Repose

[B&B around the time breakfast is served]
[Someone is playing the Super Mario song on a trombone outside. Is it a ghost? Does it want pancakes? OooohhhOOO.]

[Dahlia H.]

sorry for bounce bouncing. I had to do some thinking. and perfect cinnamon roll aka i can-never-stay-mad-at-that-face patrick needed to know about everything.

we should start fresh. i really like fresh starts.

[After this.]

[Locked to Manning T]
Alright, we ain't gonna do a thing. Just you and me, huh? Sam feels it's unfair to Lou to invite him for only parta it, when he didn't do nothing wrong, and I ain't fighting her on it. You can't do shit in this family without somebody crying or running away, I swear.

[Locked to Lou D]
I dunno what Sam told you, asere, but we ain't doing no get-together, huh?

Who: Janus, Steve, Atticus
What: Steve moves in
Where: The B&B
When: Fuzzy nowish
Warnings/Rating: I doubt it

Atticus looked like he'd spent a night in barn, because Atticus had spent a night in a barn. His baggy jeans were dirty and smelled like raw meat. His gray shirt had dirt at the end of long sleeves. His hair was a rumpled mess, his hand having passed over it repeatedly in the night. His left eye looked like high school had made a return; bruised, angry and swollen, at least he could open said eye without squinting now. He wore his glasses, despite the discomfort, because the thought it might obscure the garish display of colors against his skin. His palms were bruised.

He was tired. But the sound of the trombone made him grin blearily. At least one good thing happened.

Atticus wasn't present when the man at the trailer park ate his gun, but he knew the man was dead. Hadn't seen it in the news. Hadn't picked up a paper. But Atticus knew. He'd known as soon as he returned to the carriage house, black eye and no painkillers for PJ. There, on the coffee table, he'd found a mountain of pharmaceuticals. Atticus knew the man was dead.

It also explained how tired he felt as he walked into the B&B proper. He was planning on grabbing a cup of coffee from the kitchen and, hopefully, holing up in his office with Jack Kerouac's letters to Allen Ginsberg. The air around him was warmer than usual, as if his haunts understood they should behave. His mood was sour.

[A potted Angel's Trumpet is delivered to the Catholic Church. The colors are unexpectedly vibrant, as if the leaves were made out slivers of stained glass. They aren't made of glass at all, of course. Now, Angel's Trumpets are known to cause terrible and dark hallucinations if ingested, so there's a nice little note included: Don't eat the flowers. And it's a complete chance that the little spores are especially floaty in this plant. It's almost impossible to be around it and not ingest a little something. It just so happens that a little something goes a long, long (and very sinful) way.]

[Perry P]

There have been zero reports of caped crusaders, even the arachnid kind. Please say you actually caught the art show, or you're running my rule about how bored anyone used to excitement can get straight into the ground.

Who: Jack and Cat
What: Chess. No doubt some life lessons.
When: Recently hand-y wave-y
Warnings: Language, probably.

( Atticus had lodged him on a corridor of old ladies, all predetermined to talk his ear off )