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

Log Title: Pretty Fly

Log setting: Walker’s house, late at night, after Trace went out walking after the events in The Third Wheel log, and came home to play condom fairy.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Walker

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



The doorknob of the front door is tested quietly, then turned, and in slips Batiste. He moves quietly - never know when people are awake or sleeping in the Walker household, after all - though his flip-flops mark each step with a soft slap. He's humming to himself, a soft, thready tune that's probably only recognizeable if you're a fan of Tori Amos -and- forgiving of a decent amount of tunelessness. He kicks his thongs off in a heap near the door and steps into the hall between living room and kitchen, rubbing at his hair as he looks around.

Trace doesn't hear you enter. He can't hear much of anything, actually, not the door, not humming, because the restless lad, in the absense of sleep, has dug up an old walkman of Walker's and is jammin'! Dancing and singing and everything. It's the FM radio he's got it set to, because he couldn't find a good tape. Much of Walker's music doesn't appeal to him. He bops around, with your cap tugged backwards over his blue braids, singing. Not loudly, because there's folks asleep upstairs of course, but clearly and obliviously:
"--to me baby... uh-huh, uh-huh,
Give it to me baby... uh-huh, uh-huh,
Coz all the girlies say I'm pretty fly for a white guy..."
Well! It seems some sort of weight has been lifted off the boy's shoulders. Or at least they're not so heavy that he can't dance, anyway.

Tori Amos meets the Offspring...and Tori retreats, quite readily. The two live in -very- different realities, after all. Batiste's humming trails off as he looks around to locate you, his faint, thoughtful smile growing towards a wide, fond grin. It's hard for his natural state of pensive-ness to stand up to Trace-calibre enthusiasm, and it's not worth it to fight, right now. Being able to smile and lean a shoulder into the doorway and watch you dance and sing is worth much, -much- more. And so he does, just leaning there, until your dancing brings you around to notice him. Once he's spotted, his smile brightens even more, spotlighting you in a sunny grin.

"So play it straight, or overcompensate,
You know that you could always go on Ricki Lake, hey!
The world loves a wannabe... The world loves a--"
And then Trace gasps, once he does see you, eyes blinking wide as his teeth clamp shut on his words very abruptly. Then he grins sooo foolishly, tugging off the headphones, then fumbling to take off the hat and hide it behind his back in a quick but very clumsy gesture. "Uh..." What a blush! "Uh, you been standin' there awhile, huh," he finally accuses with a giggle. The headphones still rasp softly, an annoying little Offspring mosquito sound, and he clicks the walkman off and trots over, maintaining his blush as he plops your hat back down on your head.

And Batiste just grins. He straightens up from his lean as you approach, glancing down at the carpet with no real amount of guilt for standing there and watching. Dark, silent-laughing eyes grin up at you through blond braids as he admits, "Yeah, I was. It was...you know. It was fun. You were having fun, I didn't want to stop you." He ducks his head to help you put the cap back on him, then suddenly looks up and starts to pulls it back off again. "You want to wear it?" he asks. "It looked good on you. I don't mind." Well, okay. He -liked- it, seeing you dancing around with his ballcap on, but he won't 'fess up to it.

"Kay. Only for a little while, though..." Trace takes the hat back shyly and fits it back down over his frazzly blue braids. Bill forward this time, because he's not actually pretty fly, it was just something he was singing. He peers up at you through the cap's shadow and wonders bemusedly, "So, um. Weren't you sleeping when I left? I mean..." He glances towards the steps, then the front door. "I mean, why'd you go out?"

Jean-Batiste reaches forward and gently tugs on the cap's brim, doting over you with a quiet smile, then lets his hand drop down loosely into his pocket. "Yeah, I was..." he murmurs. He glances back to the door, then shrugs easily. "I woke up, and you weren't around, so I went to see if you were on the porch. It was pretty nice outside, so I went for a walk for a bit. Thought maybe I might catch up to you." He stretches towards the ceiling, then twists around, popping a few spots in his back. "Everything okay?"

"It was nice out," Trace acknowledges with a little smile, looking up at Batiste with affection. "M'fine. Jest thinkin." Another chagrined chuckle, and he looks down at Walker's walkman which he borrowed without permission, "Though obviously I was done thinkin' by the time ya found me. Too much'a that hurts yer brain. Dunno how ya do it so much." He lifts his shoulders in a little shrug.

The door creaks open and in slips Walker, slightly rumpled and with a wilted pink rosebud tucked into his tangled black hair. The door closes with a soft click as he leans back against the door, palms flat against the smooth varnish. Listening, for now. Voices this time; somebody's here.

Jean-Batiste shakes his head a little, and pulls his hands out of his pockets, draping his arms on Trace's shoulders, fingers clasped loosely behind his neck. Leaning forward, he plants a kiss on the top of Trace's ballcap and murmurs, "It's why I'm such a spoilsport," he replies, a little chagrined, himself. "Too much thinking. I need to take lessons from you and Jason, learn to have a bit more fun, maybe. You figure?"

Walkman still dangling from one hand, Trace stifles a little yawn and slips the other around Batiste's back and leans into a light hug. "Nah. I mean, 'course ya think too much, but you *are* fun..." His arm about Batiste's squeezes once, gently. "So you up fer the day? What time is it..?"

"Mmn," Batiste replies decisively. "Well, I need to be -more- fun, maybe. There's a trick to it, and both of you have it. Just need to learn your secrets." He grins down at Trace, tugging the brim of his ballcap again. "Ve vill learn yoo-er seekrits, yis?" He giggles softly, then gives Trace a return hug. "Yeah, I think I'll be up for a while. I'm not too tired. It's morning, sometime. I don't know for sure. You turning in?"

Walker finally pushes away from the door and heads toward the kitchen, steps meant to be light and noiseless but the clinging moisture from the standing puddles out-of-doors betrays his steps with soft squeaks against the polished floor. He should probably shower... change his clothes, perhaps (when was the last time he did that anyway?) but he'd really like a drink of something first. Maybe juice... that'd be nice...

"I don't got secrets," Trace insists and shakes his head; it feels weird to him that his braids don't get tossed about, pinned down as they are by the Saints cap. But the accent makes him giggle, and he pushes the brim back in place when you tug it. With a glance at the stairs, he murmurs, "Dunno... I think so. I oughta. Haven't slept yet, 'n if I don't I'll jest' fall asleep this evening sometime, and miss everythin'. Don' let me sleep till' forever, kay? Wake me up later, 'specially if stuff's happnin'. Promise?"

Back to the Roleplay Log Archive