Piddles wanders in off the street, looking distracted. His eyes flick around the room quickly, and his brow knits in something like a perplexed frown.
Thomas is sitting at a table-cum-desk near the fenced-in play area, the surface in front of him piled high with loose papers and lit by a lamp cadged from one fo the cubicles. He is reading a paper with a pencil in one hand and a creased forehead that speaks unambiguously of a faint headache and more-than-faint annoyance. He scribbles a quick note in the margin of the paper and looks up at the sound of someone entering.
Emrys is playing contentedly in the play area, attempting to pile blocks on top of a stuffed hippopotamous.
*Thomas is looking at you.*
look thomas
Shock of wheat-colored hair over a deeply lined face, fair skin still holding the
lingering remains of a tan, pale lashes framing incredibly sharp blue eyes. Thomas
is short - perhaps 5'9" - and stocky, and looks to be in his mid forties. There is a
small, pale, triangular scar under his right eye, half-hidden by the wire-rimmed
glasses that he wears. He is, for the most part, relaxed, though his eyes still follow
movement with a hint of their old wariness. He smiles more easily, now, but
sometimes in his expression is the veiled, hunted look of one whose nightmares
and memories coincide.
He is wearing worn black jeans and a red and black checked flannel shirt, the
unbuttoned cuffs occasionally slipping back to reveal glimpses of scar tisue at his
wrists.
Piddles hitches up his sagging jeans by two of the remaining belt hoops, doing a little jog of his entire body to adjust the settling fabric. He clears his throat a little nervously. "Dis place to live for broke folk?" he asks in English that is more shattered than broken. His voice is raspy with either excessive smoking or disuse. His accent is utterly unidentifiable, though there is perhaps a Texan drawl to his vowels.
Thomas blinks once or twice, then clears his throat. "Yes. Indeed." He sets the pencil down and stands up, moving around the table to get a better look at the newcomer. "May I be of assistance?"
Piddles shifts his head up, then downward, then cocking it to the side, examining the other man's motion, change of posture, and tone of voice. "Yah. New. Got no greenstuff. Likes bed more den grate. Wanna find new friends. Broke guy." He raises his head and eyebrows. "Is OK?" He peers aside at the red sign then flashes a big, brilliant, toothy grin at Thomas. His hands pound down his sides and pocket. "No gun, see? No gun! No knife! No trubell."
Thomas stares at Piddles in fascination and bafflement. One part of his mind is utterly delighted at this tableau. "Great," he hastens to reassure the stranger. "No trubell--trouble--that's fine. Come in." He pauses, getting his bearings, then asks delicately, ".../very/ new?"
Piddles nods vigorously, still grinning broadly. "New! New! Not bin here afore. Walk, walk, walk, long way. But here now!" he concluded triumphantly, slapping his chest hard enough to draw a cloud of dust. Then his face fell into a near perfect panhandler's piteous look. "But broke. Long walk. Broke. Bad Pid, no BigMac." He points to his filthy bare feet. "All dirty. Feet hurt now. No food, longtime. Gots to big rock city, went for food, sumbussy gave drink. Burned! Bleah, ptui! No good foods."
His hands clutch across his belly. "All grumbly," he explains. "Gots bed?" he asks, losing the thread of the sob story utterly and looking around almost perkily.
Thomas gazes at the apparition before him with wondering admiration, running one hand through his short, fair hair until it stands on end. "Bed, yes," he says. "Food, too. Not Big Mac, but food. Also somewhere you can wash your feet if you so choose. Ah..."Pid," did you say?"
Piddles nods, again vigorously enough to shake leaves and small burrs from his curly hair. "Pid! Pid! Dat's m'name, yah. Got's lotsa names. Pid's best one now." His voice drops confidentially and he directs his voice towards Thomas with the back of his hand. "Not worry, though. No cops." His teeth flash again in a pointy grin. "Pid don' really be." He rubs his hands together delightedly in another lightning switch of posture. "Food? Food first. No BigsMacs OK, Pid get dose later." He quickly looks down at his feet, as if a thought just hit him. He carefully turns completely around, inspecting everywhere that his feet have touched. "Right!" he says when he's completed his circle. "Mud's dry now, no track mud!"
Thomas shakes his head slowly, fascinated, and gestures toward a doorway to one side. "Kitchen's through there. You're...familiar with kitchens?"
Piddles peers, then raises his head and sniffs the air in that direction. "Kichun, yah. Gots Jif? Peter Pan? Skippy? Knows howta make PeeBeeAnJay lots." He scratches his head with some distraction, calmly plucking a tick off his scalp and a scrap of what might be neon green Silly String simultaneously. He examines the insect calmly. "Gots alkeehaul? Dese bad fer ..." He pauses, as if realizing that he probably shouldn't say what he was about to say, and finishes, somewhat lamely, "fer... fer... skin."
Thomas's gaze is mild, beyond surprise. "No alcohol, I'm afraid. Just squish it between your nail and the wall, maybe."
Thomas pages: You're his first lupus. He's loving every second of this. :)
Piddles looks a tad abashed and picks a spot on the wall. With his grimy and ragged thumbnail, he grinds the arachnid out of existence, leaving a slightly red-tinged stain. That accomplished, he returns to his inquiries. "Gots any meat stuff? Long long afore gots real meat stuff." His voice drops again. "BigsMacs not real meat, yaknow."
Ayesha has arrived.
look ayesha
Sleek and exotic, lithe and regal, this Siamese cat watches the world with enigmatic, sky-blue eyes. Her long, lean body is covered with golden-tan fur which darkens to chocolate points at face, ears, limbs, and tail.
Ayesha pads in, tail high.
***drat, accidentally took out one of Thomas' poses...***
Piddles's eyes light up. "Not cooked?" He pronounces the last word as two syllables. "Cool!" He grins lopsidedly. "Last not cooked meats had nasty stuff to make Pid sleep lots. Hads cooked stuffs after. Place smell nice though. You smell nice. Trusts you lots. Eats nice not cooked stuff." He nods emphatically. "Will close door too." He peers at the cat. There is a brief heave to his shoulders, an involuntary step forward, as his upper lip lifts to reveal his teeth... and then he catches himself and turns the snarl into a tight, forced smile. "Nice cats."
Ayesha stops, staring at Piddles with cold, aloof eyes, her long tail waving back and forth.
Thomas's shoulders shake helplessly. "I'll come with you," he offers. "I'm hungry, myself. And you seem--very nice."
Thomas glances at the cat, one eyebrow raised slightly.
Piddles seems happy to be distracted from the existence of the feline and very nearly prances toward the door of the kitchen, turning a couple of times to make sure that Thomas follows.
Thomas rakes his hand through his hair once more, then jams his hands into his pockets and follows, bemused and secretly delighted, outwardly the essence of courtesy and helpfulness.
Piddles pounces upon the kitchen gleefully, searching every cupboard curiously before encountering the refrigerator. The light going on and off seems to fascinate him for one or two repetitions of the door opening before he discovers a packet of raw hamburger. He pulls it out, grins down at it, up at Thomas, then carefully crosses the room to close the door. His ragged nails come in handy for tearing open the plastic wrap so he can get at the lump of pink meat inside.
Thomas makes himself a cup of spice tea and a cheese sandwich, watching mildly. "So, where have you come from?" he asks, after a suitable interim of consumption.
Piddles flops in a chair, and begins shoveling the meat into his mouth. He chews noisily, with many appreciative slurps thrown in. His eyes rise over the edge of the styrofoam at the question. "Tejas," he mumbles through a full mouth.
Ayesha circles Thomas on dainty chocolate paws, watching Piddles with a distainful air.
Thomas leans down to stroke the cat absent-mindedly, with the air of one who, while not necessarily a cat /lover/, is at least fairly familiar with the ettiqutte demanded in such circumstances.
Ayesha arches her back, purring loudly. She walks forward, letting Thomas caress the graceful, waving tail, then turns around and bumps her head into his hand, demanding attention.
Thomas glances at the cat, scritching the favored spots behind the ears and testing to see if he will be allowed to scritch under the chin as well. Then he looks up at Piddles again. "You walked from Texas?"
Ayesha stretches her neck out, still purring.
Piddles eyes the cat suspiciously, shifting his posture protectively over the plastic enwrapped hamburger. One eye squints quaveringly, and a small twitch curls the right side of his mouth. With an effort, he says, "Yup, walk, walk, walk. Long walk. Run some. Then walk more. Big hills in way. All white on top. White stuff cold, like fridge."
"Snow," Thomas supplies absent-mindedly, absorbed in the process of scritching the cat. Then his eyes jerk back to Pid, incredulously, his hand slowing for a moment. "You walked over the Rockies? The big hills, I mean? /Why/?"
Piddles blinks at Thomas. "Big hills in way."
Thomas's mouth opens, closes, and opens again. He clears his throat. "Yes," he says, sounding faintly dazed. "I see." Then, "Why were you coming here at all, though?"
Piddles shrugs. "Leave Tejas. Bad friends. No friends. Pid all alone. Come here. Friend told 'bout here afore. Santa Clara. Yah?"
Thomas repeats the words "santa clara" soundlessly, then he nods. He asks, picking his words lightly, "Have you been...out to the woods...yet?"
Piddles shakes his head shortly, finishing off the last of the package. "Nah. Was in woods lots. Come inta city. Nice city. Don' like sleepin' inda woods none. Likes a bed some, more den grate, yaknow? Woods gots ticks an skeeters, city gots fleas an rats. Useta fleas an rats, not ticks an skeeters."
Thomas absorbs this, nodding. "And have you found the friends you were looking for?"
Piddles shakes his head shortly again. "Nup. Nah. Niet. Gots no names, so's gots no friends." He sighs rather more explosively than most people do. "Mebbe on wild car chase."
Thomas is caught entirely off-guard by this last gem. "Wild car chase?" he repeats blankly.
Piddles grins and nods. "Yah. Bad guyz in car, good guyz in car, good guyz come to turn and take bad one, not one bad guyz took. All wrong. Wild car chase."
Thomas looks perplexed. Suddenly, the phone rings, on the far side of the wall. he goes over and picks the phone up, saying, "Hello? This is the Regan Hope Project." He is obviously somewhat less than expert at receptionist skills.
Piddles begins to prowl around the kitchen after a moment, evidently looking for his "PeeBeeAnJay" and lacking fundamental memory skills. He could probably do with being taught the game "Concentration." Each cabinet is opened, examined, and closed, some several times if they have an array of food in them. He makes a sizeable circle around the cat.
Ayesha watches Piddles with narrowed eyes, her tail lashing slowly back and forth.
Thomas stiffens abruptly and his expression flattens with dislike. After a moment he tells the phone, "Yes, I think I know the person you're talking about. He's been here for week or so, I think. Maybe more. What's the problem?" His tone seems to indicate that he thinks it fully possible that the problem is simply the person on the other end of the line.
Ayesha' tail continues to lash as the tempramental Siamese cats watches Piddles.
Thomas relaxes slightly, almost grudgingly. He says, "I'll come down," though it is clear that the prospect gives him no pleasure at all. Constable Paolin, you said?"
Piddles evidently decides that PB&J is too much trouble and settles back into his chair with a long, loud yawn that exhibits his exceptional teeth and curling tongue.
Ayesha arches her back, fur bristling. She hisses at Piddles.
Thomas nods stiffly, though his interlocutor cannot see the concession. "All right. Thank you for calling. I'll be there as quickly as I can." He glances around, startled by Ayesha's hiss, obviously on edge.
Piddles shuts his mouth with a snap and looks around at the source of the hissing. His eyes narrow and he starts a low growl.
The bristled-out brown tail lashes back and forth as the cat stares at Piddles, long claws digging into the floor, ears back, mouth gaping and showing needle-sharp teeth.
Thomas moves forward to the extent that the cord will allow him and whispers furiously at the cat and man alike, "Stop it!" He rounds on Piddles. "Only /dogs/ squabble with cats," he says meaningfully. "Not /people/."
Piddles stops short in mid-growl and blinks at Thomas. There is a fleeting moment of huge brown eyes looking somewhat hurt... eyes that properly belong on a Cocker Spaniel... but they are overcome immediately by whatever Pid uses for common sense and he straightens up in his seat and looks away from the cat, almost resentfully.
Thomas makes a quick flapping motion in Ayesha's direction.
Ayesha mrowls loudly and leaps up onto the kitchen counter. There she sits down primly, tail curled about her hauncehs, and washes her face.
Thomas sighs.
Thomas mutters very quietly, "This is ridiculous."
Ayesha licks one chocolate paw and rubs it across her face, apparently paying no attention to Pid /or/ Thomas.
Piddles stands up and starts wandering aimlessly around the room.
Thomas nods again and hangs up, giving the phone a black look. THen he sighs, and turns toward Piddles. "I need to go. SOmeone who might be a possible friend of yours, who also lives here, /has/ managed to get in trouble with the police. God knows how. I'm going down to try to help the poor bastard."
Piddles nods. "Bad cop, no donut," he says simply.
Thomas catches /that/ one mid stride and stops, gaping slightly. Then he murmurs, "As you say," and heads back to the main room, getting a jacket, putting away his borrowed desk and reams of papers, and gathering up Emrys before he heads out into the damp evening.
Ayesha gives Piddles a few cold looks, but otherwise leaves him be.
Piddles wanders out to find himself a bed, but pauses long enough to strategically position himself behind the washing Ayesha and let out one sudden, loud BARK!!!!
Ayesha springs into action, yowling, fur bottling out, claws unsheathed. The cat races from the kitchen in a blur of feline speed.
Piddles sighs contentedly and goes to find himself a place to sleep.
Back to home.