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HOUSE #1470
mayo ✧ little shit ✧ loving daughter

"You've reached Carol Danvers, aka Captain Marvel. I'm not here, leave a message!

If it's urgent... uh. Leave it urgently."

speed dial
steve
sakamoto
gremlin

( call | text | voicemail | mail | action )

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[content enough with that for now, carol drives, the LEU -- the clinic -- sinking fast out of sight behind them. it's gone now, he's done there, he's okay, and maybe if she keeps repeating it like that (he's okay he's okay he's okay) she can will it true, but she doubts it.

the ride is quiet from both ends, the boy stuck somewhere she can't reach him, and carol desperately wanting to reach anyway. one eye is on him the whole time, sometimes more, and it may be a dangerous way to drive for anyone else, but cheeseburger danvers has threaded a jet through a canyon-crack with heavy fire raining down on her. cars are instinct by now.

if only teenage boys came that easy to her, fluid and effortless and weightless like breathing.

through the gates, into the shopping district, pulling up outside the little café. she doesn't get out, checking first to make sure the kid is ready for this.

there'll be people inside. noise. carol will field it all for him if he needs.]

[like a lawn chair, the boy unfolds]

[and if Carol's expecting him to steel himself, or seek reassurance, or even take a breath, it never comes; he just pulls his hat down against that too-bright sun, and obnoxiously slams the door open as he always does]

[kicking it closed, however, he mumbles (still a bit hoarsely) over his shoulder]

...Ya wanna grab a table? I'll be there inna sec.

[her face broadcasts loud and clear that she wants to know why? but carol stops herself short, gives him what he asks for.]

Okay.

[and she starts inside, throwing idle smiles at the staff who greet her and making a beeline for the empty back corner, to wait.]

[there are a lot of options; he could kick in Honeybee's window, he could smash his fist against Carol's perfect car, he could run inside and growl the dirtiest fucking slur he knows at the biggest, dumbest looking guy in there]

[he could howl and scream and cry and shake and curse]

[and for once, he realises that none of it, not a god damn bit of it, would fix anything that feels broken. it wouldn't give him any answers. it wouldn't even make him feel better, and it would probably get him fired, or beaten up, or worst of all, cared for by kind strangers, and made to feel more isolated and defective than he already does]

[so he doesn't feel bad, knowing there's a lot worse things he could do, knowing that he's trying, when he digs into that awful coat and pulls out a worn pack of smokes and a black lighter]

[thunk goes the window pane, as the not-substantial-enough weight of him leans heavily against it]

[over the heads of the other customers, Carol might spy a mop of orange, and a plume of ash above it]

Edited 2013-08-06 09:38 (UTC)

[a mop of orange, a plume of ash, and a world of problems she doesn't know the half of; carol spots it all right, and she wants to run out there and yank it off him, shout you're only hurting yourself more with this, can you just stop?

the lecture can wait, though, for a day when he's okay and it won't feel like beating him down on top of everything else and he'll just ignore her anyway.

one of the workers brings her coffee, and she drinks it black, sugarless and bitter. she doesn't ask for one for badou because she doesn't even know if he drinks coffee, and is it weird, not knowing that, after she's lived with him all these weeks?

anytime you're ready, kid.]

[when he comes in, halfway through her coffee, his face is a little more slack around the eye and mouth, not brittle and sharp like bone (those jagged edges that constantly bruise Carol, every time she gets too close)]

[and although he's been working there for a week and a half already, he doesn't seem to really say hello to any of the workers, ordering a drink at the counter and joining Carol at the table]

[it's a tall mug of hot chocolate, loaded up with whipped cream, a biscotti shoved in it like a flag in the earth, the whole concoction stinking of sweet, sweet sugar -- and he tends to it methodically, if not with his usual vigour for consumables]

[the acrid stink of smoke lingers under the café smells of goods baking and coffee brewing and the ridiculous thing the kid's ordered, but to her credit carol doesn't mention it, or even wrinkle her nose.

what she does do is lean back in her seat, rolling her shoulders, visibly untensing.]

Need more sugar there? I think you're only a couple steps away from truly diabetic levels.

[she hides her smirk behind her coffee cup. it's gentle, though, and so is the comment; testing the waters.]

[the boy scowls over his mountain of whipped cream; normally, he'd be too embarrassed to order something like this in front of anyone (chocolate was such kid stuff), but today wasn't really a normal day (and he hadn't thought about it)]

Shut up.

[but (some of) the tension is easing out of those junkyard shoulders, too; if he closed his eyes, it could be a cafe at home, and it could be someone else making fun of his beverage choices]

[gulp]

Edited 2013-08-07 19:46 (UTC)

Haahh -- !

[too hot too hot too hot]

[a laugh bubbles up out of her before carol can help herself, all surprise and sunny relief.]

You're a spaz, kid. You're supposed to sip it.

[and she leans forward across the table, coffee spoon at the ready, moving in to try and snake a glob of whipped cream off his drink while he's distracted.]

[and that's achingly familiar, too (since he's always been a spa -- impatient, and susceptible to sneak attacks from those who were a little smoother, a little less obviously roughed around their edges)]

[he smacks after that spoon, misses, drags his wrist through his whipped cream instead]

...

[licks it, like a stupid dog]

[and goes back to sipping (sipping!) his hot, stupid kid's drink]

...Shut up.

[carol snorts indelicately at him, spoon in her mouth, feeling the world tilt a little further back onto its axis. for now, anyway.

the rush of sweetness is a little more than she was prepared for, and she drains her coffee after to wash it down.]

Gonna get something to eat too, there, cowboy? I could go for something.

[if badou is scoffing down food like a garbage disposal, all is right with the world, after all.]

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