Nathan is not at all pleased by the aspect of sleeping in the same quarters as the rest of the population amid the sea of cots. It's not that he has anything against them, you see, it's just that he's a man who likes his own space in which to spread out. To sprawl on, if you will. Like Bosnia.
The Petrelli residence, unfortunately, with its turrent and big picture windows and lack of basement, is probably one of the least well designed for this kind of weather. So cots it is. He shakes what water he can from his hair and shoulders, drops the rest of the combined household's 'essential' belongings onto one of the empty cots, and sits down next to the largest of the bags, turning to Claire with his customary furrowed brow. "I hope you've got everything you need. We'll be lucky if the house is still standing in the morning."
"I'm set," she says, agreeably. Claire likes storms, a little bit, she thinks they're exciting...and rain is nice. It'll suck if the power goes out, and judging by the strength of the weather, it probably will, but at least they'll be all safe together. She pauses, glancing at Nathan sidelong, before pulling down the hood of her raincoat for the first time since she came down the stairs to go along to the VFW.
Surprise, she's brunette! She hasn't shown Connor or Uncle Peter or Todd or her dad or...well, anyone, up until now.
Casually, she takes the raincoat off and folds it up. La la la. "Hey, if worse comes to worst, we can always snag a new house."
It is as though Hell is a fruit tree, except for residences instead of fruits! For an LJ RP there are a surprisingly few number of fruits, really. And now, as we get really quickly the hell away from that analogy, Nathan 'heh's dryly, as he does, preparing for some similarly laconic remark about how he's already invested more time and repair into this one house than he invested in the entire state of New York, and then...hair.
He allows himself the luxury of staring for a second, not doing anything as openly surprised as jaw-gaping, but still, it's more than Nathan emits usually. "You look...just like your grandmother." It's a compliment; even if Angela was kind of the dragon matriarch figure, she was still pretty, in a kind of impeccably pressed way.
"Yeah?" The idea that she looks like a member of her biological family, after growing up not really looking like anyone (much as she loved them), obviously pleases her a whole bunch. She smiles, touches her hair self-consciously, and sort of smooths it behind her ear. "Does that mean you like it?"
It's probably a good thing Claire has never met Angela here -- as in other places, they would have inevitably clashed. 'You get that mouth from me.'
Gabriel keeps his arm around her, looking around at the rest of the hall with a measured amount of distrust. He hasn't even met all these people, he thinks.
He really isn't more paranoid than he used to be, but he certainly is displaying it more.
She coughs quietly, smiling once and nervously at a very small girl who stares at her for a while before returning to her coloring. Then she tugs down the tarp after hooking her backpack over one shoulder and begins folding it. This soaks her entire front pretty effectively, but she doesn't really mind.
When that's taken care of, she takes Gabriel's hand and starts leading him in the direction of the cots.
"We should find somewhere to sleep, first," she suggests.
He lets her lead, following behind. "All right. I don't think I'm going to be sleepy for awhile. Maybe they have towels somewhere for you." He looks back and forth around the room, trying to take in every detail of it.
John arrives wearing a fedora and trenchcoat that are both now a tiny bit in need of repair, and carrying on his back a rather large and heavily packed duffel bag. Shaking off water and hail as he enters, he finds himself a cot and sits down to make what would appear to be a check that everything in his bag made it through okay.
Oddly enough, his inventory of items -- clothes, a few canned foods, a bottle of whiskey, a couple of books, etc. -- doesn't appear to reach nearly into the bottom of the bag, almost as though the bottom half was full of stuff that he preferred not to make visible unless necessary. But that'd be silly, right, and who'd be paying attention to a thing like that, anyway? More noticeable, perhaps, might be that John doesn't appear to be paying nearly as much attention to the inventory as he is to looking around at who else is around.
Well. This was interesting, raising at least one or two questions that he couldn't really readily ask straight off. None of them were really pressing questions anyway, so instead he just looks at Bridge, then over where she looks, then back, with a smile.
"Well, Bridgette, I imagine you'd all been through a lot before getting here. It's been a rough time for all of us. You can tell her I understand, and that it's okay."
"She's only three, so she doesn't listen all that good, but I'll try tell her and maybe she'll understand, because she's been getting really good with words-- or she was." Before Trips happened. "But maybe she'll understand," she repeats, and there's a sinking to her tone that indicates she doesn't think that will happen.
More seriously, she asks, "Did you lose a lot of people, too?" Bridge and polite conversation don't mix all that well, sometimes.
Seymour is soaked to the bone despite the rainjacket he's wearing, and his backpack looks pretty soaked as well. Hopefully the water didn't damage the camera, the iPod, the clothes. Seymour was too distracted to bring an umbrella when he left.
He was busy keeping his garden safe. He didn't have enough tarp. It's not safe. The hostas, the lilies, half of his hard work is going to go down the drain-- failure, failure, failure--
Seymour's agitation causes him to pace back and forth, back and forth, dripping water and scrubbing his hands through his hair. He'll make a move to get dry eventually, but for now he looks twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
Eden watches the twitching from where she's sitting on one of the closed windowsills, legs crossed neatly at the ankles. Other people would want to be away from the windows, for god's sake, but Eden, who often exchanges one destructive behavior for another, is not drinking. So she's chillin' in the 'could be totally glassified at any minute now' zone.
If Seymour looks up from his pacing long enough, she'll wave at him a little.
Seymour does look up from his pacing - people you recognize generally get looked at longer than those you don't. Thus, waving is acheived.
He blinks, adjusts his glasses, glances behind him. At this particular moment there's no one there. He brings his hands from his hair. Hmm. Conversation with person he has a vague knowledge of and liking for, or returning to furious self-loathing?
The decision takes up a couple of seconds. In the end he approaches Eden, concerned and anxious, saying, "Isn't that kinda dangerous? It's wet!" Seymour, focus. "And there's hail."
"There is, isn't there?" It's somewhere between a vague statement and a question. Eden is coming to realize, upon their second meeting that she's at least kind of fond of Seymour, maybe specifically because once about a time she wouldn't have been very nice to him.
This new benevolent negligence doesn't mean she's going to explain the concept of risk-taking behavior - not that she's all that coherently aware that that's what she's doing; either way she shrugs, just a sinuous little ripple of her shoulders, and slides out of the window.
Her slight frame is covered by a sweater 45 times the size of her body, which almost make one think she'd dressed relatively sensibly for the weather, except for the leggings and ballet flats. Let us always put fashion first, even if it means that we die. Yes.
"If Judy Garland shows up, I think we're in trouble." Let us make fun cultural references. And maybe even sit in a chair! What do you think of that, Seymour?
There's a doctor-lady! Sara's moving crap with a little hand-trolley from the ambulance to the VFW. There aren't many medical supplies in the Clinic, but what they have, Sara's tried to bring. Mostly for safekeeping, at least she hopes.
Yay!! Sara beams. She is very happy to see Bowman! Mostly because taking lots of trips in a storm is not fun for doctorladies.
"That would make my day, actually. I need a hand getting some of these kits and blankets out of the back, there." Because there IS a lot of crap back there. Ambulance=moving van, apparently.
"Can do and will do." He grabs some of the blankets and kits, letting her lead the way back inside. He is kind of piled down here. "So. Nice weather they've got here." Oh, a joke.
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The Petrelli residence, unfortunately, with its turrent and big picture windows and lack of basement, is probably one of the least well designed for this kind of weather. So cots it is. He shakes what water he can from his hair and shoulders, drops the rest of the combined household's 'essential' belongings onto one of the empty cots, and sits down next to the largest of the bags, turning to Claire with his customary furrowed brow. "I hope you've got everything you need. We'll be lucky if the house is still standing in the morning."
And he just fixed the porch steps. >:(
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Surprise, she's brunette! She hasn't shown Connor or Uncle Peter or Todd or her dad or...well, anyone, up until now.
Casually, she takes the raincoat off and folds it up. La la la. "Hey, if worse comes to worst, we can always snag a new house."
Practical. Apparently that came with the dye job.
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He allows himself the luxury of staring for a second, not doing anything as openly surprised as jaw-gaping, but still, it's more than Nathan emits usually. "You look...just like your grandmother." It's a compliment; even if Angela was kind of the dragon matriarch figure, she was still pretty, in a kind of impeccably pressed way.
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It's probably a good thing Claire has never met Angela here -- as in other places, they would have inevitably clashed. 'You get that mouth from me.'
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The hail made her clutch her new backpack to her chest, wincing and shivering under the tarp they'd brought on this trip for themselves, this time.
Once they're inside, she stays closely pressed to Gabriel's side, but breathes easier. It's better with the door closed behind them.
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He really isn't more paranoid than he used to be, but he certainly is displaying it more.
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When that's taken care of, she takes Gabriel's hand and starts leading him in the direction of the cots.
"We should find somewhere to sleep, first," she suggests.
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Oddly enough, his inventory of items -- clothes, a few canned foods, a bottle of whiskey, a couple of books, etc. -- doesn't appear to reach nearly into the bottom of the bag, almost as though the bottom half was full of stuff that he preferred not to make visible unless necessary. But that'd be silly, right, and who'd be paying attention to a thing like that, anyway? More noticeable, perhaps, might be that John doesn't appear to be paying nearly as much attention to the inventory as he is to looking around at who else is around.
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"I'd like to apologize for Marie when we met," Bridgette says, glancing back at the cots. "She can be like that."
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"Well, Bridgette, I imagine you'd all been through a lot before getting here. It's been a rough time for all of us. You can tell her I understand, and that it's okay."
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More seriously, she asks, "Did you lose a lot of people, too?" Bridge and polite conversation don't mix all that well, sometimes.
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He was busy keeping his garden safe. He didn't have enough tarp. It's not safe. The hostas, the lilies, half of his hard work is going to go down the drain-- failure, failure, failure--
Seymour's agitation causes him to pace back and forth, back and forth, dripping water and scrubbing his hands through his hair. He'll make a move to get dry eventually, but for now he looks twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
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If Seymour looks up from his pacing long enough, she'll wave at him a little.
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He blinks, adjusts his glasses, glances behind him. At this particular moment there's no one there. He brings his hands from his hair. Hmm. Conversation with person he has a vague knowledge of and liking for, or returning to furious self-loathing?
The decision takes up a couple of seconds. In the end he approaches Eden, concerned and anxious, saying, "Isn't that kinda dangerous? It's wet!" Seymour, focus. "And there's hail."
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This new benevolent negligence doesn't mean she's going to explain the concept of risk-taking behavior - not that she's all that coherently aware that that's what she's doing; either way she shrugs, just a sinuous little ripple of her shoulders, and slides out of the window.
Her slight frame is covered by a sweater 45 times the size of her body, which almost make one think she'd dressed relatively sensibly for the weather, except for the leggings and ballet flats. Let us always put fashion first, even if it means that we die. Yes.
"If Judy Garland shows up, I think we're in trouble." Let us make fun cultural references. And maybe even sit in a chair! What do you think of that, Seymour?
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Sara would like to think they won't be needed.
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"That would make my day, actually. I need a hand getting some of these kits and blankets out of the back, there." Because there IS a lot of crap back there. Ambulance=moving van, apparently.
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