Quicklog - Pete Liam Yard Beer Telecaster

[evilbeej]

It's disgustingly late, and the roads surrounding the university are sloshy and the ground in the area of the university is squishy. The moon's reflecting on the puddles in the street still left from the receded floodwater, and due to the significant lack of wind there're very few ripples. Just big googly moon-eyes peering out from every little pool, every little crack that's still got water in. There's a light on in the front room at the Pryde and Wisdom household - no lights upstairs, no lights from the side of the house left of the front door (read, 'the Remy room'), light on in the kitchen and the living room. The light in the front goes out, the kitchen stays on. And then the back door - the one from the kitchen - sounds like it's deciding to open.

Liam flies over the house every night. He doesn't stop, doesn't bother anyone inside, but he is there -- every time, when he's done his rounds. A pass over, to make sure everything looks alright. Tonight he was considering stopping; there's a light, and the angel's dark wings tilt, sending him into a banking descent. When the light goes out, he's just touching down in the yard -- single-footed, as is his habit -- and it would be just as easy to take off again, but the sound of the door stops him. Wings half-fold, close and cautious. Liam looks tired, waxen and a little feverish, but he's been worse. Waiting a moment to see who comes out.

It's a Pete, apparently. A Pete with a beer and a cigarette and an electric guitar with no cord or amp, who's dressed like a complete schlep and is heading for the stack of 'borrowed' crates in the poor little excuse for a backyard.

It calls for caution, really, because the last thing Liam wants to do is /startle/ the aforementioned Pete. If for no other reason than his own personal safety. It's a moment's inner deliberation before the angel lets himself glow a little -- softly, illuminating the darkness, but more importantly, casting that reassuring sense of peace and love and /I am not a threat/. Maybe that'll ease it.

Caution is good -- Pete might spill his beer. It's been quite a while since he's reflexively pointed either gun or hotknives at anything that startled him, and it's been a /little/ while since he was jumpy. Bullshit-overload will do that to you. When you're suspicious your own shadow, innocently lying on the ground, will jump up and tear your head off and eat it - when you're suspicious your friends and neighbors, nay, even the very streets of the city itself, might be the acid flashbacks of a reality manipulator - well. It gets to a certain point and then it's like saying 'butterfly' about fifteen times running: doesn't mean diddly. Real? Pf. Not-real? Eh who cares. Real is the damn weather, the damn weather making huge messes and needing dealing with. Real is Kitty asleep in bed upstairs, completely zonked after several days of nonstop motion and thought. Real is beer. Real is guitar and cigarette and empty surrounding frathouses. Real is that glowing guy on the lawn with the wings and the akin-to-hydroponic-marijuana high he sort of gives off. "Liam!" Pete's speaking softly, but the sound carries in the still night. Beer-holding handwave.

Announcement-of-presence duly taken care of, Liam can let the light die again, leaving drifts and hints of peace in memory of where it touched. A few sparks remain in his eyes, sapphire illumination. "Give you good evenin'," he murmurs, just as soft. "An' sorry I've not had a chance to check by yet. You an' Kitty alright?"

And Pete's eyes, on the other hand, only show a hint of blue in the dim light through the kitchen's screen door. "'Lo. Eh we're all right, just bloody tired. Pryde's been asleep since somewhere around six, Remy's been out a few days, cat and dragon are /both/ curled up on Kitty and it's obscenely charming, wish she hadn't hidden the blackmail-camera. I need new shoes. You?" Voice still low and likely to remain that way - Pete has not, in fact, taken a seat yet. "And d'you fancy a pint?"

"Need new shoes as well," acknowledges Liam, dryly -- it's good that some of him is dry, the legs of his jeans and the hem of his coat are soaked. Belatedly, he remembers to put his other foot down, balancing carefully. "An' I'd bloody love one, ta. Kitty just tired?" A moment's concern, and the lights in his gaze brighten.

"Tired, cranky, and mumbling arcane phrases in broken English," returns Pete cheerfully enough, setting his own pint bottle down on a crate. He moves another crate over toward the one closest Liam, stationing the bottom of the guitar on the crate and holding its neck out toward the angel. "Hold this, will you? Ground's wet. 'S second." In the kitchen door, rustling around, fridge door opening, closing, bottle-opening sound, and then out again, cigarette getting taken from mouth on the way. "'At's fucking good, too. Double chocolate stout. Not Guinness."

"Sorry? Y'lost me with 'not Guinness'." Liam holds the guitar with due care, even with a little extra care. The crate is handy, because he can limp a step to the side and sit himself down. He leaves the wings outside the coat; they spread for balance as he moves, then settle to the sides, draping. He'll forget in a minute, and there'll be feathers brushing in mud. Guitar is exchanged for bottle. "Though I'll admit it's a bloody good brew." It's his cue to take an appreciative sip. "Think the worst of the water's clearin' up, anyway."

Regaining guitar, Pete sits on a crate himself, settling the instrument in his lap, the strap over his shoulder. Looks like he's gonna finish his cigarette first, though. And have a bit of the stout, to boot. With Liam's beer-trial, Wisdom raises his own bottle in salute and has enough of a mouthful to savor -- this is /savoring/ stout, see. That good. Then some smoke. "Good. I feel like I ought to be growing. There's these shite-smelling little things, see, what you get in vending machines in bubble-things with lids, and you stick 'em in water and they turn into, I dunno, dinosaurs. 'At kind of wossname. Feel like one of those."

Little things in bubble-things that turn into dinosaurs. Liam has absolutely no idea what Pete's talking about. It doesn't stop the angel from nodding sagely, because nodding seems an easier option than asking. He leans back a little, shoulders dropping as he relaxes on the crate. And there go the wings into the mud. He doesn't currently care, though Lorne may have a fit. "Ah, well." Pause. "The lad been by? He were goin' to pass some thoughts on to Kitty."

"Which? Yours? Yeah, 's why she were muttering arcane nothings into her pillow last I saw her," answers Pete, finishing off the cigarette and putting it out with a sizzle in the mud. And then his feet make an immensely satisfyingly squelchy sound, er, also in the mud. Another sip of stout, and the bottle's put down again, even as Pete's adjusting the guitar and glancing briefly down at it, making sure his hands are in the right places. Very quiet muted-anyway no-acoustics chord, wrinkle of nose. "Guess who else stopped by, right out of the clear blue sky," he offers, starting to tune the Telecaster.

Liam quite likes music, though he's been trying to cease his occasional habit of humming to himself. With a psychic demon so often in range, it's not such a great idea. The prospect of drinking stout and listening to Pete appeals. The angel closes his eyes for a moment, taking another drink. "With the sky option," he responds, "m'goin' to have to guess Kess."

"Aha, haha. No, actually," laughs Pete quietly, mucking about with high E for a minute. Up! No, down! No wait up. A liiiiittle more. Little bit - d'oh, down again. "No - Kess stops by fairly regular-like. This's a new one. It was - wait for it - fuckin' Superman. A new one. A new one what wears bright colors an' talks like he's straight out've, hell if I know, 1959 Toronto. Apparently not evil at all, the Host" (after all, that's what he likes to be called!) "sent him our way. It was mad." There it is! D A G G / C C C C D. Opening chords to the Kinks' 'This Is Where I Belong'.

... and it would probably help if Liam had any earthly idea who Superman was. Maybe the name's a little familiar, from the papers. The angel is woefully under-informed, and Lorne hasn't mentioned any friend with such a distinctive handle. He looks, nevertheless, amused, because Pete's laughter pleases him. So does the music, and he settles back to listen, rather than ask any pesky questions. Fairly certain that anything of vital importance would be, well, mentioned anyway. He plans to sip his beer. He might even sing.

Well, Kitty can probably help Liam out a little better than Pete can. After all, in the world she came from, Superman was a comic book character. Pete just knows the previous version, who was a real jerk and a half. But it's true - if there were anything pressing, it'd've got mentioned. The only pressing things at the moment, though, one would have to live far away from the city not to know about. So Pete just goes through the chord progression for a moment, then pauses and looks rather self-disgusted. He has some more beer and glances up again sheepishly. "Wrong set. Frank Black cover." Puts the bottle down, starts quietly strumming again: G D G C F C // C Em Am A / D C G //. "There's no place that I would rather be," he sings even more quietly. "The whole wide world doesn't mean so much to me, for this is where I belong, woah-oh this is where I belong." Next verse through is obviously improv. "That don't mean Beacon Harbor's why I stay, it's too fucking mad to like it anyway, but this is where I belong, woah-oh this is where I belong."

Sipping beer? Check. Singing? Well, maybe not when Pete is improvising lyrics. Liam's knowledge of music is spotty at best, though he's been improving on that. It started with a demon making him about 30 mix tapes. Recognizing the song, but not well enough to do spot creativity. The angel chuckles instead, low in the back of his throat, and he looks wry, tilting his head back to look up at the stars and the terribly clear sky. Moonlight falls on the pallor of his skin, turning him faintly ethereal. Fortunately, there's a bottle of stout to keep him anchored.

Reality - yes. Stout is too thick to be a phantom, to be anything remotely related to ethereal. "I ain't gonna wonder, like a boy I used to know, he's a real unlucky fellow 'cos he's got no place to go," sings Pete, almost under his breath, back to the original lyrics of the song. "I won't search for the house upon the hill, why should I when I'd only miss her still? This is where I belong, woah-oh this is where I belong." Once more through the progression for the outro, and then Pete leans forward to pick up the beer again, drink a good lot of it this time. "Any requests?" he grins lopsidedly.

"Right fond of Pachelbel an' Beethoven," murmurs Liam, "but I doubt you can manage that on guitar." He pauses, briefly, while he thinks. Pauses are otherwise known as interludes for the consumption of beer. "Could quite get to like this stout," he observes. Been a while since he's had it. Then, "I don't know, really. Everythin' new seems electric. Everythin' old... I forget, or it's depressin'."

"Haven't the goth-nails for classic guitar, no," agrees Pete, then thinks for a minute, also drinking beer. Yes. Yes, pauses are good that way. Then he brightens somewhat and starts playing something that's even more quiet, if it's possible. "When midnight comes, good people homeward tread. Seek now your blanket and your feather bed. Home is the rover, his journeys over, yield up the nighttime to old john o' dreams - yield up the nighttime to old john o' dreams."