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Log Title: Once Dawn Comes

Log Setting: Walker's place, a little before sunrise.

Log Cast:
Jason
Jean-Batiste
Trace

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Jean-Batiste was probably sitting up in Walker's couch, several hours ago. He's long since melted into a comfortable half-reclining sprawl, one hand resting loosely in Glass's hair, the other dangling off the side of the couch. There's an ashtray holding the familiar tiny silver pipe on the coffee table, and Batiste's backpack is nearby. He snores quietly, occasionally giving a quiet cough before settling down again.

Trace freezes, half-way to the living room, when the soft, familiar sounds of a sleeping Batiste reach him. Well... couch is out. He remains still, considering the stairs. Are Walker and Ben up there? Should he just try and make it to a chair...?

Jason, on the other hand, was quite /not/ asleep. He might not have been here long... or he might have been here all night. It's hard to tell, but he's perched halfway up the stairs, looking down the hallway at the door. See, /his/ eyes are adjusted to the early-morning non-light, so his green eyes trace Trace's travel all the way from the door down the hall. Creak. Creak. Jason shifts slightly, moving a crudely-bandaged left hand against his knee. Even if Trace /does/ see the moment, Jason doesn't say anything. Just watches.

Glass is lying across the rest of the couch, his head pillowed by Batiste's leg. He's got one hand trailing on the floor and one stockinged foot up on the armrest.

Well.... stairs are closer, Trace decides. He'll try. Hopefully either Walker and Ben have crashed out at Ben's place, or maybe it's just Walker and he can curl up at the foot of the bed there. Rubbing at his eyes wearily for a moment, he does look quite exhausted as he makes his way closer to the base of the steps. He starts up, shoulders drooping, and his eyes slightly downcast. It's not until three or four steps up that he finally realizes with a sharp jump in the gut that the shape there blocking his path is Jason, and a soft yelp escapes his lips.

Jean-Batiste coughs again and mumbles, quietly smacking his mouth a couple of times to try and get the little woolen sweaters off his teeth. He rubs at his eyes clumsily and turns his head, nuzzling his cheek against the back of the couch. He seems ready to sink back into sleep when Trace yelps - his eyes flash wide and confused as he blinks at the darkness, trying to figure out what woke him up.

Jason doesn't move at all upon Trace's soft exclamation, just looks down at the blue-haired boy with eyes, both probing and closed. His expression gives away nothing except that, well, he looks like hell. His sugar-high must have died years ago, from the looks of him. Eyebrows raise slightly as he takes in Trace's form, and then he murmurs, very softly (probably just the hum of it reaching the ears of those on the couch), "Funny how the night loses its magic once dawn comes. Reminds us where we /should/ be, 'stead a' where we /wanna/ be."

"I ain't guilty," Trace asserts with defense. And it's bullshit, of course; guilt is painted all over his expression, but he insists, "Just the noble pursuit of a pretty girl, s'all..." He squints through the dimness and takes in your bandaged hand, his eyes widening slightly. "Wh... you get hurt?" He doesn't keep his voice as soft as Jason -- the others might hear him. Not clearly, perhaps -- the occasionaly word drifting in and out of the silence.

Jean-Batiste twists his upper body a little, stretching as he yawns, then slouches back against the couch. He rubs at his eyes again, stifling a second yawn, trying to decide if he's really hearing something or if the old house is just making noises to tweak his imagination again. He blinks sleepily at the doorway, listening.

Glass gets jostled by Batiste's stretching. He opens his eyes and stirs a bit, reaching up to rub his eyes.

You know, that defense, the pursuit of a pretty girl, would probably have been enough. Except... "Who said you were guilty?" Jason asks softly, in that tone of voice that says that Trace just screamed his guilt to him. His hand slides down his leg, hiding a little bit more beneath his coat. "Y'musta got some, hmm?" One eyebrow raises as he looks down at the other boy, the judge up on the podium, gazing upon the accused. And then the look is gone and he just shrugs, looking away, down the hallway. "Whatever... Hope she's cute." Jason? Mercurial? Naaaah.

"She was," Trace sighs, murmuring, "And I didn't get nothin' but fucked up and a cold pillow by mornin'. Not really a successful night, y'know?" He turns, retreats a few steps, but calls softly over his shoulder, "Now if yer done pokin', c'mon. Lemme see yer hand in some light. I'll wrap it up better fer ya."

Jean-Batiste coughs twice, clearing his throat after, then mumbles to Glass in a scratchy voice, "Wha' time 's it?" He ruffles two-toned hair for a moment, then pushes himself up just a little, squinting at the doorway as if it could make him hear better. "H'lo...?" he calls drowsily, leaning back against the armrest, braced on one elbow. "S'meone there...?" Hopefulness twinges in his voice.

Glass murmurs, "I don't know." He falls silent when Batiste starts to call out.

Jason doesn't look down to Trace but snarls softly, and a bit too quickly, "Fuck my hand." And then he lets out a soft sigh, shaking his head, and murmurs much softer, "M'hand's fine." He tilts his head at the sleepy voices from the sitting room, then smirks slightly. "Now look what you did..." he says quietly.

Trace utters a soft, frustrated sound, bringing his hands to his face and hiding there a moment. He finally lets his hands fall back to his sides and calls, "Yeah... yeah, Batiste. S'just me. Didn't mean t'wake ya." He looks up at Jason with his brow furrowed slightly in tired, cranky confusion. He drops his voice to hiss, "I was only offerin' t'help ya. Why're you pissed off, anyway? Mural ain't done yet... I ain't broken any promises t'you."

"Mmmokay..." comes Batiste's drowsy reply. He rubs Glass's shoulder for a moment, murmuring to him, "I need to sit up, my foot's asleep..." then cocks his head towards the doorway again, trying to listen. It's frustrating at best - words here and there, indistinct murmurs and tones that he tries to patch together into a conversation.

Glass sits up, mumuring, "Um, okay. What's going on?" He shakes his head a bit, to clear it, then streches.

Jason's eyes snap down to Trace. /He/ brought it up this time, not Jason. And here Jason wanted to avoid it completely. "Did I /say/ anythin' 'bout no fuckin' promoses?" he hisses back, the proverbial hackles raising again. "Did I say /anythin'/ at all?" A wince as he clenches the bandaged hand (blood's already soaked through in a patch on his palm) and that just makes him snarl even more. "Makes me wonder if ya /wanna/ finish it. Or is Trace always gonna be incomplete?" Jason's lashing out again. Something's gotten under his skin and this isn't helping.

"Dunno, think Trace just got home," Batiste murmurs to Glass. "I'll-" He stops, frowning, then fumbles up to his feet. He wobbles disorientedly for a moment, looking down at Glass, then moves towards the doorway to see what's going on, his steps hobbled by a tingling, puffy-feeling foot. "You okay?" he calls softly as he leans around the doorway, peering into the shadows. "Is-" He pauses there, looking at the staircase.

Trace's eyes blink wide and he counters with a growl, "*I* don't wanna do the mural? Me? I was all set t'do it, actually! Waited around awhile, me'n Bat did... *Yer* the one who cut out on us, you...!" He bites his tongue to cut off the words. Doesn't want to go to far, even in anger and his disappointment over the night's events. But suffice to say, Batiste would not have trouble making out the heated words.

Glass sighs and stays where he is. He looks around for a cigarette.

Jean-Batiste's softpack (filled with Walker's licorice cloves as is usual these days) and little Bic lighter are probably somewhere on the coffee table, near the ashtray and pipe.

Jason's perch once again seems like it transforms itself into a preparation for a leap. But.. he doesn't want to go that far either. So he just crouches there, taking deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his hands (ignoring the bandage), eyes fixed on Trace. There's so much going on behind those eyes, but, as always, Jason isn't sharing. He disappeared without so much as a word, and it looks like he doesn't plan on talking now that he's reappeared. Finally, he just backs down, sitting back and looking away at the wall, jaw set... no... it quivers just a little.

Glass helps himself to one of Batiste's cigarettes. He stands up to light it, idling in indecision. He glances at his coat and boots near the door, then at Batiste's back.

"It's okay." Batiste says the words that are often said and rarely true. He moves forward, heading for the staircase, holding a hand out to draw Trace down towards the floor. No use in all three of them getting up there. "We were worried about you and didn't know where you went, that's all. It's hard to keep up to you, sometimes. Are you okay?" Batiste bundles up whatever he's currently feeling and sets it in the distance, trying to diffuse the situation at hand.

Trace obliges grudgingly, stepping down and finally deflating against the wall and peering up the stairwell sullenly. "Look, m'sorry. I'm just... pissed about other stuff mostly, and I'm just, I'm sorry. Okay?" His breathing is still a little heavy, but wills himself to cool off. The weariness hits him hard in the legs again, and he reaches out to wrap a small fist around the banister.

Jason just keeps his eyes on the wall. It's much more stable than he is right now. It just stays there and keeps things up. He knows that if he looks over at you two, something bad'll happen. He'll cry, he'll scream, he'll laugh, he'll... do /something/. He frowns at something, something uncomfortable. He looks down at his hand, brows furrowing, and runs a finger along the bandage. "I saw a crow outside," he finally says, softly. "Remembered what... that..." He laughs softly. "I used to love dogs, y'know."

Jean-Batiste draws Trace towards him, giving him a brief, loose hug as he looks up at Jason. His eyes close, head bowing a little. He stays quiet a few seconds and just squeezes Trace's shoulder, then gently releases his friend and steps uncertainly towards the staircase again. "Why don't you love them anymore?" he asks. A moment later, without giving Jason a chance to answer, he murmurs, "You're hurt. Come down here, so we can clean it up?" He climbs the first step, offering his hand up to Jason, watching the redhead with troubled, nervous eyes.

"He won't let you," Trace mumbles, "I already asked." He returns to leaning against the wall now that he's been released, arms folding. He leans his head back again and trains distant hazel eyes towards the ceiling a ways away, stewing and somewhat melancholy.

Jason looks down at Bat as he starts to come up the stairs, blinking a little. Then gets a tiny, crooked smile. "Where's Glass?" he asks softly, then giggles. "Wouldn't want to break him." And then a thought seems to strike him and he looks over to Trace. "We should get a car." To Batiste again. "You're old enough to drive, right?" He quietly slips his hands into his coat pockets as he speaks.

Glass hears his name and steps around into view. He's smoking still, and he looks at Jason and offers a small smile, "What you want a car for?"

Jean-Batiste closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing at the inner corners with thumb and forefinger. When he opens them, he looks steadily up at Jason again and says, "Glass is-" He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. Glass is right there, see? He puts his foot on the second step, leaning forward a little. "C'mon, come down? It looked like you were bleeding pretty bad." Worry pools in his eyes, though he's trying to stay calm.

Trace gives Jason a 'what the fuck?' look -- in other words very confused and too tired to be patient about it. First birds and dogs, now he's talking about cars out of no where... Laughing, too. "Wish I could understand you better sometimes," he admits under his breath. Then moving away from his spot on the wall, he heads towards the downstairs bathroom, mumbling, "I'll git some neosporin or somethin' t'help clean it with."

Oh look, Glass. Jason gets this gleam in his eyes. Rather unpleasant, actually, not quite... all there. He grins brightly to the man and murmurs, "Oh, hey... You looked pretty comfortable. Hope I didn' upset you too much in takin' yer pillow." The smile travels down to Batiste, who's gotten closer now, whoah. "M'hand's fine. Didn' mean ta wake ya." He heaves a soft sigh. "Fergit m'self sometimes when I'm bein' a hypocrite. Gotta rattle my can all loud."

Glass tilts his head to one side, looking at Jason. He murmurs, "It's fine. You are angry?" His dark eyes flicker to Batiste for a moment, then down. He drags on his cigarette, his expression forced impassivity.

Scuffle, rummage, clatter. The blue-haired kid makes his presence in the bathroom known, poking about Walker's drawers and cabinets for something to clean Jason's wound. Not that Jason's letting them near it, but just in case, Trace will have it ready.

Jean-Batiste turns his head a little to watch Trace walk off, sighing a little. He sighs more when he hears what Jason has to say, looking up at the redhead with a pained, pleading expression. "Jason, please, just...come down?" He takes a step down, off the stairs, as if to say 'See? Nothing blocking your way,' and glances back at Glass, mouth set in a neutral, crooked line.

Jason looks between Glass and Batiste... then shrugs and pushes off, tramping down the steps and past Bat, heading to the kitchen with a light step and a crooked smile. The whole stairs thing got boring. Time to move on. "Don' suppose Walks got some of those, um... dunno, marshmellow cereals, huh?" he calls over his shoulder. "Like Lucky Charms? 'R Count Choco-whassisname with the ghosts in it?"

Glass looks up, veiled in smoke. He gives Batiste an apologetic sort of look.

"I almost bought Lucky Charms..." Trace mumbles despondently, slipping out of the bathroom with a little tube in his hands. "Store didn't have 'em. Just gross stuff. Like Frosted Mini Wheats, which is a waste of frosting, puttin' it on that fiber shit." He trails towards the kitchen hesitantly, glancing back towards where Glass and Batiste stand.

"Count Chocula, I think," Batiste answers automatically, dully, watching Jason brush past into the kitchen. "And I think all he's got is Corn Flakes." He sinks his hands into his pockets, staring down at the floor. A brief glance is given to Glass, and a shake of the head - nothing to apologize for, he figures. He rubs his face, and heads into the living room to flick on a light and hunt down his cigarettes.

Glass sighs gently.

Jason wrinkles his nose as he yanks open the refridgerator, ewwwing audibly. "/Corn/ Flakes. Though Walks had a much healthier disrespect fer healthy stuff 'n /that/." Bottles rattle as he rummages around, then a sigh as he gives up and lugs out the jug of milk and hefts it to the table. He sets it down with a thump, kicks the 'fridge closed with his heel, then starts digging around in the cabinet.

A single lamp gets flicked on in the living room, followed by the flare of light as Batiste ignites his licorice clove and sits on the edge of the coffee table, arms folded on knees, blowing smoke towards the carpet. "He does. I'm the one who got it," he replies to Jason. He doesn't raise his voice to carry, so it's uncertain if it travels all the way to the kitchen.

Glass follows Batiste back into the living room and sits down on the couch again. "They're better. Corn flakes I mean. But not as good as just bread." He stops, realizing the lameness of his comment.

"He's worried 'bout our gettin' cavities, I think..." Trace explains as he slips into the kitchen and leans back slightly against the table, looking down at the yellow and white tube in his hands, fiddling with the lid. Finally he peeks up at Jason rummaging about and asks in a voice small and vulnerable, "Did you mean what you said? That you think I won't never be complete...?"

Jean-Batiste either doesn't notice the lameness of Glass's comment, or doesn't comment on it. He just looks up a little, rubbing at his eyes, and smiles weakly. "Yeah? Yeah, I like them. They're what I used to eat at home all the time. Corn Flakes and Life, sometimes, or that almond Mueslix stuff, or Froot Loops during the summer..." He rambles on about cereal for a while as if it was a serious matter in need of debate

Glass murmurs, "I didn't get cereal much. Maman, she cooked for real."

Jason yanks out the cereal and grabs a dirty bowl and spoon from the sink and puts all of them on the table as well. He goes back and snags the bag of sugar from on top of the 'fridge and is in the process of padding back when Trace asks his question. He pauses, tilts his head in brief thought, then shrugs and starts pouring his cereal. "Dunno, do ya wanna be?" He raises his eyes to Trace, eyes cold and sober despite his sudden 'rebound.' And then smirks crookedly and dumps more than several teaspoons of sugar over the cereal.

Jean-Batiste looks towards the kitchen and sighs heavily, triggering another couple coughs. He frowns down at his cigarette then drags again, smoke washing over his feet and the surrounding carpet. "Yeah?" he murmurs to Glass. "That...must have been cool. My folks both worked real early, I was usually the last one out of the house. I made breakfast on Sundays, usually, but..." He trails off and just stares down at the carpet, sucking on his clove as if it was his only source of oxygen.

Glass shrugs a bit and speaks on a slow curl of smoke, his voice soft. "No. It wasn't really very cool. I wish she'd left me alone." He shrugs a little.

Trace braves Jason's cold gaze for several moments, his own eyes sober too, liquid-bright but no longer layed bare and open to you. Finally he murmurs flatly, "S'all I ever wanted. Try so hard t'fill up everythin' that's empty in me..." He turns on his heel and strides out, leaving Jason to seek cavities on his own tonight. He stalks out towards the living room and considers the couch. "Wh-what's goin' on?" he murmurs, but glances up towards the stairs. Maybe it's time to go to bed. Staying up won't make him less tired.

Jean-Batiste looks up at Glass and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Oh," he murmurs, and looks away, trying to decide on something else to talk about. He looks over when Trace stalks in, eyes focussing past the blue-haired boy to the kitchen, then returning to Trace. "Nothin'," he says, sitting up a bit and filling up his lungs with smoke until they ache. "Just talking. He wouldn't let you touch his hand?" It's not much of a question, really.

Jason pauses in the middle of pouring his milk as Trace speaks, then sets the jug aside and slowly lowers himself into the chair as Trace walks out, eyes fixed on the cereal, piled high with sugar, half-sunk in milk. It stays silent in there, no sounds of slurping. Or spoon on bowl, for that matter.

Glass looks at Trace, his eyes dark and soft with a pensive expression. He looks down again.

Trace shakes his head numbly and moves over to Batiste, pressing the little tube into his hand. "Didn't get t'ask again. Here. In case ya can git closer..." He looks up towards the stairs again. "You try. I just.. I need to git t'bed. I been up too long.." He squeezes Batiste's fingers gently before relenquishing the neosporin. A strained chuckle. "This is still last night t'me, and you guys all scratchin' fer breakfast... G'night, okay?"

Glass sighs, and nods.

Jean-Batiste takes the tube of Neosporin and curls his fingers loosely around it, nodding to Trace. "Okay. I'll try again." He reaches up and touches Trace's face for a moment, tousling the tufts of a couple blue braids, then carefully eases a smile onto his face. "You get some sleep...I'll see you when you wake up. Sweet dreams," he adds, looking back towards the kitchen, then down to the little tube in his hand.

Glass murmurs, "How did he hurt his hand?"

There's a soft rattle of the spoon in the bowl, but only once. Otherwise it's really quiet in the kitchen, like Jason wasn't doing /anything/ in there

"Dunno. I'm gonna let you two worry 'bout it f'now." Trace reaches out and rubs at Glass' two-colored hair with a little smile, just because it looked really interesting to touch there for a moment. "See ya this afternoon prolly..." He smiles a little and trudges wearily towards the stairs.

Glass nods to Trace, and smiles brightly for a brief moment, "Sleep well."

Glass looks back to Batiste. He studies the other for a long moment, looking like he wants to say something but can't think of what.

Jean-Batiste watches Trace move for the stairs until he can't see the blue-haired boy anymore, then sighs and looks down at his hands again. He takes the last drag off his clove and twists around to grind it out, then draws in a deep breath and stares up the ceiling as he coughs. "I'd...better go see if he'll let me clean his hand up," he murmurs, pushing himself to his feet and looking back at Glass.

Glass murmurs, "I maybe better go. He didn't look happy to see me." He glances away and hunches his shoulders a little.

Jean-Batiste counters Glass's murmur with a soft, dull murmur of his own. "He didn't look happy to see either of us, neither, so." He rubs at his eyes, digging thumb and forefinger into the inner corners and squinting against them for a few seconds. "You don't have to go. You're my friend. It's not like I can't have other friends."

Glass murmurs, "Well. I guess." He shrugs a little bit, adds, "I just don't want to make things worse, you know?"

Finally there's another sound from the kitchen, the sound of the chair creaking faintly. The soft sound of Jason humming (singing?) to himself drifts down the hall.

Jean-Batiste drops his hand and looks back at Glass. "It's okay. If...if you want to go, I understand..." He trails off, looking towards the kitchen. And then Glass leaves, and Jason ends up leaving, and he does what? Clean up the pantry, probably, if the brooms don't attack him when he opens the door. "But...it's...you're not making things worse." He summons up a weak smile, watching Glass a few seconds longer, then readjusts his fingers around the tube of Neosporin and moves towards the kitchen, tentatively calling, "Jason...?"

Glass nods and murmurs, "I'll stay a while. I don't want to go, Shay's place is so empty." He lies down on the couch and stares up at the ceiling, his expression closed.

Jason is in the kitchen, right where he was when Trace left him. Only his bandage is laying in the bowl of cereal and he has his hand up in front of him for inspection. He prods gently at the wound with the tip of his knife (it's a rather intricate thing, you may have caught glimpses of it before, but he's never taken it out - it seems more suited for a renaissance faire than as a practical weapon of self-defense... but hey, it's real). You can't see the wound itself, as his hand's angled away from the hallway, but what you can see is a black and purple mess. If the bandage is anything to judge by, it's a rather messy wound.

Jean-Batiste chews on the inside of his cheek, faltering. Maybe Jason's in shock, maybe that's why he's been so odd, tonight? Maybe, but...how likely? Batiste sighs softly, and moves towards the redhead, murmuring, "Jason, I'm going to get something to help you clean that up, okay?" He tries to sound decisive, but the 'Please...?' hangs in the air anyways. What a wimp.

Jason lifts his head and blinks at Batiste, his humming stopping. Head tilted, he looks a little oddly at the older boy, brows furrowed. But then he smiles and offers helpfully, "Already washed it off, s'just a little bite s'all. Don' needa bother yerself." With that, he goes back to looking at whatever it is, though he does set the knife down on the table, the stylized fox's head of the hilt gleaming a bit in the early-morning light.

Jean-Batiste thinks back to something Jason said a while earlier, then frowns suddenly and says, "A dog bit you? Did it have any tags? You might need a rabies shot..." He is, it would seem, already bothering himself. He steps closer to Jason, glancing for a moment to the knife before examining the wound closer. He puts the Neosporin down on the table as he leans against the edge, eyes flickering from the wound to Jason's face, worried and unhappy.

Well, the wound doesn't look quite right for a dog's bite, honestly, because that would be on both sides of the hand, right? And, well, the teeth-marks look... A human bit him, and hard, almost (but not quite) taking a chunk out of the heel of his hand, actually. Which would explain the color, considering the force needed to have /human/ teeth draw blood like that. He glances back up at Batiste with a smirk. "Y'know that little birdie who tells you things? Never try to shut it up." He goes on, even cheerier, "Don't worry, really. I'll have it cleaned up by tomorrow. Won't make a mess, promise." And then he adds, out of the blue, his tone suddenly gone sad, "I don't think Trace likes me anymore."

Jean-Batiste shakes his head, somewhere between stubborn and irritated. "It's not about making a mess, it's-" He sighs heavily, looking away from the wound to Jason's face for a second, then dropping his eyes to the floor. "Just, just stay right there, okay? I'll go get some gauze." And off he goes, towards the bathroom, looking towards the living room for a moment as he goes. He knows what human teeth look like when they've bitten into someone...he just doesn't know what happened that someone would bite Jason like that. Or, rather, he doesn't want to think about it. Right now, at least. Just concentrate on getting gauze and medical tape and peroxide, and worry about it later, Batiste.

Jason calls softly after Batiste, "It's okay, Bat, really... I understand. I'm not..." His voice drifts off, Batiste's already off getting Stuff. He heaves a soft sigh and picks up the knife, starting to dig the tip into the tabletop.. then realizes that Walker probably would enjoy having something carved into his table and so puts the knife back down. For once, Jason does as he's told and stays put. Because that way, he can keep things together and no one can be mad at him.

Glass stays silent in the living room, stretched out on the couch with his eyes closed. It doesn't take long for Batiste to find the supplies he's looking for - he's getting fairly familiar with the contents of most of Walker's home. Gauze, medical tape, peroxide and cotton balls. And painkiller, belatedly, because something like that has to -hurt-, surely. He returns, sliding them onto the table, and sinks down into a chair around the corner from Jason, holding out a hand to silently ask for Jason's injured one. He murmurs, "Trace loves you. He'll always like you, even if he's upset at you. I think he just didn't understand what you were saying, and why, that's all." Not that -Batiste- did, either, but...you know. Trying to stay impartial and all.

Jason shrugs a little, placing his injured hand, the left one, in yours, and looks across the room at the wall. "Trace is sure I don't love him anymore..." Then, head tilted, he looks to Batiste. "'N you too. S'why I un'nerstand, y'see? S'okay with me now." He heaves a sigh, then gives you a meek, little look, "I'm a bad friend, aren't I?"

Jean-Batiste gently turns your hand a little, this way and that, examining the wound. (And turned on a light somewhere along the way if you hadn't.) He opens the bottle of peroxide and sets the lid aside, looking at you for a while. He looks...tired. Maybe ill, considering the redness of his eyes, though that could just be the dope. Confused, hurt, sad...a whole jumble of things beneath the dully shining exterior of his eyes. "I'm sure Trace believes you love him. I..." He smiles weakly, trying to bolster the expression. "I believe it, too." Believe, rather than know, like believing in pixies or gnomes. He squeezes your fingers, takes a deep breath, and murmurs, "You're a difficult friend. But you're not bad. And you're worth it, even when you make us crazy."

Jason looks at you for a long moment, silent, appraising your expression... and then looks down, away from you, tears glimmering in his eyes. No, no knowledge. And very little belief, in his eyes. "...drive you crazy... Guess it's contagious," he mumbles. And then laughs softly, his eyes rising back to yours, shimmering, "What's worth havin' a friend who ya don' trust?" And then he adds, bitterly, almost like an attack, "'N you'd be stupid ta trust me..."

Jean-Batiste looks down to your hand, away from your tear-bright eyes, closing his own for a moment as something lurches inside him and starts to ache. When he opens them again, he soaks a cotton ball with peroxide and carefully starts dripping the cool liquid on the bite wounds, letting them fizzle and bubble softly as he moves on to the next. At least it doesn't sting like iodine would. "Then I'm stupid," he finally murmurs, eyes still focussed on your hand. "Because I love you and I trust you, too." Maybe he -is- stupid for risking himself and his heart. He's wondered that many a time when the whole house is sleeping except for him. But always, the answer is no. The risk, the possibility of hurt, it's all part of the price of not wanting to be alone anymore.

Jason gives you this look, bewildered and scared, like a little kid lost and alone in a big person's world, then ducks his head and begins to quietly cry as you clean his wound. What questions he asks himself are just as hidden as everything else about him. But whatever they and their answers are, it's clear that his overwhelming lonliness would allow him no other choice than this anyway. No other words come while you apply the peroxide. Only tears and the occasional soft, shoulder-shaking sob.

Jean-Batiste doesn't immediately try to take you in his arms the moment you start to cry, though it makes that ache inside him double, then triple, the longer he stays away. He finishes with the peroxide and smears on Neosporin with a light touch, then wraps a few layers of gauze over the wound. By the time he's fixing the gauze down with medical tape, his fingers are fumbling a little with it all, trying to hurry without messing it up or hurting you. As soon as he's done he's on his feet, moving the two steps it takes to reach your side and bend over to try and fold you into a tight embrace, one hand smoothing over your hair and down your shoulders. "Jason..." he sighs, "I'm sorry, I just...want you to be happy, and I don't know how to help, sometimes..." He closes his eyes, cheek against the top of your head.

Jason burrows into your side as you wrap him in your arms, his sobs, which had begun to taper off, suddenly coming back in force. Tears, bitter from whatever it was that was driving him insane earlier, stream down his cheeks and soak your shirt. A couple of times, he tries to say something, but all that comes out are choked sounds, so he just gives up and cries himself out against you, cheek pressed against your shoulder. Then, finally, he settles down and slides his arms under yours, clasping them to your back (though the bandaged one tenderly - ironically, he didn't feel it until you tended to it), and holds you tight, the child unwilling to let his safety figure loose.

(OOC) Jason says "Actually, Jason'd be scared to be near Trace right now. And it'd be a good idea to keep him away from Glass. If he had his way, he'd drag Batiste to the back hallway behind the stairs and curl up with him on the floor in the corner :)"

(OOC) Jean-Batiste says "Okay. Fair enough. Can Batiste steal a couple pillows and a blanket from upstairs? :)"

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