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Title: Everything Gets Trashed -- part the first.

Setting: Caddy's Apartment, morning

Log Cast:
Jason
Trace

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Jason's scent, heavy with pot and a mild case of unwashedness (as well as, yes even still, that hint of musk) fills your nose as Jason burrows his head under your chin in the late morning light. Evil light. It invades still, even in this little sanctuary of warmth that's filled with blue braided hair and your own rather distinctive smell - pleasant to Jason even though it'd probably disagree even with yourself at times. A soft sigh and he gradually rises towards wakefulness."Mmn, Trace?" He knows you're there, even though he didn't so much as stir when you curled up with him last night. Green eyes blink open, gummed with sleep, and then a faint smile grows. Oh good. Was worried, even in the pot haze he and Caddy had gotten themselves into. He blinks around the room some and finds it empty. Oh good. Safe from any onlookers, he gives you a gentle kiss on the cheek, the n starts to untwist his limbs from around yours without waking you. Almost feel... normal this morning. S'kinda weird.

Trace was standoffish from everyone yesterday, but throughout the night he grew clingy, until now he's loathe to break contact and lose your warmth, even still wrapped in slumber. The slightest pout touches sleep-smooth features as you start to untwist. No. "G'backhere.." he mumbles, and tries to burrow closer. He's been asleep awhile now, and the dawn is starting to pull him away from dreamless sleep as well. So now he's in that grey haze, basic levels of need and comfort. His lashes flutter and he mumbles, "Z'it mornin..?" His eyes shut tight. "Z'is Caddy's..?"

Well, hey, this command Jason certainly doesn't mind. Arms slip back into place around you, though this time drawing you to his chest to burrow instead of the other way around that he ended up just a few moments ago. "Mmn, guessso," he mumbles in reply. Probably to both your questions. Lips brush across your forehead as he murmurs softly, "Y'okay? Was..." Okay, we can admit this. "Um, was jus' a little worried last night." Role reversal anyone? Heh. One hand slides up your back to gently tease your braids and the back of your neck. "Missed the an'mal cracker hunt."

"An'mal crackers..?" Trace mumbles, eyes peeking open again to look up at you through strands of braids and rumpled clothes and limbs. It doesn't last long; he goes back into his burrow quickly. "Wish I hadn't," comes his mournful, muffled mumble. "Woulda been lots better. Jason, we... we oughta start lookin' round fer someplace t'stay permanent-like, y'know? Caddy said we could stay long's we liked. Said she likes havin' us 'round. But dunno.." He peeks up again, with something unspoken in his eyes.

Jason is the master of unspoken, even in his current state. Still-faintly bloodshot eyes soften in concern, fingers stroking your neck soothingly at your sad tone. Something Happened. Yes, that's clear. "Yeah, I don'... I mean, it don' feel right sometimes." He kind of has to force that out, even though he knows it to be true. But the fact is that the alternative to mooching off of friends is... the street. And for some reason he can't bear to sleep there even though it was a frequent crashing spot even while things were cool at Chez Walker. "Um... mebbe I could check out the docks 'n see if any of the warehouses're cool?" His lip's caught as his eyes find yours again. Pretty hazel, you know... But the Unspoken Thing is still there. God. This hurts. "What's wrong?" he asks in a near-whisper, knowing whatever it is is gonna be bad. It has to be to have his bluecap like this.

Trace clings tight when you ask him, nose pushing into your chest. Hiding, being held. "I'm sorry, Jason," the bluecap whispers. "Walker... he threw away your flute and panpipes. I should--" he sniffles, "I should looked inna trash like he tole me to, but I was hurt so I runned instead an', an' maybe they're still there somewhere but I shouldn'a been too proud to fetch 'em. He-he wouldn' call me Trace, was callin' me Kevin an' he was all ice first, an' he shouted... He doan' miss us, or even feel bad like Ben does." He shudders and falls quiet, fingers still keeping a death-grip on your t-shirt.

Jason blinks slowly, gaze going to someplace far beyond you. He thought that the ultimate damage had been done. But, no, it appears that 'Chez Walker-Ashley' still has the power to hurt. He swallows audibly, but stays silent otherwise. Trying to keep the hurt out, the tears in. Somewhere, deep deep inside of him, there was that little boy hoping that there'd be a painful but enduring make-up sort of deal in the future and he could truly find 'home' in this life. The little boy's silent now. "Fuck 'im, Trace," he says in a soft, cold voice, all his emotions being crammed back down his throat. If he can feel, he can hurt. And he's so tired of hurting. "He never cared, he just thought he could get some from 'the boys.' Fuck 'im. He jus' cares that we took his money, not why we're gone. Well, fuck 'im. He'll have Bat when he comes back anyway, why the fuck /should/ he care?" No, not all the emotions are down there. Anger, it's coming up again. He remembers anger now. It was something that seemed to bleed out of him in the rush of pain at Ben's admission, but now... He's remembering the anger well. He's holding you still, even petting your hair with the gentlest of touches, but he's not there. He's not anywhere, really. A Jason-shell filled with emptiness and anger. His recorder...

Trace peeks up at you, eyes large and hazelbright. You're so strong. Here he's been a wreck since it all happened, but look at you. "M'gonna... get it back for you, Jason," the boy promises, snaking and arm around and squeezing fierce. "Either I'll find ya old one fer ya, or I'll get ya a new one. Y'cain't..." He pauses, realizing he's letting his voice drawl thickly and shudder with his emotion. He ought to learn to be as strong as you, really. Drawing it in with an effort, "You can't lose it. Somethin' perfect about when you play f'me, and.. and I draw f'you, and I'm gonna win that back. They can't take that." He nudges at you to roll over a bit and pushes himself up briefly to settle his cheek down on your chest. "Jason, where'd I be without you, huh? We'll never fight, okay? Nuthin's worth havin' nuthin..." And right now it doesn't even feels as though everything is fading anymore. It's like it's getting yanked away, slapped out of his hands. You've probably never seen him so clingy as he has been these days since they fled Chez Walker-Ashley together. He squeezes his eyes shut again.

Strong. Yeah. That's Jason. So... strong. Beat those emotions back, hide them away, they're weakness. They make you so weak. He rolls back under your pressure, one hand cupping the back of your head and holding your cheek to his chest. A soft bark of laughter, dry and humorless, comes from his throat. "Fuck, s'gone. Fuck it. Surprised I kept it s'long as I did anyway." His green-eyed gaze wanders across the ceiling, even though nothing is really seen by it. "Feels like..." he starts to murmur, softer. Feels like everything /is/ slipping away. "No... No fighting. Jus'..." He takes a shivering breath of his own. "S'not yer fault," he pronounces, stronger once more. No mystery whose blame it /is/. Big, strong Jason. Big, strong, unfeeling Jason. "Fuck 'em," he whispers at the ceiling, a tear escaping and trickling down his cheek. "Fuck 'em all."

"*No*," Trace insists, eyes flooding despite the firmness that comes to his voice. "Ain't losin' it. You jest never gonna play f'me again, huh? Coz'a stupid fucking Walker? No way. I'll git it m'self if I hafta." And that's that. He sits up partway to look down at you, eyes meeting yours dead on, intent and intense. "We'll hole up here awhile, n' look at them warehouse places like you said, alright? But we'll be fine here fer awhile. Caddy likes havin' us around. N'we'll be fine. We kin' do this jest fine." He sighs and collapses back down onto your chest, breaking the eye contact. "Member the other night..? S'proof things is alright, y'know? We *can* say fuck'em, and get on, and be alright." He talks as one convincing himself, or making the valiant attempt.

That's strength right there. Jason blinks once, forcing another tear to follow the first, but then turns his eyes towards yours, meeting them. /Seeing/ them. He's silent until you collapse back onto him and he enfolds you firmly in his arms. /His/. All his. Like you promised. You're tugged up just a bit and he presses his lips to your temple, lingering there for long moments. Then, "We'll get on." Very soft, but borrowing of your sureness. Even if it was false, it's not in his voice. Have to plan Real Life now. Been aimless, in a cloud so long and look what that got him. Now he's got to set things up and follow through and not mess with this playing around. "We're gonna get outta here someday, y'know. 'Mean, we'll have our own place 'n do our own stuff 'n we won' be stuck under no one no more. Dunno why I trusted 'em, but I found you, 'n that's all that matters ta me right now..." The words come, somewhat heedless of his intentions. A deep breath and he buries his face amongst your braids, stopping the things that probably would have come on after. "Dunno if I could do this without you," he finally whispers into your hair, nuzzling at it gently.

A pause, to nuzzle back, before Trace murmurs, "Know *I* couldn't, without you. I'd be, like... dunno, OD'd somewhere, prob'ly. Fuckin' gone, anyway." And amazingly, he doesn't say it with any hint of envy or longing. No, that would be disgust in his tone right there, at the thought of retreating into a stupor rather than face this. He gives the quirk of a hollow smile and says, "Ain't been so tempted as y'might think. Coz fuck them. Ain't gonna bust up my... my victory, y'know?" Well, strong words, but it's more than that. It's a desire to be strong and keep his promise not to betray you... And a mortal fear of fucking up and severing himself from one of the only ones who still feel like family.

Jason tilts his head down a little, parting his lips to say something or other. But all he can really do is look into your hazel eyes. A faint, wistful smile and he shakes his head to reclaim himself from those eyes. "Um, no... I trust you, Trace. I do." Because he /has/ to. You're the last thing /he/ has and if he didn't trust you, he'd be alone. Something he's deathly afraid of. "We beat that, 'n.. 'n... they ain' nuthin' compared to that. They weren' there, so fuck 'em." He lets out an ironic laugh. "S'jus' been us two fer so long, dunno why we make such a big deal 'bout this." Green eyes roam your face as he speaks, but the gaze ends up somewhere in the vicinity of your lips. His hand slides up and fingers reach out to gently play with the ring through your nose. "So..." A steeling breath, still playing with the steel ring. "Wanna dig through some trash?" The hated place, where he hasn't even turned his thoughts to since he left it. But if we must...

A strength, an energy is pulled from your gaze, even if those eyes are no longer the vibrant fiery green Trace has always known. Like the way you pulled his India stories from him long ago, even locked in this world with the rest of this world, you continue to inspire, to be his muse. "Yeah... yeah, you bet we'll fuckin' get it," he swears, eyes lit with the turning of mental gears. He makes no move to brush your hand away as you play with his piercing, but keeps his eyes locked on yours. "N'more. He took yer pipes, right? Les' get his. Or... better, this place needs a good bong, I think. We... we could give it t'Caddy! An' of course she'd be 'bliged to pass it about." He grins broadly. "She'd fuckin' love that cool fishbowl thing, n' we could say f'truth that we paid this month's rent stayin' at her place..." He slips a hand onto your shoulder and says encouragingly, "They already think we're fuckin' theives even though THEY're the ones who took OUR shit. Jest took it an' threw it out. So whatchya say? Still handy with yer lockpicks, fireheart? Up fer an' adventure?"

A pause in RP for some more irony:
Bluecap says, "Sooo... You guys are out at the Church IC? *innocent smile*"
Uncle Ben says, "Gonna egg us?"
Bluecap laughs. No.
Uncle Ben says, "Gonna spraypaint PEDOPHILE across the front porch? :>"
Uncle Ben should stop giving suggestions, I think.
Bluecap giggles! No, but keep guessing, coz it's just getting funnier.
Bluecap pouts.
Uncle Ben oh all rights. :) Hm... gonna dip condoms in marshmallow cream and hang 'em from the willow?
Bluecap lol! Dammit, where were you when I needed a good pooka prank for that contest I was trying to enter? :)
Uncle Ben can only do this situationally. :) Random pranks I'm no good at.

Back to your regularly scheduled RP...

Jason actually gets this little grin at that. Just a tiny, crooked little thing, but it's actually reflected in his eyes. A tiny spark of that fire that's been missing for too long now. Fingers slip from the metal to brush across your lips. "Yeah... yeah, was thinkin' that. Fuck it, yeah, let's do that." Growing strength, and motivation from it. Larceny, this Jason can do with surity. He takes a deep breath and places a quick kiss on your lips, then starts to get out from beneath your scant weight. "Let's jus' fuckin' do it."

Trace scrambles up, truly rejuvenated for the first time since that truly good night, at the Soul Food Cafe and recreation afterwards. He moves to his canvas bag and rummages through it, digging out the thin black sweatshirt jacket. He shrugs into it, zips it, and tugs the hood up, stuffing his braids inside. The point's to hide his conspicuous braids and more importantly provides plenty of room in which to stash a bong and run, though really now he even looks the part -- lil' punk up to no good. "Ought try'n find that hockey puck thing too," he grins.

Jason gets up and, while you're getting your sweatshirt on, he ties back his long hair with a couple of hair-ties. The pony tail he can live with, but stray hairs just get in the way. 'Sides, he's got to be ready to make a break himself. Can't really /hide/ his hair, though. Not that he really cares, considering that once they notice anything missing he knows he'll be the prime suspect. "Hocky puck thing?" he asks, tilting his head your way. Sounds familiar, but...

"Y'know, that thing he keeps his best weed in," Trace clarifies with a shrug. "R'maybe it's like a chewin' tabacca' thing with the lables torn off. Whatever. Who knows, maybe he's havin' as much trouble's me findin' someone who carries. S'pissin' me off. Nobody's got green. So I dunno, if I see it, I'm grabbin' it." He gives the apartment a final glance, then looks to you. Wow, check this out. This funny feeling, this energy... What is? Oh, hey. Courage. "Ready?" Maybe this is the call to war, but Trace looks eager and far away from considering the reprecussions of his spur of the moment plan.

Jason's more of the mind that he doesn't /care/ about the reprecussions. He crossed the bridges. Might as well burn them too, considering there's already a fire glowing on the other end. Eager and excited though, he's not. More like savoring this first act of true revenge. The money was out of necessity. This... this is truly malicious. And it feels good. "Yeah, grab the puck, can help pay the rent or whatever," he murmurs with something between a slight grin and a smirk. He likes your enthusiasm, that's for sure. And the fact that this maliciousness came from your brain. A nod. "C'mon, let's go..." He opens the door and slips out.

Jason opens the front door and steps out into the hallway.

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