intercisus lupus.

CALLUM 'CAL' SINCLAIR; 23. The wolfsong is the sound of the rending you will suffer, in itself a murdering.

[callumxsinclair]

The words don’t cause any great shift in his expression or demeanor, but he disagrees with them more intensely than he feels about most things. It’s not out of any bitterness or annoyance with the subject, just that sharp awareness he has now that he didn’t before. It’s easy to lie about how bad things are when he has a needle and a bag to make it easier to take, not so easy when he’s already dead and all he’s left with is a new kind of addiction and scars that’ll be there for the rest of his immortal life. Or death. However he’s supposed to put it. “Nah.” He gives a shake of his head and a half smile because he doesn’t know what other expression to make. “Just about exactly as bad as I think.”

He gives a small scoff at he words, that sense of guilt and awkwardness fading into dry amusement. “Craig’s list, actually.” A small smile, and he can’t pretend he feels a little more like human right now and less like some rabid monster. “Thought I’d stop in.” He shrugs his shoulders, because it’s not a necessity that Cal’s there, he didn’t promise him the job after all, and he doesn’t need him to fill out an application. Though he wonders for a moment if they’ll do a background check, just as much what might show up on it. He was brought in once on possession, but a buddy bailed him out and then kicked him out. It felt like forever ago now, but he didn’t know how long things like that stayed on record.

Just as bad? It feels like he's insinuating something without realizing as much - or maybe it's all too purposeful, and Callum just doesn't catch on as quickly as he'd like to think. Either way, the statement doesn't insult him. Truth be told, the wolf wants to agree in the same fraction of a second that it had even been tossed out. 'How bad is that' is an option, but not one of his. Cal, if given another chance, wouldn't have asked a question like that if money was involved. Frankly, he just can't manage to bother with questions that he doesn't want thrown back in his face. Manners don't have very much to do with it, if at all. "Got the right fuckin' idea." Again? 

"Bold font." Descriptors aren't his strong suit, but he goes on with a shake of his head. Personally, Craig's list is another one of those 'wouldn't be caught dead' things, but saying that almost feels… lame. Not wanting to give off the wrong impression, he smiles a tiny, grateful smile and thinks about what it might be like to work with someone that lives in the same house. More than likely, everything that can go wrong, will. On the other hand, Elijah's promising - more so than most people in New York. He isn't boring or irritating - he definitely doesn't talk too much… and that's one of the brunet's biggest pluses. In his book, that's the best way you can get off. "Could probably come along," his suggestion trails after, all too nonchalantly. 

[callumxsinclair]

Robyn’s not sure what he’s up to when he kneels and presses his head to the side of the washing machine. She watches him intently, as if he’s about to repair the thing by ear. But when he stands and tells her that it’s mad, she gives a bright laugh. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, trying to keep the laugh back, but it’s hard. He’s playful and funny and it’s her kind of humor. She can’t say she doesn’t appreciate that there’s nothing raunchy about it, because that’s never been something she’s been good with. It’s always made her uncomfortable. 

"A she?" she tips her head to look down at the machine she’s sitting on. She plays along, the smile brilliant across her features. "Is that why this machine’s been making such a fuss for so many years? We’ve never known. Maybe she would like to quiet down a bit?” she asks, as if the machine will listen to here right then and there. It doesn’t and she gives a chuckle, lifting her head to look back at him. “I did. It’s been an interesting few days. Today was just a good meditation day.” 

"Guess you had her all wrong. Shit happens." After a beat, he offers the washing machine a sympathetic look. While Cal is fully aware that no technology has a gender (aside from Siri, that is), it's a good enough joke to get the conversation going… and Robyn laughs. Early as it may be, he thinks that the house is full of people worth getting to know. There are simpler smiles out there, but not once has he seen one in the four walls of Linden House. Instead, there are stories behind each gleaming, pearly white. Some are tight-lipped, others cozy and open to interpretation.

He's not sure what kind of smiles Robyn's are, but they make him feel like his jokes are good enough. And the ones that she's witnessed aren't his best, so whatever story has made her who she is, it must be a good one. "Glad to hear it. Yeah? You a buddhist? Or…" There are other types of meditation, right? The gyrating and thumb to pointer finger kinds? 

[callumxsinclair]

That almost drags a smile out of him, but he bobs his head in agreement. He doubts the man needs him to, because it’s a normal complaint, but he does anyway because that at least he can relate to more than a little. He doesn’t even try to pretend he’s an exception, because he’s stupid for drinking, for smoking, for shooting up, all of the above, and he can’t lie and pretend he’s not when he’s this sober. It was all stupid, meaningless, and he’d probably do it again if he could because it took away all the pain of being alive. Then again, so did dying. “And drunk people like to get stupid. It’s a vicious cycle.”

He snorts and it’s almost a laugh, but it still has him ducking his head, hand running over the back of his neck. The feeling is a new one, or at least an unfamiliar one, but he thinks it’s embarrassment, that the man made an offer he didn’t have to and Eli . “Don’t think I’m in that high of a demand.” He almost explains, opens his mouth to do so before he shuts it again, because there’s no really good explanation for it. He relapsed, or something like, but saying it out loud seems more than a little counterproductive. He’s just surprised that he almost feels guilty at that, that it’s better to skate by the truth and pretend he’s just another guy trying to pay rent, not the kind of untrustworthy asshole that has to make a conscious effort not to rip his throat out just for sitting on the other side of the table from him.  “You work tomorrow?”

"Might as well, right?" He can sympathize, even if he doesn't want to. There was a time in his life where drugs and booze were all he had. Loneliness was a scheme of its own not worth coping with, and a lack of anyone asking why or telling him to stop only made it worse because Cal could see it. And when it came down to the concern of those around him, maybe that would've been a preventative move towards avoiding the death of his younger brother. Of course, if that hadn't happened, where would he be now? Still in the same state as his father? Sick? Miserable? An addict? And one of the larger changes, too: not partially a dog? "Worse than we like to think."

Still, the topic feels so real and bittersweet that he can't stop himself from smiling. The curve makes his mouth twitch, almost like he shouldn't be because thoughts of death and the pathetic lives of those who were once like him are clouding Cal's mind... but when has that ever stopped him before? "Hey, you never know. Might be in the ads on the yellow pages." Hand wide open and slender digits extended to motion off to the side, the brunet takes a deep breath. "Can see it now: Most wanted bartender in New York. Get it while it's hot." More terrible, terrible jokes, but they come to a close at the question that sounds like a bit of an offer. He quirks a brow, not wanting to make any assumptions. "Nah. How come?"

[callumxsinclair]

He shrugs his shoulders but the answer doesn’t offend him either way. Maybe Callum is less alright with household thievery, or maybe he already ate at the bar. Either way it’s not something that he dwells on long, and it doesn’t occur to him that it’d be rude to eat in front of him. “Night go okay?” he asks. He assumes he was at work, which carries with it it’s own set of thoughts, the offer he hasn’t taken him up on yet, but maybe he can convince himself to sometime this week. It could be good for him, and is probably a better answer to that question of rent then just stealing it. It’s followed by something like curiosity, because the first thing he said to him was that he was tired of crowds, and while Elijah himself seems to have gotten outside that qualifying circle, he wonders if it means he finds his work exhausting.

"Nah. Not really. You?" He turns the question around with a little more swiftness than usual, but he doesn’t expect the man to call him on it and it keeps him from feeling overly awkward about it. The words are a lie, of course, but murder and the attempt of aren’t exactly casual conversation topics, and he’s aware enough to keep them to himself. There would be relief, he thinks, in that kind of honesty, but he knows and understands enough to get that the world at large isn’t exactly informed on what he is and it’s probably for the best. Besides, honesty is it’s own burden, not one he’s anxious to either take on or offer up.

"Go okay? Yeah, sure." Maybe it's the connection, or lack of scrutiny that makes Cal continue without delay. "Couple'a morons back at the bar, but that's nothing new." That probably wouldn't have been said, had their past few conversations not gone so swimmingly. Truth be told, 'swimmingly' is a verb that his vocabulary... well, doesn't possess, but in this case, he thinks an exception is okay. It's a harmless complain that doesn't go on for very long, and it isn't one he'd mind hearing amidst other lines. "Think stupid people like to drink." It seems to explain why he does, at least. Self destruction, maybe, the possibilities are endless. The same question turned on him makes Callum wonder if anything worth mentioning has happened in the past few weeks. Counting days was practically asking for disappointment.

"Goin' slow. Slower. Probably slower." It's self-explanatory, and doesn't need any explanation - at least, Eli doesn't make it sound like it does. 'No pressure' conversations are undoubtedly the best kind, and the least likely to drive him away. Or, well, cause any unnecessarily harsh comments to leave his typically foul mouth. "Somebody bribe you at a different bar or some shit?" A curt laugh follows that bit, because it's not like a job offer is mandatory; if Eli doesn't want to work there, or work period, there's no reason for him to feel like he should. It's no more than the furthering of a few words, and a shortcut to the question he's somewhat interested in getting an answer to.

[callumxsinclair]

"Me neither," she laughs. "I really suck at fixing things. But the repairman’s pretty handy." She keeps smiling, keeps joking along. Truth be told, she’s never given much thought with what she wants to do for a living. Working in a clothing store is great, but she barely scrapes by. Barely makes enough to pay rent and if she lived anywhere else, she wouldn’t be able to afford it. She has no money in savings and any extra spending cash is usually spent on candles or incense. Books and CDs or self help tapes. Though right now she’s a bit strapped for cash and she’s been recycling through what she can. 

"I don’t think grumpy things like getting sat on," she gives a chuckle, tipping her head back. She reaches down to pat the washing machine. "I think if this machine could talk, it’d be very upset with me." It’s a silly notion, but at least he’s playing along. Maybe if she had enough money, she’d actually pay for a new washing machine. A new dryer too. And dishwasher while she was at it. It wasn’t her responsibility to buy those things and the landlord didn’t seem inclined to buy new ones. The repairman said his instructions were to make sure they work and that’s it. If it was broken, he’d replace, but because it was just loud, he couldn’t buy a new one. "So what are you up to? Just coming down to see what the noise is about?" 

"Pretty sure everybody'd get used to it after awhile." Though even that's fairly subject - it doesn't take much for Callum to mentally swallow that statement, chagrin making his gaze falter for a few seconds. People that lacked talent were everywhere, himself included. To say that in time, everyone would be just as capable of fixing things was by far, the most incorrect thing he'd said all day. Still, he doesn't correct himself aloud. Robyn has a far brighter disposition than he, and while he doesn't often respect that distance between beliefs, Cal's in too good of a mood to 'harsh her mellow'. Whatever that means.

Leaning forward to tap the top of the machine twice, he kneels so his height is aligned with that of the washer before pressing an ear to the side of it. Before long, he's back to a natural posture, arms crossed before the brunet shakes his head. "Guess you're right, he's pretty mad." As if it corrects him, Cal feigns a quick, surprised look in its direction before raising each hand in defeat. "She, I mean." Pinching the bridge of his nose before he gets rid of an itch on the opposite temple, he chuckles underneath a breath. "Yeah. Just got in from work, figured it'd be a good opportunity or whatever. You have a good day?"

[callumxsinclair]

He shrugs his shoulders, and that decided he kicks the fridge closed with his foot and makes his way towards the table. If it’s not his and it’s not labeled then he’s not sure he really cares whose it is, though it seems somehow rude to say as much. His manners aren’t necessarily the best, but he compensates for it by biting his tongue because there’s a small awareness that what normal people say to each other is rarely the same as what junkies feel comfortable saying to each other. He’s never been one for oversharing in the first place, but it’s seemed a good policy so far.

"Wasn’t planning on it." After all, pizza was pizza, and if it wasn’t fresh then he didn’t care if it was cold. He ripped a slice off, settling himself down in a chair before he glanced up at the other man and nodding his head at the box. It occurs to him briefly that it was something he should’ve asked before making himself comfortable, but at least there was the thought that Callum didn’t seem to stand too much on ceremony, so he’d like to think it wouldn’t bother him either way. "Why, did you want some?"

It's hard to deny that he and Eli have clicked - something like that, anyways; Cal doesn't really have a name for friendship. Not that he's overanalyzing just yet, as relationships with heavy titles (more importantly, platonic ones) require being there for people. And for him, that isn't something that comes easy. It's a responsibility in itself, one that comes with countless add-ons that he's not sure will add up well on his schedule. Luckily, some insignificant small talk feels easier and a smile is simple enough. The werewolf likes these types of conversations; the ease helps him keep moving forward, and he takes a seat of his own, not bothering with any slices of pizza for the meantime.

"I'm alright, thanks." There's always the chance that he'll change his mind in an hour or less - because gourmet or not, pizza is hardly ever terrible. Anyone who claimed otherwise was overdramatic or annoying, and he would've stuck to that if anyone decided to pester him. "Maybe later," the next words come preemptively, as Callum doesn't want Elijah to think that he's doing so for the sake of common courtesies. After all, it isn't labelled and there are no forbidden signs: for all he knows, it's there for the taking. "Been up to anything?"

[reinette-dartois]

Christ, look at that one's hair.

[callumxsinclair]

Emily’s tongue smacks against the roof of her mouth as if she’s suddenly got the man pegged. She doesn’t. Not at all. “Well, that did begin the downfall of MTV,” she states with a sigh, eyes lingering on the many photographs of the previous tenants and she can’t help but wonder where they all are now. Why did they leave? To start families? Move closer to their work? Hated their roommates? Drug overdoses and alcohol poisoning? Rehab? The possibilities are endless and Em’s certain this house as seen it all. She knows first hand that it’s witnessed death.

“’m Emily, by the way.” The introduction is short, sweet and her eyes never leave the smiling faces of the past. Her hand comes up in a mock, carefree salute, “Yo.”

The Real World, and MTV as a whole is one of the few references he can catch by coincidence. One afternoon, he probably walked by the television at the right time to catch something about the strange reality TV episode. "Downfall? Yeah, didn't think it was gonna last long either way." Maybe that sounds rude, but Callum doesn't have the energy to correct his statement. After all, the redhead doesn't seem like she's a representative for the station's revival - particularly because its descent was something she'd brought up. Either way, its a topic that's already long-gone, and he nods in acknowledgement.

"Cal," the nickname is tossed out matter-of-factly, as he doesn't care much for people attempting to know anything beyond that. "Pleasure and shit. Funky." 

[callumxsinclair]

"Huh?" It’s not the most intelligent response, and it occurs to him as soon as it slips out. It’s not that he didn’t hear the man coming, because his senses are better than they ever were, but it didn’t really register because he’d been focusing most of his attention on the fridge. Singular focus seemed to work best so far at keeping all those brutal urges at bay. Little things, like if he kept all his focus on a cigarette filter, if he didn’t look beyond someone’s shoes, they were small tricks he was teaching himself that seemed to be working so far.

Except the words made his focus shift to Callum, and while everyone was still new enough and strange enough to each other, he thought he’d liked him better than most of the people he’d met since he died. And not for nothing, he had offered to try and get him hired at Death & Co. It was an offer he still planned on exploring, maybe tomorrow when he wasn’t jonesing quite so hard and he felt a little more confident in his ability to walk outside the house without killing anyone. “Ah, nah. Not yet.” He pulls the pizza box out, holding it up with a half smirk. “This yours?”

Well, at least the milk has yet to sour-- though it won't be long before that changes. Along with his grim outlook, food tends to go bad quickly... he's just recently found himself thinking that a house full of so many people should leave more of an empty fridge. Instead, a box of pizza is in Elijah's hand is nearly waved forward and Cal finds it hard not to cough up a chuckle. He's alright with gourmet slices from authentic Italian places that aren't drowning in grease and what looks too much like sweat for his tastes, but rewarms aren't really his thing. Of course, that isn't mentioned, nor would it be if the question comes up.

"Not me, nah. Think you'd know if it was." Putting it about as lightly as possible, as the brunet would have labels or wrappings galore, he finally steps away from the doorway and tilts his head. It's definitely strange that so many other tenants are happy to leave their things out and about when not everyone else is so good with manners... but he guesses that's just what happens when mini-fridges are too expensive for people living in a house with a population three or four times the usual. "You gonna warm it up anyway?" Really, the words don't come out sounding like anything. They're not accusatory, that's for damn sure; Callum doesn't care whether or not Eli's interested in taking someone else's pizza.

[callumxsinclair]

Robyn gives a slight laugh at the comment about the repairman. “He’s okay. Would you like it if you were a repairman?” she asks jokingly, knowing she wouldn’t be able to repair most things if that wound up being her job. She made it a point to speak to the repairman every time he came around. It seemed to be the same guy for the past couple of years, whenever he was available. But sometimes it was someone new who showed up and took care of the things around the house that needed fixing. Robyn tried to do as much of it herself as she could, just to help out the landlord, but sometimes there were just things she didn’t know how to fix on her own. 

At the question, she grins over at him. “Just the washing machine,” she says, tapping the machine beneath her. “If anything else is making grumpy noises, then I don’t recommend sitting on it being your go to solution.” She’s laughing at her own joke, even if he won’t find it funny. At the thank you, she blushes slightly, ducking her head and pushing her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t get thanked much these days and it’s still unfamiliar for her to hear it coming from someone with such a genuine tone. She nods her head. “Hey, that’s what I’m here for,” she gives a shrug. “Just trying to help out.” 

Would he? No way-- but it's lightyears better than working for a law firm, or anything along those lines. Inept when it comes to dealing with sophisticated (as he lacks both manners and patience with the elderly and the spoiled rotten), Cal is fully aware just how screwed he'd be if his job options narrowed down to becoming a lawyer or starting an internship. "Nah, can't say I'd love it." But even fixing things sounded better than the latter - it was a miracle that he'd landed a position at Death & Co. Who knows just how long it could've taken to find something worth waiting for? When he barely has the patience for patrons with strong opinions, it doesn't take much to guess that pushing said limit would make the brunet snap. Or worse.

"Not the worst thing that could happen, though." Really, it isn't. In a world of possibilities, helping people out isn't anywhere near his list of priorities, but the job in its simplicity doesn't make Cal want to ring his neck. Immediately, he runs a hand through already-mussed curls and stifles a laugh with a shake of his head. "Maybe grumpy things like getting sat on. I wouldn't know." Then again, plenty of people would probably consider him grumpy - he simply doesn't. "Nah, not your job... not what you're here for, so I think that's pretty fuckin' legit." 

[elijah-vestri]

Elijah doesn’t need to eat, he’s figured that much out at least, but there’s a hunger in him that wasn’t eased by blood bags this time. He knows it’s because he killed someone, because he left a body behind and now he wants to leave more, but maybe if he finds something else to eat then he can try and forget that for a night, or at least a moment. He’s been dodging most of his housemates, keeping to himself because it’s easier than having to pretend he’s not thinking about killing them, and there’s still the thought in his head that it would just be better if he left now and went back where he came from. Better for him too maybe.

Right now though, he’s just digging through the fridge for something he can chew on. The contents make him frown, no small part because none of it’s his and while the living, breathing him wouldn’t have given a fuck about stealing his housemates food, it was because he was too high to care. He’s not sure that care is the right word now, but he doesn’t want problems and it leaves him eyeing the pizza with no name on it for longer than he would’ve normally.

[callumxsinclair]

The strange excuse for a schedule has Callum working afternoon hours one day, and midnight ones the next. As far as he's concerned, the spontaneity works just fine; there's nothing entertaining about having routines that follow through precisely the same, day after day. Being forced to endure the same events on a repeating loop feels like a disease, and he never wants to be a part of something quite like it. If it came down to a cubicle, he'd find a way to die... no matter how difficult or drastic. Worst nightmare? Absolutely. 

Alright, so there are a few things actually worth dying for, and getting a job in a cubicle might not be at the top of that list-- but still, he's positive that it'd be something straight from hell. Why else would people work in strict, little cubes? What could possibly come out of that aside from barely making ends meet? Seeing Eli near the refrigerator on his way in was enough for a small, mildly intrigued smile. "Milk spoiled, or what?"

[callumxsinclair]

Robyn feels some relief that he’s not mad about the noise and hadn’t been looking to use the machine this moment. She hadn’t meant to jump in and steal it from everyone, but she figured enough people had just moved in that they probably didn’t have to do laundry this soon. Unless they only had a few shirts, in which case she hoped they did laundry often. The house was big, but not when there was stinky clothes smelling up rooms. The thought was derailing the conversation, so she brought herself back to the present. “This machine has been grouchy since I moved in. But it’s still working and whenever the repair guy comes, he just says it’s working fine and to put a towel behind it or something.” She rolls her eyes as if it’s the worse thing in the world. 

"Sure!" she exclaims. She has the urge to hop down off of the laundry machine, but she waits for a moment to explain some things, because the moment she does this machine is going to drown out any conversation they would be about to have. She points to some shelves above her head, where an assortment of soap and dryer sheets are stacked. "It’s really up to you what kind you want to use. I use Tide, just because it smells good. But it’s pretty simple. All you have to do is throw in your clothes, put in a cap of your detergent, and then make sure you either bring ear plugs or sit on the machine." She gives a laugh afterwards. "Oh, and sometimes you have to wiggle the knob to get it to go." 

Grouchy? With an earnest enough smile, Cal duly notes that humanistic adjectives are far better words to use in regards to mechanical appliances. At least, when the blonde is using them they seem like they're worth a smile - though she has one of those personalities that makes it easier to cough one up. A smile, anyways. Clumsy, halfhearted, off-kilter, the type didn't really matter. Any display that wasn't a tight-lipped one was, without a doubt, reserved for an occasion where someone earned it. Perhaps he's a harsh judge that doesn't give those around him much of a chance, but just how harsh can he be? He's smiling now, after all. That's gotta count for somethin'. "Geez, sounds like he loves his job." Most repairmen probably didn't, nor would they ever grow to do so.

It's worth it, though, as she starts to explain the process. No one had to, there certainly weren't any obligations (well, there shouldn't have been) around anyone like Cal. He wasn't polite enough to make others feel guilty about not helping him out. In fact, they might just have been happy to do the opposite. He's glad that for Robyn, that doesn't seem to be the case. "That the solution to all the 'grumpy noise'?" A nod at the last bit, and he's already catching on. Jimmying things had come to be natural for him - late night shifts often left doorknobs cold and uncooperative. Either way, it's more than enough of an explanation and he stuffs each hand in a pocket of his hoodie. "Thanks, huh? Appreciate it."

[reinette-dartois]

Christ, look at that one's hair.

[callumxsinclair]

“Mm, cryptic,” Emily replies with a gulp like she’s just swallowed his words and judged the flavor. The final outcome is anyone’s guess and it’s mostly a noncommittal noise. The man likes to move around, then he likes to move around and that’s his business. Mostly, Emily doesn’t care all that much. She’s been moving around for years, a wandering, lost spirit. Her travels had taken her far and yet they hadn’t been exactly the kind of vacations she had planned in life. She’ll never get to backpack through Europe now.

At his own question, Emily inspects the room around her, a finger trailing over the top of the picture frame to wipe off the layer of dust. It would’ve made her sneeze before, but now it’s just something that happens. Nothing more. “Don’t know. Maybe. Could be. Like a constant season of the Real World, except there’s no confessional booth and nobody lowers my IQ by being their own stupidity,” Emily states with a carefree shrug of her shoulders, feeling the smooth dust between her fingertips before she wipes it on her jeans. This stay in this house is permanent, she thinks. At least for now. After all, people can see her and hear her. They talk to her and notice she exists. Emily wouldn’t trade that for the world. It’s just like living again.

Cryptic doesn't seem too far away from him at all. As a matter of fact, the brunet's fairly positive that he's gotten it once or twice before. Maybe it's luck that others find him mysterious, but Cal has a distant hope that no one in this house wants to figure him out… or anything along those lines. When questions arise, it's hard to move around them - and even the thought of such an inconvenience gets under his skin. Tolerating something that's just as easily avoided feels like a waste of time at this point.

Then again, it's more likely that he's simply been away from the inopportune for too long. Getting back into the swing of it seems like a hassle beyond the worst of them. "If this place was the fuckin' Real World…" Well, there were a few options: one of which includes him leaving, the other involves some feelings getting seriously hurt. Either wouldn't turn out well for him, and he knows that - so Callum shrugs. He doesn't know too much about what their IQ might look like - he doesn't know them, but that doesn't mean he cares to. "I dunno." The question just might come, and the brunet finds himself hoping it doesn't. What do you know? Not much, that's for damn sure. "Think I'd have to find a motel or some shit."

[callumxsinclair]

First, her eyes narrow. She can’t tell if he didn’t catch on or if his humour is just as dry as hers, an avid watcher of very few TV shows because nothing was quite funny enough to make a regular schedule out of. She had her pop culture favourites and music she listened to, but more often than not, she preferred silence. So it makes no sense that a house with ten others is where she chose to live.

So she strikes that up — changes the subject to avoid humiliation on either, or both, ends. “So why did you choose this house?” For her, it was a complicated answer, a several part one — too many reasons to list, so if he asked for her answer in return, she might say something like ‘Cheap rent.’ It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth would be cheap rent, social interaction she was sure she needed practice on (for being a hacker and plotter, she needed a surprising amount of social practice, apparently), the fact that the landlord seems to be close enough to receive money and signatures, but nothing more.

Then, lastly, the element that is the ambiguous door, white and tattered, repainted and apparently never opened. It;s nothing to concern herself with, but it’s curious and she is curious.

Why he chose Linden in particular? Well, there wasn't necessarily a reason-- in fact, Cal had nearly made a list of everything against the damn place. Too many people, too much socializing, and too much business that he hadn't the need to get involved with. Linden House was all over the place, and it wasn't about to change because there were some nights where he preferred peace and quiet. 

"Rent's not bad… thought it'd turn out sorta funny. Guess I wasn't wrong." He shrugs with ease, head cocked off to the side as the werewolf restrains from trying to come up with anything else. After all, there isn't much to say beyond this point. Midnight's chit chat always ends up like this - he knows because of all the spare time spent on the opposite end of the bar. When the crowd begins to dwindle, there are numerous talkative types, and they wind up in one of two categories: men looking to start a fight, and any leftover women seeking an evening partner. That, or a husband to take to their parents' vacation home for the weekend… usually with less pay than he'd like. "Dunno, I guess." A knuckle runs across his eye briefly, and Callum offers a small smile. 

"Pretty fuckin' wiped, though. See you around." 

[callumxsinclair]

Robyn glances up when someone comes into the laundry room. She smiles immediately when she sees it’s Cal. She can’t help but think of pancakes and crepes when she sees him and she wonders if that’s wrong that he reminds her of food. The thought makes her smile widen, but she keeps that inside joke to herself, reaching up to pull the earbuds from her ears, still sitting atop the rocking washing machine, the motion making the conversation a little bit awkward. “Hey,” she greets him back, folding her book closed and resting it on her lap. “I hope the noise isn’t bothering you,” she says seriously. “I’m trying to keep it quiet.” 

The laundry room only has the one washer and dryer and Robyn’s used to people using it all the time. But a lot of tenants go and use the laundromat in town instead of trying to fight for the time to use this machine. She wonders if Cal wanted to use it and immediately, she’s anxious, hoping she didn’t inconvenience him in any way. “I’m almost done, if you’re looking to use the washer,” she says, patting the side of the machine. 

"Just got in, no worries." After a dry chuckle, Cal shoots the machine an accusatory look. "Don't think it wants to be kept quiet, though." Almost as if it knows just what he's said, it resonates with an (if possible) even more obnoxious sound. Not so sure it can get any worse, the brunet shakes his head with a quiet laugh. Generally, he just doesn't want the washing machine to think that he's trying to compete with it and get any louder. Still, she's practically apologizing for something that she can't control, and he gets the feeling that she's had to do that before. Brows furrowing, Cal lifts a hand before trying to explain.

"I'm alright for the rest'a the week, actually. Just wondering if you'd, uh, mind giving me any tips on how to use this thing? Don't wanna fuck it up," the query is his first sign of wanting to acclimate properly. Doing laundry isn't difficult, not when he's been doing it alone for a decade already, but there are different soaps and different settings that went with select appliances. "Do I just buy some Bounce?"

[reinette-dartois]

Christ, look at that one's hair.

[callumxsinclair]

So he is a roommate. Fair enough, Emily thinks with a light shrug of her shoulders, although it would’ve been more interesting if he had been dating Robyn. She’d like to know more people outside of her housemates. Real people, not that these people in the house aren’t real. Of course, they are. But Emily can’t go outside, hang out at a bar and talk to the first person that sits next to her. Everyone who can see her is here, inside this building. It had to be this house, something about it. The small creaks in the floorboard and the rickety staircase. She’s allowed to exist here.

“Why not for long?” Emily asks with a smirk and a light laugh, a quirk in her brow that suggests she thinks the man is lying, “Already made an enemy? ‘Cause, ya know, ya just gotta try and work it out with people, don’tcha? Like one of the roommates might be really into heavy metal, and that’s okay, just gotta ask them to turn down that guy screaming before the music propels you into an actual murder rampage.”

"Oh, shit, nah--" So, he's definitely going to have to change it up a little. At least around her, anyways. It seems like she jumps from one topic to the next, even if they're not harmful assumptions or conclusions; so far, they're entertaining. A girlfriend, an enemy… and Cal finds it difficult not to wonder just what the next one will be. 'Just work it out with people', however, doesn't sit well with him. His temper is lightyears away, but that thought has the werewolf tilting his head. No, it really doesn't usually blow over that way. No one he's ever met was quite so simple.

Even with that opposing standpoint in mind, he enjoys the tangent she's going off on. Not exactly a fan of heavy metal, but never having been exposed to those with good taste in it, Callum isn't sure what it feels like to have drums making his ears throb… but it can't be good. Not the way she describes it. "Just like to keep moving, that's all. How 'bout you? This a permanent thing?" 

[callumxsinclair]

Iggy reaches into her pockets and pulls out a piece of lint, one that her fingers had previously fiddled with and she only now just remembers exists. And for a second, she lets it hover between her fingers because she’d never really guess that the man would be the type to judge her based off of letting a piece of lint leave her and hit the floor. He seemed as if he would watch it and get a snort out of it at best, but he’d done it in front of a girl who, once before, had noticed it and verbally attacked her for it. She reached down, picked it up, and tossed it in the trash can and had apparently lost the woman’s trust. Then again, this woman was tweaking. She might later think it was meth while she was searching the fibres of her carpet for what she swore she must have dropped.

So Iggy turns and finds the trash can, only a few steps away, and dumps it in there. It seems like a waste, but she’s careful now to be considerate. She doesn’t live in a home or a den, she lives in a house.

When she makes her way back, she effortlessly slides back up onto the counter and looks at him. “That’s what they say. But you don’t sleep when you’re dead. The difference is in the words.” It’s sarcastic humour and because she doesn’t smile, it probably won’t translate well, but she exists somewhere between those worlds and never on one side.

He's okay with thinking that people are risks. All things considered, that's all they'll ever be-- a bunch of possibilities that just might turn into ticking time bombs, and right before his eyes. Some people are cooperative, compliant and friendly… others are fully capable of changing, manipulating, or being too much of all those qualities. There's nothing wrong with variety, as he does believe in the concept of 'too much of one good thing', but too many characteristics are just as bad. The mesh of personalities in one body doesn't go well, no matter what an author might like to say. Just because he isn't a writer doesn't mean he hasn't experienced the reality of people that just have too much going on. And let him tell you, they're worlds of no good.

Catching her toying with something his vision couldn't quite catch at first glance, Callum doesn't think twice when she tosses the tiny object away. At the very least, it was more than he could've said. Then again, something that tiny couldn't have possibly hurt anyone. 

The fact that she takes it so literally makes one of his eyes thin, cheeks puffing slightly as wound lips press together. "Alright. I'll… sleep when I sleep?"

[aformofhealing-deactivated20160]

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[callumxsinclair]

people you’ve been before that you don’t want around anymore that push and shove and won’t bend to your will I’ll keep them still