(no subject)
Who: Gray Adams & Mike McLeary [BAGHEERA & MOLLY PITCHER]
What: Pizza raincheck is cashed in.
When: A free afternoon.
Where: Gray's apartment, on the Western side of Manhattan.
Rating: Nothing high.
GRAY: There were many more pleasurable ways to idle away a free afternoon, especially one in which there was no guilt attached to a lack of work, but Gray Adams was not one to waste free time. While her office was full of shrill alarms, her home was not - the shrill tones of her ... 'lodger' (for Gray refused to refer to Rose as anything but an ambiguous interloper, guest would imply welcome) were blissfully silent as she was out, and her apartment was a haven once again. It didn't take long to shuck the skin of formality, slithering out of formal suits and back into jeans and a well-worn sweater, bare footed against the carpet, all the better to feel it. Gray had always liked the senses; the slide-slip of dry earth and sand through her fingers, the slippery cool of silk against skin, the nubbled softness of a favourite blanket. While it was an acknowledged, private indulgence, to drench her senses in feelings, be it buying obscenely high thread counted sheets, or underwear no one could see -- some small part of her blamed the whole thing, the silly pleasures gained from being barefoot or on sensory overload -- on the very nature of her Tale.
As she puttered between cleaning down surfaces in the kitchen (how on earth could peanut butter get ingrained into stone?) and wisely skipping over the grand majority of the room Rose occupied, beyond bundling up laundry, there was a simple enjoyment in the methodical accomplishment of tasks. Cleaning left a feeling of brief accomplishment, and a marking of possession; leaving behind her territory marked with lemon-scented cleaning products and smoothed afghans, it was hers once more. The radio was soft but audible in the background, and when the doorbell went, Gray was still humming along with 'Fat Bottomed Girls' with Freddy Mercury as she answered it.
MIKE: Carpets were fine, Mike had to admit, and lord knew he had a fondness for bankets, but in his opinion smell didn't get quite enough credit. Yes, there were lemon-scented cleaning projects to be considered, but if Gray had strained her nostrils just a little more, she might have picked up the smell of mozzerella, and therefore might have had some warning what was going down--so maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it was better she focused on touch. Mike was standing on the opposite side of the door, pretty much without warning. He was wearing a jacket and a black t-shirt over comfortable jeans. He had come bearing a gift.
Mike had run pizza in college, so he knew the proper way to hold a pie; balanced on the tips of his fingers, lightly but solidly, so that he didn't sustain any cardboard burns to his palm. As the door was tugged open, he leaned a little forward, announcing an intention to fill a space, and with a self-conscious smirk flickering briefly across his face. "Ey, you order a pizza?" He didn't have to do much exaggerating to nail that Queens deliveryman accent, and the half-swagger, half-lean came more than natural. He couldn't keep that low octave or the straight face, and he broke into a charming, satisfied smile so quickly that his undercover prospects seemed minimal.
GRAY: The delicate mechanics of how to hold pizza to avoid scarring were not something Gray knew much about (her college job had involved waitressing, and thus she had a handle on how to hold six plates at once, listen to screaming babies and still continue smiling -- possibly why smiles were so rare) but the turning up on her doorstep, quite literally managed to fluster her more than the consternation that he'd actually done it. Loose plans that were held together by suggestion did not have a habit of turning out fully-formed. As it was, as he stepped into her space, she stepped back - only slightly, but enough to allow him entry and also to press space back between them, comfortingly protective. His grin was disarming, and without thinking of it, the necessary process of answering the obligation she countered it with a smile that lit her face in warm surprise, pleased and uncertain, but wholly genuine.
"You get kicked out of the force or something?" she teased, arms folding against her chest; a retreat perhaps, defensive possibly, but a sight more open than anyone could expect her to be. "Or do delivery boys make more money?"
MIKE: "Either way, I know how to swing a company car," he smirked as he passed through the threshold. His pride hadn't allowed him to doubt that he would be let in, so he was surprised by the degree of relief; it was as though someone had taken a load off his shoulders, and soon enough it was a load off his arms as well. He rubbed his palms once he'd set down the pizza. Mike took in the room's details with the low-key curiosity of an investigator; a singular space stretched to accommodate a demanding friend, and then... scrubbed? He guessed that regular people did clean when they had off, though took pride in the idea that he'd distract from responsible handling of a free afternoon.
"I see you've killed Rose." He chuckled conversationally at the smell of cleaning supplies. He hoped that Rose was out, doing whatever it was that Rose did when she was out, but not because he particularly feared her retribution; as long as there was a slice left when she slunk back home, he suspected that he'd be alright. It was not of paramount concern whether she overheard plots to kill her. He raised a finger and added, "Remember! Two good scrubs with bleach. Plain cheese is good, yeah?" (TAG)
GRAY: Attention drawn back to the productive results of her 'free time' and Gray shifted with an embarrassed shuffle and then distracted back to the man-in-her-doorway and that he bore gifts, nodded. "It is, so long as a slice is safeguarded for the Locust. Or she'll sulk and God knows, when Bloom sulks, the world quakes in fear." A loose, easy-lipped grin that managed to be both mocking (as was comfortable) and a fraction of something else, and she leaned back against the wall the better to observe the new presence in her apartment.
"Haven't killed her; she pitched a fit over something, and I haven't seen her hide for a few days. I know she's still alive; my food is gone," she was skittering around what could be said, and instead of edging through topic choices like channel flicking on a television set, flickers of ideas skipped over to the next due to uncertainty, Gray fell silent. Moment or two, of plain watching, sizing up the situation, thoughts whirring with ways to talk, God, rusty at this, people here, last time someone had been inside her-haven that wasn't Rose -- stop.
"Plates?"
MIKE: The smile remained easily on his lips, but he knew she was watching, and he watched her when she wasn't watching him. When she was he watched the pizza, or glanced around the apartment, which was conscientiously nicer than that of a bachelor in an entry-level law enforcement position. Mike was sure of most things that he did. He wasn't sure if he belonged here. His motivation and his pride clung to the presumption that this was a good thing for Gray, that she needed some cute young guy pushing things around on her kitchen counter, but when it came down to it he didn't know. He began to run through possible signs that she was or was not okay with his presence, and stopped himself when his arguments started taking Rose's comments into account, not because he doubted their veracity but because they constituted a moral foul. He couldn't So this is what breaking and entering feels like, he thought bemusedly as he laughed at the way Gray knew Rose was still alive.
He pulled up the cardboard lid, and anyone who didn't smell the mozzarella then must've suffered from some condition. "Plates are a good idea. It's still pretty hot, which is... surprising. But good. I hope your DVD collection is as good as you said, I stopped by Blockbuster but," he snorted to himself, "when I said Easter Parade, they kept giving me childrens' movies."
GRAY: Her amusement flitted across her face, before hiding itself once more under careful control. Amusement, and a touch of something near uncertainty because as much as Mike felt as though he were breaking and entering, Gray darted between pleasure that he'd bothered and fear. Not much of her was on display in written books, or even in her office. Could conceal nervousness, or upset, or embarrassment by simply walking away, leaving a blank page or a profession to fill in the gaps. Responding to her with silly jokes and witty motes to make her laugh, and would it be quite the same, when she was real and as faded as reality painted her?
There was an echo of the Gray that was in the way she picked up a slice, and looped the dangling cheese around her finger, to bite in with a grin, and perching on the edge of her own kitchen table, bare feet dangling, even if the smile that danced behind her eyes was more guarded than her old ones used to be. "Blockbuster never stock the classics, so no one sees them. Outrage. DVDs and player are through there," indication of the open doorway, and a room in soft, cream colors, with a wide low couch, a blanket folded against the back of it, as though the occupant spent enough time curled up there to merit its use. The DVDS themselves were stacked neatly on plain shelves, and with her hand cupped under her pizza (neat, to a fault) Gray padded across to pull one out.
MIKE: He followed her with his pizza slice, and all the while, even while he smiled, all he could think was: how sick was it that he was scanning her apartment like a crime scene? It might have been the murder joke that had set that mental tone, but the sad reality of his job was that when he walked into new places, he immediately tried to find out what bad had gone down. No bad had gone down here, and he had to remind himself of that. Of course, he was still looking for clues. There were any number of conclusions somebody could reach about a host based on the state of their apartment, and most of those conclusions became harder when they had the chance to tidy up beforehand. Gray certainly hadn't had that.
"Oh, yeah. Damn them and their popular movies." Since he was holding the plate in one hand, he could make a tiny mock-empowering fist gesture that she'd never see. His confidence wavered a little in the living room, even though nothing had changed but his understanding of the situation. Hesitantly and with a glance down at the pizza, he began, "Listen, Gray, if your do have other things to do... I mean, I can come back. You're not obligated." There wasn't any evidence to suggest that she had grand plans for the afternoon or that she didn't want him around, but he'd been known to like privacy himself sometimes. Rarely. But sometimes. She seemed like she liked it a lot more frequently, and it was worth checking.
GRAY: It wasn't privacy Gray enjoyed, but the quiet solace that came from knowing that alone with your own company, no one could let you down. There were no grand plans to fail to ignite, no good intentions that tottered down the road to hell, there was just you, and you could be nothing but brutally honest with yourself. Brutally honest, but able to indulge yourself in the small rituals of enjoyment and all that could form as thought in her head was; what if he didn't enjoy it? What if her enthusiasm for something, even something as small as a favorite movie, didn't translate, fell into the slowly-closing gap between them, heavy and flat and widened it once again? The comfort of the friendship, and the small kernel of flattery that curled warmly and safely deep within, was something new, and fragile, and -- what was she doing, pizza and movies, and flirting in books and wasn't she too old for this? It was the same thought that struck each time he toed closer, threw-away a comment that struck her boundaries harder, and all of a sudden, Gray was uncomfortable, and aware that she was dressed like a teenager, in her living-room with a man she barely knew and it felt as though the universe might have a colossal joke with itself over this.
Breathe. Wanting to run away, but not, and standing still, and then the signal for retreat -- but from him. Gray blinked, an uncertain control had been handed back to her, as easily passed to her as she found it stripped away in conversation. Choice, that he was handing her, but in the same instance, taking away the one she made most often, to make none at all and therefore be blameless.
"You don't have to go," she said, voice quiet and hands twisting awkwardly against the loop of her jeans. "I mean," with a small laugh that shook a little more than it should. "I'm not. Busy."
MIKE: "Good," Mike said, with a simple, pleased nod that followed a seconds' hesitation. Neither this pause nor the smile that followed it seemed to be full of shit, and that was a mild departure from Mike's usual swagger, a don't-sweat-it kind of details blurring that made him easy to get along with but difficult to pin down. To be honest he was a little confused that he'd asked at all, but felt better having left her off the hook. It was a home invasion, but it wasn't a captive situation, so at least there was that. Leaning over the sofa back, he took a thoughtful bite of pizza, then swallowed it quickly. "'Cause I could, y'know, handle it. But it would be nice, not going."
He'd far prefer not to, so he leaned upwards, trying to catch a DVD title from the font of the box she picked. In this motion, Mike became normal again: normal and nosy. "So how does my classic movie education begin?"
GRAY: "At the beginning," relieved for the save, and she reached up to grab it, pass it over so he could see Judy Garland on the cover -- and realised, belatedly, possibly why no single male would admit to watching Easter Parade, or any movie with a singing sensation who doubled as a gay icon. But it was different, watching it with company, had to be, she reasoned, and looked at it afresh over his shoulder. Silly purchase in a lunch hour, with memories of an open fire and chestnuts, and her father's warm and heavy presence beside her, curled up on the couch together like an extension of one another - family - and the urge to buy it had been all consuming.
That and not owning it left her collection incomplete. "Boy meets girl, boy can dance, girl can sing, boy and girl sing and dance. The plot of all good musical theater movies, and the proof of a secret that if all else fails, singing and dancing in unison solves all problems." She was falling back into the rhythm of easy wit and words that spun themselves together into innocuous conversation, and cheered by it, the growing absence of awkward, brought the pizza box back into the room, and settled herself on the couch. Space enough for three, and shuffled down the end enough to leave that room free for his occupancy.
MIKE: "I'll keep that one in mind," he grinned, settling into an indentation in the sofa, not too close, but not wedged against the edge of the sofa. His tone was theatrical, but comfortable. Mike was one of those guys who could look completely at ease in whatever chair he was given (even if it was rickety or covered in tacks), and the thoughtful chewing of his pizza made him look even more at home. His posture, and the lazy sprawl of his spine, suggested that he could make a beer appear in his left hand just by thinking of it long enough. It was a lean more suited to sporting events than all-singing-all-dancing dramatic extravaganzas, but he had a lot more experience with the first than the second.
"Anyway, I was thinking, I've seen at least one classic movie before. Probably more... Wizard of Oz and the like, but anyway. Fifth grade, got this nasty flu bug, stayed home. It's the Rain In Spain one." Mike had at least an inkling that this was called My Fair Lady, but wouldn't trot out the knowledge unless he was a hundred percent sure. "Of course, I think I was in a fever haze through half of it..."
GRAY: "Rex Harrison, Audrey Hepburn," Gray noted, and there was a curling up of feet, tucking one under each thigh until she was comfortable, in a tight ball of limbs that was both uncomfortable to look at and yet incredibly relaxed, and reached for another slice of pizza as the opening credits rolled. "My Fair Lady, sung by someone who wasn't actually Audrey Hepburn." She didn't think he'd want to know it -- what use was the information, aside from answering questions on musical trivia when too inebriated to remember anything? But it batted the conversation back, and still she felt prickly with adjustment, until bright technicolor bloomed across the (too expensive) television set that had been her own ill-gotten gains in the divorce, and a thread of warm pleasure spilled through her, slow smile blossoming into true relaxation. This was perhaps, a better way to spend an afternoon. Not cleaning, obliterating evidence of being other than perfect. Just watching a movie, with someone uncomplicated.
MIKE: “Yeah, well, I wasn’t a big fan. Even an eleven-year-old can tell if he’s the professor or the cockney project,” he smirked. If it was possible to be conscious of himself without being self-conscious, then that’s how Mike felt when he was in Gray’s company, especially when the company was illuminated by the glow of a television larger than the pizza box. He rotated a shoulder against the large, comfortable couch. He leaned so that his knee hinged almost sideways over the edge; the overall impression was half he-lived here, half too-cool-for-school. He was almost ridiculously pleased that this had gone off so well. He wasn’t skilled at hiding his pleasure.
He did have some aptitude for returning to business, and at least attempted to swallow his smile. “So am I allowed to talk during? Because dancing and silence, it might be a bit much for a beginner.”
GRAY: Light grin tossed across to him, as easy as playing ball, as easy as if it were natural and right, and it felt so, to Gray. "Of course. Beginners get allowances made. Depends on the topic though," she added, mildly, "If you're planning on an in-depth discussion of the weather at the moment, you might wear your pizza. Just so you know up front." He looked settled, as though he fit in the surroundings, even though she'd feared they were too sterile, too female for someone like him to fit - and it produced a surprisingly warm pleasure that Gray dug down to hide. She turned her attention - her visible attention - back to the screen, aware she'd been watching him too long from her corner, but eyes sliding from the musical and back to her guest now and then, as though checking he were still there, still comfortable. Still fit.
MIKE: He had a growing conviction that not many people--men, certainly--got looks like that from Gray, and the ego boost verged on the visible. "Okay, so no low-rolling pressure systems whatever. Baseball?" he joked, and had the audacity to pretend he was hopeful. If conversation was all about give and take she owed him a talk about car chases or something when this was over, but letting him be here at all was its own concession, and a victory enough that he didn't need baseball talk. One day he'd figure out why he didn't need to exact his dues, or why he was putting so much more energy into chasing a panther than he expected to get out. Boredom, maybe, or that blow on the head he'd gotten a few months back. For now he was content to rest his eyes on a candy-colored screen and run his thumb in small circles atop the sofa fabric.
GRAY: If she'd known he'd caught it, the sliding looks of cautious interest, the consternation and doubt would have overwhelmed her. But Gray's aptitude for telling others what she would never say, without words, was equaled only by her lack of ability to read them, as if the effort to keep up the barricades meant no reserves left to concentrate on other people. All she could register was a quiet calm settling like a much-worn blanket, the kind of quiet that was more about what did not need to be said, rather than what was not being said but held in. Restless, unused to this comfort with another being - when had it become so difficult - she shifted, notching knees against her chest, and looping her arms about them, but leaning head back against the sofa, and as an afterthought, bringing down the blanket itself.
"Baseball matches the pizza," she said thoughtfully, looking over at him with a careful amount of time. "But not the movie. Another choice?"
MIKE: He was still facing the television screen, but looked over with a slight, sly tilt. "If you're grading on me being able to match the theme of this movie, I think we're both gonna be disappointed." This was not a disappointed voice in the least. Still, they'd nixed weather and baseball, and Mike wasn't going to let them talk about work--he'd had the kind of week where he wanted to spend every spare moment complaining to people, but once they started down that road it'd spin darkly to oblivion. It was much better to roll his head against the back of the sofa and twitch his lips. "I didn't do much for Easter, anyway," he said, lightly.
GRAY: "What's there to do? Beyond chocolate, and relevant movies," Gray asked, turning herself so better to look at him. Easter had never been much of a celebration since leaving home, where the point was driven home by the bells and incense of a church service, and Easter bonnets, and stomaches stretching from a surfeit of food. Now Easter was an irrelevance, as were most holidays; an extra day or so in which to drift at home until work once again gave purpose. "If you can find a conversational gambit that I actually know something about, you'll be in," she said, all amused dry tones and a wry little smile, shrugging her shoulders easily, as she admitted, "I know all of nothing about sports. The vague rites and rituals of jockstraps and catcher-mitts may be a male rite of passage to adulthood, but I lack it."
MIKE: "Not much," he replied, judging it best to omit the awkward dinners with family, and everything that went along with that--the wrangling of a sister and brother, mother and father, nosy neighbors dropping in at disjointed ten-minute intervals. Instead he looked at the screen in front of them, nibbling at what remained of his crust and chewing it thoughtfully. Colors happened, he was sure there were characters and dialog, but he wasn't paying attention. He was paying attention to her, and her admission that she didn't know sports.
He shrugged. "Baseball's nice and all, but you can't call it practical. Love it, but I can't call it that. I mean, I can get a soda can in the trash from across a room, but does that contribute in any way to my getting things done? It does not. There's some hand-eye coordination, maybe a mind for numbers, but not really."
GRAY: Impractical it might be, but what little Gray knew of the game, culled from her father - seemed to fit Mike, masculine in a way that seemed breathtakingly simple and easy to be. There was a laugh at the uselessness of a passion, but she thought it best perhaps not to be admiring of a passion that could be for something useless; in which there was no practical purpose, but simply enjoyment.
Her attention had been quite drawn from the debonair emblem of mankind on her television screen to the loose-limbed one in her living room, and of the two, Gray had to admit, the latter was more interesting, even if the first yielded more in terms of predictability and safety. There was a feeling of being handled gently, though, almost as if the conversation were egg-shell thin and likely to break, and that Mike were more aware of this than she, and easing the way for it. It was an odd feeling, someone else taking control, but really, why did she need it? Happily surrendering it, Gray uncurled, stretching out with the enjoyment of loosening muscles.
"So what else is it you do on your downtime? Apart from baseball, pizza and turning up on people's doorsteps unannounced?" It could have sounded abrupt, even accusatory, but it was a testament to how little she cared that the space between them had lessened with movement, his own comfort in the situation catching, that instead it was light, and teasing, even flirtatious.
MIKE: He gave a warm chuckle, tucking his hand behind his head and adjusting his neck to accommodate it. He had to think about that one. "Might surprise you, but after work, I don't really have much energy for anything. Sportswise, I mean. " He was conscious that he'd just recently called her out for the same transgression, but it was true--there were days he shuffled home, pulled some ice packs out of the freezer, and watched television movies until he passed out in crumbles of corn flakes on a couch that sagged even more than this one. "But I'm out a lot. Guys from the force, keeping an eye on them." Having an eye kept on himself, in turns.
Mike looked down at his hand, like he thought there would be a prompt on there. His rule not to mention work really limited their conversation, given that the only flattering things Mike ever did were tied into his job. Everything else was a recovery for his job--he just recovered in ways that society nodded at, slapping backs and buying drinks. Then he caught some motion from just above his eye line. Looking upwards, he gestured at the screen with a shit-eating grin. "I also express my happiness through clever dance breaks. Did I mention that? I would've sworn I mentioned that."
GRAY: "A shuffle-ball-change makes your day?" she wasn't buying it, all quirked eyebrows and a face that said, 'yeah, in which universe', but it was an out, and Gray's arms folded, tucked back against her chest with a veritable challenge in body language. "Can't really picture you as Fred Astaire, McLeary, you've got hidden depths." Truth was, she had no real place to be asking; how had she planned to spend the afternoon, after all? There used to be social obligations to take care of; dim memories of ballet companies that they paid extortionate amounts for good seats every year and names in the program under a list of 'patrons', or wandering art galleries, hand in hand in matching crisp white shirts on a Sunday, after coffee. Before that, before post-college sophistication, give her time and she'd be content; there was a little-touched guitar in the corner, after all, testament to her folk-songs-and-sandals days.
"Gotta be awkward if you're someplace public, and overcome by the urge to drop in jazz hands," she said thoughtfully, all apparent seriousness until you saw the smile curling in the corners of her mouth.
MIKE: "Yeah, it's a huge burden on the self-control," he snickered, and pantomimed what it might have looked like for a man such of himself to struggle against the urge to jazz-hand. It involved a lot of painful-looking finger contortions and an expression of fear tugging down the corners of his lips. When it slipped off his face there was no longer any discomfort in his face, because Mike had the sort of demeanor that could project and exaggerate and then let the act go. Not the joke. Mike liked carrying the joke forever.
"But you know," Mike continued in high rhetorical consideration, "there's an image you've gotta project, in law enforcement. The chief's not a big fond of interrogation room musicals. The perps, they're the ones who are supposed to be singing. We get some frowning if we try to, you know." He jerked his head up at the television screen. "Shuffle."
GRAY: Her smile was threatening to turn into laughter, tremulous bubbling in her throat. "I'd imagine," she said, as gravely as she could, "Little room for a proper tap-routine in an interview room." She curled her knees up against her chest, hugged them for want of something else to hug as a bright warmth glinted through the windows and picked them out in sunlight. "Can't be seen to be flighty. Same true of lawyering," was that a word? It became one, to suit the sentence, "Got to be solemn, and sober. Pretty good at it, now. Problem is knowing when to stop." There was a frown, faint furrowing of Gray's forehead as she considered it, the knowledge of not-knowing, and then looked at him again, considering it.
Smiling, laughter -- cheese pizza eating on a white couch -- and a soft heat curl at the distantly familiar of being admired herself, and conscious of it, unable to not enjoy it -- or to look at him again, and think differently. Yes, life had taken a bizarre twist, and instead of dwelling on it, she reached for another slice of pizza, faint blush rising against her throat. Focus back on the dancing.
MIKE: Enough of the television movies he'd fallen asleep to had been chick flicks that he knew a good pause when he saw one. There were moments that just slanted towards the center of something, like shower drains or those swirling coin-drop games they had at science museums. Eye contact over a cheesy, unexpected pizza was one of those moments. He knew that now. He would have taken advantage of it if they were only talking over compendiums, but he was in her living room and he couldn't do that here. He couldn't get the spark for an earnest I guess my work's cut out for me, or ask her to dance or some shit like that. If he was going to try and railroad her with campy charm and hope for the best There were limits even on Mike McLeary's free spirit and impeccable timing.
Fact was, Mike was tired too--tired from half a shift, a little sore. Sitting on her couch was a nicer prospect than chasing her or jumping through hoops. He dropped a hand to tear off another piece of cooling pizza. Some chuckling, some chewing, a wisecrack. "I'd make some crack about a musical lawyer, but I've seen Chicago and don't think it would end well for me."
GRAY: "You've seen Chicago - ends well for the lawyer at least," she said wryly, and truth being true that a tap-dance in the court-room could be out of place if it were literal dancing. It feels as though life is one big dance and knowing when to bow or take a partner's hand and complicated steps is vitally important; learn the steps and it looks easy to onlookers, and perhaps that's why, Gray considered, looking back at the screen, musicals appealed so much. That overcome with an emotion it could be prettied up in sugared almond colors, and sung out until it was done with.
There was a couple of slices left, the cheese going slightly droopy against the sides of the box, but she was pizza-ed out, contentedly full and comfortable and happy to sit and listen as the film began to head toward the climax, the dramatic by-play as Judy could possibly be replaced by Debbie, a conflict of pastel costumes and a skirl of instrumental music. It was familiar, so familiar she could mouth along the lines, following a dialogue as convoluted and over-wrought as it was effective.
What: Pizza raincheck is cashed in.
When: A free afternoon.
Where: Gray's apartment, on the Western side of Manhattan.
Rating: Nothing high.
GRAY: There were many more pleasurable ways to idle away a free afternoon, especially one in which there was no guilt attached to a lack of work, but Gray Adams was not one to waste free time. While her office was full of shrill alarms, her home was not - the shrill tones of her ... 'lodger' (for Gray refused to refer to Rose as anything but an ambiguous interloper, guest would imply welcome) were blissfully silent as she was out, and her apartment was a haven once again. It didn't take long to shuck the skin of formality, slithering out of formal suits and back into jeans and a well-worn sweater, bare footed against the carpet, all the better to feel it. Gray had always liked the senses; the slide-slip of dry earth and sand through her fingers, the slippery cool of silk against skin, the nubbled softness of a favourite blanket. While it was an acknowledged, private indulgence, to drench her senses in feelings, be it buying obscenely high thread counted sheets, or underwear no one could see -- some small part of her blamed the whole thing, the silly pleasures gained from being barefoot or on sensory overload -- on the very nature of her Tale.
As she puttered between cleaning down surfaces in the kitchen (how on earth could peanut butter get ingrained into stone?) and wisely skipping over the grand majority of the room Rose occupied, beyond bundling up laundry, there was a simple enjoyment in the methodical accomplishment of tasks. Cleaning left a feeling of brief accomplishment, and a marking of possession; leaving behind her territory marked with lemon-scented cleaning products and smoothed afghans, it was hers once more. The radio was soft but audible in the background, and when the doorbell went, Gray was still humming along with 'Fat Bottomed Girls' with Freddy Mercury as she answered it.
MIKE: Carpets were fine, Mike had to admit, and lord knew he had a fondness for bankets, but in his opinion smell didn't get quite enough credit. Yes, there were lemon-scented cleaning projects to be considered, but if Gray had strained her nostrils just a little more, she might have picked up the smell of mozzerella, and therefore might have had some warning what was going down--so maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it was better she focused on touch. Mike was standing on the opposite side of the door, pretty much without warning. He was wearing a jacket and a black t-shirt over comfortable jeans. He had come bearing a gift.
Mike had run pizza in college, so he knew the proper way to hold a pie; balanced on the tips of his fingers, lightly but solidly, so that he didn't sustain any cardboard burns to his palm. As the door was tugged open, he leaned a little forward, announcing an intention to fill a space, and with a self-conscious smirk flickering briefly across his face. "Ey, you order a pizza?" He didn't have to do much exaggerating to nail that Queens deliveryman accent, and the half-swagger, half-lean came more than natural. He couldn't keep that low octave or the straight face, and he broke into a charming, satisfied smile so quickly that his undercover prospects seemed minimal.
GRAY: The delicate mechanics of how to hold pizza to avoid scarring were not something Gray knew much about (her college job had involved waitressing, and thus she had a handle on how to hold six plates at once, listen to screaming babies and still continue smiling -- possibly why smiles were so rare) but the turning up on her doorstep, quite literally managed to fluster her more than the consternation that he'd actually done it. Loose plans that were held together by suggestion did not have a habit of turning out fully-formed. As it was, as he stepped into her space, she stepped back - only slightly, but enough to allow him entry and also to press space back between them, comfortingly protective. His grin was disarming, and without thinking of it, the necessary process of answering the obligation she countered it with a smile that lit her face in warm surprise, pleased and uncertain, but wholly genuine.
"You get kicked out of the force or something?" she teased, arms folding against her chest; a retreat perhaps, defensive possibly, but a sight more open than anyone could expect her to be. "Or do delivery boys make more money?"
MIKE: "Either way, I know how to swing a company car," he smirked as he passed through the threshold. His pride hadn't allowed him to doubt that he would be let in, so he was surprised by the degree of relief; it was as though someone had taken a load off his shoulders, and soon enough it was a load off his arms as well. He rubbed his palms once he'd set down the pizza. Mike took in the room's details with the low-key curiosity of an investigator; a singular space stretched to accommodate a demanding friend, and then... scrubbed? He guessed that regular people did clean when they had off, though took pride in the idea that he'd distract from responsible handling of a free afternoon.
"I see you've killed Rose." He chuckled conversationally at the smell of cleaning supplies. He hoped that Rose was out, doing whatever it was that Rose did when she was out, but not because he particularly feared her retribution; as long as there was a slice left when she slunk back home, he suspected that he'd be alright. It was not of paramount concern whether she overheard plots to kill her. He raised a finger and added, "Remember! Two good scrubs with bleach. Plain cheese is good, yeah?" (TAG)
GRAY: Attention drawn back to the productive results of her 'free time' and Gray shifted with an embarrassed shuffle and then distracted back to the man-in-her-doorway and that he bore gifts, nodded. "It is, so long as a slice is safeguarded for the Locust. Or she'll sulk and God knows, when Bloom sulks, the world quakes in fear." A loose, easy-lipped grin that managed to be both mocking (as was comfortable) and a fraction of something else, and she leaned back against the wall the better to observe the new presence in her apartment.
"Haven't killed her; she pitched a fit over something, and I haven't seen her hide for a few days. I know she's still alive; my food is gone," she was skittering around what could be said, and instead of edging through topic choices like channel flicking on a television set, flickers of ideas skipped over to the next due to uncertainty, Gray fell silent. Moment or two, of plain watching, sizing up the situation, thoughts whirring with ways to talk, God, rusty at this, people here, last time someone had been inside her-haven that wasn't Rose -- stop.
"Plates?"
MIKE: The smile remained easily on his lips, but he knew she was watching, and he watched her when she wasn't watching him. When she was he watched the pizza, or glanced around the apartment, which was conscientiously nicer than that of a bachelor in an entry-level law enforcement position. Mike was sure of most things that he did. He wasn't sure if he belonged here. His motivation and his pride clung to the presumption that this was a good thing for Gray, that she needed some cute young guy pushing things around on her kitchen counter, but when it came down to it he didn't know. He began to run through possible signs that she was or was not okay with his presence, and stopped himself when his arguments started taking Rose's comments into account, not because he doubted their veracity but because they constituted a moral foul. He couldn't So this is what breaking and entering feels like, he thought bemusedly as he laughed at the way Gray knew Rose was still alive.
He pulled up the cardboard lid, and anyone who didn't smell the mozzarella then must've suffered from some condition. "Plates are a good idea. It's still pretty hot, which is... surprising. But good. I hope your DVD collection is as good as you said, I stopped by Blockbuster but," he snorted to himself, "when I said Easter Parade, they kept giving me childrens' movies."
GRAY: Her amusement flitted across her face, before hiding itself once more under careful control. Amusement, and a touch of something near uncertainty because as much as Mike felt as though he were breaking and entering, Gray darted between pleasure that he'd bothered and fear. Not much of her was on display in written books, or even in her office. Could conceal nervousness, or upset, or embarrassment by simply walking away, leaving a blank page or a profession to fill in the gaps. Responding to her with silly jokes and witty motes to make her laugh, and would it be quite the same, when she was real and as faded as reality painted her?
There was an echo of the Gray that was in the way she picked up a slice, and looped the dangling cheese around her finger, to bite in with a grin, and perching on the edge of her own kitchen table, bare feet dangling, even if the smile that danced behind her eyes was more guarded than her old ones used to be. "Blockbuster never stock the classics, so no one sees them. Outrage. DVDs and player are through there," indication of the open doorway, and a room in soft, cream colors, with a wide low couch, a blanket folded against the back of it, as though the occupant spent enough time curled up there to merit its use. The DVDS themselves were stacked neatly on plain shelves, and with her hand cupped under her pizza (neat, to a fault) Gray padded across to pull one out.
MIKE: He followed her with his pizza slice, and all the while, even while he smiled, all he could think was: how sick was it that he was scanning her apartment like a crime scene? It might have been the murder joke that had set that mental tone, but the sad reality of his job was that when he walked into new places, he immediately tried to find out what bad had gone down. No bad had gone down here, and he had to remind himself of that. Of course, he was still looking for clues. There were any number of conclusions somebody could reach about a host based on the state of their apartment, and most of those conclusions became harder when they had the chance to tidy up beforehand. Gray certainly hadn't had that.
"Oh, yeah. Damn them and their popular movies." Since he was holding the plate in one hand, he could make a tiny mock-empowering fist gesture that she'd never see. His confidence wavered a little in the living room, even though nothing had changed but his understanding of the situation. Hesitantly and with a glance down at the pizza, he began, "Listen, Gray, if your do have other things to do... I mean, I can come back. You're not obligated." There wasn't any evidence to suggest that she had grand plans for the afternoon or that she didn't want him around, but he'd been known to like privacy himself sometimes. Rarely. But sometimes. She seemed like she liked it a lot more frequently, and it was worth checking.
GRAY: It wasn't privacy Gray enjoyed, but the quiet solace that came from knowing that alone with your own company, no one could let you down. There were no grand plans to fail to ignite, no good intentions that tottered down the road to hell, there was just you, and you could be nothing but brutally honest with yourself. Brutally honest, but able to indulge yourself in the small rituals of enjoyment and all that could form as thought in her head was; what if he didn't enjoy it? What if her enthusiasm for something, even something as small as a favorite movie, didn't translate, fell into the slowly-closing gap between them, heavy and flat and widened it once again? The comfort of the friendship, and the small kernel of flattery that curled warmly and safely deep within, was something new, and fragile, and -- what was she doing, pizza and movies, and flirting in books and wasn't she too old for this? It was the same thought that struck each time he toed closer, threw-away a comment that struck her boundaries harder, and all of a sudden, Gray was uncomfortable, and aware that she was dressed like a teenager, in her living-room with a man she barely knew and it felt as though the universe might have a colossal joke with itself over this.
Breathe. Wanting to run away, but not, and standing still, and then the signal for retreat -- but from him. Gray blinked, an uncertain control had been handed back to her, as easily passed to her as she found it stripped away in conversation. Choice, that he was handing her, but in the same instance, taking away the one she made most often, to make none at all and therefore be blameless.
"You don't have to go," she said, voice quiet and hands twisting awkwardly against the loop of her jeans. "I mean," with a small laugh that shook a little more than it should. "I'm not. Busy."
MIKE: "Good," Mike said, with a simple, pleased nod that followed a seconds' hesitation. Neither this pause nor the smile that followed it seemed to be full of shit, and that was a mild departure from Mike's usual swagger, a don't-sweat-it kind of details blurring that made him easy to get along with but difficult to pin down. To be honest he was a little confused that he'd asked at all, but felt better having left her off the hook. It was a home invasion, but it wasn't a captive situation, so at least there was that. Leaning over the sofa back, he took a thoughtful bite of pizza, then swallowed it quickly. "'Cause I could, y'know, handle it. But it would be nice, not going."
He'd far prefer not to, so he leaned upwards, trying to catch a DVD title from the font of the box she picked. In this motion, Mike became normal again: normal and nosy. "So how does my classic movie education begin?"
GRAY: "At the beginning," relieved for the save, and she reached up to grab it, pass it over so he could see Judy Garland on the cover -- and realised, belatedly, possibly why no single male would admit to watching Easter Parade, or any movie with a singing sensation who doubled as a gay icon. But it was different, watching it with company, had to be, she reasoned, and looked at it afresh over his shoulder. Silly purchase in a lunch hour, with memories of an open fire and chestnuts, and her father's warm and heavy presence beside her, curled up on the couch together like an extension of one another - family - and the urge to buy it had been all consuming.
That and not owning it left her collection incomplete. "Boy meets girl, boy can dance, girl can sing, boy and girl sing and dance. The plot of all good musical theater movies, and the proof of a secret that if all else fails, singing and dancing in unison solves all problems." She was falling back into the rhythm of easy wit and words that spun themselves together into innocuous conversation, and cheered by it, the growing absence of awkward, brought the pizza box back into the room, and settled herself on the couch. Space enough for three, and shuffled down the end enough to leave that room free for his occupancy.
MIKE: "I'll keep that one in mind," he grinned, settling into an indentation in the sofa, not too close, but not wedged against the edge of the sofa. His tone was theatrical, but comfortable. Mike was one of those guys who could look completely at ease in whatever chair he was given (even if it was rickety or covered in tacks), and the thoughtful chewing of his pizza made him look even more at home. His posture, and the lazy sprawl of his spine, suggested that he could make a beer appear in his left hand just by thinking of it long enough. It was a lean more suited to sporting events than all-singing-all-dancing dramatic extravaganzas, but he had a lot more experience with the first than the second.
"Anyway, I was thinking, I've seen at least one classic movie before. Probably more... Wizard of Oz and the like, but anyway. Fifth grade, got this nasty flu bug, stayed home. It's the Rain In Spain one." Mike had at least an inkling that this was called My Fair Lady, but wouldn't trot out the knowledge unless he was a hundred percent sure. "Of course, I think I was in a fever haze through half of it..."
GRAY: "Rex Harrison, Audrey Hepburn," Gray noted, and there was a curling up of feet, tucking one under each thigh until she was comfortable, in a tight ball of limbs that was both uncomfortable to look at and yet incredibly relaxed, and reached for another slice of pizza as the opening credits rolled. "My Fair Lady, sung by someone who wasn't actually Audrey Hepburn." She didn't think he'd want to know it -- what use was the information, aside from answering questions on musical trivia when too inebriated to remember anything? But it batted the conversation back, and still she felt prickly with adjustment, until bright technicolor bloomed across the (too expensive) television set that had been her own ill-gotten gains in the divorce, and a thread of warm pleasure spilled through her, slow smile blossoming into true relaxation. This was perhaps, a better way to spend an afternoon. Not cleaning, obliterating evidence of being other than perfect. Just watching a movie, with someone uncomplicated.
MIKE: “Yeah, well, I wasn’t a big fan. Even an eleven-year-old can tell if he’s the professor or the cockney project,” he smirked. If it was possible to be conscious of himself without being self-conscious, then that’s how Mike felt when he was in Gray’s company, especially when the company was illuminated by the glow of a television larger than the pizza box. He rotated a shoulder against the large, comfortable couch. He leaned so that his knee hinged almost sideways over the edge; the overall impression was half he-lived here, half too-cool-for-school. He was almost ridiculously pleased that this had gone off so well. He wasn’t skilled at hiding his pleasure.
He did have some aptitude for returning to business, and at least attempted to swallow his smile. “So am I allowed to talk during? Because dancing and silence, it might be a bit much for a beginner.”
GRAY: Light grin tossed across to him, as easy as playing ball, as easy as if it were natural and right, and it felt so, to Gray. "Of course. Beginners get allowances made. Depends on the topic though," she added, mildly, "If you're planning on an in-depth discussion of the weather at the moment, you might wear your pizza. Just so you know up front." He looked settled, as though he fit in the surroundings, even though she'd feared they were too sterile, too female for someone like him to fit - and it produced a surprisingly warm pleasure that Gray dug down to hide. She turned her attention - her visible attention - back to the screen, aware she'd been watching him too long from her corner, but eyes sliding from the musical and back to her guest now and then, as though checking he were still there, still comfortable. Still fit.
MIKE: He had a growing conviction that not many people--men, certainly--got looks like that from Gray, and the ego boost verged on the visible. "Okay, so no low-rolling pressure systems whatever. Baseball?" he joked, and had the audacity to pretend he was hopeful. If conversation was all about give and take she owed him a talk about car chases or something when this was over, but letting him be here at all was its own concession, and a victory enough that he didn't need baseball talk. One day he'd figure out why he didn't need to exact his dues, or why he was putting so much more energy into chasing a panther than he expected to get out. Boredom, maybe, or that blow on the head he'd gotten a few months back. For now he was content to rest his eyes on a candy-colored screen and run his thumb in small circles atop the sofa fabric.
GRAY: If she'd known he'd caught it, the sliding looks of cautious interest, the consternation and doubt would have overwhelmed her. But Gray's aptitude for telling others what she would never say, without words, was equaled only by her lack of ability to read them, as if the effort to keep up the barricades meant no reserves left to concentrate on other people. All she could register was a quiet calm settling like a much-worn blanket, the kind of quiet that was more about what did not need to be said, rather than what was not being said but held in. Restless, unused to this comfort with another being - when had it become so difficult - she shifted, notching knees against her chest, and looping her arms about them, but leaning head back against the sofa, and as an afterthought, bringing down the blanket itself.
"Baseball matches the pizza," she said thoughtfully, looking over at him with a careful amount of time. "But not the movie. Another choice?"
MIKE: He was still facing the television screen, but looked over with a slight, sly tilt. "If you're grading on me being able to match the theme of this movie, I think we're both gonna be disappointed." This was not a disappointed voice in the least. Still, they'd nixed weather and baseball, and Mike wasn't going to let them talk about work--he'd had the kind of week where he wanted to spend every spare moment complaining to people, but once they started down that road it'd spin darkly to oblivion. It was much better to roll his head against the back of the sofa and twitch his lips. "I didn't do much for Easter, anyway," he said, lightly.
GRAY: "What's there to do? Beyond chocolate, and relevant movies," Gray asked, turning herself so better to look at him. Easter had never been much of a celebration since leaving home, where the point was driven home by the bells and incense of a church service, and Easter bonnets, and stomaches stretching from a surfeit of food. Now Easter was an irrelevance, as were most holidays; an extra day or so in which to drift at home until work once again gave purpose. "If you can find a conversational gambit that I actually know something about, you'll be in," she said, all amused dry tones and a wry little smile, shrugging her shoulders easily, as she admitted, "I know all of nothing about sports. The vague rites and rituals of jockstraps and catcher-mitts may be a male rite of passage to adulthood, but I lack it."
MIKE: "Not much," he replied, judging it best to omit the awkward dinners with family, and everything that went along with that--the wrangling of a sister and brother, mother and father, nosy neighbors dropping in at disjointed ten-minute intervals. Instead he looked at the screen in front of them, nibbling at what remained of his crust and chewing it thoughtfully. Colors happened, he was sure there were characters and dialog, but he wasn't paying attention. He was paying attention to her, and her admission that she didn't know sports.
He shrugged. "Baseball's nice and all, but you can't call it practical. Love it, but I can't call it that. I mean, I can get a soda can in the trash from across a room, but does that contribute in any way to my getting things done? It does not. There's some hand-eye coordination, maybe a mind for numbers, but not really."
GRAY: Impractical it might be, but what little Gray knew of the game, culled from her father - seemed to fit Mike, masculine in a way that seemed breathtakingly simple and easy to be. There was a laugh at the uselessness of a passion, but she thought it best perhaps not to be admiring of a passion that could be for something useless; in which there was no practical purpose, but simply enjoyment.
Her attention had been quite drawn from the debonair emblem of mankind on her television screen to the loose-limbed one in her living room, and of the two, Gray had to admit, the latter was more interesting, even if the first yielded more in terms of predictability and safety. There was a feeling of being handled gently, though, almost as if the conversation were egg-shell thin and likely to break, and that Mike were more aware of this than she, and easing the way for it. It was an odd feeling, someone else taking control, but really, why did she need it? Happily surrendering it, Gray uncurled, stretching out with the enjoyment of loosening muscles.
"So what else is it you do on your downtime? Apart from baseball, pizza and turning up on people's doorsteps unannounced?" It could have sounded abrupt, even accusatory, but it was a testament to how little she cared that the space between them had lessened with movement, his own comfort in the situation catching, that instead it was light, and teasing, even flirtatious.
MIKE: He gave a warm chuckle, tucking his hand behind his head and adjusting his neck to accommodate it. He had to think about that one. "Might surprise you, but after work, I don't really have much energy for anything. Sportswise, I mean. " He was conscious that he'd just recently called her out for the same transgression, but it was true--there were days he shuffled home, pulled some ice packs out of the freezer, and watched television movies until he passed out in crumbles of corn flakes on a couch that sagged even more than this one. "But I'm out a lot. Guys from the force, keeping an eye on them." Having an eye kept on himself, in turns.
Mike looked down at his hand, like he thought there would be a prompt on there. His rule not to mention work really limited their conversation, given that the only flattering things Mike ever did were tied into his job. Everything else was a recovery for his job--he just recovered in ways that society nodded at, slapping backs and buying drinks. Then he caught some motion from just above his eye line. Looking upwards, he gestured at the screen with a shit-eating grin. "I also express my happiness through clever dance breaks. Did I mention that? I would've sworn I mentioned that."
GRAY: "A shuffle-ball-change makes your day?" she wasn't buying it, all quirked eyebrows and a face that said, 'yeah, in which universe', but it was an out, and Gray's arms folded, tucked back against her chest with a veritable challenge in body language. "Can't really picture you as Fred Astaire, McLeary, you've got hidden depths." Truth was, she had no real place to be asking; how had she planned to spend the afternoon, after all? There used to be social obligations to take care of; dim memories of ballet companies that they paid extortionate amounts for good seats every year and names in the program under a list of 'patrons', or wandering art galleries, hand in hand in matching crisp white shirts on a Sunday, after coffee. Before that, before post-college sophistication, give her time and she'd be content; there was a little-touched guitar in the corner, after all, testament to her folk-songs-and-sandals days.
"Gotta be awkward if you're someplace public, and overcome by the urge to drop in jazz hands," she said thoughtfully, all apparent seriousness until you saw the smile curling in the corners of her mouth.
MIKE: "Yeah, it's a huge burden on the self-control," he snickered, and pantomimed what it might have looked like for a man such of himself to struggle against the urge to jazz-hand. It involved a lot of painful-looking finger contortions and an expression of fear tugging down the corners of his lips. When it slipped off his face there was no longer any discomfort in his face, because Mike had the sort of demeanor that could project and exaggerate and then let the act go. Not the joke. Mike liked carrying the joke forever.
"But you know," Mike continued in high rhetorical consideration, "there's an image you've gotta project, in law enforcement. The chief's not a big fond of interrogation room musicals. The perps, they're the ones who are supposed to be singing. We get some frowning if we try to, you know." He jerked his head up at the television screen. "Shuffle."
GRAY: Her smile was threatening to turn into laughter, tremulous bubbling in her throat. "I'd imagine," she said, as gravely as she could, "Little room for a proper tap-routine in an interview room." She curled her knees up against her chest, hugged them for want of something else to hug as a bright warmth glinted through the windows and picked them out in sunlight. "Can't be seen to be flighty. Same true of lawyering," was that a word? It became one, to suit the sentence, "Got to be solemn, and sober. Pretty good at it, now. Problem is knowing when to stop." There was a frown, faint furrowing of Gray's forehead as she considered it, the knowledge of not-knowing, and then looked at him again, considering it.
Smiling, laughter -- cheese pizza eating on a white couch -- and a soft heat curl at the distantly familiar of being admired herself, and conscious of it, unable to not enjoy it -- or to look at him again, and think differently. Yes, life had taken a bizarre twist, and instead of dwelling on it, she reached for another slice of pizza, faint blush rising against her throat. Focus back on the dancing.
MIKE: Enough of the television movies he'd fallen asleep to had been chick flicks that he knew a good pause when he saw one. There were moments that just slanted towards the center of something, like shower drains or those swirling coin-drop games they had at science museums. Eye contact over a cheesy, unexpected pizza was one of those moments. He knew that now. He would have taken advantage of it if they were only talking over compendiums, but he was in her living room and he couldn't do that here. He couldn't get the spark for an earnest I guess my work's cut out for me, or ask her to dance or some shit like that. If he was going to try and railroad her with campy charm and hope for the best There were limits even on Mike McLeary's free spirit and impeccable timing.
Fact was, Mike was tired too--tired from half a shift, a little sore. Sitting on her couch was a nicer prospect than chasing her or jumping through hoops. He dropped a hand to tear off another piece of cooling pizza. Some chuckling, some chewing, a wisecrack. "I'd make some crack about a musical lawyer, but I've seen Chicago and don't think it would end well for me."
GRAY: "You've seen Chicago - ends well for the lawyer at least," she said wryly, and truth being true that a tap-dance in the court-room could be out of place if it were literal dancing. It feels as though life is one big dance and knowing when to bow or take a partner's hand and complicated steps is vitally important; learn the steps and it looks easy to onlookers, and perhaps that's why, Gray considered, looking back at the screen, musicals appealed so much. That overcome with an emotion it could be prettied up in sugared almond colors, and sung out until it was done with.
There was a couple of slices left, the cheese going slightly droopy against the sides of the box, but she was pizza-ed out, contentedly full and comfortable and happy to sit and listen as the film began to head toward the climax, the dramatic by-play as Judy could possibly be replaced by Debbie, a conflict of pastel costumes and a skirl of instrumental music. It was familiar, so familiar she could mouth along the lines, following a dialogue as convoluted and over-wrought as it was effective.