2020-11-30 - Shaken, Not Stirred

It could be worse. They could have returned covered in viscous blood-like fluid again, ruined the sofa's upholstery again. And without the benefit of unaccustomed facility with repairs that the glimmer-weed cloud had scrambled things around to, last time.

Still, it's bad enough, and they don't have that, this time. Vyv stands promptly when he's returned, stopping himself just short of trying to brush away the dust that's already transferred to the cushions with a currently dusty hand. Straightening from that aborted lean over, he gives his suit a decidedly unhappy look down and then heads into the bedroom, with its full-length mirrors, adjustable to see all sides. It doesn't make things any better. The back looks -- well, it looks like he's been tackled by a massive robot 'dog' into the dirt and dust of buildings destroyed by hermit-crab-quake, panicked citizens, and oppressive guards. Not to put too fine a point on it.

He sighs, trying to brush the mess from the tweed with his still-dusty hand; it doesn't do any good, of course. In fact, it makes it clearer what stress the fabric itself has taken from all this. Tweed's rough and hard-wearing, its history out in the British countryside, but the suit was never the hardiest specimen of the fabric, and even those weren't meant to deal with robots or ruined concrete.

And he's covered in all that dust and dirt too. Ugh. It's not as bad as that fluid, no. But it's not good.

Grant is quiet. The dust has settled, mostly on Vyv it turns out. The adrenaline is loud, thumping in the eardrums. There's a shadow first, then a hand sliding up along side the damaged vest from behind, then the other. They side around the chef and slowly pulls him back into a hug, palms pressing flat into damaged fibers before fingers curl in. Forehead rests against the tears in the fabric, the dust, the damages, the scratches.

In the mirror it's visible; the bruises on his face and arms, the scratch on his hand, the dust. There is a long silence with a deep breath and Grant murmurs, "It's gonna be okay." He might mean the people on the ship named after his painting, or the vest. Right now he means Vyv at the least. Too much emotion leave the breathing more ragged than one would like. Right now there's just a stillness of being on solid ground. "You alright?"

Vyv knows Grant is here; he even knows he left him napping in the bedroom while heading out to the living room to finish reclaiming shoes and other discarded layers before heading further out to do-- whatever it was he'd planned to do before they got thrown into another world again. Later he'll remember what it was. Currently, it's not really one of his concerns. First the suit is, and then the sudden stealthy snug, in the moment before he puts together the sensation and the knowledge to attribute the arms to their owner. The sudden extra tension subsides, and he doesn't try to draw away, but instead gives a frustrated exhalation, looking over what he can see of Grant appraisingly. Doesn't look like any serious damage -- nothing more than the scratches and bruising he likely sports himself. The tweed's at least protected him from the worst of that. Bruises may well be beneath it, but no serious scrapes.

"It will not. Once the weave's compromised there's very little to do. Look at this, it's nearly torn through." He points to a spot on the trousers; it does indeed look like the ragged concrete nearly made it through there. Most of the coat's in slightly better shape, though only because it's lined; the vest's actually come out the best of the three, protected by the jacket. Cleaned up, it and the shirt and accessories may yet survive. The fretful petulance is focused there all the same, whether fueled by lingering adrenaline or just an uncomfortable and muddy collection of emotions. "No good deed goes unpunished."

Another doomed and fitful attempt to brush off some of the dust, first against the jacket, and then along Grant's arms, which is where his hands end up falling still. His eyes close, head still tilted down as if looking at the arms in question, and he takes a slow, silent breath, in and then out. Then, despite not precisely having answered, he murmurs, "You?"

For now there's only Grant holding Vyv quite still. Thumbs brush the distress in the weave and the weft, and where they pass slowly dragging the fibers back together with the gesture. Maybe, like the jacket longer ago, it's not a total write off just yet. Still he can feel the Mood(tm) coming off Vyv and there is a ragged breath and a sigh. Tired, shaken, and stirred he sighs an answer, "Ummm ya know... it was a lot... of a lot. Got scared, kicked some ass." There's a pause and he admits, "Quite glad you seem to be in operational order." Which is Vyvlish for: The suit may not need a funeral exactly but hey at least you don't! His cheek presses to Vyv's back where the gash is, too short to see over his shoulder to stare back in the mirror. A haggard chuckle and a cough comes, "Christ, I rode a dog. I did not expect that to go as planned." His fingers still show as much pulling the glimmer into the weave that they too can rebuild. "Ms. Winslow is really great at fixing things. You could ask her to mend the suit."

Vyv's breath stays slower and deeper, eyes remaining closed, and gradually more of the tension ebbs, the subtle lean back against Grant gradually increasing until somehow it's become distinctly less subtle than before. His arms settle more against the skater's, tightening in a sort of return of the embrace, or as much as not yet turning around allows. A tiny twitch at one corner of his lips greets the brief foray into his native tongue, and though the cough has it giving way to a flicker of concern, he can't help the half-smile sneaking back for the words that follow it.

"A robot dog," he points out, shaking his head slightly. "Ridiculous." The tone can't decide whether it's chiding or amused -- which, to be fair, it ought to be used to by now when that adjective and Bax end up in proximity. It knows it's affectionate, though, even if that stays sneakily low-key in the undertones. Neither of the others win out as they're joined by a touch of incredulity in, "That was as planned, was it?"

His eyes open a little, enough to watch the movements trying to repair the jacket for a breath, and the suggestion gets a quiet, "Perhaps." He turns, then, the movement controlled enough to avoid dislodging arms, or at least to try to, until he's facing Bax instead of the mirror and slipping an arm around him in return, the other lifting a hand to brush fingertips over a bruise by a cheekbone. "Rather pleased to see you in operational order too," he allows. "Not that you couldn't have done more to keep it that way." Another tiny twitch of a ghost smile. "I'm fairly sure you took about three years off Itzhak's life." And certainly only Itzhak's.

Eyebrows arch over Vyv's shoulder and there's a pause and Bax defense his choice. "Well...I mean if anyone there else can rode a mechanical bull like I can or do a 720* kick-flip McTwist they're welcome to ride it. I mean...I do't always land em but it seemed like a thing to do at the time to keep it from charging into people." There's a pause as Vyv turns around and Bax reluctantly adds, "Okay and It really seemed like a neat idea at the time. I didn't think it'd work necessarily but I'm a... um... I'm a snap planner."

He looks shaken as anyone else but distinctly pleased by this, "Hey, I am... fine. dayum fine. More importantly those people are going to survive somehow. We did... a really awesome thing. All of us. Just... can we worry about you for a bit? You're hurt. Your pride got trampled by robots. You had a day here." Looking Vyv down and then up again the rare pragmatism comes out. "You're fussing. Today's full of a lot of... emotional shit. You almost lost a suit and a cute one at that so you look all Sherlock Holmsey- which I gotta admit I'm partial to. Like a professor chef..Cheffessor?" HE tries that out and decides to keep it. Heels lifting up he presses his forehead to Vyv's and murmurs, "You're feeling shit. It's... okay actually. You and we and I are okay."

Vyv's brows lift at the 'defense' and he's clearly about ready to say something regarding that first sentence of it -- at best, something questioning the need for anyone to ride it -- and despite softening just-perceptibly at the 'thing to do', he'd probably have said it anyway if that last addition didn't have him giving a tiny breath of amusement. "A snap planner," he echoes, "...yyyyes. I suppose that's one way to put it. Quick thinking." He doesn't go so far as to claim he thinks that particular thinking was good, speed aside. But he also isn't claiming it wasn't kind of... weirdly hot.

The focus on him is simultaneously gratifying and a reminder of the damage to his suit and his person and generally speaking his state of mind. It was a day. There is fussing. He doesn't even protest at having it noted, not when the mention of his suit follows on. It is a cute one and he's still not entirely convinced on the 'almost' yet. The sigh is deep, but the appreciation and new word coinage have their effects, not to mention the forehead touch. He closes his eyes again, leaning lightly into it, and his jaw shifts a touch. A couple breaths of silence, and then he murmurs back a bit grudgingly, "More or less, yes." Bruised and scraped are not his standard level of 'okay', but then again, burnt and cut have been in the past.

"I can't help--" he says suddenly, still quiet, and breaks off. "Mn." Another pause. "You did it." It's not a contradiction of the 'all of us', no special emphasis on the 'you'. "What you set out to do. Freed the enslaved and all that. So. Well done." Despite the current moodiness, he seems to mean that, though he definitely also means, "Let's not make a habit of it." There isn't even the ghost of a smile cracked, though the tiny quirk does sneak free with the delayed confirmation: "And yes. You are damn fine."

Grant knows when Vyv would rather label his 'great and awesome euphemisms' something else and less 'fun', but he's not going to give him the chance and Vyv seems not inclined right now to correct it. Sweet. Bax might be missing his calling as a stuntman though at this rate it may just end in never leaving the hospital, or never making it out of Vyv's apartment. Only one of these is an interesting prospect but not at a 50/50 risk of failure. For now he'll take his small win.

Right now is for worrying about how well Vyv made it through so much chaos in tact. It has a strange effect on beings of 'orderliness' and that was all very, hrm, out of balance. Grant stands in absolutely no hurry as he's where he needs to be, forehead to forehead just trying to ground his chef while Vyv works things out.

The awareness of their momentous task brings a hiccup to that. "Heh, yeah it, um, it worked out pretty good. it's not perfect but, ya know, there's a chance. It's all we can ask for I guess." There's a pause and he adds, "And apparently swans with perfect necks. I dunno what that's about but it was on Friendzone. Something about swans and New Years." He has no idea. "I thought they migrate?" there's a pause and ya know, there's no modesty. He is very fucking pleased.

"I think it means we're a good team. Ball of energy and a lens to focus all that into a laser beam of hope and justiiiiiice" Oh god he went there. That ear to ear grin prominent as he wonders, "Think we could commission CL or NE1 to make us a theme song?" Incredulous really. Stillness acquired he pulls the persnickety patisseritur into a hug and holds him still. "Hey. You were a badass. And yooooou, sir, are a damn good leader. Man you and your landlord did a scary good job."

Bax would probably make a great stuntman. It is not a path Vyv is likely to encourage. Even given the potential apartment result, which has its upsides.

"Chocolate swans rarely migrate." A pause. "I catered a New Year's party last year. The hostess was adamant about having flocks of chocolate swans and very concerned that they all have perfect, unbroken necks. Which one would think should go without saying." Which in turn is why people like Clarissa Robbins ought to hire specifically him for these things, really. "Would've rather liked to break the necks of some I met in a Dream myself, though. Obstreperous things."

Another slow breath, and that grounding seems to be doing the trick. He's calmer, the roil of adrenaline and emotions down to a more manageable simmer somewhere in there. 'Laser beam of hope and justice' actually elicits a recognizable little snort of laughter, and if the smile is small and fleeting, it's genuine, too. He settles into that hug, and the continuing of that gradual relaxation can be felt. "Thank you." No demurral as to potential badassness, or his leaderly talent. Just appreciation. "And I don't know. Do they even write their own songs?" Because surely that's the real issue in determining the likelihood of this option.

Vyv gives a tiny sigh, and breaks the forehead touch, though only enough to tilt his head and claim a kiss. It's a fairly gentle, lingering one, or at least, it begins fairly gentle. There's still a lot of adrenaline sloshing about. "We're both still covered in dust," he observes. "Shower?"

Grant is sometimes all over the board. Other times? Now? The's riding the tail end of that adrenaline rush and coasting on the euphoria and the fear making amends. Right now is about making sure Vyv doesn't fall off that roller coaster. And with one laugh from him so much tension is broken. The smile hangs there and he leans up, letting that kiss rest as an affirmation that says you are home again.

Reaching up behind his ear he turns off one hearing aid then the other. His other hand slides to the back of the chef's neck giving it a squeeze. "Shower, then... just nothing and dim sum." Devices in one hand the other slides down Vyv's arm and rests in his giving the hand a jiggle. He lets go to sign the rest, <<"You? Water. I'll place order now. After? You, me, tv, and rest. ">>
Sometimes it's just Bax's turn to take care of Vyv and ya know? He is perfectly okay with this.