blood on my hands

Elijah Vestri 32 year old Vampire "We stopped looking for monsters under the bed when we found out they were inside us. That about sums it up."

[robyn-atwood]

She’s genuinely appreciative when he says he didn’t think she was a pothead. Being judged, being scrutinized in that way isn’t something she likes to think about and though she knows it’s part of human nature to try and understand people by classifying them into familiar categories, she doesn’t like that people put her into certain areas. Some of it’s irrational fear, but most of it just stems from the fact she doesn’t want to be that exposed to people. She doesn’t want them to think she’s something she’s not, but in order to prevent that, she has to figure out what she is in the first place. It’s a vicious cycle and the longer she thinks about it, the more her mood is souring so she just smiles at him. 

"Nothing makes it easier to stomach," she says and it’s an automatic response, one she doesn’t think about before the words are out of her mouth. The smile slips from her lips and her head ducks, her hands curled around her teacup and her thumbs running around the rim. She clears her throat, like maybe he hadn’t heard it and moves on. "I’m the house champion of ping pong." She lifts her head again, the smile coming back though it’s slightly half hearted. "Just so you know." 

[elijah-vestri]

He half smiles and he understands why she says it, but the expression doesn't linger long. The smile fades and he's looking back at her wondering how she didn't end up like him, and maybe no one offered in the right way. Or maybe she's just stronger than him, but he doesn't know her story so he doesn't speculate. But he gives a small shake of his head because not feeling anything except that warm fuzzy feeling made everything go away. All the bad shit he'd done, all the bad shit that had been done to him, it made it all seem like nothing but background noise and he wonders if that's the only thing left that he misses about being alive. "No, it does. Trust me, it does."

The words are quiet but he lets them sit there, even after she shifts back to a lighter subject. He's not sure he wants to follow her there right now because even if his thoughts are dark they're real, they're his thoughts and he's feeling something even if it's nothing good. He watches her expression shift, the smile she puts on and he wonders if it's supposed to be for him or for herself. Maybe both. He thinks she's a fake, but not in any cruel sense of the word. "Think you'd beat me anyway."

[ingrvd]

Iggy almost laughs because he’s got guts and she likes that, but it’s funny that he’s offering up pizza that isn’t his. And she’s not gonna go telling on him or anything of the sort. In fact, she’ll keep it a secret even if she sees the owner ask who took their pizza. But she doesn’t laugh, she just smirks and turns back to her bowl. But in fact, the pizza sounded good — something of much more substance than what she has, and she’s not above stealing (ha). Her parents also told her to take what she was offered and to be grateful for it. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t received gifts that weren’t stolen. Christmas at the house was sometimes she got needles (used, even) from the junkies and she stole them food. Everything was recycled, purchased without money. They had their anarchist barter system and it seemed to work.

There are places she knows, like China and Japan, that if offered something, you’re supposed to decline and decline again. You’re supposed to say you don’t want to be trouble and you don’t want anything and if you say yes, it’s considered rude. But she had always thought, then why offer? It seemed like a useless ritual, like pointless words back and forth for whoever asked to just bring them whatever anyway.

"Yes, actually." And she reaches to take a piece of pizza from the open box, knowing it’s a bit intruding, but also knowing that he offered and that they weren’t in China. Above that, they were in New York of all places, and if he wasn’t used to grabby tendencies and loud mouths, then he’d get used to it. She takes a bite of the pizza and rests her eyes on him for a moment. It’s a second to study him, to study the difference in his demeanour until she finishes chewing and says, "Iggy."

[elijah-vestri]

He leans back and tries to get comfortable, but it's not always the easiest thing when he's restless like this, murderous in no small way and wondering what half the people he's living with would taste like if he ripped them open. He chews on his lip and tries to think of anything else, but like most things it always just seemed to intensify the thoughts.

"Alright." There's no feeling either way behind the statement, and he doesn't have enough emotion to even feel surprise that she took him up on it. It's not his, so he doesn't really care, all he cares about is that she moves a little too quickly sometimes, comes too close too thoughtlessly, but he doesn't know a way to tell her to keep her distance without sounding psychotic. Maybe he is, but he's sure first impressions left a bad enough mark, he doesn't necessarily want to drive that nail home.

The word is equally as unexpected, and a frown furrows his brow. He stares at her for a moment, not sure if she's playing some odd game of word association. But staring too long leads to hunger, so he drops his eyes to his food after a moment because if he's ripping his teeth into pizza crust then he's not ripping into a person. Which is of course, the point of all of this. "Pop?"

[callumxsinclair]

"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?”

[elijah-vestri]

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.

[callumxsinclair]

"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.

[elijah-vestri]

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?"

[robyn-atwood]

She gives a playful scoffing laugh at the question. It’s one she’s used to. It’s been brought up more than she’d like to admit and she thinks it’s just because normally when people have candles and incense, it’s usually to hide the scent of whatever it is their smoking. But for Robyn, it’s just soothing. “Everyone always thinks I’m a pothead,” she says with a smile. She shakes her head, because to her it’s funny. She doesn’t mind if that’s what people think of her, because she thinks it’s harmless. Her smile fades a little as she watches Elijah and the next words are more honest, more telling about herself than anything. Maybe he’ll take it as just a stance on life, or maybe he’ll see it for what it is, read into it and she’s not sure yet which she prefers. “I don’t like not having control over myself like that. It’s why I don’t drink either.” 

He takes another sip of the tea and she gives a laugh leaning forward and lowering her voice as if she’s letting him in on a secret. “You don’t have to drink that if you don’t like it,” she tells him, her look knowing and honest. He doesn’t have to suffer just to try and not offend her because he doesn’t like her tea. Leaning back in the chair, the next question catches her a little off guard. What made him think she wasn’t having fun right now? But because he asked, she gives it some actual though, giving a slight shrug. “I have a lot of fun every day. I read or listen to music.” She perks up, pointing a finger at him. “I play ping pong.” 

[elijah-vestri]

"I didn't think that." He gives a small shrug, because he thinks the question was more telling about him than her. He didn't figure her for one, even with the incense. It was a common trick to cover up the smell, but there was this sense of innocence when he talked to her that didn't make her answer all that surprising. But his expression changed at the next words, not so much because it wasn't anything he didn't expect, but because it was different hearing her say it. He had his own guesses about her at this point, and it had him studying her a moment longer than usual before he forced his eyes away before they started to wander. "I guess," he said quietly. It wasn't arguing, because he could understand it. He just hadn't been the same, and his voice was quiet when he answered. "But if you don't have control in the first place it makes it easier to stomach."

He stiffened slightly when she leaned forward, but she didn't come close enough to set him off and he was grateful for that. The words had him ducking his head, a shy, half-smile on his lips before he shook his head. "Nah, it's good." It was partially a lie, but it occupied his hands, kept them warm and gave him something to drink when he started getting distracted so he didn't want to give it up. Maybe she'd understand that if he explained, but it was volunteering too much. "You read about cheese. Ping pong is the only answer I'll accept."

[callumxsinclair]

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?”

[elijah-vestri]

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.

[ingrvd]

Iggy knows the pizza isn’t his, but only because she watched the roommate who owned it put it in the fridge. But she doesn’t care. It’s not her business and he must be hungry enough to take a slice of pizza that isn’t his. She’s stole enough in her life that she has no say on any of it. She almost wants to tease him for it, though, like some sort of pride replenisher because she does remember simply backing up when he insisted she was in his way, despite the hallway giving him enough room to get through without her hugging the wall. She would have moved regardless.

She doesn’t say anything to him, however, until she grabs the cereal atop the fridge and manoeuvring around him in a way that suggests he’s in her way, to get her milk from the fridge. But she doesn’t say anything because it’s over in a minute and she wasn’t trying to prove anything, just get her milk.

But as Iggy pours the bowl of food, she feels guilty. It’s not pity because no one needs pity and she doesn’t give it to other people the same way she doesn’t expect it — the same way she doesn’t want it. Ever. It’s never been conducive to anything and it damages pride. But she feels guilty and not uncharacteristically generous. She was a good person somewhere between the fingerless gloves that covered her knuckles and offering food.

Iggy holds the cereal box flat so he can read the kind it is, a simple box of Honey Nut Cheerios. “You want some?” she asks, despite the stolen piece of pizza in his hand.

[elijah-vestri]

There's a moment where she moves past him that she's almost too close, enough that it almost sets him off. He almost snaps his hand out to grab her arm and stop her where she is, and some part of him thinks it's only the food in his hand that keeps him from doing exactly that, from replacing it with something more to his palette. Because she is most assuredly alive, blood pumping in her veins and he can see the steady pulse of the one in her neck from where he stands. It has him licking his lips before he forces his gaze down, forces himself to focus on things much more mundane even if they are more tasteless.

He shifts back to the table instead, because sitting seems safer, though it didn't stop him from going after Elena and there's some guilt in that thought. If she weren't a dog, a wolf, then he would've already killed a housemate and he'd be long gone. He'd crawl back where he came from with a little more blood on his hands and nothing to show for it, and he's not sure how he feels that so far it's a lot of luck that's kept him here.

The offer is unexpected, and he frowns briefly before he glances at the woman and then at the box of pizza. He wonders if she's just trying to be nice, or point out that he wasn't, but either way he's left more confused than anything because he's already in the process of shoving his face. But he pretends it's the nice one because he doesn't necessarily want to make enemies, giving a small shake of his head. "No. Thanks. Do you?"

[robyn-atwood]

She scoffs playfully, tipping her head like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “My joke was a classic,” she tells him, the small banter unfamiliar, but nice. At least it was something playful, something light between them because it seemed all of their conversations up until this point have ended in hurt. She doesn’t want to associate those emotions and those feelings with him. She watches him sip at his tea and there’s an amused smirk on her face at the blank look on his when he just freezes afterwards. She almost tells him he doesn’t have to keep drinking it if he doesn’t like it, but if he wants to will his way through the cup, she’ll let him. It’s healthy for him, though now she wonders if any of that matters for what he is. It’s a question she never thought to ask any of the others who came through here like him. 

The comment he makes about the joke being funnier when he’s high makes her chuckle, but when the words actually stick with her, she looks up and watches his face. It’s like he was testing them out. Admitting to something, though she’s not sure the depth of that admission. What it truly means. She’s known people who get high when they come through here. Mostly pot. It’s not her thing, though most people try to tell her she seems like a stoner. She wonders what it means for him. If it means he’s one or he used to be or if it’s something deeper. She smiles politely, not pushing for more, but offering what she can. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been.” 

[elijah-vestri]

"Really? Not even weed?" Fucked up as it is, this conversation is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He can't remember the last time he was in the company of someone straightedge, which was the impression she was giving off. One of his roommates had a girlfriend who didn't indulge, and there'd been some kind of etiquette there. They didn't smoke, snort, or shoot up in front of her, but he didn't remember that relationship lasting long either. Inevitably it became a problem, and it had him quieting now because he wondered if it would become one here. That thought was immediately followed by the reminder that he was dead and unfortunately sober, followed closely by the thought that she was just a housemate, not anyone for him to have a real problem with.

It had him wrapping his fingers around the mug, drawing it to his mouth before he remembered he hadn't really liked the taste. He took another sip anyway before setting it down, because it was better than indulging in the sudden urge he had to scratch at his arms, and the itch there that he couldn't ever dig out. All he was left with were scars and the faint recollection of what it felt like, not anything he was going to experience in its entirety ever again. He pushed the thoughts away with an abrupt change of subject, and it didn't occur to him until after he asked the question that she might take it as a question of what else was fun besides getting high? Which wasn't his intention but he couldn't wholly argue the thought either. "When's the last time you had fun?"

[callumxsinclair]

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.

[elijah-vestri]

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?"

[ingrvd]

It’s the first time today that Iggy’s eating. It almost seems like a schedule to keep it down to once a day. Once a day meant enough strength to carry on, if she ate something good, and if she was feeling particularly bored, a snack would do, too, but blueprints and floorplans made for heavy thinking (and perhaps the best place to do that was not at home, but the library wasn’t going to ignore plans from thieves spread out over the table).

So she enters the kitchen in hopes that eating another bowl of cereal will suffice. And then a cigarette after, the only vice she spent money on. Her mother would tell her that they’re awful for her, but her father would share one with her.

When she enters, almost as expected, there’s someone with their head buried in the fridge and the moment she realises who it is, a head of black hair recognisable, she passes him and heads toward a panty. She’s not afraid of him, despite their last encounter, but he’s someone to be cautious of. Despite that, he’s still a roommate, so she gives a “Hi” as she passes him and opens a cupboard door to pull out a bowl.

[elijah-vestri]

He's aware of movement but doesn't pay much attention to who the source is until the greeting. A glance up and then he's letting his attention drop back down to the box in the fridge, deciding it's worth it to chance an angry housemate. It's not that he needs it, but he's hungry and even if this isn't exactly what he's hungry for, it'll help stifle that urge, and it seems suddenly important with his unnamed housemate in the room with him. That part isn't her fault, it's completely his, but that itself doesn't necessarily sit well with him.

It's not unease, and it's not guilt or shame or regret, though he thinks it could be close to all of those things. But she caught him at a bad time, one of the worst times, and he's well aware the kind of mark first impressions leave. Worse, it's hard to take it back or try to figure out how to fix it when he's not sure it's the wrong one. It's probably the most accurate greeting anyone's gotten so far, blood on his mouth and sharp words bitten off by his teeth. He's something foul and vicious and it seems like more of a lie to try and convince her it was a bad night.

It doesn't mean he can't play something like polite, and he sends the greeting back at her even as he grabs for a slice of pizza. He doubts its hers and he doesn't ask, because odds are good she wouldn't be going for a bowl if it was. "Hey."

[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?”

[elijah-vestri]

"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?"

[robyn-atwood]

Robyn watches, trying to see if he likes the tea or not. He’s eating the pizza, but he’s yet to try the tea and she doesn’t think it’s really a pizza type of drink, so she won’t take offense if he doesn’t like it. She takes another bite of her own and at the joke, she almost chokes on it. She swallows the bite and tips her head to the side, rolling her eyes because he’d called her joke bad, but she thinks his is far worse. And definitely not the type of joke he usually tells. It means something to her that he kept it clean. That he kept it in her style and whether he did it for her or for himself, she doesn’t know, but she’d like to pretend she does. 

"And you called my joke bad," she says with a small chuckle, sipping at her tea again. She sets it back down on the table and runs her thumb along the rim, The awkward pause she’s been trying to avoid finally sets in and she’s not sure what to do with it. Where do they go from here? When they’d agreed he should stay, but neither of them know how that’s going to work. She doesn’t know what he needs from her and he hasn’t officially told her that he’s going to accept her help. Not that she wouldn’t offer it even if he didn’t. 

[elijah-vestri]

"Your joke was bad." He smiles a little wider when he says it, glancing up at her briefly before he gets done steeping the tea. He's not sure how long it's supposed to be in there for, but it's a different color than when it started so he puts his pizza down on a napkin so he can give it a shot. Immediately he makes a face, trying to hide it behind the glass itself, but he's not sure how successful he is at it. It doesn't taste like Snapple, that's for sure, and he can't help but think he likes coffee better. Still, he doesn't say anything, putting it down and curling his fingers around it because it's something to do with his hands if nothing else.

The silence that settles in between them is faintly awkward, and there's a moment of debate whether he should say anything else. She says she wants to help, he still wants to know who helps her, and he's not very good at that communication thing as it is. There's a moment where he debates just making smalltalk, asking how her day was, but this time he lets the comment slip out instead of biting it off. "Mine's just funnier when you're high." It's not something he makes a habit of going around admitting, and he doesn't begin to guess if it'll change her opinion on him. But she already knows he'd kill her in a heartbeat and it's only something like self-control that's gotten him this far. He's trying, and maybe if he says those words enough times it'll mean more. He doesn't really know what that means at all sometimes, but she's just trying to breathe and he's just trying to get by and he thinks the state of the people in this house is one of the funniest jokes of all.

[robyn-atwood]

She laughs at the noise he makes, smiling brightly at him. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s almost there and at least she can tell he doesn’t mind the joke. “One of the worse, but it’s still funny,” she says. Behind her, the kettle starts whistling and she turns to take it off the stove. She pours them both a cup of water and she’s very neat, very precise as she puts the cups on plates and carries his over to the table, setting it down in front of him. She puts the tea bag next to him, reaching across him to grab a slice of the pizza before sitting down at the table across from him, careful not to take the chair he has his foot propped up on. 

She pulls apart the packet, dipping the tea bag into the cup of water, looking across the table at him as he says he’s sorry she’s sick. She takes a bite of the cold pizza, chewing it away as she watches him. “Thanks,” she says when she swallows the bite, taking a sip of her tea instead. “It’s not bad, though. I have some herbal remedies to help out with it.” She leans back in the chair, watching him and another awkward silence threatens to fall over them. She smiles. “Do you have a joke for me?” 

[elijah-vestri]

He half smiles when she sets the cup of tea in front of him, but he ducks his head because of the proximity and he keeps himself that way until she sits down on the other side of the table. He lets his hand curl around the cup, the warmth seeping through his fingers. The slice of pizza gets shoved in his mouth before he grabs for the tea bag, tearing it open and dropping it in the cup and already he can smell it, sharper than he would have before. Every sense was intensified, and he thought distantly he should be grateful for that at least.

Her words had his head lifting towards her again, shifting a little in his seat, but more in thought than because it made him uncomfortable. "Ah, alright." He chews on his lip for a minute because the only jokes that come immediately to mind are foul, and he thinks he'd feel weird sharing them with her. It's that or stoner humor, because those are the only people he's seen in years, aside from the dead guys. And they didn't exactly tell jokes, not the kind that people should find funny. Offhand comments that ring like cannibal jokes. He doesn't want to get himself thinking about blood. "Two muffins, sitting in an oven. One turns to the other and says 'Is it just me, or is it hot in here?' So the other muffin says 'Holy shit! A talking muffin!'"

[robyn-atwood]

She bites her lip when he agrees to hear the joke, but it gets derailed when he asks if she’s sick. She gives a slight shrug, sniffling again because she thinks yeah, she’s about to wake up tomorrow and be sick, but it might just be the cold. “Maybe,” she says, shaking her head. “My co-worker was sick yesterday, might have caught a bug.” She doesn’t mind being sick so much as she minds not being able to go to work. She doesn’t get sick days or anything of the likes, and missing just one or two days would really set her back for being able to pay rent and buy groceries and do all the things she needs to do. She doesn’t make enough as is. 

Pushing those thoughts aside, she returns to just smiling, dipping her head to the side because the joke is a lame one, but when she heard it today she’d laughed pretty hard. Maybe she’d just needed a joke and maybe he does too. “Why did the orange stop at the top of the hill?” she asks, watching his face because for once he’s looking back at her. It doesn’t slip by her that he rarely looks at her face, usually looking anywhere but her. But right now, his eyes are on hers and she’s looking back at him kindly because he needs some kindness, she thinks. She doesn’t give him much time to answer the joke before she’s answering it herself. “Because it ran out of juice.” 

[elijah-vestri]

The noise that escapes him isn't quite a laugh, but it's close to it, and he shakes his head before he goes back to his pizza. He rips another piece off of it before he points it at her, and there's the distant thought that it's easier to pay attention when he's chewing on something else. Maybe he needs to invest in gum, and the thought's close to ridiculous as soon as he has it. "That's terrible," he tells her, but the words aren't judging, almost playful, or at least the closest he gets to it anymore. If nothing else, it makes him think that if there's any bad blood here, she's either really good at hiding it or really good at letting it go. He doesn't ask in case it's the first one, because honestly he doesn't have a lot of people to talk to, and less who actually know what he is. Vivian, but she's a hell of a lot older than him and he doesn't know if his presence is more of an annoyance than anything.

He shifts in his seat, legs kicking out and one settling across the chair opposite him. It's helped relax him at least, and on the upside he thinks there's less concern about forcing smalltalk at this point. Granted she knows more about him than he knows about her, but he's almost nervous about pushing because he doesn't think there's much good in her history. And it's not that he doesn't want to know, but that he can't promise he won't use it against her on a bad day. He can do his best and swear here and now that he won't, but the next time he snaps and hurts someone he can't promise she won't feel the backlash of it. So he offers her what he can. "I'm sorry you're sick."

[robyn-atwood]

She smiles happily when he agrees to the tea, probably more excited than what he’d meant to make her, but she can’t help it. Rarely do people taker he up on her offer to share the teas she has and she pulls a tin out of the cupboard, leafing through the tea pouches and picking out one that reads honey periwinkle. “You’ll like this one,” she says and whether it’s a guess or not, it’s a soothing one, one that doesn’t have a strong taste, but something rather sweet. Most of the teas she’s picked up in a specialty shop where they sell flavors she’s never heard of before. She doesn’t mind sharing them with him or with anyone else who wants some. 

Waiting for the kettle to whistle, she turns and leans against the counter, sniffling slightly again as she works on warming up in the kitchen here. The stove going feels nice at her back, but the kitchen has always been a drafty room in the house. She smiles over at him, watching his face. “Do you want to hear a joke?” she asks, just something to fill in the silence as they wait for the kettle to boil. She’d ask him how his day went, but she doubts he’ll say much of anything. There’s an awkwardness there because there are personal demons floating out there between them, but Robyn won’t ever dwell on them if he doesn’t want to. She won’t use them against him and won’t dig in to hurt him. 

[elijah-vestri]

He half smiles when she says it, but doesn't agree or disagree either way. Maybe he will. Maybe he won't. Maybe he won't feel anything about it except that it's a cup of something to keep his hands warm. He's cold most of the time, but it's not the sort that bothers him. As far as he can tell, it's just a fact of his existence. The only time he feels really warm is when he's feeding, and it's better if he doesn't dwell on those thoughts right now. He takes another bite while she gets tea ready and there's the brief thought that he should've told her no, let her have her cup in peace and go back to his room or go outside for a smoke, something to put him in a different room because no matter what she says, he can't tell what she thinks about him. Chances are nothing good, and while he's not sure it would hurt him either way, he could at least try and respect if if she'd rather him stay the fuck away from her.

The question derails those thoughts, because it's nothing he expected her to ask. It leaves his mind blank for a moment, equally as unsure what she's going to say next, so he just swallows another bite of cold pizza, nodding his head. "Sure," he tells her. It's enough to keep his eyes on her a moment longer than usual, and then he frowns, the words leaving his lips before her joke. "Are you sick?"

[robyn-atwood]

As Robyn pulls a cup and some tea pouches out of the cupboard, she reaches for the kettle, putting it beneath the faucet and turning to look at him. She can’t help but smile at him because he’s still here and she thought that today he wouldn’t be. After their last conversation and everything that had happened, she thought she’d wake up this morning and there would be someone new in his place because people tended to disappear. He fit the bill. The kind to just up and leave without a word, to go on with their lives somewhere else and leave everyone else behind. Only he was still here, for now, and she thought that was saying something for how much he was trying. 

"Sure," she says happily, finishing filling up the kettle and moving over to the stove to put the kettle on. She turns around to look at him, knowing he doesn’t really need the pizza, but she understands it. He doesn’t need beer or coffee either. "Do you want some tea? I have some different flavors." She keeps her voice light, the smile on her face genuine because as long as he’s here, trying, she’ll do her best to make him feel welcome. 

[elijah-vestri]

He nods his head, bringing the box over to the table and it doesn't occur to him to heat it up, or if she even wants it that way. Either way, she's at the stove and it's better right now if he keeps his distance from her. It makes it easier on him and better all around, but he thinks for a minute that he misses that and the sense of nostalgia is almost surprising. He doesn't miss a lot of things, but she's pretty and blonde and he thinks there's a point where he would've hit on her shamelessly. Probably sloppily and with all the grace of a dumb, lame dog, but he would've given it his best shot. Smiled at her and said crude things, and now the thoughts are second to the hunger and the rest of it isn't something he can really allow himself to contemplate.

He sits down in the chair, slumping against the back of it and reaching for a slice. The question doesn't quite catch him off guard, but he stops with a mouthful of food before he focuses back on her. He swallows hard and then nods his head, not so much because he likes tea, but it's something, no better or worse than a coffee or a beer. All of it, little distractions, and he wonders if she already knows that about him or if she's just being nice. "Yeah, alright. Whatever's good." He clarifies before she asks, because the closest he's come to tea is Snapple and he's trying to keep the 'I don't know's to a minimum. "Thanks."

[robyn-atwood]

Robyn’s just getting home from work, the sky darkened outside and snow still heavy on the ground. She’d just shoveled it yesterday and already it needs to be done again, but tonight she’s not feeling up to it. The walk home had been bitter cold and as she comes inside, her cheeks are red, nose cold and stuffed. She’s feeling tired, wiped and her hands are burning as they warm up when she steps inside the house. It’s far too cold to be walking home from work these days and she can’t remember a winter that has been this bad for as long as she’s lived here. She can’t remember a winter this bad ever, but weather had never been the first thing on her mind growing up. 

Pulling her coat off, she hangs it in the hall closet when she comes inside and then heads into the kitchen to go make some tea. There’s a tissue in her pocket she pulls out to run across her nose and she’s in the middle of doing that when she steps into the kitchen and sees Elijah. It makes her stop where she is to suck in a breath before continuing over to the cupboard to grab a cup. She looks over her shoulder to see what he’s looking at and gives a smile, talking with a stuffed up nose and a sore throat. “You can have some if you want. It’s leftover.” 

[elijah-vestri]

Eli glances up at the words, watching her for a moment as she moves around the kitchen. There's an ease there, because she's been here so long that this is more her place than anyone else here, probably even the landlord. It leaves him with the vague sense like he's just a guest in her house sometimes, and he wonders for a moment what she thinks about all this. About all these people here and he wonders if she's aware that there's another dead person and a dog under her roof. She knew and understood what he was without him spelling it out, and he hasn't asked what else she knows about. It wasn't a conversation for that moment, and he's not sure if it ever will be.

His gaze doesn't linger long, because he's not at his best tonight, if he even has such a thing. But he's more restless at any rate, the last vestiges of something like withdrawal with its hooks under his skin and making him squirm. Threat or not, urge to snap at the offered hand not withstanding, he doesn't want to kill her, doesn't even want to try. He wants to be okay in his own skin, wants to be in control of his life because he's not sure he remembers what that feels like. He's not sure he ever really knew. And for now if that means keeping his head down just to get out a box of pizza, that's what he'll do. "You want some?"