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Log Title: Paints

Log setting: Paint store, then Walker’s home

Log Cast:
Ben
Walker
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Avril
Jason

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Walker regretfully slides his legs to the floor, nodding to Ben and Bat both. "I promise ta relax. Y'all need ta stop frettin' so much. It's not like I broke m'spine-r nothin'," he teases. He looks to Trace, then to the others, seriously hoping he's not being relegated to upholstery contemplation by his lonesome while they're in the store. He wouldn't even do that to his dog. If he had one.

"Well..." Trace ponders, scritching at the back of his head for a moment as he considers the situation. "Well, if you think you'll be fine in the paint stores, that's cool, because really it's *your* walls and you should be there to tell us if it looks like we're gonna pick a color that'll make you puke.." He ducks down to retrieve the brass incense holder and tuck it safely back into the bag, folding it with care.

Not let Walker be present for the colour-pickings for his own mural? Impossible! So figures Batiste, at least. "We just want you to rest up so you can let loose at the housewarming parties, that's all..." he promises. Tempt, tempt. Resting for the sake of parties. At least -two- parties. Isn't that worth it? He nods eagerly to Trace's words. "Yeah, exactly. So we know what colours you especially want or -don't- want..." He stands by the door, watching Trace rewrap the incense holder, smiling.

Walker chuckles; he seriously doubts that either of them will select anything that bad. Ohh... his expression falls drastically as the realization sets in that he's going to have to party tame. That -really- bites the big one. He doesn't know how to party lite. He draws a long breath, trying to shove that aside. "I'll just veto th' colahs that'd give me a headache... anythin' else is up ta y'all since y'all're th' artists."

Benjamin returns after a few minutes, re-dressed in jeans and white t-shirt, his standard uniform for leaving the house with you all. Someone ought to dress the boy better; aside from the velvet coat he's just got a super-plain wardrobe.

Trace bounces about by the door, cradeling the wrapped up incense package. "Okay, settled then, Walker comes. Let's go!" He tugs the door open and dances out into the hall.

Benjamin offers Walker his arm, all gentleman-like and smiling. Despite what he told Batiste earlier, he must not be all that shy to show his particular preferences. "I love buying paint," he confesses. "I love the color swatches, and the picker, and the big display of all those multicolored cards."

Jean-Batiste darts out after Trace, running to catch up with him, calling something about Indian incense as he nears the bouncing blue braids. "C'mon, c'mon!" he calls back to Ben and Walker, beckoning excitedly, then starts down the stairs.

Walker accepts the arm and uses it as leverage to pull himself up, stuffing his cigarettes into his back pocket. "I've nevva much been one for paint. But don' get me started on furniture. It took me forevva ta decide on what I'd do with m'aunt's house when she left it ta me. Though it didn't take me long ta get rid-a th' old lady furniture." The last is delivered with a wink as he begins to stroll toward the door.

You open the front door and exit into the hall.

[Travel spam snipped.]

Shops, shops, and more shops - Batiste takes the lead, tugging Trace along with him soon as they've clambered out of the Bug, outdistancing the Walker and Ben. Age and treachery overcoming youth and speed, indeed. "It's just down here, I scoped it out the other night," he promises, dodging around the other street occupants until...ta da! There, through a picture window, aisles and aisles of all things artistic can be seen. He beams goofily at it all, just standing there for a few seconds.

Walker takes his time in both getting out of the car and wandering up the length of sidewalk. Oo. The ambience of old-town shopping. So bright and crisp; he stands out like a sore thumb amongst the tourists, old people and yuppies strolling the shops. Does he care? No. He tugs on Ben's sleeve, pointing to a modern collectibles store. "Check out th' Green Man wall plaque!" He coos. Yes, coos. He was always fond of reliefs cast in brass.

Trace's mouth drops open as he looks through the glass window. He steps a little closer, still gaping, and lightly touches, charcoal-smudged fingers to the glass. "Oh..." He spins around, hands shyly tucked behind him, and gives a smile that's more in his bright, lit eyes than anything. "I've never bought art supplies before," he says in a hush. "I used to peek inside stores like this every once in awhile, maybe to snitch a few sticks of charcoal or just drool... But it finally just made me so jealous, and embarrassed if the store guys kicked me out, that I just..." He shrugs faintly and turns around to peer into the store's window again.

Benjamin helps Walker out of the bug, though he fails to offer the arm this time, unless it's taken. He lingers near the poor injured man, sliding his hands in his jeans pockets. His own, mind you. They wander along behind the boys, and Ben peers obediently at the plaque, impressed. "Lovely... that's some beautiful detailing."

Walker hooks Ben's elbow and steers him away from the store before his own impulsive-shopping tendencies take control. No spending till next paycheck. Which will be this weekend! Yay! Shopping spree at Celticbard's! Angling toward the art store, he's not near as overwhelmed by that display. But then, he's not an artist of the sort that uses those kinds of supplies, either.

Jean-Batiste grins at Trace, nodding in complete empathy with him. "I used to do that, too. C'mon, this place is -so- great..." He pushes open the door, and jingle bells chime in a dissonant tune. A waft of air rushes out, smelling of dust, paint, solvent, paper, glue...everything. -Anything-. It's a narrow building with cobwebby rafters high above.

Benjamin giggles softly, still slightly delirious with companionship and impulsive happiness that's just all so new. He wanders off after Walker's urgings, holding the door open while the rest file in. Mmmm... smell them fumes. Supplies and paper and paint everywhere; imagine all the stuff you could make with all this!

Trace darts in after Jean-Batiste, but once he's inside, his movements slow again. "Oh..." he drops down by a lovely set of colored pencils, black with the appropriate indicating color at the tip. Then he stands and moves to a shelf holding rows and rows of sketch books, varying in thickness, texture, and intended medium. He runs his fingers along a row as he passes, and the spiral and book-bound backs tickle against his skin. Moving on, moving on... "Oh... what's this for?" he calls as he stoops before a straight edge, holding it up curiously for Batiste. "Oh wait, or this..?" He picks up a smudge stick. "It doesn't look like it'd even erase!"

Walker releases Ben's arm as he slips inside, taking the place in with a casual eye. More than half of the stuff lining the shelves and walls are completely foreign to him; he has no clue what they might be used for. His lips part in a smile that is filled with affectionate humor at the scurrying of his friends. But enthusiasm is only so contagious and he's an outsider to the thrill that drawing implements incite. "Looks like somethin' ya poke your neighba in drawin' class with when he won't stop critiquing," he suggests helpfully.

Trace giggles at that answer, and pokepokes at Walker, before looking back to Batiste for a more serious response to his question.

Benjamin murmurs as he passes, "No, it's Walker's eyeliner pencil in ten years, when he gets bags under his eyes." A playful wink to the teased one, the curve of his smile showing his insincerity there. Pens, pastels, paints, books, pencils... Ben wanders up and down the aisles, looking at everything, pausing now and again to look at this or that bright-colored thing.

Jean-Batiste locates a bright red plastic basket with wire handles, and totes it along with him, catching up to Trace. He's already dumping in supplies - kneaded rubber erasers (not only artistically useful, but poor man's Silly Putty), a pair of steel X-Acto knives, and...oh yes. Smudge sticks. Laughing, he picks up another one, a fat stogie-sized one, and jabs it gently at Trace. "They're for pastels and smudging, to blend the colours, I'll show you at Walker's...c'mon." He twists through, nabbing a couple rulers along the way, heading for the shelves of paint. Get the important stuff first, to make sure there's enough money, and -then- impulse buy. And there, lo and behold, the acrylic paints. Rows and rows of every imagineable hue, packaged in bottles that look like stretched-out shampoo bottles. "Here we go..." he murmurs, sounding downright reverent.

Walker clicks his tongue, a picture of perfect indignance. That along with a playful nudge to Ben's arm shows Ben what he feels about the jest at his expense. He then trails after Bat, rubbernecking this way and that at all the different kinds of paints. Acrylic, enamel, watercolor, airbrush... how in the world could there be so many kinds of paint? Whew. He lifts a bottle of auto airbrush paint, squinting at it. Oh! That's what Zombie used to put the panther on the back of his car with!

Walker pages Jean-Batiste, Benjamin, you and Avril: Walker snugs!

Inside the art store, Ben laughs softly after Walker, winding around him and the boys amind the paint section. Oooh, look at that! Cards upon cards of paint samples are practically a magnet for Ben's eye. He starts paging through the purples, blues, blue-purples, and purple-blues.

Trace ooohhhs at the rainbow spectrum of colors. "Aw, geez, I don't know where to start!" The first one he reaches for? A decidedly sharkadelic color, electric blue. He peers at the lable for just a moment, as though he could descern just how it'd look on paper by the usually inaccurate color dot on the lid. He tosses it into Batiste's basket and starts to rifle through more colors that catch his eye.

Benjamin points out a particularly deep, crimsonny red to Trace. "There... it's called 'Vamp'. It seems appropriate, no?" The normally foggy man is in decidedly good spirits, to the point of jocularity, tonight.

Most of the acrylic tubes are a slightly frosted clear plastic, with their logo across the middle, though certainly not all. Some of them are opaque with dreadfully uninformative labels like 'flame orange'. Like -that- helps. Batiste sets the basket down by Trace and says, "We can get, like...fourty colours. Serious. Just start picking. I'm going to grab the primer and plastic." He squeezes his friend's shoulder, grins ferociously at him, then is off to the depths of the art store for the more 'mundane' mural supplies.

Avril meanders down the corridor from the square, tiny droplets of rain rolling off her coat and leaving a damp trail in her wake as she prowls through the lower level.

Walker is currently in the covert process of quietly prying open bottles of airbrush paints to sniff at their contents before moving onto the next unsuspecting bottle. One might wonder why he is doing this but the answer might be more confusing than the act. "Just stay away from puke greens and yellow ochres unless ya have ta," he reminds between sniffs.

Trace just beams when he realizes how many of the paints he's allowed to select. That makes twenty for him... He takes Ben's advice about 'Vamp', as well as the color next to it, "Crimson Rose". "Sure thing, Walker. Y'know.... They all try to sound so *romantic*... Even the ugly colors. Yer just not gonna find 'snot yellow', y'know? S'gotta be 'spring yellow', even though I ain't never seen a spring colored like that, y'know?"

Avril pauses on the way past the front windows of the art store, a black eyebrow arching up slowly as she pauses to look in at this scene, rasping softly from the doorway to Trace, "Not unless somebody peed in it."

Benjamin leans over and peers at the color. "Leaves like that, in Boston, in spring," he comments quietly. "In the morning, when the sun's filtering down. They're that color."

Walker giggles, nodding in ackonwledgement to Trace's observation. He starts to voice a reply, switching tracks when he hears Avril's voice. "Hey, Avril!" He calls with a chipper wave. "S'up?" Eww. Paint on his fingers, and bright neon blue too. Hmm. Where to deposit that? A quick glance around shows a test pad for pens and it's quickly victimized by Walker's attempt to clean off his hand.

Jean-Batiste is at the very back of the store, lost amongst the huge rolls of paper and plastic, talking in a soft, earnest voice to a clerk about square feet and drying speed as the man measures off lengths and lengths of plastic sheeting. For the floor. No olive oil parties here, sickos. He picks out a couple large house-painting brushes, considering them, brushing his cheek with the black bristles while he waits for the clerk to roll the sheeting up and hand it over.

Trace turns to peer back at Ben with a slow, dawning smile full of surprise and respect. "Yeah...?" He murmurs, and then grins. "Gonna have ta tell me more about Boston sometime, just like you were right there, promise? You paint it all out for me good..."

Avril meanders on in, hands in pockets, fully dressed for once in her life. Might be a good idea to grab a camera. This is one of those kodak moments. She looks rough, like she's been crying, or hasnt been sleeping, maybe both, but like her cleaners did a really good press job on her shirt even if she was off being psychotic or something. She's not nearly so chipper as she nods to Walker and pauses to flick a glance about, rasping hoarsely, "Fixin' ta paint the house?"

Benjamin meets Trace's eyes, and smile, full on. He draws a forefinger over his breast, "I promise." Mmm, more colors. And ooh, Avril! He waves toward her, dreamily, urging her come closer.

Walker nods, expression shifting minutely as he looks back over to Avril. His attempts at cleaning his fingers has backfired, leaving his hand rather smeary for his efforts. He tucks the offending extremity behind his back to hide the mess. "Yeah. Buyin' th' supplies an' what-not. Ya okay?" For someone unwilling to cough up when he's not feeling okay, he sure is quick to ask it of another, yes?

Avril ambles somewhat sluggishly down the aisle to where Ben and Trace linger with the paints, sidestepping whatever gets dropped on the floor. Stepping on paint tubes would just make a mess of her boots, and she's just not in the mood for more messes. She pauses once she gets to an out-of-the-traffic spot, glancing up to Walker and rasping softly, "M'fine...Erick's neurologist...she always puts me in a black mood." She shrugs faintly, then turns to see what Ben and Trace are getting into, and if it's smeared up their arms to their elbows yet.

Jean-Batiste returns from the depths of the store, carrying a can of primer, two brushes, and a roll of plastic under his arm. He heads for the counter, and starts a neat pile there, assuring the clerk, "There'll be more, just a second..." The clerk considers the cost of what's already there, eyes up the paint filling the basket, and smiles like a cat waiting for its saucer of cream from the cash cow. Batiste smiles shyly at Avril, waving to her as he continues over to the rows of acrylic paint tubes, nudging in beside Trace. "Incredible, isn't it?" he murmurs, awed. He crouches down to look over the colours already picked, considering what needs to be added.

Now this is just too good, and too Ben. Upon seeing Walker's blue-fingered distress, he slips a hand into his back pocket and withdraws... yes. A handkerchief. Isn't he -just- the type. Stealthily he saunters toward Walker, and leans over his shoulder to see what he's peering at. The kerchief is pressed secretively into his hand.

With a new respect for "Spring Green" as well, Trace locates a bottle of that and flips it into the basket. Then it's off to the lovely, dark colors. Mmm, blue violet! *There's* a magic color, if he ever saw one... Then a lovely green entitled 'Enchanted Forest', a violet so dark it's nearly black with a delicious name like "Poisonheart". However, when a very eye-pleasing reddish-purple catches his eye, he reaches for it eagerly but faulters half-way to the basket when he reads the lable: "Burgandy Wine". He very nearly puts it back. In the end, he decides that would be entirely too foolish, and besides, with the ideas they'd been talking about for the mural, and if that's still a go, this is probably the ideal shade to explore some of those darker corners... He tosses it into the basket quickly, tearing his eyes back to happier, brighter colors.

Avril tips a silent nod to Jean when he arrives to start sorting through Trace's selections, reaching up to rub absently at one temple and murmering softly, "Remin' me again, just what is it that ya'll are paintin...I know it's a mural, but what of?"

Walker's fingers close around the handkerchief, grateful for the save even as he feels a twinge of guilt for ruining the cloth. But it was placed in his hand and so he uses it. "Erick's neurologist?" He queries. "Didn't know he had one..." He holds onto the kerchief for now, leaving the remaining bottles of paint unmolested. Best to get away from them all together. So thinking he does; meandering toward the clay-sculpting aisle.

Avril ambles on toward the clay, nodding to Walker as she goes and rasping quietly, "Ayeahp...Bizalion's her name. She was at the party. Anyways...she's trying to get him outta the coma. So far, it aint lookin' real promising. He aint come to when I've been around."

Jean-Batiste, in proper sensible fashion, makes sure there's two bottles of black and white, and that all the primary and secondary colours are stocked in their bright jewel tones. And then he's off to the metallic colours. Gold, silver, bronze, a bluish-steel tone, all of it gets dropped into the basket. "Wow, look at that -green-," he breathes, reaching out to grab it - a vivid, royal green with just a hint of blue. "That's the colour of the redwood forest," he explains to Trace. "All the ferns and moss at the base of the trees, the most incredible green, just so alive..."

Walker halts abruptly in his reach for a horse model, squinting at Avril. "Bazilion? Marilyn Bazilion?" Hnh. Go figure! Then: "You seen him? How's..." Erk. It would be rather futile to ask the rest of that question; he's in a coma. That's how he's doing. Erm. Awkward moment from left field. He busies himself with the horse model, positioning a foreleg idly.

Benjamin wanders off in the other direction, to linger near Avril with his hands clasped behind his back. Quietly, he murmurs, "He'll be all right. Overdoses are frightening, but, if he didn't die immediately, I think they usually come out all right." As if he knows, or something. Just trying to be helpful.

Trace's attention is pulled away from paint selection entirely as Batiste starts to describe his forest. "Oh... I can nearly see it," he smiles up at his friend. "Where was this redwood forest? Did you go there a lot?" It's probably a good thing he's distracted from the other conversation going on... He has no idea what's going on with Erick, but conversations about ODing tend to put a damper on any junkie's good mood. His hands idly trace around and around the lable of the paint he's holding as he looks up at his friend expectantly.

Avril shrugs faintly, her hands never coming out of her coat pockets as she drawls hoarsely, "Tha's what the doc says. Course, she said he suffered multiple traumas. She acts like it was something other than OD." Another shrug, and she flicks a glance over to the pair with the paints, wishing she could be oblivious.

Better Batiste is oblivious, anyways - he didn't care for Mr. Rock Star and his, uh, lyrics all that much anyhow. He grins down at his friend, and carefully hunts out a warm brown colour with just a touch of red, followed by a paler tawny brown. "Like this," he says, holding the colours out for Trace to look like. "Out on the coast, there are these rainforests, redwoods and cedars and sequoias, like five hundred feet tall...the bark's like this, and the wood inside's like that. It's incredible."

Walker glances up from the horse model briefly, brow quirking. "Papahs said he suffa'd from blood loss..." The soft comment is more directed toward the horse than anything. He remembers a flash of Erick dancing in the crowd... a knife... He shakes his head and sets the horse back down on the shelf. He'd very much like to check out the hand model on the bottom shelf but that would require bending. So the hand stays put while Walker's attention wanders to the Visible Woman box.

The verbal pictures being painted near the paints draw Ben's attention, and he listens with careful attention. Childhood, indeed, this night is full of memories and surprises. And Trace's enthusiasm to know strikes him deeply. Both of these boys have the pictures in their heads, even ones they've never seen before. And he can't wait until they get them all out on the walls and who knows what else in Walker's house.

Avril nods faintly to Walker as she finds a comfy spot on a shelf where she can lean, resting her elbow as she murmers softly, "Yeah, she said he was dehydrated, and they were giving him a transfusion when I was there."

Trace drops the bottle of paint he'd been holding to take the brown and green into his hands. "Yeah... yeah, the coast. I think I might wanna have the coast up on the wall that's for you. Just like you paint it for me... Big beautiful tower-trees all around, and you with your little mini-stove and your ramen noodles, huddled there... Alone, but not lonely, you know? Because it's like, you always talk fondly 'bout the coast, but you never mention any people..." He reaches for a bottle of golden-white absently, Batiste-braid color, though his eyes flicker quickly back as he adds, "Gotta help me, 'course. After all, you really been there..."

Walker turns away from the clear plastic woman and wanders down the aisle toward the art desks and chairs. Sitting sounds pretty good right now; the codeine's starting to wear off and a dull ache is pronouncing itself in his lower back. Easing into a high-backed art chair he props an elbow on the nearest desk. "Ya want ta follow us back ta my place when we get done here an' have a drink-r somethin'?" He offers to Avril, sensing she could use some cheering up.

Jean-Batiste looks down at the colours, smiling at them with a soft, detached fondness. Reminiscence, in all its shapes and sizes. "You can't be alone in a forest like that, it's too -alive-. Always something making noise, or the wind, or...it was a good time." Still smiling, he crouches down and puts the paints into the basket. "Of course I'll help you. I'll paint you a little of it, and you can take it wherever you want from there..." He laughs for a moment, imagining moss turning into great curlicued strands of ramen noodles, then turns his attention to rummage through all the paints. "What else do we need..." he murmurs, then looks up at Trace. "You think we got it all?"

Benjamin laughs softly, meandering back toward Walker, checking up on him "You two won't know where to start," he predicts. "You'll get this great grey expanse of wall, and all these colors, and just stand there in amazement."

Trace makes a few last-minute grabs, colors that -- while not his favorite standing alone -- could honestly enhance a picture in little streaks and highlights. He grabs a few pinks, some oranges... Some other shades of grey, though one gets rejected as Ben speaks, because he realizes it's too close to the color Walker's wall is already... He looks back at Ben and Batiste, wondering as he gestures towards the basket, "Think this'll be good?"

"It's great," Batiste murmurs to Trace, puppy eyes dancing to put Snoopy to shame. "C'mon, let's go watch the clerk stare when he rings all this up." He picks up the basket, holding his free hand down atop it to keep the paints from falling out, and heads for the counter.

Walker chuckles softly, swivelling gently on the stool back and forth a couple of times before sliding up to his feet. "This is gonna be fun... figga I'll kick back on th' wattabed an' watch y'all sort alla those new paints." He wanders in the general direction of the check out counter and starts pawing through the impulse items on the counter.

Trace drops into a quick crouch to retrieve the bottle of "Sunset Red" that managed to slip by Batiste's arm and clatter to the floor. He trails after everyone to the counter and drops it on top of the basket, peering up at the clerk, but not really seeing him. In his place stands every snotty, hawk-eyed clerk who ever threw him out of an art supply store. "Yeah, that's right! We're actually *buying* stuff, imagine that!" he murmurs under his breath with a big grin.

"D'you have, like...oh, shit!" Batiste suddenly exclaims, and darts away to grab a few sheets of sandpaper and a little hand-held sander. Placing them down in front of the clerk with a beatific smile, he looks back at Walker to finish his sentence. "D'you have Pine Sol, or Mr. Clean, or something like that? And a bucket? I need to wash the walls before we start." C'mon, c'-mon-, hurry up, Mr. Clerk. Pre-art awaits. As the last few items get scanned, Batiste hands the envelope of bills over to Trace, letting him have the honours.

Trace blinks at Batiste, then grins and eagerly opens up the envelope to start thumbing out bills. "What's the total?" he asks, oh-so casually.

"Pine-sol... got a buttload-a it in th' kitchen unda th' sink." No, Walker doesn't know where he keeps his plates but he does know where the disinfectant is. Go figure. "Plenty-a sponges there too. I'd help ya but..." He doesn't bother finishing the sentence; no need. He drops the Picasso pen and wanders over to the calendar display. Nothing particularly interesting there; mostly floral crap. Hmmph.

"Three thirty-five fourty-nine," the clerk announces, then turns to start bagging up all the multi-coloured goods. Batiste laughs softly, -grinning- at Trace. Did you hear that? Did you? Did you hear how much money we're spending? How incredible.

Walker blinks at the calendar he's flipping through. Did he hear right? Wow. Who knew art supplies cost so much? Of course the desk he was sitting at had a sign reading $1499, chair not included. That should've given him a clue. He would take comfort in the fact that his profession doesn't require costly paints, et al. but his chosen career path requires accoutrements just as - if not more costly. Artistic endeavors in general must be an expensive thing.

Trace tries not to cough at the price -- ohmigod, that's like 30, maybe 35 fixes, nearly a month in a motel, a zillion jillion cheeseburgers..! Instead he just clears his throat a little and beams as he hands over the money. This is for art, he reminds himself. Art is a noble reason to spend money... And this is the whole *point* of front money, after all -- not all that selfish stuff. "Here ya go, sir," he says softly, holding out four crisp hundred dollar bills to the clerk.

Jean-Batiste starts picking up plastic bags of supplies as the clerk finishes filling them, bundling himself up so there will only be one or two left for Trace at the end. Not a chance he'll let Walker carry any, either. He grins rather smugly to himself at the clerk's expression at getting crisp hundreds instead of wrinkled, cobbled-together pocket change, then shares that look with you. Once the change is handed over and the receipt tucked away, he heads for the door with a cheery, jubilant laugh. "Let's go make some magic!" he all but shouts, giddy at the feel of the heavy paints in both hands.

Walker grins broadly and stuffs the calendar back onto the rack (upside down but he gets an A for effort, right?) and heads toward the door. A foot serves to prop the door open for the bag-carriers once he's out-of-doors. He tugs out a cigarette as well since he's no longer in the store. "Ready when y'all are," he grins around the black cigarette.

A laugh bubbles out of Trace as he snatches up his two bags, swinging them right off the counter and nearly knocking down that calander Walker just put back. "Magic, yeah!" He all but skips after Batiste out onto the street, swinging his bags the whole way, though he manages not to spill anything. "You want me to carry some of those?" Trace asks with a grin. "I'm not *that* much a weakling, that I can only handle two, y'know."

Jean-Batiste laughs, insisting, "They're not that heavy at all, c'mon," and follows after Walker towards the car.

[Travel snipped, as we all drive home.]

Moss Street -- Bayou St. John

Trace piles out of the beetle, holding two bags full of bottles of acrylic paint and something wrapped in a brown paper bag. The latter is kept tucked closely beneath his arm, but once out of the car, he swings the bags around with cheery, clearly in an excellent mood.

Jean-Batiste piles out of Walker's car as soon as he's able, grinning like it's a very early, very wonderful Christmas. He's carrying three or four bags, all loaded down with brightly coloured goodies. Oh, and a roll of plastic tucked under his arm.

Walker doesn't quite pile out and he's not carrying any bags. His mood, however, is singing pretty high and he's got a pretty big grin on his face. Sliding out of the Volks he drops his cigarette butt to the street, smushing it underfoot.

Well, Jason's in a good mood too, but he hasn't had good luck with cheering other people up the past couple days. With the exception of maybe Trace, but that was a fluke. He's lounging on the dilapidated steps leading up to 613, resting back on his elbows and bouncing one leg on top of the other. Seems like he's been waiting.

Well, higher powers forbid Jason should be kept waiting. And if they don't forbid it, Trace will, at least now that he's close enough to realize that's what's been happening. He drops into a dead run when he spots his fire-haired friend seated on the steps, calling, "Jason, come see our paints and smudge-things and stuff we bought!!" He comes to Jason instead, however, sprinting the entire way until skidding to a halt and dropping down beside him on the steps. "Look, look...!" He starts passing over paints from the bag, rummaging, "That's just like your hair, and that one's Batiste's redwood trees, ‘n with the brown for bark but I think that one's not in my bag... And this one here, sharkadelic, yeah!" He giggles.

"Jason, hey!" Batiste's cheery greeting sounds almost like a chirp, his voice much younger in such intensely good cheer. "Wait until you see it all, it's -so- great..." And then Trace is running towards him, about to show him right then and there on the porch. He laughs out loud, then looks over at Walker, pausing for a second. Here's where all that hoping and finger-crossing comes in. Still grinning, he follows Walker towards the porch, strolling as casual as can be.

Jason oohs! and sits up, giggling softly as paints are passed to him. The Sharkadelic color he pops the cap off of and sniffs at, then wrinkles his nose. "Doesn't taste as good as your hair, though, bleah." He sticks out his tongue, then grins up at Batiste and Walker, eyes dancing. "You guys bring anything fer me?"

Walker trails up the walk, winding around the willow tree and up toward the porch. And there's Jason parked on the porch. Something glimmers in his eyes for just a heartbeat before fading back into the shadows he always keeps cloaked there. He steps up and around him, not pausing as he murmurs: "Just a long receipt for the purchases..." and then he drifts inside, leaving the door open behind him.

Walker opens the door to the grey house marked 613 and steps inside.

"I'll talk to him..." Batiste promises the both of you, flashing an encouraging grin as he hurries in after Walker, plastic bags rustling noisily as he steps around the two of you and vanishes inside.

Jean-Batiste opens the door to the grey house marked 613 and steps inside.

Jason blinks a little, then looks at the both of you, head tilted. "Well, /that/ went well," he says cheerfully. Trace starts putting the paints back into the bag when he sees the others approaching. "We'll show you more inside. There's so many colors, and you won't believe how much it all--" His ramble tumbles to a halt as Walker brushes on past them, and he blinks and remembers. Oh yeeaah... Walker hasn't made up with him yet. Uh-oh. He gives Jason a tiny, apologetic shrug. "He just, he probably needs some time... And if Batiste can't bring him around, nobody can."

Jason giggles softly and takes another whiff of the blue paint before capping it again. "Bat was pretty easy to persuade himself..." Oh, yeah, right. He shrugs again. "Guess I won' be goin' back in his closet anytime soon, huh?" He smirks lopsidedly. "We gonna get started soon? You figger out what yer drawin?"

Trace scritches at his braids for a moment, before digging his hands back into the paints, pawing through them. "Well... I mean, there was that one idea we talked about. Dunno if we're still doing that, though... If we are, I got some ideas for it, for each of our walls, really..." His smile turns somewhat shy.

Jason's head cocks slightly to one side, brushing some hair back behind his ear. "Like what?" he asks, eager as always to hear what you have to draw - whether or not you actually draw it. "Ya gots colors fer it already..."

Trace nods a little. "Yeah...." He passes some over, the aforementioned brown, and a vivid blue-green. "This, and this.., Batiste's mysterious coast. He's always talkin' bout it... He said he'd help me draw some of it, since well, he's the one who's actually been there." He plucks the two bottles back out of your hands and sets them back in the bag, pulling out another, labled 'Enchanted Forest'. "And this green's your eyes, see? Real different from Batiste's redwoods... No real trees is gonna look like your eyes. And I think that's you all over sometimes, just unreal, y'know?" He grins big at the thought. "Like it's what you'd think of when you dream up forests and far away places, but you get there and it don't look like that, coz things are always more magic in your head...." He grins embarrassedly and looks away. "Okay, now I'm not even sure what I mean anymore..."

Jean-Batiste pushes the door open again, and hangs out of the doorway, looking around for the two of you. He looks like he's feeling rather foolish, cheeks a bit pink, grin crooked.

Trace is seated on the stoop next to Jason still, in the middle of one of their ethereal conversations that probably confuses the hell out of the general populace. Trace is glancing away embarrassedly at the moment, and when Batiste appears, he looks up with a brief grin before pulling his gaze back to Jason shyly.

Jason blinkblinks the aforementioned eyes, then giggles softly and bestows a soft smile on Trace. "Don' think 'bout it, jus' draw it. 'N then I'll see, ya know?" He leans over and bumps shoulders with Trace. He looks up as the door opens and grins bightly to Batiste, then looks back down to Trace. "Enchanted forest, huh?"

"Everything's okay. Walker's not mad at you at all..." Batiste murmurs, smiling encouragingly down at Jason again. "Why don't you two come inside so we can start looking over our loot?" He steps back inside, waiting just on the other side of the doorway.

Trace nodnods, his grin full of chagrin and affection, before looking back up at Batiste. "That's great! See, didn't I tell you Batiste could do it?" he giggles with a glance to Jason, before rising and tucking the brown package under his arm again. He takes up one bag, and holds out the other, so that 'Enchanted Forest' might be replaced.

Jason blinkblinks up at Batiste, then grins broadly at Trace. "Whadda ya know? Pigs /do/ fly." He giggles more and flips Trace's braids with slender fingers, then pops up to his feet. He looks at the extended bag with a moment of confusion, then looks down at the tube of paint in his hand, then up at Trace again. You want him to give it /up?/

Jean-Batiste grins for a moment, and makes a big deal out of buffing his nails, then ducks back inside, beckoning the two of you in impatiently.

You open the door and step inside.

Grey House - 1st Floor

Jean-Batiste steps back inside, beckoning impatiently to Trace and Jason. He turns around once the enter, heading back towards the kitchen to make sure Walker isn't doing Russian kicks on the table or anything un-conducive to his back like that.

Walker is (still) in the kitchen, putting together a sloppy sandwich. At the sound of the door opening he calls: "If anybody wants a sandwich, they betta speak up now." A jar rattles as it's set aside, knife still in it to produce the off-pitch bell sound.

Trace just rolls his eyes and heads inside, letting Jason hang onto the bottle of acrylic paint for now, then. "Just be sure I got it back when we do the mural!" he grins, then peers towards the kitchen. Er... Does he want a sandwich? He considers, as he sets the package down on the armrest of the couch.

Jason oohs! and stuffs the bottle in Trace's bag as he darts past. A sandwich beats Enchanted Forest anyday! He skitters into the kitchen and plops down on a chair, smiling impishly. "Sandwich!" he demands playfully.

Walker's creation on the counter seems a travesty of good cooking. Mustard, mayo, peanut butter, ham and onions combine to make for a sandwich that might be considered a crime punishable by severe fines in some states. "What d'ya want on it?" He doesn't take his eyes off the peanut butter he's slicking over the piled ham, afraid it will topple if he does.

Jean-Batiste gives Jason a playfully scolding look, and announces, "I'll make it..." Sheesh. His work is never done. Just got finished buttering Walker's buns and now he's buttering bread for Jason. "You feeling okay?" he asks Walker as he nears the counter. He stops short when he sees the...that's supposed to be a sandwich? Er. Evidently the wine cooler and codeine mixed make Walker feel -real- good. Next he'll be feeding the sandwich to the little pink pixies doing the conga on the ceiling.

Jason looks at the sandwich on the counter, then blinks up at Walker. "Are you pregnant or something?" But then he grins broadly. "Anything but /that/," he says, nodding towards your monstrosity.

Trace finally makes up his mind. "Yeah... yeah, okay, I'd like a sandwich if ya could, Walker. Just, y'know... ham and mayo? And, uh. Cheese? If ya don't got any of that, it's cool... Just make me whatever's good." Ah foolish boy, not bothering to get himself over to the kitchen to see what revolting defiance of good taste Walker is passing off for a sandwich! He moves over to the center of the sitting room and empties the bag holding his bottles of paint out onto the floor, spreading them about to get a good look at all of them at once.

Walker giggles, unrelenting in his assault on the food. "Yeah, I'm pregnant, Jase. An' you're th' daddy. Where's m'child support?" He sets the knife aside and presses the slices of bread together with a fierce smush to cement it all together. "An' I'm feelin' quite fine, Bat. Quite fine..." He lifts the sandwich for a quick bite, overdone joy on his features to prove just how yummy the concotion is. He then sets the flattened thing aside to drag out more bread. "Go 'head an' sort your supplies, Bat. I've got th' sandwiches. Ya want one?"

Jason blinks. "I am? I am!" He giggles... then frowns. "But I thought I pulled out in time.." He then shrugs and smirks. "Okay, then, if I'm payin' child support - then make my sandwich, bitch!" Another bright giggle.

Jean-Batiste giggles for a moment. Walker's grinning at Jason and joking around. This is good. "What a kid...black and red hair, and bright green eyes like a cat's..." He smiles to himself for a minute, then says, "Peanut butter and jam? That'd be great..." And off to the sitting room he goes, bringing along the other bags of artistic loot to start emptying out in a glorious heap around himself and Trace.

Trace blinks over at the kitchen and giggles helplessly at what he just overheard. He brightens further as more paints get spilled out onto the floor. "S'beautiful, huh?" he grins, eyes slightly widened as he peers down at the heap of paint bottles.

Jean-Batiste pages you and Jason: Jean-Batiste sniffs. Trace is hrm'ing, Jason's pouting...okay, okay. ;) Truth is, Batiste said something to the extent of, 'Please don't be mad at Jason, he didn't mean it, and I just want us all to get along...' and then Walker giggled and admitted that he wasn't mad at all, he was just puzzled as hell at how Jason pulled the trick off. So Batiste is feeling really foolish about getting so angry, because Ben wasn't angry at all, either. *starts wiping the egg off his face*

Jason just looks back over his shoulder at Batiste as he leaves and lets out an exagerated purrrr before going back to ogle the horrible thing before him on the counter.

Walker starts the process of building more sandwiches, actually using a clean knife to do so. "Keep it up, Jase an' you're gettin' th' Walker Surprise Sandwich with secret sauce," he returns smoothly with a grin. He slaps together a PB&J in short order and starts on the second. Pretty soon there are three unsmushed, un-onioned sandwiches ready to go. Stacking them all he sets across the kitchen to hand Jason his then it's to the living room to dole out the others.

Jason murmurs as he looks over his sandwich (making sure it's in working order or something), "Rather have a Walker Surprise sumthin' else with the secret sauce.." And then giggles.

Jean-Batiste digs out all the paints and lays them in a plastic rainbow around himself and Trace, then bundles all the non-paint supplies into a single plastic bag, stuffing the roll of plastic through the hand-holes. "There," he announces, looking up at Trace with an excited, ecstatic grin. "It -is- beautiful...look at it all. Just think of what we'll be able to do with all this..."

Trace nods his enthusiastic agreement, surveying the myriad of colors before him. "If we have any left over, ya wanna paint up the walls on our apartment too? Me'n Jason were wondering 'bout that..." He glances at Walker approaching with his sandwich and grins wider. Okay, so maybe now that the prospect of eating has settled itself on his brain. he's realizing that he actually *is* pretty hungry after all. These things take time to register when you're used to getting less than a meal a day.

Walker drops the sandwiches off on the table for self-serve and wanders back into the kitchen to retrieve his own nourishment. Bottle in one hand and sandwich in the other he returns to the sitting room to his most favorite chair in the whole world. Settling himself there, he sets to the atrocity that he calls supper with much delight.

Jean-Batiste's grin just keeps blossoming wider and wider across his face. "Oh, definately, yeah. All over the place! I want to be tripping for that, though...or at least some of it. Maybe at the housewarming party? We can all dance around and paint together..." He reaches over, grabbing his sandwich and biting into it hungrily. Nothing like a bit of soul food to make the day even better. Of course, if PB&J is soul food, Walker's sandwich is...what?

"Dunno, not everybody'd like it like we would, probably..." Trace points out as he climbs to his feet and scampers over to retrieve his sandwich. "Maybe we could do that like the day before the housewarming party, like a pre-party, y'know? And then when they have the party they can see what we did to it!" He giggles and adds, "And they won't even need to do much drugs coz everyone'll be high on paint fumes!" His eyes dance with amusement as he takes a huge bite into his sandwich, leaving a big empty moon-shaped space where bread and ham once were.

"Betta bring those body paints, in that case," Walker mumbles around his sandwich. "If you're trippin' ya may get th' urge ta paint on people." And then he falls silent again as he puts away the sandwich. Either the drugs he's on has helped his appetite or he really likes that sandwich because in a scant few minutes its history. Cigarette time. "Hey... drugs an' paint fumes go great tagetha. Ask any auto detaila," he smirks.

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