakfast scents.

Glass takes a square shallow tupperwear from his pocket, "This." Yep, it looks like baklava.

Walker thinks 'Happy Baklava'? What... is that baklava made with LSD or something..? He mentally shrugs it aside, puffing on his cigarette as he enjoys the warm smells of food while it lasts. "What's in it?"

Glass says, "Kind bud."

Walker chuckles, sweet-scented smoke curling up. "Cool. Where'd ya get it from?" And is there more? And once more he's sliding down to wander off in search of an ashtray. Scavenging one from the sitting room he sets it on the counter next to his water and assumes a lean there.

Benjamin lifts his head a bit, a thought formulating, and he comments quietly, "Shit, it's Monday." Through squinted eyes he seeks out the nearest clock, which eventually he finds to be the watch on his wrist. "I have a department meeting in an hour."

Alisynde inhales, an almost whistling sound. "Ooooooooh." She looks like she's died and gone to heaven. Or at least a purgatory where they serve baklava. And happy baklava to boot.

Glass says, "From somebody who's girl made it."

Alisynde chuckles. "Well. Happy baklava would certainly liven that meeting up.."

Walker blinks and looks to Ben. "I hate it when that happens," he remarks. It sounds rather sincere, too. "Ya want ta drop by tamorra aftanoon an' we'll go shoppin'?"

Glass looks at Benjamin, "Want some baklava?

Jean-Batiste stirs the potatoes up again, then starts laying out serving bowls and plates. Toast is started - while he waits for it to be ready, he sautees the minced onions, adds salt and pepper to them, then pours in the eggs. Scramble the eggs, stir the potatoes, repeat. The first batch of toast pops up, and is quickly buttered, the next round started before he hustles back to the stove to tend the food. He looks up at Benjamin in mild dismay, and calls, "See you tomorrow..." to him before turning back to breakfast.

Trace takes his plate eagerly. The last he ate was those seven beignets back in Jackson Square. As he manuvers through the crowd back to his table, he's already snitching bites of the catfish with his fingers, filling his mouth like a squirrel packing away for the winter, and while he chews vaguely, he hasn't swallowed yet. It's quite a mouthful by the time he slides into his seat.

Benjamin sets his empty bottle aside and straightens, sliding fluidly through the kitchen. He pauses once at Walker to nod and very nearly purr, "Love it," and touch his hand in farewell. Next pause it at Glass' side to smile dreamily at him, and request he be saved a bit the next time there's exotic pastry to be shared.

Glass grins at Benjamin, "Okay."

Walker melts just a little, hip pressing against the counter to catch the melt before it goes too far. "...see ya tamorra..." What a silly grin. He pulls a long drag off his cigarette, giving Ben a little finger-wave.

Benjamin positively slinks out the door, with a quirk of the hip.

Benjamin goes home.

Alisynde sighs. "That's it. I'm going to become a guy."

Glass looks at Ali, "How?"

Ali's comment seems to snap Walker out of whatever kind of reverie that was he just fell into. "Hmm? What? Become a guy?" He blows a couple of smoke rings at her. "Why?"

Trace swallows *hard*. Ack. He needs to take a drink of orange juice to get it all the way down comfortably, and it twists his lips with slight distaste and amusement. Because of *course* orange juice is going to taste bizarre with cat fish. He decides that despite his hunger, he needs to slow down and actually enjoy this lovely meal Batiste has prepared for him.

Jean-Batiste starts humming. You all know the tune. Walker and Benji, sitting in a tree... The eggs get scrambled into mounds of gold fluffiness and set aside, the potatoes given a final stirring before he loiters by the toaster, making a small tower of buttered toast.

Alisynde shrugs, grinning. "Well. I could feasibly become a millionare by winning a contest and go get the operation." She wrinkles her nose at Walker. "Cause every single guy I meet who I find attractive prefers men, that's why. Well. And I could write my name in the snow. I've always found that rather appealing. Then again, that would necessiate me going someplace where there's enough snow to do that...."

Glass looks at Ali, "All of them?"

Walker smiles, giving a soft chuckle. "Ya could write your name on Bourbon," he suggests, then he throws in a rather lewd wink. "An' I like women just as much as I like men. Each're great in their own ways." He pulls another drag, looking most Cheshire Cat leaned and grinning that way.

Trace giggles at Alisynde's wish. "When we're rich and famous, we'll get ya a penis for christmas, okay, Ali?" He actually uses the fork this time to get the bite of catfish to his mouth! Wonder of wonders.. Contentedly he works the morsel between his jaws and sucks at the buttery-sweet juice.

Alisynde says, "Well no. But the rest have girlfriends. Or wives. Or wives and girlfriends, and while I really have no problem with the concept of them being married, I really haven't found one that was worth more than a couple of good long sessions of sex with. The relationship thing is just messy." She grins at Trace. "As long as it's detachable. Y'know, for when I feel like being my womanly self..""

Alisynde reaches back and flips her braid, affecting a simpering pose.

Glass grins.

Jean-Batiste breaks into a trill of embarrassed, blushing laughter, looking back over his shoulder at Trace. "We could get her one now, you know. It'd just be..." He decides he can't finish without -completely- embarrassing himself, and turns back to finish making breakfast, turning pinker when he hears Ali's words.

Walker loses his composure with Trace's remark, being put in mind briefly of an old tune 'Detachable Penis'. "Now that'd be a helluva present ta find unda th' tree! An' ya know," he sobers a little, grinning wickedly at Ali, "I could easily help ya out with becomin' a part-time man..." He winks again, this time not so lewdly - more teasing.

Alisynde blows Walker a kiss, and starts to say something...but catches herself when Jean pinkens. Instead, she leans in to mutter to Walker.

"Yeah... yeah," Trace decides with a grin, the next piece of catfish poised and just waiting for him to shut up and eat already, "It'd have to be detachable, coz it's like, some of us ain't lucky enough to be like Walker and we'd actually prefer yer... y'know, womanly self." He blushes through his big grin and slips the piece of catfish into his mouth.

Alisynde mutters to Walker, "Actually,... a strap... a... dildo.... I'm... one."

Jean-Batiste sets out a stack of plates, cutlery, glasses beside the milk and orange juice, then spoons the scrambled eggs and panfries into serving bowls. The toast is set out on a saucer, along with peanut butter. He checks a jar of jam he finds, and stares at the contents. It gets surreptitiously slid into the garbage. "Okay," he announces. "It's ready. Come and eat." He dishes up first, though - chef's perks and all. Trace flushes brighter when he overhears parts of Ali's confession and averts his eyes, grinning. He looks up again, however, as Batiste returns with more food. Good thing, too. He's made fast work of this catfish and there's just a few pieces left on his plate.

Walker blinkblinkblinks. Then he does it again, just to be sure he did that right. Good thing she whispered that; if it affects Walker that much, who knows what it would do to Bat. Walker's lips pull into the slinkiest smile, eyes sliding to half-mast as he looks to Ali. Oh, my, my! "You are a jewel, Ali..." he purrs, pulling another drag from his cigarette.

Glass lifts a brow at Walker.

Alisynde winks at Trace. "Well. I'm glad you like my womanly attributes." Another grin is tossed at Walker. "An' you may profess to like women, but I've yet to see you turn into a panting bitch in heat when you see one," she saysaffectionately.

The stereo falls silent for a moment then switches over to Nine Inch Nails 'Pretty Hate Machine'.

Jean-Batiste did -not- hear 'strap' and 'dildo' in the same sentence. Nope. He's busy carrying his plate of food over to the table and sitting down.

Glass says, "Does he turn into a panting bitch over boys?"

Trace laughs. "You weren't in the pool that one day when Ayita did what Batiste asked of 'er..!" he grins up at Ali.

Glass looks at Jean-Batiste.

Walker's expression shifts gears agiley into one of offhandedness. "I do.. I'm just a little more discreet about it." He grins at Glass, one brow quirking. "In a way... yes."

Glass grins. "Cool."

"Didn't think she'd actually -do- it..." Batiste mumbles, stuffing his pink-cheeked face with scrambled eggs.

Alisynde snags up cutlery and a plate, then waits for her turn for the food. As she spoons her portion out, she comments to Glass, "Yup." She starts to wander over to the table, then stops, and smiles very, very slowly, her head tilted just so. Makes her look rather evil...must be that smile. "Oh? /Do/ tell."

Trace holds up his hands, still grinning. "Okay, guys? Guys, I'm gonna try and eat now, okay? No more dildos and panting bitches... We can just, y'know, talk about the fuckin' weather or something. Please?" He picks up his fork again.

Glass says, "It's raining. Again."

Walker's smile falters a half-beat at Trace's words then refreshes again as he pulls on his cigarette. "Ayita posed for us in th' pool... Bat asked her ta do a 'come-hitha' type-a look when we were talkin' about modellin'. An' she did. In th' nude." Another wicked gleam touches his dark eyes. Oo! Food is a good plan. He grinds his cigarette out and sweeps in to claim a plate. Then it's back to the counter, graceful as an owl snatching up prey and returning to its roost.

Alisynde sets her plate on the table, then snags a chair and turns it around. "Then she plonks herself in it, and leans on the top. "Oh, /really/?" She smiles wickedly, looking right at Jean. But at Trace's comment, she sighs, and pouts. "Oh, very well. No sex with breakfast." She spears a mouthful of egg, not bothering to turn the chair back, and pops it in her mouth. Glee glitters in those hazel eyes of hers as she listens.

Trace dots his fork across his plate, cramming the last five or six bits onto one forkful. Thuck, thuck, thuck... "Ayita's a real good model," he says with an underlying sly grin, and that's all he's going to comment on that particular show in the pool and how he felt about it.

Glass says, "There are too many models in this town."

Walker giggles around a bite. Ali probably doesn't need that encouragement but he can't help himself. Or won't. "She's wondaful..." he agrees after swallowing. His expression tightens a smidge and he focuses for the time being on eating quietly.

Alisynde swallows, offers, "'M not a model." Another forkful off egg, and a torn-off piece of toast. Munch.

It's good food. Soul food, or something like that. Nothing like a home-cooked breakfast - Batiste is polishing his food off like a starving streetrat. Oh, wait. He -is- a starving streetrat. After washing down a mouthful of food with orange juice, he looks up at Glass and asks, "D'you want some breakfast, too?"

Glass grins, "I'm glad you're not. Dunno, any extra?"

Trace nods faintly, as he busies himself scooping huge, mountainous portions onto his plate. "Yeah. Yeah, I totally could never date a model, y'know? S'like... that's all intimidating. If I found a girl, she'd probably be all scruffy and on the street too, y'know?" he smiles and plucks up a chunk of egg that slipped off his overstuffed plate, slipping it into his mouth without hesitance.

Alisynde swallows. "'D never want to be one. I /like/ eating." At the rate she's going, she's nearly at a pace with Trace and Jean. Older starving streetrat.

Walker finally seems to find his voice again after a sip of water. "I'd do a model." Not date, mind you. "They're people. Ya just have ta get ovva th' Barbie-doll idea. They're just people."

Alisynde snorts. "Well, /I'd/ do a male model. Heck. I'd do a female if I found her cute enough. Date's a whole different can of eggs, though." Speaking of eggs, hers are gone. So's most of her toast..

Glass says, "A can of eggs?"

Jean-Batiste turns his glass of orange juice around in his hands, then murmurs, "I think it'd be terrible to have your gift out where everyone could see it. It's too bad models can't hide that they're beautiful, and only show it when they want." Points To Ponder, by Batiste. He looks over at Glass and smiles shyly at him. "Sure, dig in, I was making enough for Ben, and he left. You can have his share."

Trace takes a moment to respond, because his cheeks are packed with eggs, but you can see it bright in his eyes that he wants to respond. Finally, after a huge swallow, "Well, sure, I know they're people. I'd hang out with a model." He giggles. "Y'know, I'm just bullshitting here, first model who ever even looked at me like I weren't gum on their shoe was Ayita... Never thought I could, like, have conversations with one or swim in one's pool..." He's readying another bite, playing a game of trying to get a little of each type of food onto his fork. "Sides. I already know who I'm gonna marry." The masterpiece forkful is finished, and he grins and happily crams it.

Alisynde grins sheepishly. "Food on the brain. Sorry."

Glass smiles at Jean, "Cool, thanks." He goes to serve up.

Alisynde thinks for a moment. Who would Trace marry? "Kate Winslet!"

Walker was wondering the same thing as Glass. "I don' date," he shrugs. "Got ovva that when I was in junyah high school. I'd do just about..." He stops that right there, not wanting to be held to that at a later point. He nods sagely to Bat, feeling much the same. Of course he's somewhat of an expert at hiding things... "Yeah. Ya should only have ta share it when ya feel like it." He chuckles at Ali's comment. "She's skinny an' scruffy enough. 'Specially in the CK ads..."

Glass digs in, eagerly enough.

Epilogue: And with that, the family just finishes breakfast together, so we end on an anti-climatic yet cheerful note.

Back to the Roleplay Log Archive