Not a Hooker

Participants:

jay_icon.gif stephane_icon.gif

Scene Title Not A Hooker
Synopsis Jay is not a Hooker, Stephane doesn't need a whore but he has what Jay needs…
Date September 10, 2009

Morningside Heights

Morningside Heights was and is still known for its high density of educational institutions. Most of the neighborhood is owned by Columbia University; the rest is shared with Barnard College, the Manhattan School of Music, the Teachers College, Columbia Greenhouse nursery school, and a variety of religious seminaries.

In addition to places like the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and Morningside Park, the neighborhood boasts a variety of restaurants and clubs, excellent bookstores, and Mondel Chocolates, selling handmade chocolate candies even today.

Before the bomb, Morningside Heights was dominated by students. That is still the case today, but their majority is now far smaller — with Morningside being one of the neighborhoods least affected by the explosion, it has become a very popular place to live. Housing is extremely expensive, but people are willing to pay through the nose for a place they know is safe and sound — at least in structural terms. Population density is high; like everywhere else in the city, so is crime, although Morningside's biggest problems are theft and embezzlement. Along with the consequences of college parties and/or pranks.


It's just after midnight in Morningside Heights. Down the block a ways and over one street there's a commotion of blue and red lights and the occasional freshly arriving cop car. There's a small frat community for Columbia U down thataway, see, and they just had their yearly kegger in celebration of incoming pledges to abuse interrupted by their yearly police visit. Of course Jay ran - he's not about to get tagged at this point. Unfortunately, he was one of the pledges - which means that he's shirtless, with a smeared red letter A plastered across his torso. He's also soaked to the skin thanks to a dip in a passing dog kennel's kiddie pool, plus scratched, bumped, and bruised from the various torments he's inflicted on himself tonight. The worst, though, is the mind - he's still trying to scrub away the memories of his encounter with Diogenes and Isis in an apartment they were robbing. Those two weren't so bad. The owner of the apartment? Well. Terrifying, to Jay's inexperienced mind.

So. All of that given, he is currently loping down the street away from the frat house at a decent rate of speed, attempting not to leave tracks and definitely, oh so definitely keeping an eye out for cops. Which means he's not really keeping an eye out for anything else. Need a shirt, need a shirt, the cops are gonna be looking for a guy without a shirt… shit. That particular wish gets tossed onto the ether without even thinking of it - he's done so much wishing tonight that it's almost habitual now. He's going to regret it, but… can't take it back.

This is a dreadful hour to be leaving a University, but there was gallery business to discuss with some person who was still there and the discussions ran late because Stephane had to organize their collection of Argetinian art for them, for their own good and his own sanity's sake. He cuts a distinctive and perhaps dignified figure in comparisons to…others who had rough nights.

He walks along, polished shoes silent and there's a cat like elegance and hint of practiced paranoia in his movements echoed by the occasional faint tap of his black walking stick against the ground. Black overcoat like blazer, white button down, black slacks…everything that can be expected of the gentleman as he walks along, heading down the street, lalalala, oblivious yet aware.

Oblivious is a bad thing to be with Jay around - things tend to happen fast. Like… into an alley, through a narrow street, glance thrown back towards the frat house and completely missing, despite the noise, the oncoming pedestrian, so… smack. Right into Stephane goes Jay, in the process of turning the corner, complete with a startled yell and, unless somehow prevented, a wild flail of limbs that sends him falling back. Stephane might find his shirt now tainted with red paint, unfortunately. Fortunately, the stuff washes out - they're not allowed to brand the pledges permanently yet, alas. "Fuck!" says Jay an instant later, once the initial terror has passed, and, rapidly, before the guy can start trouble, "Sorry, sorry, excuse me!" An apology always helps, sometimes keeps people from calling the cops.

The SMACK knocks Stephane to the side and now he'd be on his back on the ground getting dirty all over his nice coat but - there's a young man on/over him and now paint on his shirt and the man with the cool blue-green eyes just stares at Jay as he gropes for his walking stick where it has rolled away a bit and carefully begins getting to his feet. "Do tell me you're not a young male prostitute, if so your propositions require work…young man. Bluntness can be admirable but in this particular case it lacks any type of sexual mesmerism." There's a purring undertone to his European…closer to British than anything else…accent.

He uses the stick to work his way to his feet and looks down at his appearance before looking to Jay and tilting his head back to study the young man as holds up a hand which is clad in a black leather glove and holds up a finger, gesturing for the young man to turn in a slow circle. "Turn please."

That statement results in actual shock on Jay's part; he stands rather still, jaw dropped, just staring at Stephane. The other man can get up with no help from him; the pledge is just gonna stay there for a minute… at least until the gesture comes along. Give Jay a second or so to process this - and then he clamps his mouth shut and turns around in a quick little circle, taking the opportunity to look the street over for cop cars down towards the direction he came from. So far so good. Back to facing Stephane he comes, and with a blink and a sharp twitch to shake off the sheer weirdness of the moment, he asks, "Do you know where I can find a shirt?" Might as well ask. His gift's kept him safe this far. Sort of. Not counting that bit with the doberman. For now, he'll go along with this presumption, or whatever it is - if it leads to getting off the street and away from potential Registration, he's all for it. Mostly. At least until something goes wrong.

Stephane's eyes study Jay from head to toe and back up, taking in all the scratches and the paint and the disheveled state and…half nakedness. His top lip curls in a quiet disdain before settling back in his usual smirk of neutrality. That quirk of an eyebrow might be amusement, it is hard to tell as he just stares intently.

When he finally speaks it is in clipped tones. "Come with me." He reaches into an inner coat pocket for a package of wet-naps which he holds in Jay's direction. "And clean yourself up, I shall find you a shirt but for now you are making yourself a target. And you're filthy." Then the turns on his heel smoothly when and if the package is taken and proceeds to head off. "Keep up."

…Well, that was easier than expected. Perhaps wisely, perhaps suicidally, Jake keeps his questions and protests to himself, reserved for /after/ getting the shirt, and starts wiping off that awful red paint, which has already begun to stain his soaked jeans. "Sorry," he says again, but it's more of a mumble this time. He's in trouble, isn't he - somehow. Karma. This has to be karma of some sort. The wetnaps get applied liberally as he squelches quickly on after the bizarre guy with the cane. Out of the frying pan, into the fire? Or just another day? He has yet to decide.

"Your apologies will not get the stains out of my own shirt. Only Mrs Juniper at the dry cleaners will be capable of that." As he walks, Stephane does attempt to dust himself off as much as possible. He leads the way down the street and towards where his own car is park, some black new Rolls Royce model of some sort and he slows down gradually, keys drawn from his pocket. "Don't dawdle."

Despite the admonition, Jake slows, eyeing that car. "Look, dude, I'm not a hooker." Better to make that plain before he gets into the car. "And I've seen enough dick for the night already so I'm not gonna do anything special, all right?" This is exactly what parents everywhere warn their kids about, after all. He'd be malformed in some fashion if he didn't find the idea of getting into a stranger's car a very, very bad idea. That said, it won't stop him - he's still moving, albeit slower - so long as nothing obvious goes horribly wrong.

Stephane whips around rather quickly, almost too quickly bringing that walking stick up to press the tip against the center of Jake's chest unless he moves and he narrows his eyes. "I don't honestly give a damn or any other appropriate explicative how much male genitalia you've had the pleasure or horror of viewing this night. I also have no need for the services of a whore, so even if you were I would request nothing because to be juvenile and very American MTVish at the moment, I'd have to sadly inform you that you are not my type." He raises an eyebrow. "Do you have anything else you'd wish to tell me before I assist you in procuring a shirt and perhaps the basic medical care needed for any injuries you may have?"

Watch Jake turn just a hint red in the face and flinch from the cane. "No, I'm good." The irony of that statement passes obliviously over his own head, too. Meek as a half-drowned kitten, he sidles to one side and leeeeeans away from the cane to get into the car, making an awkward attempt not to soil the seats with his soaked jeans. The whole thing has an air of sheepish misery to it, really.

"Splendid." Walking stick is lowered as he steps to the side and watches the younger man enter the car and he gives the item a quick twirl before tucking it under his arm. Stephane makes his way around the car to the trunk, opening it, rifling around through a suitcase with care and extracting a pair of pressed khakis and a polo like t-shirt in a dark blue shade. A trash bag and bottle of lysol is also piled on top of his collection.

It takes him a moment but he retrieves a small black leather case as well, coming around to the drivers side of the car, slipping in and twisting around to hand the clothing to Jake. "Put them on, place the soiled items in here." He offers the trash bag. "And do tell me more about this practice of young men running around in the dark of night half naked with skewed and badly painted tribal symbols on their bodies? Is it a cult of some sort?"

"Fraternity, actually," Jake mumbles, and eyes the clothing. …This involves getting undressed, huh? No, he doesn't look enthusiastic. Still, the shirt's picked up and slithered into. "It's initiation night. Stuff went bad." Probably best if he doesn't say any more than that, but surely the other guy can guess from the cop cars everywhere over yonder. After a moment of holding back and staring at the khakis, he reluctantly starts slithering out of his jeans. At least he wore underwear today, right? It'll be fine, not like anyone's looking at this hour. Except the guy who offered the pants, which would be why Jake's turning progressively redder, whether Stephane's actually looking or not.

"When you are done removing the soiled articles of clothing, please be liberal with this can of disinfectant and spray it into the bag, onto the clothing, and then close the bag and place it on the car floor." Stephane instructs, averting his eyes. He does occasionally glance in his direction then quickly looks away. "Fraternity." He repeats. "Initiation hm. I assume from your physical state and the presence of law enforcement you and perhaps several others failed?"

He waves a gloved hand vaguely, unzipping his medical case and sorting through things before clearing his throat. "Forgive me, our sudden meeting and the consequent and I'm sure accidental collision rattled my nerves enough to forget to introduce myself. He sorts through his various pill bottles and little vials…and bandages. "You may call me Mr. Halford." A pause and then a sigh as he glance over then away once more. "Oh bloody he-if you turn any redder I fear you will explode in a splatter of blood, guts and spiked punch, do relax. Your delicate and precious virtue is not in any danger, you're a mess."

No denial of the first set of comments - if that wasn't failure, Jake doesn't know what was - but the latter pack gets a startled, "Pft!" and a brief bout of constrained, choked coughing. Then Jake heaves upwards, back arched, and yanks the pants on, pausing there to zip and button. He had to remove his shoes to get this far; in a moment, the redfaced teen reaches down and grabs his jeans, followed by his socks, and dumps both in the bag. FSSSSS goes the lysol, followed by a ragged laugh. "Buddy, if you knew the night I've had, you would be laughing your ass off. Name's Jake, and my virtue is neither delicate nor precious. Might as well stick a damn for sale sign on it, at this rate. Thought that damn dog was gonna bite it right off." Yes, that's said with rueful amusement, though the blush is still quite paramount. He leans forward to get his shoes back on, sockless now. "It's okay, I'm not bleeding. He didn't get me. The dog, I mean. And I didn't get shot, and all told the worst I've gotten is a really, really good look at a blind gay guy's freshly used …" Not polite. He clams up and flashes a smirk upwards. "Sorry. Thanks for the clothing." Need to be more polite to his benefactor.

"I highly suggest you set the contents of that bag on fire at your earliest convenience." Stephane drawls before bowing his head some and zipping back up his medical kit. "And I highly doubt that, even though I'm sure your evening was interesting at least." Then he listens carefully to what else is said, blinking but just listening.

"You are welcome Jake." This is the safest response, really. He mentally digests and processes what else has been said before starting up the car. "If you utter the word 'sorry' again, I will light both you and your bag of filthy clothing alight and submit a petition to have you replace whatever keeps Lady Liberty's torch aflame." A snort is given though, he might be amused. "So, you have survived near canine castration and a trip to the emergency room, and I'm sure you did not get sodomized by drunk idiots of the college based fraternal nature based on your ability to both sit and walk. Now that you are decently attired, where I am dropping you off? Home? Dorm? Shelter? Or I have a room I can reserve for just the night at the Four Seasons so that you can rest, recover your wits and get on with your life…please choose quickly, I am in no mood to converse with law enforcement, it is far too late."

"Dorm," says Jake, and lets out a quiet laugh, slightly dazed. He then slouches in the back seat, eyes sliding shut for a moment. "You talk like my brother." The nightmare is over! He's safe! …Right? Of course he is. Nevermind the talk of barbequing him. One hand comes up to rub the spot on his chest where the letter was smeared most. "Probably a good thing the cops paid a visit. Whatever was gonna happen, I'm pretty sure I was going first." Letter A, after all. …And then he cracks a laugh, short and sharp and brittle, because he's just figured out that entire thing was /his/ fault, sort of, for hoping nothing bad would happen at the ceremony. "Crap." That's to himself, really, but it pops out anyway, spoken, out of sheer self-recrimination.

Stephane's eyes flick to the rear-view mirror as the car pulls out and he arches an eyebrow slowly. "I have twins your age." Then he gets vague directions before driving off in that general direction, and he will drive to the dorms and such, letting Jake stew in his self-meditation/recrimination/reflection. When they arrive though he pulls up a little distance away and between two fingers holds a business car, offering it over his shoulder at Jake. "Get out, get a bath, get some rest, do call if necessary…"

The card gets taken. The 'twins' comment got a funny look from Jake, and yeah, he'll comment idly that he and his brother are twins - identical twins. Really. He's a liar, but who's going to prove it? He heaves out of the car, thanks the helpful guy gratefully, and heads on inside, already plotting on how to return those clothes at some point. In a moment he's gone, and the evening is finally, mercifully over with. Tomorrow's early classes are going to suck.

The Black Rolls Royce rolls off slowly…suck indeed.


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