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Luke Lawliet (thousandcases) wrote in colligo_threads,
@ 2009-06-16 15:22:00

Current music:	My Chemical Romance- "You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison"
Entry tags:	!closed

They All Cheat At Cards And The Checkers Are Lost
Who: L and Edward "The Comedian" Blake
What: First-time meeting in the apartment they apparently share.
When: Around 10:00 at night.
Where: The Apartment Complex
Warnings: Probably; we'll see. XD

L was skinny as a rail, but, nevertheless, terribly out-of-shape. Climbing three flights of stairs in the apartment left him winded and with very sore legs, and more than a little spiteful towards whoever had put him in this situation. He'd already considered kidnappers, but wasn't the entire point of being kidnapped that you were held for ransom? He didn't think that being given free reign of a Boston-esque city quite fit that scenario. Even if he couldn't leave, it seemed like a lot of space for being held captive. He had been to the bank earlier, gotten his $100 and a set of keys to his apartment, and then returned here, all without being harassed.

He found room 305 fairly easily, but was immediately troubled when he noticed that, in gold on the door right below the name "Edward Blake", his own name was printed.

A half hour later, he returned with a stolen bottle of black spray paint and fixed that. The letters weren't raised, and even if he squinted, he couldn't make out the letters of his name anymore. Satisfied, he unlocked the door of the apartment and let himself in. He stepped into the living room first, which smelled overwhelmingly of smoke. Stifling a cough, the pale young man began to examine his surroundings, and, automatically, to straighten them in an almost panicked way. While he was collecting the randomly strewn magazines and arranging them on the coffee table, he noticed that they had names like "Jugs," "Penthouse," "Playboy," and "Butts on Sluts." None of them seemed to feature underage individuals, or any other illegal activity... but L still disapproved. Into the wastepaper basket went the magazines. Noticing a gray smudge on his long-fingered hand, L took the several very full ashtrays and tossed them off the balcony into the bushes below. He didn't care if Adrian Veidt seemed to feel it was unwise to upset Edward Blake; he was going to have a clean apartment that didn't reek of cigars. He made a cup of coffee, already feeling better when the familiar, comforting scent started to blend and fade the stench that smoking left.

Flicking on the television in the hopes of finding out something about his location, on the news or something similar, L was greeted with the sight of a gaggle of silently screaming women joyfully flashing him. Blinking, he changed the channel and set it to closed captioning, watching intently with his note cards and pen held at the ready. He planned to record anything relevant, of course.

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allajoke
2009-06-16 03:27 pm UTC (link)

Eddie headed back to his apartment after meeting Laurie at the bar nearby. He had a lit cigar in his hand and if one were to be brave (or foolish) enough to get too close, they could probably still catch a whiff of scotch on his breath. He was far from drunk, but he'd had enough to take the edge of the nerves he'd felt earlier in the night. The stairs were no trouble for him. He liked the jog up to his room on the third floor.

He had just gotten to the top of the stairs when he picked up on the smell of spray paint. Most likely just some stupid kids painting a little graffiti. But when he got close to his door, he noticed the giant black spot on the plate on the door. It wasn't his name that was painted over, but it was below his name. Eddie's eyes narrowed and his fists tightened at his sides. Someone had defaced his door. And since he couldn't hear a damn thing, he couldn't be sure if they were still around or not.

He was no longer dressed as The Comedian. With his name printed on the damn door, he couldn't exactly be seen tromping in and out dressed in a mask and leather armor. But now he almost wished he was. He certainly didn't need the costume, but it did make it harder for people to stab him. That had happened once before. Very unpleasant. Oh well. Nothing he could do about it now.

Eddie threw the door open and let it slam against the wall. A silent slam. Hardly as satisfying as actually hearing a door slam. The knob had probably punched through the plaster, but he hardly gave a damn. The sight that greeted him was hardly what he was expecting. A scrawny little kid was sitting on the couch. The apartment had been cleaned, and many of Eddie's own possessions, mainly his magazines and ash trays, were missing. He tried to shout and demand to know what the fuck was going on, forgetting in his rage that he couldn't speak.

Instead, he took two long, angry strides in the kid's direction and glowered down at him. Who did this little fucker think he was?

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thousandcases
2009-06-16 03:49 pm UTC (link)

L was sitting, perched on the balls of his feet with his toes curled over the edges of the cushions, on the couch. His knees were drawn to his chest and his shoulders curled inward, giving the impression that the lanky man was much smaller than his height of 5'10" and younger than his age of twenty-five years. Even when he stood up straight and tall, though, he seemed somehow insubstantial and translucent, easy to shove aside and overlook. In some ways, it made him an ideal investigator.

Highly aural in nature, L didn't actually notice the typically thunderous man due to the absence of noise until he was practically on top of him. Glancing up and drawing back slightly, clearly startled by the man's intimidating appearance, L stared up at him with wide, gray eyes. Smoke drifted down from the Comedian's lit cigar, causing L to stifle several coughs.

Reaching for one of his note cards, L wrote carefully on it, holding it out delicately toward the man's face with his thumb and forefinger.

You might not be aware, but smoking is carcinogenic. That means that it can cause cancer.

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allajoke
2009-06-16 04:02 pm UTC (link)

Oh, for Christ's sake. Curling his upper lip in disgust, Eddie grabbed the note card and crumpled it up into a ball, throwing it across the room. Then he took a long drag off his cigar and blew the smoke up into the air. This was just what Eddie needed. Really. It was bad enough that he apparently had no say in who he shared this apartment with (and he didn't want to share it at all), but this kid? Really? Shit.

He normally would have shouted profanity at the kid, told him where to stick his health freak speeches, and made it perfectly clear that it was completely unacceptable to move anything in this apartment, since Eddie had come to consider it his, but the lack of sound made that impossible. At first, all he could do was clench and unclench his fists, his arms twitching with the need to simply punch something. Then, taking a deep breath and resigning himself to the incredibly inconvenient situation, he pulled a pad of paper and a pen from the pocket of his black cargo pants.

I don't give a fuck. he wrote simply, his writing a little smaller and more scribble-like than normal. Then he tossed the note unceremoniously at the kid. Then he wrote another one. What the hell did you do with my stuff? He threw the paper at the kid once again.

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thousandcases
2009-06-16 04:09 pm UTC (link)

L flinched slightly when Edward Blake seized the note card, crumpling it and tossing it unceremoniously in a more-or-less random direction. L followed it with eyes, noticing, with some chagrin, that it landed approximately four feet away from the wastepaper basket.

Normally, such a discourse would have startled L out of his wits, and sent him scrambling to his room. Maybe it had to do with the dark recesses of a not-quite-remembered childhood, but the same thing that bent his posture into the question-mark-shaped signature of emotional abuse left him wary of swearing and shouting, especially combined. As it was, silence was no threat to his ability to think clearly and rationally. He watched with some interest as the man took out his own writing items, using them to scrawl an almost deliberately cramped and illegible message.

He returned the writing with even smaller letters.

You mean your ashes and your pornography? They're in a suitable place.

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allajoke
2009-06-16 09:51 pm UTC (link)

The urge to throttle the kid was absolutely astounding. Eddie's first instinct was to grab the little SOB by the throat and throw him across the room. However, showing an uncharacteristic amount of self-control, he managed to keep himself from doing it. The kid couldn't talk, no matter how bad Eddie were to hurt him. He needed his fingers and, therefore, his arms in order to write. Of course, he could always break his knee...

No, Eddie, no. He won't be able to write if he's in that much pain. Which means you won't get any answers. You need answers first, then maybe you can teach the little punk a lesson.

He took his pen and scrawled back across the paper. And just where the hell is that?! He thrust it back under L's nose.

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thousandcases
2009-06-16 10:09 pm UTC (link)

It wasn't unusual for L to frustrate people. The young man was off in his own world half the time, absent-minded but sharp as a tack, and he didn't seem to quite grasp what made people angry and how it could be successfully avoided for a better tomorrow. Everything from his thin wrists to his wayward expression and curled posture suggested fragility, though, and this often saved him from the kind of violence the Comedian was currently contemplating.

Edward Blake's fingers smelled like tobacco. L took the paper and read it, biting his lip languidly before writing a response, allowing Eddie to read it, and then pointing across the room toward the crumpled-up note card on the floor feet from the waste basket.

Go clean up your mess, and I bet you'll find out.

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allajoke
2009-06-18 05:48 pm UTC (link)

Was this kid seriously telling him to clean up his room? Like he was his mother? Oh Jesus tap dancing Christ. Really. What had Eddie done to deserve this? ...Okay, maybe that wasn't the best question to ask himself. He'd done a lot of things. But did he really deserve for this to happen? He thought not. This was just cruel.

Eddie snarled toward nowhere in general, since the silence kept him from growling out his general distaste for the situation, and grudgingly went toward the trash can. He had no intention of actually throwing the note card that was on the floor. Let the little neat freak do that himself. His eyes went wide when he took note of his magazines now taking up residence in the bottom of the can.

He pulled them out again, strode angrily back across the room, and slammed them down on the table. Well, would have slammed them had they been able to slam. He stared down at L, fists clenching and unclenching, his angry breathing making him somewhat resemble a bull ready to charge. Somehow, some way, he managed to find it in himself to write a note, chucking it at the kid's chest when he was done.

Touch my stuff again, and I'll throw your ass out that window.

A little ash fell off the end of his cigar and floated down to the carpet. The Comedian neither noticed nor cared.

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thousandcases
2009-06-19 02:34 am UTC (link)

From the way Edward Blake gestured and silently raged, L was starting to think that he could actually get used to the silence.

Glancing at the threat the Comedian had written, L turned his eyes onto the very angry man. L quirked an eyebrow, biting his lip. He glanced at his hands. He really shouldn't do this.

I don't understand. The magazines are frightfully dirty, anyway. They looked like garbage.

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