Fuck off!

And he sighed internally. Always with the conflict, the friction, the purposeful scratch and grate of contention which seemed to be rife within Purgatory. And if it weren’t for his life being threatened (on almost a daily basis)  He might even say he was — bored with it. Tired of the verbal pushing and shoving. No less the physical and literal which often followed— - Wasn’t it -e n o u g h-  that things were already broken? Why try to dismantle what remained? Turn one thing into another ‘just because’. And people wondered where those walls came from,  those barriers. The slamming shut of any flex or flow or understanding when they were constructs oft enough of their own making.

   However— -                      There’s enough bite to the words that has Gage                      listening intently.                      studying the ruse, the guise,                      it’s calculated but just - f l a w e d                       enough for it to be seen as something of duality                      duplicitous—                     — and he has a choice as to how he rolls with the words.                      Does he make this into something it isn’t?

                               Or — does he pluck the pieces that shimmer through — the obstinacy and attempted intimidation not withstanding - and hope, for once, that this isn’t as one dimensional as it might first appear.

"You and everyb-body else."  

Gage’s words were equally grumbled into the damp air between them.  Though he wasn’t convinced that there was any need for ‘murder’.  There was a power imbalance, and all seemed set for war — seemed to be the only consideration.  No resolution, nothing other than violence… Bloodshed…

Another sigh, this one audible, breath misting in front of his face in the chill air.  No less that the knife was put away.

It would be nice — he thought — to make it home one night without being bloody or bruised.  So, perhaps there was still hope for tonight.

"Ww-w-when I d-do w-what?  Speak?  As a mm-matter of ff-fact - yes.  Quite often.”

The sharper tone was gone from Gage’s voice as the other seemed to deflate - considered his options and probably didn’t like the thought of having a Prince on his tail any more than he liked the thought of not getting his hands on whatever was behind the door.  Less so.

And now that Gage wasn’t studying either the door, or keeping his eyes on the knife, he watched, observed, soaked up the details.  Tried to figure him out — meaning — if there was any.  The slightly sickly pallor to skin - could be attributed to so many things - the beading of moisture on brow, glints of light in the slight haze cast from a streetlight behind the repairman.  Not just settling of mist or drizzle perhaps.

"I t-told you I— I h-have a little mm-money so if you d-do nn-need ff-food or something to d-drink or some ff-for a p-place to stay ff-for the nn-night, then I can h-help you… Or…"

"D-don’t you n-need… Help?"

His eyes darted up when the big guy said something along the lines of "you and everybody else" and for a few moments it confused Leslie. Did this man know something about the angel that Leslie didn't and, if so, then how the fuck...? It clicked after those few moments of worry - a worry that pissed Leslie off because he didn't fucking care - that the other guy might have interpreted the death threat as aimed at himself and not the gray-haired annoyance back home. Leslie wouldn't correct him.

He watched the sigh from the other guy form a small cloud of smoke that did very little to obscure the curious - yet still somewhat disapproving - face watching him. It was only at the visible reminder of the temperature that Leslie felt the chills dancing up and down his spine; though to be perfectly honest those probably weren't due to the chill of the air. He still shoved his hands in his pockets and pulled his shoulders up, adding more to the appearance of a petulant child  than anything.

"It's not so much that you speak as it is what your saying. If you'd just agreed you could have done all the beat-boxing you'd liked and I wouldn't have fucking cared. Not like you're all that difficult to understand, you know, despite the added consonants," he said, blunt but honest. Leslie was used to the slurred speech of people whose brains had turned to pudding a long fucking time ago. Compared to them, this guy was a step up both as far as articulation and content went.

And there it was again, the offer of money...the offer to help. Leslie gave him an incredulous look and whatever small steps this guy had taken in making Leslie believe he might not be that mentally handicapped after all were instantly erased and Giant was back to square one. Leslie had just waved a knife around in front of him and now he wanted to offer him not only money but a place to stay for the night. This guy was fucking worse than the angel, and that was fucking saying something! How the hell either of them had managed to stay alive for longer than a day was a goddamn mystery.

"I'm just gonna spend it on drugs." he wasn't sure why he felt the need to tell the guy...Gage this again - not like the other guy hadn't already figured it out - and as soon as the words were out, he wanted to take them back. The giant was offering money. He was offering money which Leslie desperately needed, even though the thief doubted there would be enough of it. Not that it was the other guy's own fault that he was poor, not unless he'd given it all away to random strangers, which, considering the circumstance they were currently in, seemed entirely plausible.

His eyes drop to his own clothes before looking back up at Leslie. ‘Rose garden’ wasn’t a term he heard applied to himself often, but now that he thinks back on it, maybe Beth was wearing perfume, or something else that would’ve left the scent of flowers on him.

"If I’m gonna talk to a guy, I like to know his name," Kelly explains with a shrug. Leslie is an unusual name, so he’s fairly sure he’d remember it if he’d heard it before.

He’s not sure if his own name will garner any recognition, but since it seems that Leslie already has his mind made up about him, he doubts it could do more harm telling him. If anything, maybe the punk would think twice about coming at him again, if he knew that Kelly carried the power of a Prince with him.

"My name’s Kelly."

The longer that Kelly looks down from above, the harder he finds it to believe that the Arcs would find a lot down here to save. He tries to imagine Leslie in a Purgatory where the Arcs were in charge. Would they try to reform him, claim he was only a sad victim of his circumstances, that they could make him see the error of his was?

Kelly’s not convinced that that’s the case.

He folds his arms in front of his chest and tilts his head a little to the side, giving Leslie a critical look.

"What difference does it make to you how I got where I am? All you want to do is take my money off me."

He steps to the side, not quite pacing in front of Leslie but unable to remain standing still while he talks. His eyes move over the other man, down to the end of the alley, and back, keeping track of the situation around him, around them both.

"You don’t want to work hard, so why should you care that I do?" He continues. "What if I do ‘lick some rich douchebag’s asshole’ all day? It’s honest work, hell of a lot better than jumping people in alleys like a lazy piece of shit. What makes you think you got more right to my money than I do, if the only work you’re willing to do for it is hang around in the dark and stick your hand in my pocket?"

He settles his weight in front of Leslie and holds the other man’s gaze as best he can, ducking his head when Leslie tries to look away. Kelly can stomach honest criticism, but so far he hasn’t heard any. If this guy wants to be angry that Kelly has it better than him, then that’s his business, but the arrogance of the idea that he should be allowed to take from other people rather than trying to change his situation is a lot harder for Kelly to stomach.

"A job is a more permanent solution, though, I gotta tell you. I mean, look at this." 

"You’re not getting anything out of me, so this is just one more fuck-up for you, but if you were at work, you’d know where your money was coming from."

Jobs aren’t always easy to come by, and Kelly knows it. He spent most of his time in Purgatory without a “real” job of his own, playing music on the street and winning at dice games to keep a roof over his head. Even now, some would (and probably do) question the legitimacy of what work he does in Apadiel’s office. And even with a job there’s no guarantee of financial certainty, but he can’t get past Leslie’s arrogance, and the idea that stealing and getting stolen from is somehow a cycle that should be perpetuated, that it’s better than getting out and doing something else with his time.

"Seems I wasn't the only one with dicks for parents. Or is this some postop. sex change going on here? Ms. Kelly not fitting in with her crowd, dreaming of exchanging that banana in her underwear for a real meat rod? How do they do that anyway? Dick donors? Or is it more like stuffing a sausage?"

Leslie grins, looks the guy over and then shrugs. 

"Touché," he replies. If he thinks about it, he doesn't really care about how this Kelly guy earns his money - not beyond the fact that it'd give Leslie a hint about how deep this guy's pockets are and how much money Leslie might have missed out on by not succeeding in emptying said pockets.

The guy begins to pace in front of Leslie and the younger man gets the feeling that he's about to be lectured. On what, he isn't sure, but he's willing to bet that whatever it is it won't hold his attention for very long. Leslie has never been much of a listener and there's absolutely no fucking reason why that would suddenly change now.

"I don't have a right to it. I'm fully aware that I'm stealing, man. But this world is 'eat or get eaten' and if no one else is following the rules then why the fuck should I? I'm not about to sacrifice myself to set an example of being morally good to a bunch of fucking morons that I care nothing about. "

He's quiet for a moment, as if mulling something over.

"And picking your pockets isn't the only thing I'd do for the money. I just figured that would be the easiest option and one that wouldn't leave me with a foul taste in my mouth or blood stains on my clothes."

Kelly stops pacing and turns to look at him again, tries to hold his gaze and Leslie gets the feeling he's attempting to see more than Leslie is willing to share so he averts his gaze. Unfortunately, Kelly doesn't take the hint but rather just angles his head to still be able to peer at Leslie's face. It makes the other man look like an over-grown dog and Leslie shoots him a warning glare.

"If this is your attempt to stare soulfully into my eyes, kindly knock it the fuck off. And is this guidance counselor shtick going anywhere? Because I gotta tell you, investing any sort of hope in my future is probably a crappy idea," Leslie confesses. He has no false illusions about his prospects in this world and it always baffles him that other people who apparently do.

"If you try anything… Anything at all, I will kill you." She threatened, and it wasn’t a dry threat. Strangely enough, she’d just killed someone not too long ago. Not that she’d tell anyone other than Beth. That was revenge for her Angel’s death… but now she was leading the way for a total stranger. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have a roommate? 

"Why do you live on the streets or whatever anyway?" She asked curiously. If he was really in a pretty fucked up living situation, she would consider making him her roommate… There was another bedroom, and another bed…. All he’d have to do was get a job and help pay rent. 

"That's really shitty. Sorry about that," he said, trying carefully not to sound too emotional and sincere but at the same time not too nonchalant either. It was a fucking shithole of a world out there and even though people died left and right it was always a nightmare when it happened to someone you actually knew and cared about. Leslie had experienced it - everyone probably fucking had - but those were memories he didn't think about. Ever.

Quickly skipping to a different mental track he instead directed his attention to her question.

"Are you high?"

"Something along those lines," he replied with an uncoordinated shrug. He was ... not quite happy but somewhat numbed, dulled. "Shower and coffee does sound like the best fucking idea ever, though!"

He waved at her impatiently. She really needed to speed the fuck up. They'd said hello and shit, decided they were going back to her place, so what the fuck was the hold up?

"If you try anything… Anything at all, I will kill you." 

Oh...that. Leslie rolled his eyes.

"Jesus fucking christ, lady, I told you I won't fucking do shit. I just want somewhere to sleep. There'll be no hurting or fingers prying in your lady parts, okay?" 

He waved at her again to get a moveon but when she didn't immediately comply he just turned and started walking in the direction she'd been heading. She'd have to catch up.

Leslie heard her next question from behind but figured he'd just ignore it. She didn't need to know about his living conditions. He was willing to bet all his money - which, albeit, wasn't much but still - that she would not understand if he explained it to her. No one fucking did. Everytime he did tell anyone it was always the same fucking reaction. Disbelief and then a leap straight to the fucking conclusion that he was a) stupid b) ungrateful or c) both. Leslie had never been able to explain the suffocating feeling he got from his home or the angel. They treated him well and he sometimes thought that was the problem. There was just so much rage and pain inside of him and it was too much of a contrast to the feeling of dry rugs under his feet and the smell of home-cooked meals. He didn't belong there. Like a gun in a toy store, it didn't matter how much you tried to dress him up and pretend he was good because sooner or later someone would squeeze the trigger too hard and he'd end up destroying something and then everyone would see what he really was, be reminded of what he'd done.  .... These thoughts were too fucking depressing and what the hell were they doing in his head anyway? This was exactly the kind of shit that he'd tried to keep away tonight. Goddamnit, don't fucking tell him he was sobering up.

To some degree Ray could understand the addictions and the impatience. The desire to be independent. But the greed, the hatred, the petulance was all unnecessary. How could he hate having a home? How could he hate unconditional love? Quaphsiel was hardly the most lively angel around, but he was kind and he cared about humanity -at least in so much as Ray knew him. 

"On the contrary," his voice was drenched with a bitter sarcasm, "my night got infinitely better when you tried to jam you hands down my pants. So I think you can stick around. I know that’s a struggle for you but try to keep up or I may just have to drag you back to where you’re supposed to be. It’s been awhile since I’ve stopped by, we could have a nice chat. Maybe he’ll ask me to keep a regular eye on you. Of course us being old friends and all, I’d do it."

"Or," he said slowly letting the kid realize the full weight of what he was saying, "you can quit bitching and take a walk with me now. Keeping your paws to yourself. You’re not my type and I’d really hate to have to explain to Quaphsiel why you have a black eye and broken nose. He’s nicer than me, obviously has no idea what you do when you’re not home, and might not understand so well why I didn’t want to be felt up by some pervy kid." 

"Well guess what, Wankstain, I never fucking asked for that. I wanted to be done with it all, take a fucking swan dive into the abyss or what the fuck ever. I never asked to be brought back, and certainly not as some goddamn lapdog of an old man who's too much of a recluse to make friends the traditional way. So forgive me for not jumping up and down with excitement. If he wants gratitude and someone to hug and hold him at night, he can open a fucking shelter or something."

Leslie sort of wanted to punch the older man... actually, scratch the 'sort of' he did want to punch him, wipe away that disappointed look on his face. Like he had any fucking right to look disappointed, like Leslie owed anything to him whatsoever. Poutyface giving him the 'you've let me down, son' look was, if possible, even more annoying than when the angel did it. At least Qaphsy had a reason to be disappointed.

The younger man crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the other. He had no doubt that he would make real of that threat if Leslie pushed things too far, but that didn't mean that Leslie had to pretend to be happy with being stuck in his company.

And now Gage’s tone had lost a little of the sympathetic edge, there was nothing conversational about it.  The man in front of him looked neither dirty nor hungry, scared nor homeless.  Things which Gage would class as ‘desperation’ — things which made a soul truly in need.  

But there were different kinds of desperation and he had to wonder what it was… Did he owe someone?  In money or goods?  Or was it more internal — a need or a want for — ‘something’ — whatever it could be.  Drink, drugs, money… Blood… And number of driving addictions that could latch on and sink claws deep.  

Something tried or tasted, maybe in a moment of weakness — or maybe something strived for, to deaden senses against the cold, the screaming, the brutality stumbled upon every single day or…

…Maybe not.

Maybe he was part and parcel of the brutality — the violence — the divide between aggressor and victim.  The hand that was offered wasn’t open and inviting, but pulled into a fist or brandishing a weapon.  No help - only oppression of one to the benefit of another.  And it was this - this… Self-absorption, even in the face of a genuine offer, that made Gage’s skin prickle.  His spine seemingly lancing with a bristling anger that was otherwise uncommon for the softly spoken repairman.

He understood survival.  He sometimes thought he might understand desperation — clear in so many empty gazes, hopeless, hurt and lost…  But not in the face of the man he was looking at now…

Gage’s eyes didn’t miss the glint of the blade in the gloom.

Perhaps he was just simple?  Just some two-bit street thug.  He wasn’t exactly planning ahead, wasn’t thinking about the result of the threat — in which he’d still be left with one locked door, blood on his hands, perhaps a body to skirt around…

…And he had to wonder - would that stain remain for longer than it took the rain to wash the blood away - embedded in conscience and gnawing at the very core of being, more corrosive and corrupting and self-destructive than any reason for the supposed ‘desperation’?

Or was there no conscience — something as cold and sharp and gleaming as the knife?

"You should just… Go h-home… Think about it — this b-building b-belongs to a P-pp-prince.  And whatever you d-decide to d-do?  Couldn’t b-be any w-worse than b-being h-hunted d-down b-by them, or even thrown in the Arena… So…”

"Do you want me to bring out the crazy eyes or something? 'Cause I can do it if that's what it takes to convince you that I am not attempting to break into this building just for shits and giggles."

Jolly Green just stood there, looking at him and Leslie wondered how much of what he was saying was even registering underneath that mop of hair. The tall guy was regarding Leslie with a disapproving expression, like his mother had told him that stealing was bad and now he'd taken that to heart, regardless of the circumstances. And as proud as his mother might have been, Leslie had not been the one to push that giant out of his vagina so he felt none of the pride and all the more of the annoyance towards the guy.

How long would he have to argue before the guy gave in? Leslie could feel the prickling of sweat on the back of his neck, the beginning of tremors in his fingers would soon follow. He should have been inside the building ages ago. Should have been passed out in a corner of a dingy apartment by now, with something - he really didn't care what - surging trough his bloodstream and erasing all thoughts and feelings. Instead he was still stuck here, arguing with someone who, unlike most of the assholes of this place, had a moral compass that even pointed vaguely towards north.

"You should just… Go h-home… "

Go home? In the universe where this guy lived - the one where a cup of hot tea and a pat on the head could cure abstinence - that might have been an excellent idea. Unfortunately, that universe were about as real as a unicorn and Leslie was here in the real world, where he needed something to drink or snort as soon as possible to be able to cope with himself and the world around him for another day.

His resolve wavered a little when he heard the building was owned by a Prince. Leslie generally tried to avoid clashing with them, tried to avoid having anything to do with them really. The Princes wouldn't only get Leslie killed but probably the stupid angel back home too. That old man wouldn't know the first thing about defending himself.

Leslie glanced back at the door, pictured a different door being kicked open, a reading or knitting-session being interrupted and blood staining old but soft carpets. Fingers tugged a little at the edge of the navy blue home-made scarf around his neck.

Another sound of frustration left Leslie's throat and he lowered the knife, jerkily thrust it back in its sheath and almost cut himself in the process.  

"Should just fucking murder him myself and I wouldn't have to worry," he muttered quietly, not meaning the words. Not really, although he'd definitely burn a few fucking books when he got home as a statement of disapproval.

Adressing the giant again, he crossed his arms over his chest, clenching his hands to fists in his armpits to keep them from trembling.

"Has anyone told you you're really fucking annoying when you do that?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. He kicked a small pebble and sent it flying against the door.

The evening had, gone better than even Sariel had expected. The time away from the warehouse had been necessary and even if she felt that the place was her personal sanctuary, it felt good to stretch her legs, and explore the city.  That and she had things to do. During her evening away, Sariel had met with her contacts, most of which were either humans or angels, like herself, in hiding. They traded everything from the needles she needed for tattooing to the gossip and rumors she needed to stay one step ahead of everyone else. And on this particular errand run, her contracts had not left the angel disappointed. She learned little things such as a tidbit about a pet of a prince who had a very…unique gift. According to the rumors, he could shift faces and forms as easily as someone else could change moods. She also learned that there was someone new to the city, someone that was…powerful. A decision maker the contacts said. Although for what side…no one seemed to know. Still, the information was useful to Sariel, and allowed her to keep up on what was going on outside of the worn brick walls of her warehouse. 

Of course it was not just information that Sariel had picked up during her hours in the backstreets and dark alleys of the city. She had scored things that were more…tangible as well. As she moved in quick confident steps back towards her workspace, a bag hung from her right shoulder and rhythmically hit against her right thigh with each step, the heavy bulge within the bag comforting. The leather satchel was full to the brim with things that she had bartered and payed for; gauze and medical tape, gloves and needles for her tattoo gun, a fresh sketchbook and a new pair of jeans. She even had a half of a pound of the coffee that Gage had allowed her to sample during her visit to his bus. Although her wallet was now much lighter than it had been when she set out a few hours earlier, Sariel felt almost satisfied with herself, and with her life. She had enough money and promises to make a living for herself, to get what she needed and even a little extra, since the jobs had been steady. Not only that, but she also had a job she enjoyed and a warehouse to call her own. 

When she approached said warehouse, Sariel felt a shudder run through her spine as her dark eyes fell across the threshold. ‘Something is off.’ Slowing her pace, Sariel gingerly approached the door and frowned deeply as she realized the lock had been picked and the entry way was left slightly ajar. “Fuck.” She muttered to herself as she adjusted the bag on her shoulder and silently pushed the door open, stepping into the darkened warehouse. She took a moment to simply listen and…feel. Her keen heaven blessed senses told her that someone was in the building but they weren’t a prince…or even a fallen. No, Sariel knew just by the feel of their energy that they weren’t of her blood. No, this was a human that had picked the lock. A human was somewhere in her warehouse. A human that she did not know. A muscle in her cheek twitched as she held her jaw tight and felt around in the darkness for the crow bar that she kept hidden not far from the door. Finding the cool, thick piece of metal, Sariel took another moment to allow the energy to guide her…

After a moment however, she realized a simpler sense was necessary. She could hear the sound of buzzing, a familiar bone rattling sound that made her blood run cold. Catherine. The tattoo machine. “Oh no.” With the crow bar in hand Sariel moved quickly on quiet feet towards the tattoo parlor of the warehouse, the section that sat behind blood red fabric screens, the only part of the space that was illumined both by electric light and the pulse of energy. The only part of the space that was filled with the sound of her most prized possession and— -she was not the one yielding it.

As she approached the workspace Sariel cursed herself for leaving the gold filigreed machine out in the open, hell she had even left out full plastic cups of black ink, and a fresh needle in the gun. Was she really that stupid? Why had she not put the machine away before she left? And more importantly, who the fuck was using it now?

Stepping around the corner into the small space filled with a desk, rolling stool and repurposed leather dentists chair, Sariel swung out the crow bar ahead of her, dark eyes blazing, “Hey, what the fuck do you think you are doing?” she strode into the space and swung the crow bar once more (for effect) before speaking again, “Put down the tattoo machine or I’ll bash your fucking head in,” she snarled, “I might do it anyways, so consider yourself warned asshole.”

He found out just why when he finally got the shit piece of lock open and could get inside. 

It was a fucking studio of some sort, a whole lot cleaner and more put together on the inside than on the outside. Leslie just looked around befor he let out a loud and surprised laugh. Fucking jackpot! He did a little twirl that he'd deny until his dying breath and made a quick scouting of the place. So many things. There had to be something valuable for him here. This was his lucky night, indeed. 

Leslie went about the big room, pocketing anything that he thought could be sold or traded. The pockets of his pants and jacket were bulging by the time he finally stood in front of the chair and the...was that a fucking tattoo machine? Again with the imagined rays of light and who the Hell was Leslie to deny all these signs from the big man upstairs?

Leslie was a kid and the tattoo machine was his proverbial coookiejar, filled to the brim with the most delicious freshly baked peanutbutter cookies that Qaffie sometimes made. Leslie was also a huge fan of instant gratification so there was noway in Hell that he'd been able to prevent himself from touching even if he'd wanted to.

~~~~~~~~

Some time later found Leslie in the chair, operating the machine clumsily and cursing loudly every now and then as the needle dug into the flesh of his fingers. For being his first tattoo, he was pretty damn pleased with the result. He'd drawn the letters on with a pen first, he was pretty sure that was how it was supposed to be done and even if it weren't, fuck the rules! It had worked good so far.

One letter on each finger, spelling out the words "FUCK U-UP" in bold letters. Leslie looked down at his handywork with a smug expression.

He was just putting the finishing touches to it all - adding little serifs to the letters, because that looked fucking cool, didn't it? 'Course it did! - when suddenly there was an angry lady wielding a crowbar way too fucking close for comfort. Leslie jumped up from the chair and held the machine out like a weapon in front of himself.

"You put the fucking crowbar down, you crazy person or I'll..." he glanced down at his weapon of choice, "...tattoo a penis on your chest or just whack you with it. But just take that thing away. I'm not looking for trouble...contrary to popular fucking belief." 

"Yes, thank you, I am aware it looks bad. Why do you think I'm here and not at home, bent over my sink trying to patch myself up?" Leslie snarked before biting his lip as it seemed the dollish-looking girl had about the same pleasant bedside manner as a pregnant cobra and would refuse to treat him unless he gave her the respect she felt she deserved. Clearly she'd never met him before or she'd know that this was him being tolerable. 

Had the injury been a less serious one, he would have told her to stick her politeness where the sun don't shine but he suspected that if he left now he would have to be carried back here sooner rather than later. That was something he'd prefer to avoid so he bit his tongue and refrained from directing his curses at her when she sprayed something on his wound. Instead the string of cursing was directed at no one in particular, although God - if he existed - might have had a thing or two to say about the context in which his name was used.

"I changed my mind. I want the big blonde guy instead. Christ! Are you this gentle with all your patients or just the ones you are actively trying to kill?" he complained, wincing. The effects of his little getting-through-the -day cocktail was beginning to wear off and Leslie was not a fan of the rediscovery of the full capacity of his senses. 

Continuing on, she hoped the guy would have got the idea and left her alone, but suddenly he was in front of her. Blocking her path. Her first thought was that this guy had to be gifted, possibly illegally due to the way he looked. She started to snap on him when he started almost ‘breaking down’ in front of her. He plead his case, and her hardened expression softened as she listened to him. She’d never officially slept on the streets, no, but she had been beaten nearly to death and left there to die. Maybe she could spare the guy… Maybe. 

Looking him over, forreal this time, she noticed that he was a similar body shape to Angel. She actually still had a lot of his things in her apartment. “I’m a great person, actually. I just don’t take well to people who’re rude to me first.” She looked him over once more and sighed, “Fine.. fine! You can sleep on my couch on one condition.” She sighed, not believing that she was actually going through with this. 

"You have to take a shower first…. and get rid of those clothes. I-I have a few spare, well actually a closet full of guys clothes that I’m sure you can fit… Shower and change into one of those and… you can sleep on my couch for… until I say so… Nobody should be living on the street." She shook her head before moving around him, "Just… stay close and don’t do anything crazy.

The world tilted and Leslie realized just in time that no, he was the one doing a remarkable impression of that old tower in Piza so he took a step to the side to regain his balance and straightened up. 

When he looked over at the blonde girl again her expression had changed and she was watching him with a different look in her eyes, one that told Leslie she was actually considering letting him tag along with her. Hells to the fucking yes! No cold and dingy apartment for him tonight.

"You can sleep on my couch on one condition."

The smile that had begun to spread across Leslie's face dimmed a little. Was this when she turned out to be a total freak and would demand strange favors from him in return for his spot to sleep in? Ugh, god he hoped not. He'd probably do it, whatever it was but if he could pick he just wanted to drift off to sleep.

"A shower? That's your condition? That I take a fucking shower and change clothes? ...Yeah, I think I can manage that. The hell do you have a closet full of dude clothes for anyway? You do a bit of cross-dressing on the weekends? Wait, you're not actually hiding a dong under there, are you? Because that tucking and folding shit must be so fucking uncomfortable"

He tilted his head a little and stared between her legs, looking for the outline of a cock or some poor suffocating balls. Leslie looked back up at her face again when there were no immediate evidence that she was, in fact, a he in drag.

All the arc could manage was a scoff. Leslie was petulant and more angry child than he was a man or even a human being. He could think of very few others who were more ill-mannered and that was only from a number of interactions with the boy that numbered less than the fingers on one hand. His annoyance was obvious and the more Leslie spoke the more his impatience grew. 

Remiel felt an urge to smack him. Upside the head or across the face. Either one would work really. But he had a feeling no matter how many times Leslie was told better or reprimanded or smacked upside his head, he wouldn’t get ‘it’. The famous line about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks came to mind. Of course it seemed the man knew a number of tricks, none of them honest or amiable and he didn’t seem inclined to any sort of niceties. Even after handing over his last three dollars the arc couldn’t even be given a thank you. 

He was half tempted to snatch it back. If it wasn’t going to be used for food and it couldn’t further his habits than what use did he have for it? Remiel knew exactly how far three dollars could go. Especially to those who were truly desperate. Not just bored like the male in front of him. 

His voice came out low and bordered on menacing. There was no room for doubt. “That’s really comforting to know. Seeing as your schedule is now clear and you’ve got nothing to waste my money you can walk with me. Keeping your grubby little paws out of my pockets. If I wanted to be felt up I’d find someone wholly more agreeable than you.” 

Leslie leveled the priest with a glare and, for a fraction of a second, he let the sarcastic and petulantly childish facade slip, exposing the raw turmoil of pain and fear and anger underneath. He reeled it back in before it got a chance to really take hold, shoved it behind iron clad doors in his mind. Then a satisfied smile spread across his lips as he sensed the poorly disguised annoyance in the other man. Do it!  he thought. Break, shout or hit, fall off that high horse and feel what it's like when those feelings and urges take hold.

He ran his finger slowly along the edge of the pocket where he'd just put the money. So yes, he might be taunting the other man, fucking sue him.

Being told to go with the priest for a walk had Leslie raise his eyebrows, very sceptical of the whole idea of going for a stroll with this man.

Kelly shakes his head and runs a hand over his face. It figures that he’d run into a junkie in an alley. Now that he steps back to look, the guy does look rough. His clothes have been better days, and his eyes can’t seem to settle, darting over Kelly’s body, the alley. He doesn’t seem dangerous so much as mouthy.

Kelly gestures towards the guy, stepping back away from him, closer to the end of the alley that will get him home. He’s not nervous, but he’s not interested in hanging around talking to him. His good mood is more or less shot, but he’s also not that far from home.

"Does that clumsy first-date pawing actually win you anything, or was tonight your premiere as a petty criminal?"

He’s almost amused at the guy’s attitude. Kelly’s a head taller than him, clearly stronger, but it’s like he can’t stop himself from talking back. It’s a good way to get his teeth knocked in if he does it to the wrong person.

"Silver spoon, huh?" He huffs a breath out through his nose. "Because I showered today? Really?"

Kelly tugs at the front of his hoodie. It’s old, but clean and in better shape than what this guy’s wearing, though the patches on his clothes are neat and well-done. Someone’s trying to take care of him, even if he’s not doing it himself.

He doesn’t like the idea of using his status as a way to get the guy to back off. It might work, but it might backfire, depending on how badly he needs the money and how he thinks his chances are. And he doesn’t want to have to. He’s more than his address and his gifts.

"Yeah, a job. You know jobs? Washing dishes, sweeping floors, that kind of thing. Makes you money with a much lower chance of getting into a fistfight over it."

He could just leave. It’s not like there’d be much of a fight in this guy tried to follow him, but he stays, blames it on what’s left of his good night, bolstering what little patience he usually has.

He snorted out a laugh when the guy mde a counter-comment to Leslie's dig about the silver spoon.

"You didn't just shower, man. Showering is rinsing the sweat and the dirt of, hopefully get rid of the smell too, but you..." Leslie drew in a pointed breath even though the man had taken a step back from him and was too far away to be smelled, "You smell like a fucking rose garden. Clean humans don't smell like fucking potpurri, rich people do. So did you crawl the stairs to infamy and wealth all by yourself or did you hitch a ride by becoming someone's boytoy?"

The thief eyed the other man up and down. He looked too big, bulky and grumpy to be anyone's whore or delicate little pleasure slave. Of course you could probably find someone who was into what this guy was packing too. Each to their fucking own and all that.

He could be a Fallen too, carried himself with enough confidence to fool people into believing he was, anyway. 

Not that Leslie was really all that interested in being able to slap a label on the guy. Really, he had about zero interest in who the guy was. What Leslie wanted to know was what the guy could get him.

"I know what a fucking job is. And yeah, lower risks but also lower pay and I for one don't wanna spend my days licking some rich douchebag's asshole for next to nothing. Then I'll rather take a couple of beatings, thanks very fucking much."

He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. He should go, this is clearly leading  nowhere and there are plenty of other pockets that could be picked instead of wasting his time here.