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Log title: Queen's Trial

Setting: Outside Ben and Walker's new home on Bourbon Street.

Log Cast:
Walker
Trace

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Late morning heralds a warm day to come; perhaps borderline hot even. The shade of the stoop provides a serene sprawl for Walker, barefoot and comfy on the porch swing. The shade of the trellis and young vines creeping up provide a bit of a screen for the angel, keeping direct sunlight -- and eyes -- off him and the magazine he's flipping through lazily. An ashtray is perched nearby on a patio chair dragged over and the grey fuzz of the Princess Godiva can be made out under the table, also relaxed in a sprawl.

Trace shuffles along the sidewalk, at first glance casual. Hands are clasped loosely at the small of his back, and his gaze lazily flickers to the occasional passing pedestrians. Frazzled blue ropes of hair swing gently about his lean face; they're scarcely braids anymore, as he seems to be letting them fall to dredlock ruin. He nears the fabled house, visited several times but never wholly approached. And looking at him closely, there's been trepedation threaded through his frame this whole trip, just below the surface of his capricious calm. Eyes intent on the house as soon as it's in sight. Steps slow.

Unaware to your approach the Riene of Chez Walker-Ashley continues to read, magazine propped on milky-pale knees. A wonder of precious materials: burgundy velvet, copper-gold spill of unbound hair and alabaster skin... Southern jewel in the shade.

The ivy gives you privacy from the casual passerby, but not the bluecap's watchful eyes, his sharp hazel focus rested only there. Well occasionally he looks to the windows, trying for a glimpse of silhouettes perhaps. But back to the door, inevitably, and a glimpse of such striking colors through the leaves confirms that Chez Walker-Ashley denizens do indeed still enjoy a good lounge on porchswings. Once he can see you clearly, he pauses, a still spot in the crowd of roaming Bourbonites. Lips pursed, jaw tight, he watches. So go. Step forward. NOW, Trace, before you walk away again. So there's a step, then another, and now the ivy's working for him too. Delaying the moment you finally see him on your walkway, perhaps, and recognize him for... whatever. A little hosebeast. A lost child.

It's several moments longer before Walker becomes aware he's not completely by his lonesome anymore. A glance up from the magazine shows only a flash of denim and a black t-shirt; not enough by far to identify who the shirt belongs to. The magazine's tossed lightly aside as he slides up to his feet, a warm smile of welcome dawning on rosebud lips for whoever it is the late morning brings to his stoop. Bare feet pat lightly on the porch floor, carrying him to the short flight of stairs down to the front walk where he - and the smile - freeze. The smile's the first thing to unlock, shattered and disintegrating rapidly as moodring eyes darken noticeably in the early summer sunlight. A hundred thousand things he's thought to say; hateful things. Hurtful things. Wounded and betrayed things. But nothing comes. Nothing save for the sullen silence and brooding mask of delicate features. The same sort of expression a young widow would favor the murderer of her husband with on seeing the culprit. What? The single word echoes in his thoughts, trying to stumble out past pierced tongue. Nothing even so elegant as 'What do you want?'. But even the lone word won't come. Say -something-, Holly! And nearby a cicada takes up its sandpaper chirr to break this ominous silence.

Trace too is having trouble getting words past his lips. His eyes are almost stricken now. Hurts to look at you looking at him. Did he ever tell you you were beautiful? Ah yes, he told Holly, when she was radiant after her show. He wets his lips and looks down, braids slipping forward, casting long rope shadows against angular features. Little knot of an adams apple bobs once, gently, as he swallows, and then manages softly, "I couldn' wait no longer..." First words he's spoken to you since, when? Since before the home was shattered literally, to match its figurative distruction in his eyes. His eyes stay down. He's not a bold child, and that rabbit fear rails against what little courage he does have, pinning him in spot here before you not at all securely. "Finally found you. But people said.." He swallows again, chin tucked closer to his chest. That ground must be pretty interesting. "They all said I shouldn't go near you. But I couldn' wait no more."

Slender arms tuck over his midsection in a subconcious effort to make himself feel more at ease; outward manifestation of the interior drawbridge cranking up. "Wait f'what?" squeaks tersely past rosey lips set into an almost sulky frown thanks to natural pout. Wait to see if you completely ruined my life? People said he shouldn't come near. Is that supposed to make him feel like a pariah? Or a villain? Weight shifts, one bare foot tucking behind the other as he watches you, waiting. Stripped bare of makeup and hair dye you see what the good lord originally intended this creature to be, in all his wary beauty. Delicate and vulnerable meshed tight with firey strength and fortified walls of caution. Such a walking dichotomy.

Under the table Godiva stirs, silken head lifting as the sleek grey tail pats into activity with lazy swishes. Sleepy honey-tone eyes peer your way with bored disinterest; does the cat even remember you? Or her missing kit?

Well, Dove certainly missed Godiva for awhile. She and Caddy's kitty still don't get along at all, the older, leaner Rain prone to hiss and sulk at the little cotton-white intruder's presence. Trace flinches a little at the expression, or perhaps your manner in general. But really it's not so bad. I mean god, the way people talked, his imagination had him wondering if maybe you were going to curse at him or throw rocks. Maybe call the police. Wouldn't THAT end him. "Waitin f'ta see you," he whispers. "Jason got to say his piece to Ben, an' came home and wept and won his peace'a mind. But I got a hurricaine in me, Walker. We ain't understood each other since all this happened. An' I was too sick of all the misunderstandings, an' stupid assumptions. An' I jest... you needed to know... that I ain't never gonna be happy if I walk away from you an' we never talk bout nothin'." His ramble had a desperate note hidden there, but now his eyes are both wary and wounded as he watches you.

How -nice-. Jason's at peace since he talked to Ben. How awfully /fucking/ wonderful for him. Never mind that it was -Holly's- ancestral home that was ravaged by the demon; never mind that it was -Holly's- things that were ruined without a /single/ word to him about any of this. Isn't the world a *brighter* place now that /Jason/ can rest his head? Whatever. Jade eyes darken further as the stormcloud that bears that name he *never* wants to hear again stirs. "Ya wanna tawk about what happened?" he clarifies, perhaps for some phantom record he's keeping. "Ya wanna tawk so ya can feel bettah about destroyin' my house? Awright. Let's tawk. What th' fuck did y'all do that for, huh? What did -I- do ta -ya-, Trace, that earned my entire house bein' trashed like that, huh? I would ask th' same-a Jason, only I ain't seein' him around here. In fact I ain't seen him since b'fore Ben told him a quartah-a th' truth. Didn't occur ta eitha-a ya that maybe y'all didn't have the /whole/ story?" Deep breath soothes the silver sparks turning dark green eyes to metallic. Calm down, Walker. Breathe. The arms stay tight about his middle as if he's afraid to let go for fear of losing something. Making himself more vulnerable. But inside it burns. Spirit wounds don't just go away, no matter how much you might will them away with parties and booze and drugs. They only fester. And this one's infected badly. But the very fact that you showed up here is a balm you could never know. That's all he ever wanted. Was to have his say. To have his take on the matter known. To be able to vent -his- feelings the way everybody else in god and country has. Like he told the therapist: one of the things that burns even still is the fact that he's been convicted and punished for phantom crimes without even having a trial. Everyone else did.

"I do, I wanna talk about ALL that stuff, Walker!" Trace insists in a soft, plaintive plea. "I realize now we din' have the whole story. S'why I came back and was talkin' to Ben, that last time y'saw me... I was tryin' to hear what he had to say. I jest, I wasn't so strong that day. Y'scairt me, but I shouldn'a took off like I did. I escape too much." A sad, wry chuckle. "S'been a lifelong problem, a'think." There's a long, silent pause. A very soft sigh, and he finally continues. "Jason went to Ben the day he found out where the new house was. R'I'm sure he woulda went sooner. Me, I held off coz everybody tole' me to." He shakes his head a little. He could bitch, but then he and Jason pulled the same trick on Caddy, hiding away there and not thinking to tell him where to look for them. "I guess I jest wanted t'say... I'm sorry. For... f'LOTS of things. So much, Walker, God.." His eyes lift now, hazel meeting cool green bravely. "Y'wanna know what you did t'me?" he whispers sadly. "Well I can't tell ya. Coz I lissen t'what people tell me, an' what I been slowly comin' t'understand is how wrong I was t'suggest we break in an' steal y'bong. An' pull out stuff in the cupboards, an' empty trash cans." The paint Jason can apologize for himself. For once, the 'art' left behind was not done by THIS little bluehair. He shakes his head a little, again. "At the time..." He swallows, looks down. "I thought it was you an' Ben's fault. All of it. I jest, I loved Batiste so much, I couldn't bear to put the blame with him. Couldn' believe he'd go through with somethin' that'd wreck our triangle. But.." He flinches, but looks up again. "But he did. An' it were his decision. And so now things won't be the same, and that's f'us to work out. And I jest realize we got more in common then I first realized, even if I'm never gonna agree with y'alls ideas about love and faithfulness. Point is we don't need to agree. An' point is that you got caught in the middle of Bat and Jason's broken love affair, just like Ben did. And jest like I did." That last whispered. But god, was he caught by it. Ripped apart. "You was caught and punished and hurt f'things that shoulda never been beyond them two. Jest like me."

Apologies. Well, that's certainly not something he expected. Talk about a sure way to dampen some of the fires... but not all. Absorbing your words he simply sighs as you fall silent, drained on the inside from the tide of emotion slender arms held back physically. As the gale dwindles he can relax but in the relax all that's left is hollow, dull pain from a wound that will never stop hurting buried under an ocean of tears left uncried. "Yeah, Trace... it was real wrong. Thanks ta y'all Ben an' me have th' delight-a keepin' our doors locked behind iron when I used ta leave th' place unlocked day 'r night. I was Bat's lovah long before Jason was, Trace. As far as I knew, nothin' had changed 'cept fer him findin' a warm place in his hawt f'Jason too. Not till Ben came home bawlin' his eyes out sayin' that Jason hated him." Another slow breath's taken and released, carrying with it the weight of all the nightmares since that night. Dark green eyes flit off you to trap the vines nearby to be the audience to his words. "Ya know, I wish y'all woulda jus' tawked ta -me-. It didn't have ta be like this..." This is addressed to the plants. Y'all understand? It didn't have to.

"You really didn't know..." Trace murmurs, and the words come to him as a blow and a salve hand in hand. Just more guilt pouring off the body language of this slight, near-trembling creature. "I'm sorry f'that. I thought you would unnerstan' how Jason is. Don'tcha member when he pushed Jordan down the stairs? Why ya think he did that? Coz he was hunky dory with that prick pokin' his pryin' fingers round the idea of snaggin' Bat f'his own?" He sighs. "An' that were jest talk. I dunno, I guess I jest figgered you all knew and still decided to risk all we had. And it hurt me, you know? F'the longest time I felt so betrayed and unloved, that you all would choose to do something so destructive to that beautiful thing we had goin'." He barks a very soft, sad laugh. "Figgered musta meant Bat was quite a catch if he meant so much more 'n the rest of us.." He shakes his head. "I don't feel that way no more, though. I mean, I'm startin' to unnerstan' what all this is *really* from. And now the blame is right where it should be, I think. On Batiste f'not trusting and being so insecure, alla which lead him to the decisions he made. An' on Jason f'not assuring Bat'a what he needed to hear, I guess, to be happy with jest him. They talked it out once more, an' that's what's made the most sense since this whole mess began..." He sighs softly. Eyes drop to your plants. They must be preening under all this attention. "I do wish we woulda talked. Gotta understand, I couldn't that night when Jason was tremblin' and flippin out on me. That night, we had to go. Jest to get out of there, clear our heads, think of what to do next. You ask too much'a us, that we'd be level-headed 'nuff that very same nice to talk civil atchya." His hands slip into his pockets, shoulders hunched a little. "When I came back, things didn't go like they coulda, I guess. Y'scairt me that night. But like I said, I wish t'God I'da stayed and faced you. I think maybe... things'd be a whole lot better."

Glass comes down Bourbon from uptown.

Walker blinks at you, feather-fine brows pulling up and in. Blink. "Jason.. pushed Jordan down th' stairs?" See how clued in Walker is? No, Trace-dear. He didn't know. Perhaps if he had; maybe if pains hadn't been taken, like always, to protect Walker from what went on around him he might've had a clue. But he didn't know. Apparently he didn't know anything. Doesn't know. Doesn't know anything about this stupid, fucked up world where people don't see things for what they are. Ever. Nobody. An arm parts from his midsection, heel of palm grinding against one eye as if that action will make this all make a little more sense. But it doesn't help. "I didn't throw anythin' away..." he mumbles down his gauzy sleeve, hair sifting forward to veil the distraught expression. "I nevva stopped lovin' Batty... I jus' thought..." It doesn't matter. None of it. None of it. "I needa cig'rette." So saying he turns and minces toward the table, numb fingers scooping up the box of cloves, tugging one out to be lit with hands that tremble ever so slightly like a new leaf tickled by a lick of spring breeze.

Glass comes along from uptown, walking peacefully down the middle of carless Bourbon street.

Oh. Heh. Thought everyone had figured THAT one out. I mean, he was so smug about it. Trace looks at Walker with widened eyes. "I helped," he says softly, and swallows. "After he'd fallen t'the bottom, I picked up his... his head. And slammed it." His eyes are bright, blinking. He feels bad about it though, see? Maybe you're going to ask him why. So he saves you the trouble. "He was... a threat. To our Triangle." A very small one. Turns out Batiste didn't like Jordan in the slightest. Whoops. And yet... "It was all we had. Don't make it right. I unnerstan' that. Jest... nevermind." But don't you see the pattern? Triangle gets threatened, and these beastie-boys go wild. "Walker?" he asks softly. A young voice, and his stance only pronounces it. He could pass for years younger, standing and speaking like that. "I'm not angry anymore. May I give you something?" The plea is thick in his voice.

Benjamin steps out onto the stoop of the shotgun house marked with the brass numbers 269.

-Snick-. The zippo flares and lights the clove, a trail of thin smoke drifting over a slender shoulder. Jason was smug about it? Not around Walker. The last he heard of the incident was when Jordan was being whisked away by the paramedics. Why would Walker ever have reason to jump to the conclusion that Jason had pushed him? Does it help that Trace admits to being involved? Only from the standpoint of making Walker doubly glad for the bars over the front and back doors and 24 hour security alarm. "What..?" The nightengale voice is soft and scratchy from a choked throat pinning back another wellspring of brand-new upset. Trace isn't angry anymore. Well, at least he has the consolation that -- most likely -- it won't be a knife in the back that Trace gives him. He turns then, chin lifting to suck in the betraying expression leaving only a smooth alabaster mask of placidity to face the world. But it's the broody eyes that tell the tale under the shade of thick lashes. Broodymoody eyes that flick to Doug; there's a sight that wants to bring a smile. But his smile broke. Maybe if Ben there could fetch a broom there might be enough fragments on the stoop to piece together a frail facsimile of a genuine expression. With a little superglue used judisiciously.

Benjamin tugs the front door open, then pushes the security door open a little bit, just enough to stick his head outside. The natural light, as opposed to the dim of the house, causes him to blink owlishly a few times. "Holly?" he calls, searching around in this half blinded state. "Are we still going to..." Wait. Blink. Now there's a face Ben hasn't seen in longer than he can remember at the moment. And Holly nearby, upset. Of course he's upset, Trace is here. With a careful glance to the boy, he moves to take one step out onto the porch, squished between the wrought iron door and the house.

A threat to their triangle. Heh. Doug pauses a few yards away from two sixty-nine and drags on his cigarette, listening to Trace. He makes no pretense of being sly or even polite about it. It's brazen eavesdropping for our Doug, and he really ought to know better -- it looks like he's irritated by what he hears. As time goes by he finds himself more and more suprised that he didn't end up at the bottom of some flight of stairs himself, or something akin to that. He glances at Walker, trying to read the man's expression as he lights up. Perceptive he may be, but Doug is still left unsure. He had thought that Walker was aware of the Jason-Jordan incident as well. The thought has been irritating him, just a tickle, and for weeks. Well, since Bat returned, anyway.

Christian comes down Bourbon from uptown.

Christian stalks in, expression dark and bearing a promise of storms, with occasional clearing. One hand has red licorice wound around it a few times- Christian is chewing at this with a rough sort of attention.

Walker's glance sends Trace looking over his shoulder with paranoia. Then the door opens and that sends him looking to Ben now. Oh, God. Fright in Trace's eyes now. Bad enough that he should face Walker down, evasion-prone as he is. But three of you? Are you all going to lock him with similar icy stares? He swallows hard and forces his glassy hazel eyes back to Walker. Okay. He's just gonna... go get the whatever-it-is that he has for Walker. One slow step retreating, then another... Is he running? Nope. But better clarify, since it's a logical assumption. His timid voice calls out his promise, "I'm jest... goin' to the side of the house; it's hidden there. Bat said to-to hide it, and wait for a better time..." His backpeddling steps pick up speed, and he turns and hurries out of sight. Quiet rummaging in the foilage there.

Glass watches Trace, his gaze not entirely icey, but not approaching friendly either. He smokes quietly and stays where he is. Looks like whatever he had meant to be doing down on Bourbon street has been put on hold so he can observe this little not-quite-conflict. He doesn't seem alarmed at all though, which is either a comfort or a dissapointment, depending on your outlook.

Grace comes down St. Philip from riverside.

Trace is not in sight right now. He's ducked around the corner of the house 269 and is rummaging through the bushes currently.

Christian glances up- wooah. People. One eyebrow quirks a bit as Christian gnaws at his licorice, settling against a lightpost to enjoy the entertainment. And the rustling in the bushes. Nosy? Christian? Shityeah.

Jean-Batiste walks along Bourbon Street, one hand slouched into a pocket, the other holding a trusty, half-consumed licorice clove. His ballcap is off, clipped to a beltloop so it bounces lightly with each scuffed step he takes. Damp hair flips limply around his face whenever the breeze picks up, requiring repeated ear-tuckings to tame.

Walker stays cemented to the edge of the stoop, hovering there with one arm folded over slender midsection to support the elbow of the other, a clove wafting sweet clove smoke into the summery air. Pensive eyes follow the ragamuffin known as Trace till he's out of sight, expression clearing only enough to offer a wane smile of welcome to Glass. Then a glance is directed over his shoulder toward the fellow half in and half out of the shotgun house. Then back to the front walk.

Trace? Grace doesn't see Trace. Nope. She doesn't see anyone, really. She's too busy concentrating on the cement as it disappears beneath the tattered boots she has yet to replace. A cigarette dangles precariously from the bow of her lip, eyes narrowed against the *early afternoon* sun. Because there's no rain, after all. Inky black hair falls in a curtain, obscuring part of her face from view.

Not Ben's place to be here. Not his problem. It's Holly's turn to deal with things and make his own peace. Remember the doc's office. Besides, Ben's own stomach is churning and he -knows- that he'll only make this more difficult. Quietly, he withdraws and lets both doors fall closed. Not even a curious face peeping at windows.

Benjamin quits the stoop of 269, stepping inside the shotgun house.

Christian glances at Jean-Batiste- back to the rustling noises off. A little sighing sound as he looks at the heavens and asks "Can you spare a cigarette?" One hopes not of God; Christian's voice is far too close to a murmur for God to really hear it easily.

While no one would ever really consider Grace a celestial being, she does have extra nicotine. You can't get much around this city without having nicotine, piercings, or tattooes. Christian seems to be possessing two out of the three prerequisites. Grace can be a dear and offer up the third. "Here," is mumbled around her own cigarette, eyes narrowed against the filter of smoke rising from the cherry as they raise to Christian. "You need a light, too?" The cigarettes are pulled from the pocket of her pants, Kamel reds extended towards the guy.

And from the bushes emerges Trace, carrying a medium-sized package wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. Eyes flit nervously to the group, which has definitely multiplied since he disappeared such a short time ago. Wow. His widened eyes flicker to Bat, Grace, and the New Guy. Kid looks a little shaken though, and he's a boy on a mission. Bat gets a single shared glance, since it's sure he knows what's going on here. Then his timid steps carry him back up to the porch where Ben no longer stands yet Walker still waits. A humble offering to the throne, he holds the package up. All but gets on his knees really. Head bowed, he looks up through ratty blue ropes.

Christian digs in the pockets of his cutoffs as the cigarettes are proferred, producing a couple quarters and attempting to palm them off on Grace as he murmurs "Thanks. I got a light." Too much smoking, come to think on it, could hamstring a voice into Christian's gravelly rasp. But there he goes again- after the smokes, ignoring his nice, healthy, preservative-and-xanthic-gum-laced red not-actually-licorice.

Darkest jade eyes sweep over the plastic wrapping. None of the zest lights the pale face that's usually associated with Walker getting a wrapped surprise. No bright smile or overeager pawing. In fact it takes him a moment to move at all. Carefully he plucks it up and, back to the amassing crowd below, carries it over to the patio table to carefully dig the whatever out from the plastic bagging.

Amble, wander, meander. Towards #269 Batiste goes, trailing sweet-spiced smoke behind him in steady chain-smoking-variety drags. His expression carefully blanks as he notes those nearer the house than him, and he makes a slight trajectory adjustment. New target: Glass. The porch can wait. For now. "Ami," he calls softly, once he's within earshot of the older boy.

"Um," Grace begins, her head shaking as she sticks the cigarettes back into her pocket, "No, that's okay. Keep the change." Blue hair catches her attention, liquid green sliding a quick path towards Trace as he offers something to Walker. Hm. Lips purse thoughtfully as she glances at the exchange, though she shifts her attention back to Christian rather than gawking at the proceedings. Isn't that the polite thing to do? "Next time I'm in need of a cigarette, I'll make sure I ask you for one." A playful wink drops her left lid, before she pulls her own cigarette from between her lips.

Trace watches intently as the angel takes the offering. Probably could take a fairly accurate guess the moment you pick it up, Walker. It's a familiar shape. Inside is the fishbowl bong, unharmed and recently cleaned, with a brand new filter. The blue-haired boy shifts his weight nervously from one foot to the other, eyes anxious and worried and vastly vulnerable.

Glass lifts a brow at Trace and watches the gift presentation with mild interest. He drags on his cigarette and conteplates the situation, his expression a little wry. Obviously he has doubts about the effectiveness of the gift. The soft french word suprises him a litle and he glances back over his shoulder somewhat nervously. When he sees the caller he smiles, a little hesitant. "Hey, ami."

Christian digs a zippo out of his pockets, watching Walker's attention to the plastic-wrapped object. And more specifically- the object. Clink! shkk-- Christian lights his cigarette and takes a long drag off of it, exhaling only slowly. A grin at Grace's words- and he offers in reply "See, that's why I had the change out. I quit." Drag. Puff.

"Oh," Grace murmurs wryly, her brows lifting. "Well, then maybe I should take that back. I mean, I wouldn't wanna get in trouble for being a bad influence, or some sort of nicotine pusher." She pulls in a drag of her own, thumb flicking the butt of her cigarette, causing a flurry of sunset sparkles to flutter towards the pavement. "Lord knows what people would think of me then."

"Hey." Batiste steps close to Glass, and offers out his clove to the older boy as their shoulders bump in silent greeting. Eyes move back to #269's porch, as the 'gift' is offered and accepted. No surprise registers on his face, though perhaps he looks faintly pleased. "Well," he murmurs, glancing to Glass and sharing that wry grin. "Looks like they're talking, at least." Softly said -- hopefully soft enough that it doesn't carry to the porch-dwellers.

Christian nods, mock-solemn. "You didn't push. I asked, remember?" A slight grin. "You're no worse than a convenience store owner." Drag- puff. "Fuck I missed these." a toothy grin.

Christian's smoke, exhaled, has a faint sickly-green tinge, taking on suggestive- and disturbing- shapes. Aaaah, glamour. It ain't just for breakfast anymore.

Glass steps back a little and slips his non-cigarette-bearing arm around Batistes' shoulder. He nods and murmurs to the younger boy as he watches the pair at two sixty-nine's porch.

"Well," Grace begins, a reluctant grin tugging at one corner of her mouth, "You didn't ask me as much as you asked.. upwards." Though, she isn't going to debate semantics. "I don't know how you can quit. I don't think I ever could." A pause as she turns the cigarette over in her fingers, nimbly flicking it as she studies the coffin nail. "Well, I will if I ever get pregnant. But, until then? Hell no."

The fishbowl bong. Walker lifts it, turning it over in his hands like a curator would a Ming vase, delicate and prone to shattering. So many memories tied around one single piece of paraphenalia. Whatever thoughts the troubled angel entertains about the thing, however, are his own and when he turns back to Trace in this mini-drama played out for those of you beyond the stoop and the walk before it, it's with the same placid expression and veiled jade eyes from before. The item's extended to the kid with blue ropes for hair (blue Raggedy Andy?). "Keep it. I got a new one." Like his bed. His house. Got a new one of each of those. And like the house, all this thing he holds amounts to is once-warm memories turned bitter. No room for that in his heart or his home. Sorry...

Alisynde comes down Bourbon from uptown.

Christian brings fingers that move in a curious manner- equally brusque and gracile- to his lips, extracting his cigarette and tapping ash from the end. "The lord works in mysterious ways," he informs Grace, a solemnity to his voice that is not echoed in the little smirk at one corner of his mouth.

Alisynde ambles along, a cigarette dangling loosely from one hand. The other swings at her side freely.

Amusement filters over Grace's expression as she watches Christian, head shaking. "No, nope. The lord must just seen fit to put me right here when you asked.. it for a cigarette." That makes perfect sense to the waifish chick, her head bobbing in an emphatic nod to emphasize this very salient point. Though, a religious zealot, she isn't. Displayed quite clearly by the rueful twist to her lips. "Smart guy, huh?"

Trace's face crumples a little, but he holds it together long enough to protest in soft whisper, "So do we. We'd given it to... to Caddy. So I hadda save up all this money, so I could buy her a new one, and.. and reclaim this one t'give back t'you." He brings knuckles to his nose and sniffs hugely, but finally reaches out hands (one slimed, eww) to take the bong back. Maybe he'll go leave it on the porch of that vacant house on Moss Street. Might be the only place it belongs.

Christian shakes his head. "Nope. just a dumbshit New Yorker with a tattoo gun," he retorts to Grace- having another drag and making an effort at blowing smoke rings. A noble, zenlike effort. It fails, an amorphous blob of nicotine and tar meandering inland on lazy Gulf breezes. A little frown. Christian coughs, suddenly.

Jean-Batiste leans into Glass a little when the older boy's arm goes around him, and breathes out a quiet sigh. "Yeah, well," he murmurs in reply to Glass's words. "At least..." He shrugs faintly, and looks down at the ground, kicking it a few times for good measure. "At least they're talking." It's feeble optimism at best, though -- and it crumbles to a crooked twist at the corner of his mouth when the bong is taken back by Trace. Ah, well. Maybe it -was- a little like a Band-Aid for a gunshot wound.

"New York?" See, now that piques Grace's interest like not much else could. If Christian had said that he was rich and.. generous, she wouldn't have been much more pleased. "I'm from New York. You're a tattoo artist, too?" Come, everyone hum: 'It's a small world after all' la dee da. "My roommate works at um," a pause as semi-deterioriated brain cells kick into gear. Thinking, you know, is a very complicated process. "Flesh wound. With Jay. Well, it's Jay's place, but he hasn't been around much. Not that I've seen. He did this." She lifts her chin, free hand moving to gesture at the tattoo wound around her throat.

Glass watches, staying quiet now, with his arm around Batiste's shoulder. He gives the younger boy a squeeze in leiu of any other response to his words. Now wouldn't be the time to speak, for he finds himself concentrating on keeping his face so perfectly placid. Anything he might say would probably be turned to bitter laughter. Silence is better than that, and he seals his quiet by dragging on his clove.

Alisynde takes a drag off her cigarette. Blessed nicotine. Why, oh why did Ali ever desert you? Her attention turns somewhat to the porch of 269, the greeting smile on her face dampening just a little as she takes in just all who's there.

Christian leans forward- examining Grace's throat. A faint smile. "Not too shabby," he notes. "You do the design?" Christian asks, dragging again on his smoke as his eyes remain locked on Jay's handiwork. Another drag- another puff- one hand unconsciously coming up to rub fingertips along the contour of his bicep, over the length of the dragon tattoo that ornaments his skin.

As soon as the bong's out of Walker�s hand an arm returns the the waist-wrap position, other hand lifting to press the black-papered cigarette to his lips for a long inhale. Licorice and clove smoke mingle with the early-blooming jasmine next door and the bright roses in the front lawn. Deepest forest green absorbs the countenance of the slight youth before him, full lips set only in the natural pout the saints graced him with on birth. "Well... now ya got yer own." Soft. What else is there to say to that? Oh, gee Trace. Thanks so much for trying to give me back the bong you stole from me when you vandalized my home? Like -that- would sound like gratitude. And he can't find it to even bring the thing inside the house. He's been quite careful about what shadows have been allowed into the sanctuary and this is a blot he doesn't want there. That was Then. Now if for moving forward. Not looking back.

"Nope. I actually went in there for a consultation," Grace murmurs, brushing the hair back from her neck, "And we got to talking, and he sketched this part out." She bends her head forward, the inky black waves of hair draping down, and away from her nape. "And I wanted it to be a collar of sorts, so he added the other stuff, too." Fingers absently roll her cigarette between them for a few moments, before flicking the half-smoked thing out onto the curb. Left to fester and die amongst the haven of other butts littering the street. "He's the only one allowed to do tats at Flesh Wound, though Nadine does 'em too. Just not outta there. She does mostly piercings, though. Did my tongue and my nipple."

Christian snorts. "So much for rentin' a fuckin' chair. Prick." He shakes his head. "Well, it's not /my/ problem if he doesn't want Hideyoshi Okama's only apprentice workin' at his shop..." A smirk, and Christian drags again on his smoke.

Grace lifts her head, allowing her hair to fall back into position over neck. "Well, I don't know what the whole deal is. You'd prolly wanna talk to 'Deen about that. She's the expert." She cants her head to the side fractionally, studying Christian with a faintly bemused smile hovering over nibbled and swollen lips. "I'm Grace, by the way. You just move here?"

Christian nods. "Christian Born," he tells Grace, offering a hand. It's either a name or a spiritual state. "Nicetameetcha," he mumbles around his cigarette- extracting it to ash again.

Alisynde makes her way a little closer to the house, her eyes leaving it for a moment to see what else is what. And some of that what else is a Grac. Grace, therefore, gets a pleasant wave with Ali's free hand.

Confusion sweeps Grace's brows together at the name. Is it a name, or is he really just into his religion? And then.. did she insult him by insinuating God sent her here to give him a cigarette? Hm. Pale hand extends, fitting in the larger one offered. "Well, it's nice to meet you, um.. Mr. Born." Kay, let's cross our fingers and hope that was his name, and not the beginnings of a theological discussion.

Christian nods. "So your housemate does piercings." A faint grin. "Maybe she knows somewhere else I can rent a chair. Flesh Wound... Lemme guess, that's dinkwit's name for it?"

Trace looks up at Walker with sorrow. If there's no looking back, how can anything be mended? Now all the best things in his life can only be glimpsed looking back. "I'll come back," he whimpers, trying to stave off tears long enough to get the words out, but the strain from keeping his features smooth is played all over his face. "I still wanna hear your story, but..." Not now. He tried, but he needs to go hide himself away and weep for awhile. "I-I'll come--" It' broken by a sharp sob that might almost sound like a cough or a laugh to those who can't see his face and he just shakes his head helplessly, "M'sorry." The bong is clutched to his chest, and he keeps his chin tucked down close to his chest so that his once-braids might serve as a protective curtain around his emotion. Gonna go now, guys. Sorry you don't get a wave, but Trace needs to flee. His steps quicken the further he gets from 269, but he doesn't hit that flat out wild and mindless run until he's well out of sight.

Glass turns his head and whispers a little to Batiste.

"Yeah, Flesh Wound. Jay's a cool guy, though. I think he's just really proud of his tattooing work or something." Grace's attention is drawn towards Trace as he makes his escape, a wince spasming over her features. "Shit," is whispered, more to herself than the tattooed guy standing next to her. "Hey, Ali," is called belatedly, before Grace turns back towards Christian with a quick smile. "I could get you to talk to Nadine if you want? I'm sure she knows of some places. She's like.. I don't know. Connected or something. Goes to conventions and shit."

Christian stretches his arms up above his head, linking fingers around behind the lightpole. A nod to Grace's offer- he murmurs "d'appreciate that. Sorta looking for work, honestly. Life insurance only goes so far."

Catherine comes down Bourbon from uptown.

Jean-Batiste looks down at the ground, raking teeth across his bottom lip when Trace starts to break down. Glass's murmur brings his head up slightly, and he nods once. "Yeah," he murmurs. "I'd better." He slips free of Glass's arm, squeezing the older boy's fingers briefly, then turns to follow after Trace, calling, "Trace. Trace, hey. Wait up!" He'll break into a jog when Trace's steps quicken, trying to keep up.

Alisynde pulls on her lip as Trace flees, her body too far away to catch him before he goes. But she turns, anyway, as if meaning to chase after.

Catherine is walking rapidly along Bourbon, carrying as always a schoolbag over her shoulder, and this time a gymbag in her hand. She looks somewhat tired, but has a rather big grin on her lips.

"Sure," is intoned with another smile, though strained. She should go after Trace. But there's just about no way she could manage it. He'd be long gone. Besides, kid would probably be more comforted by Jean Batiste and Ali than Grace herself. Always seems nervous around her, like she's gonna bite his blue head off. "Anytime you want, and I'll definitely have you meet her. We live over on Gov Nicholls."

Glass turns as well, somewhat suprised at the way Bat left his side so quickly. He glances back to Walker, a look that is questioning. Do you need me now? Are you all right? Doug is unsure as to which direction he should go, reluctant to leave Walker yet wanting to follow after Batiste, for all the good it would do.

Christian watches the blue-haired kid leave from his overattenuated position, hands still up there against the lightpole above his head, Christian's face wreathed in a polychromatic halo of tattoo. One brow quirks- his gaze flips over to the porch whereat one finds Walker. Click-click-click goes his mouth- not in a clicking one's tongue sort of manner, too punctuated and non-meaty for that.

Catherine peers over towards the large gathering on the street, and waves towards them, but doesn't head over. Instead, she stops a little down the way to look at the blacksmith shop, as much of what is left of it, then walks past the wishing stump and on her way towards the river along St. Philip.

The butt of the clove is dropped without notice to the yard, dark green eyes following the blurred form of Trace for a few heartbeats before a silent step's taken back from the edge of the stoop. Riene's Court of Angst, it would seem, is done for the day. The gentle bump of plastic against Walker's posterior lets him know he's still moving, the light contact and soft scraping of the plastic chair alerting him that he might want to stop. Has that look about him lost children get in large places like the amusement park when mommy and daddy have vanished leaving them alone in a huge place full of strangers. When they're trying to keep it in and be brave. Struggling angel. A soft nuzzle from below is Godiva's support for his effort, the silvery-grey cat emerged from the sheltering cover of the patio table. He stoops to gather up the armful of fur -- probably not the best idea in those shorts of his but modesty's never been an issue for the performer. A soft nuzzle is awarded kitty face and he turns to trudge toward the front door. Thinks he already knows which direction Doug will go... or is too lost to notice the questioning look.