sixthiterationlogs | ( OPEN ) gotta get back gotta get free.

Entry tags:

( OPEN ) gotta get back gotta get free.

WHO: ~~Mayor~~ McChilicheesedog
WHERE: House 6, House 60, and beyond
WHEN: October 15-November 5
OPEN TO: OTA (closed prompts in comments)
WARNINGS: animagus times, general obliviousness, dust moths, tba

OPEN TO ALL.

After cooking for the Stark Expo, Frank had bailed pretty quickly thereafter, not wanting to stick around for the thank-yous and/or any derisive comments. He also really hadn't felt as though he had much to contribute to a "tech conference" even with no tech to be found. At first, he considers going to find that book Mark started with all the skills and scratching his name off every page, but he finds himself heading to the Lake instead.

Before he knows it, he's heading down to the Bunker and straight for that powers vending machine. He studies the choices for a long time, remembering his conversation with Kamala and wondering if this all isn't an elaborate trap. Maybe it does nothing? Just another way to mess with their minds. He's heard whisperings of people hearing one another's thoughts recently and decides he needs to pick something tangible. Something he can prove definitively worked or didn't work. His finger hovers over Animal Transformation, but then he swallows, steeling himself. To Hell with it, right?

It isn't Frank Castle who runs out of the bunker and back onto the surface, but a coyote. He will be easily spotted loitering outside House 6 like he's trying to figure out how to work a doorknob in this state. When he gives up, he goes to lay down in the backyard, like he's watching over the animals in the pen. The groffle and zalpaca graze on as if oblivious to a predator nearby. Perhaps because they sense it's not really a creature who intends them any harm. After a time, Frank nods off in that state and a croc-dog finds him, curling up under his chin to join in the nap.

Over the next week or two, people might spot the coyote who comes in close to the Villages, most often he'll be outside the Schoolhouse or the Inn but never does he try to venture inside or close enough to be caught. If someone catches his eyes, he'll run off towards the forest.

WILDCARD.

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She drains the last of her disgusted look into the quizzical one she gives him. It's not like they made plans to get sloppy together. He didn't even give her a heads up. She wouldn't have turned him down or opted for grown-up grape juice but still.

"Faster to what?" Despite the dubious edge to her curiosity, she locks in for a second sip and keeps her features better schooled. The first swig is already marinating her brain. If his baseline human metabolism doesn't disintegrate when confronted with this swill, the shock will kill her before the alcohol poisoning can. Must have had one shitty day, or week or month? She's so far out of the loop, from here it looks like a little hoop for ants to jump through.

"To... wasted. Isn't that usually your goal?"

It's Frank's turn to deal her a confused look.

"Are you feeling okay?"

He leans a little closer on instinct, though maybe it's not exactly weird for Jessica to act hot-and-cold. That is kind of her hallmark and he doesn't do great at keeping up their... friendship? He honestly doesn't know anymore, he just knows it really sucked when they weren't talking.

That should be anyone's goal when consuming alcohol this bad so it's a sound one, but it's not hers. There's a supreme lack of anything better to do around here but she can't recall forming a habit around that flimsy excuse. Same goes for her sister's absence.

"I'm fine?" She's pretty sure. But in case he thinks she's really questioning it, she smooths it over with a swish of her glass. "I'm celebrating." Might as well. She's perfectly capable of setting aside her conditions and caveats for a night, while other people out there make bad decisions of their own. "To getting wasted without having to turn my phone off." Translation: To Trish, whom she misses, and her flaming hot mess days, which she doesn't.

Celebrating. Frank sighs, feeling that familiar feeling like he said or did something wrong. It won't stop him from taking another sip.

"But maybe stay away from the network anyway," he suggests helpfully, even though he's way more likely to go off on it than she ever has been. Still, he had to make the joke.

"With pleasure." Must be some fresh bullshit, different day. He probably doesn't let that stuff get to him even if it could rile him in the moment.

Jess has a third, small sip and sets her glass onto the table. She relaxes into her chair with her elbow planted near her drink. Her eyes wander the details of his clothing and his face, making small deductions to herself or reconfirming things she already knows. Feelings, imprints mostly, trusted on instinct. He's what passes for a friend, regardless of if she can call to mind their experiences together. He's just made her paranoid, that's all. The liquor is 120 proof and she's buzzed and state dependent memory. She is okay, while he looks like he's been living in a cave for however many weeks it takes to grow out that soupcatcher.

It's sitting here and staring in silence that's letting her head get away from her. "I'm hungry," Jess says by way of explanation, leaving her chair and going to the cupboard. He probably already ate and if he didn't, she's not offering him food yet. First she has to decide if she wants to eat it all.

Frank pushes his drink away from himself so he can lean against the counter too, watching her watch him. What is she looking for? He's just about to ask when she's getting up and he swivels his stool to watch her instead. He's not hungry, but on some level he's pleased that she's going to eat without being asked. Still, it's out of his mouth before he can police himself: "Want me to make you something?" Not that he has any idea what she keeps here of the edible, but he can probably make do. Maybe. Now he's wishing he had stolen food from the party, too.

"Relax. I like oatmeal."

She has an empty bowl on the counter where she deposits fruit nabbed from that day's lunch, close to a breadbox with a couple of stale buns. There are various jars of jam hidden in the cupboards above her head, and a sack full of grain in one at her feet, next to where the cookware is stored. Jess tips some water into a tough-looking black pot and brings it over to the stove. The moths scattered along the wall pay her zero heed when she waves a hand at them, trying to disperse them. Jess leaves the pot to boil on the hot iron top, then goes to grab a mug and measure out a half cup of oats. She puts it aside for a few minutes, returning to the able that's not two steps away from either the counter, the stove or the wall.

He hadn't exactly seemed in a rush to help her anyway, so for once he's glad for the out, leaning his face against his palm with his elbow locked against the counter as he goes on watching her.

"Did clothes show up on your bed this morning?"

They did, along with a bow and a note. She burnt both for kindling and kept the clothes to later swap with comparative items at the inn's lost and found. It wasn't a forgettable occurrence, especially when it should have reminded her of others that were far worse, but it takes her a beat to be sure.

"Yeah." Jess remains upright in her seat, attentive for the sound of bubbling. "Why?" isn't she more disturbed about someone breaking into her house? Why does it feel odd to question or think about? Like it shouldn't concern her when it is undeniably deeply concerning. Why didn't it occur to her that might be part of why he's here, why he doesn't feel safe in his own skin?

He lets out a tiny breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, one hand closing around the lip of the counter and hanging on.

"'Cause it wasn't just you." How does he say this? "Everyone who wore them to the Halloween party got a costume courtesy of our friends."

"Why the hell would they --?" She leers at the kitchen window as though she can see the cornfield from her house. Why would anyone play along with that creepy little lovenote? Jess shakes her head, taking the lord's name in vain under her breath and reaching for her drink. "Freaks," spills into the glass as she fills her mouth.

Frank snorts. This is why he came here, or at least, one of the reasons.

"You can say that again. I was only there long enough for the booze." And it was still way too much.

"Then no wonder you need to get drunk." Mystery solved, for all intents and purposes. Any wondering she continues to indulge in can be blamed on her exacting nature. If he wants to talk about, he either will or he feels like he can't; Jess has no preference seeing as she can't solve either. "Though if this suddenly turned into champagne," she speaks overtly to the glass in her hand, for the benefit of the alcohol (and more importantly the people consuming it), but alas, it continues to look and smell like run-off from an eavestrough.

"That, and I couldn't think of a better person to get drunk with." Who's as Done as he is, he means, but it comes out a little wistful despite himself. He either needs more or less alcohol, he realizes, and takes a shallow gulp since he's definitely not up for the other solution yet. "'Cause you're an expert," Frank clarifies, though he sounded much more confident in the first statement.

"Another stunner for my resume," Jess chuckles, watching the liquid slosh gently until the surface settles motionlessly. Though she doesn't hear anything, she gets up to check on the water. Sure enough, pinhead-sized bubbles are streaming up and bursting quietly. She takes her time in retrieving the mug of oats, grabbing a spoon while she's at it. "That and what's a good way to say I only know how to cook food with zero nutritional value? Anti-dietician?"

"Oats have... nominal value." Frank folds his hand into the crock of his arm not holding his cup and cranes his neck to continue following her wherever she goes with the swing of his massive head. "Uh, I don't know. Count Chocula?"

Given most of a minute, the water's bubbling properly when Jess stirs in the dry oats. He's nearly reminded her, as she's been reminding herself daily every time she walks past the box and then willfully forgets (what else could be blamed at this point?) by night, of something important. Then the thought's gone again without significance.

"I'll keep working on it."

"Mrs. Quaker Oats?" he suggests like they're really workshopping this. Maybe he's a little tipsy himself, but it just makes it easier to stare at her for longer bursts of time without becoming self-conscious about it. "This stuff is even stronger than I remember," Which isn't necessarily a bad thing now, he's feeling pleasantly hazy for a change.

That gets a snort out of her. Jess stirs the oats, unable to lower the temperature and mitigate the boil that's going strong. If she's the missus, that makes him the mister but more likely it's a Black Widow situation. The guy on those boxes always creeped her out.

"Hit the breadbox if you get hungry or sick." She nods to it over her shoulder. "Water's free, obviously."

He nods at the offer, noting how it feels like the liquid is sloshing in his head instead of his guts and he sets the glass farther away from his fingers so he won't be tempted to reach for it again. Not for a while anyway.

"Is anything ever really free?"

It's not that deep, but he's still salty about... everything. How no one seems to care this is happening. No one wants to mobilize to make things better. But maybe most of his upset lies in himself, and how much more he expects of the former Mayor Hotdog. A guy who's been too cripplingly anxious to do much for these people, whether they were grateful or not.

"Are you ready for Winter out here?" he asks, redirecting from his dumb philosophy to ask something actually practical, not to mention answerable. He worries about Jessica, so far from town. Not like anyone in it has been all that helpful. If she were closer to him, he could probably rig her up some electricity too, but as it is he thinks he should bring some supplies at the very least.

Yeesh, someone's been listening to too much dad rock. Or not enough. For his benefit, she'll pretend she didn't hear it over the scrape of the spoon going round the pot.

"I don't know, honestly," she answers as she looks around the place. The windows are single-paned so she can't stuff blankets in them but some could be draped and nailed across. She's not worried about staying warm as long as there's a roof over her head (and a superpower vending machine nearby: she can make firewood the old fashioned way with enhanced strength and/or, if/when it runs out, maybe manipulate her body heat directly). "I'll stock up on firewood tomorrow. As long as it stays warm in here, I should be fine. I prefer to sleep on the couch anyway."

So if he crashes, he better take the bed.

The warmth is good, and he's glad she's thinking about that. But he's more worried about her eating. He knows she could grab a healing factor from the machine, but that's not a guarantee of survival and it's wholly unnecessary besides.

"I'm gonna guess you don't have any provisions?" Before waiting for her to answer, he bows his head over the counter, needing to close his eyes a second to combat a sudden dizzy spell. "I'll bring you some shit."

All he does is can shit and knit and sew and shepherd animals, after all. Survival is the only thing left he remembers how to breathe in this place.

She has a big bag of oats and two buns, and no leg to stand on. Regardless, she's loathe to readily accept help. There's nothing she can pay him with, including knowledge. Jess hasn't learned much in her time here. She's shunted off practical experience for digging deeper into what they're doing here and who came before. It doesn't put food on the table and wouldn't even if she were doing it for the good of the community. Jess wracks her brain for a good way to compensate him, fetching a hand towel to safely remove the pot from the stove.

"Doesn't mean I'll eat it," she says for her own benefit, seeing as she hasn't worked out how to repay him yet. Glancing up from her task, she notes that he's a bit unsteady. Her turn to ask, "You okay?"

He rolls his eyes only to instantly regret it, holding one massive hand over them while he comes back down to Earth again.

"Just take it, it'll make me feel better."

Which isn't an answer so much as a plea. She can give him not a heart attack while he's worrying about her starving to death where he can't reach her, that's his price.

Jess sets the pot on the counter with a thud. "Then what's getting wasted for?"

Right now, seems like it was just an in for him to outline the deficiencies of her daily life. She's fine to watch him pity himself -- she's fine to pity him too, if that's all he feels like doing. But she draws the line at him pitying her. Cupboard doors snapping open and shut, she grabs a bowl and heaps oatmeal into it.

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