scuse me, pardon me

[gloryisbullshit]

Who: Party Poison and YOU, baby (please)
When: Anytime starting day 13 running through day 15
Where: Throughout all the houses
What: So Party Poison is a growing boy with a lot of curiosities and he might be breaking into any houses that look like they don't have anyone living in them! SO IF YOU LIVE ALONE, YOU ARE PROBABLY GOING TO HAVE A SURPRISE VISITOR! Or maybe you're just passing by and see this fella busting into an empty house! Please! Please, come stop him--or help him get in and explore! Some of these attics are hard to crawl into!
Warnings: Cussing, probably lots of cussing.

Maybe it's a little dangerous to be out, but he kind of likes having the animals out. He's not scared; he's got a good knife from Hawkeye, and let's face it--Party Poison is a fucking animal. Ah, he's just so cool. Thus armed with his bowie, a flashlight, and his inherent coolness, he decides today is another good day for exploring.

And by "exploring", we mean "breaking and entering." The fact is, the library is boring. He hasn't had the patience to read for ages. The bar is excellent, but he doesn't feel like being drunk yet today, the church is a church, and he's already done a mental inventory of the pharmacy. The lighthouse--ah, that's something he'd like to explore. But it's such a walk. It's much easier to scope out these houses, and there are so many to scope out! Look, he's not an idiot: he only picks on the houses with empty windows, the ones he hasn't seen people moving in and out of--

Maybe he can learn something inside, okay?

It's the pursuit of knowledge that brings this skinny, dirty little dude to your doorstep. Don't bother coming to open it. He's pretty deft at popping locks. He'll let himself in.

Comments

[porcelainpride]

Kurt is contentedly stirring something holiday-scented on the stove, humming a little to himself and swaying his hips from side to side. He's about ten seconds from bursting out into a full-fledged musical number, really.

At least he will be until hello, sudden small dirty person. Prepare to be assaulted with a spoonful of pumpkin.

UGH FEEL FREE TO RETCON ANY OF THIS OUT ALKJF

[gloryisbullshit]

Holy hell, it smells like...it definitely smells like some new planet in here. He's been getting use to the general smell of cooking over the past few weeks, but this is something on another level. It's fucking mesmerizing.

At least it is until hello, spoonful of pumpkin.

It's not a particularly violent assault, but it still registers as an assault. That's just no good. There's about half a second between the feel of something hitting his neck and Party being up in his "assailant's" space. Directly in his space. Hands getting fistfuls of Kurt's nice shirt kind of proximity. He grabs the boy, grinning wildly, and shoves him back against the nearest counter, pushes him backwards over it. Party laughs, lifting one finger to wag disapprovingly. "Aaaaah, rude!"

OBVS IT'S KURT'S FAULT BECAUSE HE'S OH-SO-GRABBABLE~

[porcelainpride]

No me gusta, no me gusta for any of this. Kurt was simply trying to defend himself from this assailant, by way of flinging spoonfuls of hot blended gourd. It's a perfectly legitimate way of defending one's self, thank you very much.

But not a very effective one, obviously, judging by how Kurt's back-bending skills are being put to the test and he's in an exceptionally undignified position. Fortunately rather than panicking, he just gets pissed-off, scrunching his face up in a fierce scowl and brandishing his spoon.

"Who are you?"

OBVS HELLO plz get more repulsive, new years resolution

[gloryisbullshit]

"Shhhhh, hush, hush!" That hand comes up to shush Kurt, tapping over his knotted frown. Party's eyes skitter to the side, to the oven, and snap back to his pinned specimen. "What is that?"

[porcelainpride]

Kurt squeaks a little, then glances over at the oven. "...a pumpkin glaze?"

[hung_garian]

Breaking into Gabriel's house isn't generally the best idea, what with the joint threat of being smote and being mentally scarred. The smiting is probably preferable in most cases. Luckily for Party, dying has put him off his game a bit, and there is a conspicuous (well, maybe not, given that one wouldn't usually expect them) absence of technically-imaginary strippers around. There is, however, still Gabriel. He's got more clothes on than the strippers would have, but that isn't saying a great deal, so unless poor old Party Poison particularly wants to be subjected to the sight of Gabriel in an undershirt and boxers, he probably ought to stay out.

However, were he to completely disregard this fantastic advice and enter the house anyway, he'd do best to stay out of the living room, where Gabriel is currently half-hanging off the sofa, upside down and flicking through a copy of a trashy celebrity gossip magazine. He's not paying much attention to it - quelle surprise - but there's not a lot else to do. So, if he were by chance to notice someone sneaking around in his house (and he would notice, magic archangel powers are nifty like that) he might hold off on the destruction in favour of investigating. It'd stave off the boredom for a bit, at least.

[gloryisbullshit]

He's not a particularly stealthy guy to begin with. The door comes open easy but noisily, he bumps into a counter with a sharp curse, and his poking around the kitchen is anything but subtle. You might say it looks lived in, but so do all the empty houses. Anyway, he doesn't make any attempt at being terribly sneaking until he crosses into the living room and realizes (like swallowing a weight) that someone's there. He freezes in the threshold, one hand behind his back, ready for his knife.

[hung_garian]

The knife won't do any good, but luckily enough, he shouldn't need it to. Not yet, anyway - not so long as he's more interesting alive. Gabriel rolls off the sofa, and rematerialises sitting on the kitchen table.

"If you're here with Avon, you can save it. I stocked up last time."

He could so easily have rematerialised himself into decent clothes. He hasn't, of course. It's his house, he'll traumatise whoever he wants.

[gloryisbullshit]

At this point, he's probably used to people shitting themselves at that little trick. Party Poison doesn't have an interesting reaction as far as novelty is concerned--shrill cursing, a minor fucking seizure, stumbling against the door frame. Et cetera. But he gets his wits about enough to actually pull the knife, yes, there they are. "Ah--ah, you fuckin stay still! What--how'd--who are you with?!" He looks back over his shoulder towards the couch, back at Gabriel, over his shoulder.

[hung_garian]

He raises an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed but (of course) secretly loving it.

"I'm with the department of causing unimaginable pain and misery to people who break into houses. Don't suppose you'd know anyone who fits that description, wouldja? I've been so bored lately."

He waves one hand, and the front door disappears, replaced by some more wall. So do all the windows. It's only an illusion really, but with no obvious way for Party to know that, they might as well be really gone.

[could_be_dangerous]

Kenzi probably should've warned her friends about the man who lives in the attic of the house across from the library, probably should've warned them about his gun and about the way he isn't likely to take at all kindly to unexpected visitors.

And doesn't, in fact. Sherlock doesn't at all appreciate Poison's approach, much less the way he sets to picking the lock on the front door. And so he sighs, and pushes himself to his feet, and fetches the pistol.

There is, of course, one up-side to this: it's been absolute ages since Sherlock last got to hold a gun on somebody.

Shame he's most likely a bloody idiot (near-universal quality shared in even higher concentration amongst those with brightly-dyed hair than even the general population) and therefore hardly worth the effort of getting up. Sherlock certainly doesn't want another Moriarty, but he could do with a bit of excitement.

And so down the stairs he pads, pistol at his side, and stands to wait, head tilted just slightly as he listens to the scratching at the lock. Three seconds, roughly; sounds as though he's nearly got it, so pistol out, and... hello. Occupied.

"What kind of idiot breaks into a house without first making damned sure of whether or not it's occupied and by whom?" he asks in a lazy drawl. "In case you're having a difficult time with that one, here's the answer: the bloody colossal sort."

/unearthlyscreeching

[gloryisbullshit]

The color of his hair is nothing correlative to his intelligence! Or it might be. It probably is. He hasn't thought about it much. He doesn't worry about his intelligence too often, aside from when he's trying to piece together complex sentences delivered at gunpoi--hi, gunpoint! He's smart enough at least to get his hands up, even if he does take a moment to actually process the spoken bit.

But he processes it eventually. Sherlock will probably <>see the moment that it happens. It comes with a smoky smile and widening eyes. "You ain't gonna shoot me. Jeezis, how old's that thing?"

8)

[could_be_dangerous]

Sherlock waits. Waits for the processing to finish, waits for sentences (if one may call them such) to form, waits for the words. All of it abhorrently slow; he really does have a fine collection of neighbors, doesn't he? Of all people with whom to be stuck here, it had to be Kenzi and... this fellow.

"I might do, if you don't tell me who the bloody hell you are and what you're doing here. And I shall hunt you down and shoot you, should you decide to tell anyone else that I'm in here," he says, piquish, perhaps a bit sullen, which is entirely understandable under the circumstances, he feels. Why does nobody who isn't thick show up at his doorstep?

"Of which I am quite capable, I do assure you." Finding people is what he does, one way or another, for one purpose or another, and this most recent stagnation only makes him that much more keen.

The comment about the gun is filed away with hardly the batting of an eyelash. Other people here are apparently from the future; this isn't the first, likely won't be the last, and regardless of the actual veracity of their claims Sherlock has seen that they do believe themselves to be from some other time, near or distant. Which is quite enough to be getting on with, he feels; cognition is inherently biased anyway, may as well work with what one has.

[gloryisbullshit]

"I do assure you." He parrots back. (His imitation is not bad at all, though, give him a few points!) "Look, sweetthing, keep it in your pants. Put that piece away. I'm not runnin! M'not gonna hurt you."

He's so not running, he's even coming closer, hands still raised. "Look, put it away. What's yer name? PUt it out, man."

[could_be_dangerous]

Sherlock levels the gun, correcting his grip. Both hands. Nice and steady. Briefly he considers doing it, pulling the trigger, putting a round just there, centre of the forehead; why not? It won't keep him up at night. Bit of a mess to clean up, but in the mean time, lovely spray pattern, really brilliant at this angle, and he could examine it top to bottom just to make sure everything's still in place in his head.

Then again, that's not much fun if he already knows the answer.

Even less fun when somebody inevitably gets angry.

"Oh good, I was terribly worried," he says, eyes widening briefly before he lets his face slip back into an expression of distinct unamusement, finger curling around the trigger. Just a bit more pressure. "Of course, I've height, reach, and weight on you, I know you favour your right hand; obvious by your knuckles. I know you've been in your fair share of fights; no matter, so have I. I also know that you're malnourished. If you're any good in a scrap it's only because you're enthusiastic; your size won't permit for much else and you don't move as though you've any formal training. That combined with the way you're addressing suggests lack of disregard for personal safety; tells me everything I need to know."

Vaguely he wonders if the idiot, whoever he is, is going to try to take the gun from him. Likely. Not likely to end well. Could be exciting. "Your comment earlier tells me you're not from the same time range as I am, or you don't think you are; haven't worked out which is true yet but you're not the only one. You're used to looking for food, shelter; you take in your surroundings differently than most, for which I would congratulate you were it not so blatantly obvious that you only do so because you need to. That, I expect, is why you're in my house now. Being provided for does get so terribly boring, hardly matches the thrill of stealing, does it?"

Ah, but there's more! Sherlock raises his eyebrow and nods at Poison. "I also know that a gunshot wound to the lower abdomen is one of the most painful and slowest ways to die, and you should know that when I do miss I tend to miss low. Still want to dance?"

[plaidsamurai]

Just because Logan had succumbed to the need to go out into the woods and run around with wolves in order to avoid thinking about where they were or getting free didn't mean he wasn't keeping an eye on the house he'd claimed. He'd hate to come back from his 'vacation' to find squatters. So when he spotted the red haired man making his way up to his door and letting himself in he wasn't about to ignore it.

Looking rougher around the edges than usual and much dirtier, he made his way, sans pack of wolves, toward his house, his claws slipping out without him noticing. He was leery and alert, expecting the worst - in this case, that this was a trap from whoever was keeping them there.

He silently pushed the front door open, left ajar from the intruder, whom he could smell, and stepped as quietly as he could inside.

[gloryisbullshit]

Now see, some of the houses he's gotten into have had less than friendly occupants inside. Imagine that! But this isn't the first that seems actually empty. Don't tell anyone, but it's a relief. Lets him breathe as he snoops around, lets his posture relax, his step become slow and heavy--hell, he whistles his way into the living room, up the stares. Hope your house is clean, Logan. This (oblivious) intruder is making a thorough investigation of whatever shit you've left lying around.

[plaidsamurai]

Logan's house isn't very interesting. It's empty and looks mostly unused except for the master bedroom, but even that is just a few scattered clothes. The bathroom is a little bit messier; it looks like maybe there was a scuffle in there at some point.

Logan doesn't have to strain his hearing or other senses to know exactly where the intruder is; it doesn't seem like they're trying very hard to remain hidden. That actually makes him relax a little, if this was a trap he really would expect more sneakiness. He trails his visitor up the stairs, finally clearing his throat.

"Lookin' for something, kid?"

[gloryisbullshit]

If it's a trap, it's certainly a shit trap. Honestly, Party Poison feels ambushed when he hears that voice behind him. Inappropriate maybe, but he's not exactly the picture of propriety. He snaps around immediately, one hand shooting out like telling the other man to wait. "Freeze."

And then, with an appraising sweep of his eyes, he catches sight of the knife. Knives. A little more seriously: "Don't you fucking move, whattayou want?"

[plaidsamurai]

His eyebrow arches when the guy tells him to freeze, fighting the urge to do exactly the opposite just to prove a point. He crosses his arms, the claws catching and reflecting the light, a tricky feat to pull off without slicing off an arm, but he's had plenty of practice.

"Yer in my house, kid. I wanna know why," He says back, voice a low growl, but he's more amused and interested by the situation than actually angry and it reflects a little in the tone of his voice.

five million years late

[greenisnteasy]

He's pretty well acquainted with guilt by this point. He knows what it feels like, he knows how it sits, how it can weigh you down until it poisons everything you do or think or touch. Bruce and his guilt have spent a lot of time together, but especially lately, ever since Loki and Bruce's complete indecision over letting the other guy out. Was it prudence or cowardice? Because it felt a lot like the second one.

His hands are in his pockets, head down, when he comes back from walking around the destruction Loki had caused. You know, enjoying the day, taking a stroll. He's still mostly absorbed in his own thoughts, when he comes up short at the door, which he most certainly did not leave ajar.

He stops for five seconds, thinking about the situation, before he makes himself relax. It's Kenzi, in all likelihood. B&E is how she says hi, how are you? I was thinking about you.

Still, he pushes the door open wide, cautiously stepping into the living room.

"Can I help you with something today?" he calls, using a voice he would use with Kenzi, but there's still an edge to it.

come to my arms

[gloryisbullshit]

He should maybe hook up with Kenzi; the two of them seem, by all accounts, to speak same language. Unfortunately, nothing in what Party's actions say now speak much of friendly greetings. Bruce will find the freezer door ajar too, the stuff in kitchen cabinets slightly moved, counter items shifted. But there's no one in the kitchen. No one in the living room. There's a creak on the stairwell though.

"Who's there?"

[greenisnteasy]

Unless she's been hit on the head and contracted strep throat, that's not Kenzi. Also, Kenzi would close the freezer door after she's finished eating his food because she has manners. He's still in the doorway, but he can see that much of the kitchen from where he is.

"Party Poison?" If he didn't want to seem like he had something to hide, he'd do something about these people creeping around in his house, reinforce his locks or something. He relaxes somewhat, stepping again into his house.

"If you wanted to come over for dinner, all you had to do was ask."

[gloryisbullshit]

Aw, he didn't eat anything. Just didn't check the door, man, he doesn't need your food. In all honesty, he's feeling a little overfed anymore. He hasn't exactly got manners, though, and not much shame. Party Poison backs carefully down the stairs, leaning over the bannister to see who's speaking. Sounds familiar.

"...Bruce." He stops at the foot of the steps, eyes jump around the whole area. "It's Bruce, right?" His care in asking could be shame at getting caught--it could be, but it's not. Just tiptoeing around a minefield. He's been tossed at, shot at, yelled at, he oughta be careful. Or he could just keep breaking into houses. Whichever. Whatever.

[greenisnteasy]

In another time, in another place, Bruce could afford to protest, chase him out, get mad at him, but here he thinks it's better to roll with the punches. Better to get the reputation that he's calm and chill than the alternative. Still, the invasion of his privacy grates. It's a good thing he wasn't trying to perform any experiments because he basically can't, not here.

Nice to see that some things are constant, though. Crazy guy from the network, still crazy guy standing on his stairs.

"Yeah," he confirms with a small nod. He shuts the door behind him and starts for the kitchen. "Surprisingly, I live in my own house. You have a house of your own too, right?" He smirks over his shoulder before starting to clean up the kitchen mess.