hyperactive | ic contact || deerington.

that's what they are?

that's fine.
you sure you don't want anything?
iou offer going once

Okay, you're either fucking with me or you've been living under a rock for your entire adult life. Do they not have brands where you're from?
Hershey's ring a bell? Totino's? Uh. Taco Bell?
Christ, I might never eat Taco Bell again. Maybe I should've let that guy in the fishery shoot me.

Whatever. No. Of course I'm not sure. I'm taking the IOU.
When I think of something I want, you'll be the first to know, even though taking anything from you feels kind of dirty and immoral.
Like robbing a homeless man. Stealing his shoes.

[Fuck you?? No Answer For You Here]

okay.

where do you want to meet

Remember where we crashed that first day we met? The apartment I dragged your sorry ass to like the heroic Hercules I am.
I've just been staying there.
Kinda hoped you'd come by again without having to be invited, but it's fine.

really?

[Sorry he basically pushed you from his mind, kid.]

I can come by later tonight.

You watch a guy nearly die while choking on his own blood and it kind of sticks with you, yeah.

[ pretty hyperbolic version of what happened, but - it's easier to play up what a big deal that was than to just outwardly say that he's been really worried about logan's health. he can make jokes about being this guy's friend all he likes, but they don't know each other and logan clearly doesn't like him, so. easier to play up what he can play up where he can. ]

Okay. I'll leave the door unlocked.
I'll see what else I can scrounge up for that girl you know, but - not making any promises here.
See you later.

k

[And with the grace of a professors single-letter email reply, that's all she wrote for now. Logan has shit to do - shit to rummage around in, to tear apart and put back together. He's gotten a little stockpile of his own supplies, from food he's not feeling the appetite to eat to the more important necessities - booze, NSAIDs and anything stronger he can get his hands on and only one fucking pack of cigarettes. He has found some cleaner shirts, though, so after slipping one on he'll eventually make his way back previously trodden land to the apartment where Stiles screamed himself (the both of them, really,) awake not too long ago.

Even though he said the door's unlocked, Logan knocks his knuckles against the door before trying it - thinking that this kid's more likely than not to be Home Alone-ing it up. He shoulders his way through the door soon after that, a satchel on one arm and fresh bandaging around the knuckles of one hand.]

Edited 2020-02-12 06:40 (UTC)

[ he's not quite home aloneing it, but when logan knocks on stiles' door and shoulders his way on inside, it's pretty obvious how tense the kid is. he's got one hand behind his back and logan's probably seen enough skittish teenagers who have never fired a gun before to know that he's hiding a pistol back there, and his other hand is gripping the handle of his wrench tight enough to make his knuckles white. when he sees it's only logan, stiles relaxes immediately.

he adjusts his shirt, keeps it untucked, his handgun hidden but still kind of obviously there, the bulge of it an outline through the cotton. he lazily tosses his wrench onto the couch and nods to logan, telling him to come inside, and he side-shuffles past him with a few quiet oops, scuzi, coming throughs to get to the front door. stiles shuts it, locks it, double checks that it's locked, triple checks that it's locked, then heads back to the living room, talking to logan as he goes. ]

What's in the bag?

[ he sits down on the sofa, his snacks for logan's kid up in a little pile on the table in front of him. he starts stacking it up, making it neater, partially so it's all easier for logan to carry and partially because stiles needs to keep his hands busy. and speaking of hands, don't think he didn't notice logan's bandages. ]

You're hurt.

Edited 2020-02-12 07:00 (UTC)

Smokes and a knife.

[Stiles didn't miss a beat and neither does Logan - he's been in too many bar fights to count, you can always tell who's trying to conceal something simply from the fact they're trying to conceal it. They give it away long before it'd be noticed otherwise, with stiff posture and sweaty palms. He doesn't comment, not yet, because he's standing by the couch and slowly threading the bag's strap off from around him so he can toss it down on the table.

Rather than address his hand, he looks back to the discarded wrench and then the room around them - not much has changed. Spaghetti sauce still on the carpet. He's quietly trying to figure out where Stiles might be keeping Jamie.]

That thing loaded or just for show?

[ oh, so he did find something to smoke. stiles is mildly annoyed to hear it, but he bites his tongue. when logan calls out his gun, stiles gets a little deer-in-headlights-y, freezing mid-reach for a second, hand hovering over a fresh bottle of hop-up soda. he wets his lips, looks at logan for a second, then plays off any anxiety he feels right now with a joke. ]

Keep asking stupid questions and you might just find out, kemosabe.

[ he's speaking in his best jason borne/vin diesel/tough guy voice, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat to round out the lone ranger reference and all in all just pulling from too many things at once. he doesn't answer the question, and it's less because he's intimidated about answering and more because he doesn't want to think about having the gun in the first place. he's not a fan. ]

How'd you bust up your hand?

More people shoot their balls off that way than they do anyone else's.

[And that's all Logan's going to say about gun safety as he decides to take a seat - he could just grab the shit he needs and go, but... Stiles did effectively guilt him earlier into trying to keep better tabs on the kid. He (falsely,) presumes nobody else is around to do so, so he sits down and leans back on the couch to get comfortable. For a little while, anyway.

He stares at Stiles from across the table, debating glossing it over before gesturing vaguely with that bandaged hand.]

Breaking into an apartment. Where's the bug?

It's cool, seriously. My dad's a cop and my balls are impenetrable. I know how to handle a gun.

[ in theory. he knows that the safety's on and he knows that even though the gun is very, very much loaded, he's going to do anything he can to avoid firing it, so that, in stiles' mind, puts him way ahead of the bell curve when it comes to gun owners showing responsibility. regardless, logan takes a seat just as stiles has finished packing everything up, and when he realizes he's gonna stay for a while instead of just leave, well - he doesn't smile, but he doesn't not smile.

logan asks about the bug and stiles snaps his fingers and points with both hands to an incredibly sturdy looking ammunition box by the kitchen sink, where a large, thick padlock and a shit ton of tape are keeping the bug sealed away in the dark. it's kind of overkill, but... better safe than sorry. ]

I know it seems quiet, but it's not sleeping. If you get close to the box it starts freaking out and trying to escape. I think it can, like, smell you through the metal, or something.

[ shrug. ]

Why are you breaking into apartments? Cigar hunting?

Yeah, pretty much.

[He had some company in raiding a few of those places and came out pretty good in the end for the effort, although his knuckles are still singing the blues. His eyes stay focused on the kitchen and it's lonely occupant for a long moment, staring past Stiles. Part of him thinks he should just get up and kill the thing, but the rest thinks that's too much effort. Kid's keeping it contained for now, no harm, no foul.]

There anything in particular you're looking for? Besides hoarding cigars to spite me.

[ it's hard to miss what logan's thinking here. stiles narrows his eyes slowly, watching logan, waiting to see if he's gonna make any sudden moves - but that doesn't happen, thankfully, so lil jamie's gonna live another day. he exhales, rolling his neck and his shoulders, looking away. ]

Oh, right. Forgot I was doing that. Hold on -

[ stiles stands, makes his way to the bedroom he hasn't even touched since taking this apartment over, and after poking his way through drawers and rummaging through the stashes he's been building, he finds what he's looking for. it's not much, but he did actually manage to get his hands on a few cigars, and when he brings them back, he's nursing them in his hands without actually giving them over. he looks kind of anxious, but - again, maybe it's just the sleep deprivation. ]

... You're not gonna talk to me about your illness even if I ask, right?

[Logan watches him go and come back, eying him just as warily for a few beats like he's not sure what to expect here. If the kid's bringing more trouble to his doormat, he doesn't want it. But he also doesn't want any more charity, because it makes him feel itchy under the collar - like this kid's a good kid and now he's fucking sucked into another person's sphere of influence here. He almost wishes Stiles hadn't yet found a cigar, because - damn, he wants to reach out for them. But he doesn't. He stays lounging back on the sofa, eyes intent.]

Not if you're going to get on my case about it. Or act like a doctor, a nurse or anybody else who thinks they know best.

[ oh, okay, okay. okay, good. this is working. the hunger in logan's eyes, the salivation. he's a dog and these smooth, mellow cigars are prime cut steaks. stiles' heart does a little jump when he realizes he might actually be able to weasel some information out of logan here, but the guilt is almost crushing enough that he kind of wants to just give him the cigars without prying into his life too much. almost. ]

I just want to know what you're dealing with. I found out a few things about how death works here, and I guess I'm just...

[ ... he gestures with his hands, trying to find the words. he guesses he's just hoping things will be advanced enough here for logan to get help? he's hoping there's something here he can do? he's hoping he isn't actually making friends with a dying guy? stiles, frustrated, drops his hands, slapping them against his thighs. ]

Okay, okay, okay, there might be some light nagging if we go down this road, maybe a generous sprinkling of concern over this cake baked with worry, but you're three times the size of me and probably really comfortable with the idea of punching me in the head. So. It's not like I'm gonna be able to boss you around here, right?

[Red flags should be going off for Logan and they are, pretty much. This kid's already thinking five steps ahead for his future here and Logan's almost irked that he's including him in it. Why can't people just let an old man secluded himself away in privacy, until his dying day? Everyone's busting in and expecting shit of him. Laura spoke about the same idea, same concept, that death's not permanent and... maybe this Deerington place'll have something that can help. He obliged her, so - here he is, obliging Stiles.

He looks away, rather than keep eying the cigars he can just about taste.]

I've got an implant in me that can't be removed. It's toxic.

[That's a really vague way of covering it but hey - he's not lying?]

No good solution to be found. Not worth talking about. Now give me a cigar.

[ an implant? stiles is starting to understand why logan is as private about all of this as he is - nobody likes talking about their surgeries, and if something was embedded in logan to either save his life or get him killed, that's a pretty fucking heavy thing to bring up. must have led to a lot of suffering, too, dealing with that kind of infection for so long. stiles doesn't really blame him for wanting to shoulder whatever he's shouldering alone.

but. ]

What kind of implant?

[ one question gets one cigar. stiles holds out the first, clutching the other three cigars to his chest. he's never been good at letting people wallow in their own bullshit, and nothing screams i'm wallowing quite as loudly as the intense denial of a second chance in a whole new fucking universe where death is confirmed to be incredibly flexible. he's not gonna shy away if he can help it. ]

[He leans forward to take the first cigar, realizing he's at an interesting junction here where Stiles still has the power by means of having two more cigars to bait him along with. Logan leans back, satisfied for a second at finally having one in his hands and he smells it in a way that's pretty familiar with picking apart cigar quality. It could be better, but he's not about to whine over it. This way he isn't digging into his good stash any time soon.]

It was experimental.

[Not really a great answer, but he's leaning for his bag - rummaging for a lighter he knows he has while simultaneously lamenting the fact he can't so easily cut off the end of his cigar. Zippo in hand, he leans back and just... hesitates on the next step, as if he's thinking about the question more than he really is.]

And not something I like talking about.

[ there's a brief, brief second where stiles thinks to himself, what, like wolverine? - but the thought fades as quickly as it arrives, staying completely fucking disconnected to the guy in front of him. stiles runs his hand over the back of his neck, throwing a second cigar logan's way. it lands on the cushion he's sitting on, rolling down and resting against his leg. ]

Okay.

[ next cigar. stiles chews his bottom lip, really mulling this over. he's not going to push logan to talk about shit he doesn't want to talk about, even though he thinks getting on his case about this experimental implant might be the best way for him to figure out how to help him - so he jumps to the next best thing. gathering information so he can try and find short term relief for the guy. ]

How badly does it hurt? The - the coughing, like the fit you had here - how often does that kind of thing happen?

Edited 2020-02-12 08:37 (UTC)

Kid, why don't you just hold on to that question for later. Might think of something better to ask in the meanwhile.

[He doesn't want to answer this - and he's giving Stiles an out to hold out on him, keep another IOU in the form of an owed question. Also not so subtly trying to tell him to stop poking at sore and literally open wounds right now, because he really doesn't want to reflect on the shit he's already suffering through. He pushes to get up from the couch, less to walk away from this and more to head into the kitchen to look for a knife bigger than the piece of shit in his bag.

The tin can goes nuts and he's not sure why he's surprised, but he scowls at it like he is, before retreating back to the living space a moment later with a cut cigar in his mouth, freshly lit. Totally what a dying man with lungs that eke blood's certainly supposed to do, right? He sits back down, but more to the edge of the sofa cushion this time.]

That or ask something else.

[ stiles, naturally, wants to argue - the more detail logan goes into about his symptoms, the better chance stiles is gonna have of finding someone who might be able to fix him. he's annoyed, it's there on his face, but logan doesn't seem to give a shit, seeing as he just walks off and heads into the kitchen. stiles watches him go and thinks about pushing, like always, but - but at the same time, if logan had sat him down and grilled him about his nightmares, stiles probably wouldn't have been half as patient. reluctantly, stiles knows to take the loss as a loss. ]

... Okay.

[ he's got other questions in mind, a dozen different hypotheticals he can dress up as innocent curiosity instead of genuine worry and concern. instead, stiles just watches logan rake around in the kitchen, leaning back against his arm of the sofa and waiting for this asshole to quit fucking around and join him again. once logan sits, stiles takes a long, deep breath and goes for a gimme. he doesn't offer a cigar for this one, partially because he doesn't think that logan should be smoking them, but. hey, he started it. ]

Where'd you grow up?

[He's eying Stiles for a moment as he takes a drag from his cigar, getting used to the taste of it with a surprisingly comforted sigh. Lighter tossed back onto his satchel, Logan slowly leans back again to drape his arm over the back of the sofa and to sink into it to enjoy his cigar - keeping silent for a long minute as he so often does.]

You asking where I was born or where I've spent most of my time?

[Just childhood? Adolescence? It's been a while since his teen years, Stiles.]

Northern Canada. You?

[ stiles isn't sure what he's asking, really, so he shrugs, non-commital. both work, either work. logan says he's from canada and stiles is-- pretty fucking amused, honestly. there's this impish smile on his face that he does his best to bury, but hiding it only makes him smile even more. he shouldn't find that so funny, but - canada, really? this tough guy's from canada? that is the absolute last place he would have guessed. ]

California. Not anywhere cool, though. More overcast woods and high crime rate than sunny beaches and hot people. Well, no, that's not fair. Everyone is unfairly attractive in Beacon Hills, excluding yours truly.

[ still, he plays it off without comment, even though the urge to make jokes about how logan must've been pretty fucking far north if he absorbed all the cool frostiness of perpetually winter weather and none of the stereotypical politeness he'd probably get further south. ]

Is Canada home for you? Or - do you live somewhere else now?

[God, he just scowls the way anyone Canadian scowls when someone is poking fun at said Canadianism. Like maybe they say pop instead of fizzy drinks like those strange, upside downers in Australia do. Maybe they drink bagged milk. What do you care, Stiles? Jerk. Jerkist Jerkism. He looks away after that, zoning out after the word California as that was all the answer he needed, kid.]

Lived by the border in Mexico for a while. Worked in the States.

[live, laugh and loving it up in a smelting plant.]

You really don't have anyone else you can call a friend here? Nobody?

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