Repose

Who: Dahlia H & Cris M
What: Getting a ride.
Where: The wrong side of town > the Capital.
When: Pre-egg hunt.
Warnings/Rating: Swears. TBA.

( Trouble tended to sleep in. )

[Text to Cris]

I'm ok just going home ok?

Thx

Sorry

[Call to Damian W.]

[Ring!]

[A Post to Trailer Park Inhabitants]

Did anything hit the park???

[Locked individually: Hunter R, Oliver K, Peter C]

I am checking in to inquire about your physical and emotional condition after the unfertilized chicken fetus hunt.

Who: Atticus & Billy
What: Dinner
Where: The Carriage House
When: Saturdayish
Warnings/Rating: TBD

The front door was propped, and a messy note on Chicago Museum letterhead was taped to the wood: Come on in.

The Carriage House was behind the B&B, but that didn't make it immune to the B&B's supernatural occurrences. In fact, you could say the place was the heart of the phenomenon, as Atticus' parents had learned too late. But it was quiet as night fell. Quiet in the supernatural sense. Music played loudly enough to be heard on the walkway leading up to the open front door. The sound quality wasn't particularly impressive, since the origin of the music was an old boombox perched on the side-table in the tiny sitting area on the first floor. Beyond that, the kitchen was a narrow affair, counters on both sides and without boasting enough space for a table.

Atticus was in said kitchen, barefoot and wearing cargo pants and a white shirt, his messy curls damp from sweat. The Carriage House didn't have central anything - air or heat. A fan turned noisily on the counter beside the stove, and Atticus hummed along with Light My Fire as he stirred rice in a small pot.

Alongside the small pot, he had a huge pot of water boiling. Maine lobsters, ordered when he was in Chicago, died happily, and a number of letter collections peppered the counters. The paperbacks were earmarked or propped open, and the corners of some pages were damp from thoughtless fingers. Atticus treated the books in the collection with impeccable care, but his own books weren't as lucky. For once, there was no acrid cold in the space. For once, Atticus' sleeves were short, and the scars that randomly lined his arms - from wrist to sleeve hem - were old and pinked.

And, as promised, there was a bowl of Reese's Pieces in front of the fan, the noisy coolness ensuring the colorful chocolates didn't melt.