bakerstreet | Dirty laundry

*It's clear by the state of the clothing he has on washing clothing is incredibly overdue. He's currently sitting in one of the worn out plastic chairs, half scooting it across the joint with his leg shaking, staring at his laundry as it spins in the unit in front of him.*

[ Seth is sitting in only the classic pair of white boxer shorts with little red hearts all over them. His eyes are swirling around to follow the clothing in the machine and he's getting visibly dizzy doing it. It doesn't stop him though. ]

[ Sitting around in her undies is a little embarrassing but... whatevs. ]

[ Piccolo is washing exactly one item. It's Pan's favourite blanket and he looks grumpy as heck doing it.

He glances aside at someone who has chosen to do the 'sitting in their underwear thing', scoffs and points a finger at them. In a flash of light and a puff of smoke, they're now fully clothed! He chooses something roughly appropriate for them, or at least what Piccolo would think is their vibe.^* ]

There.

*which you can make up or let me do it, I'm cool

[ Middle of the night laundry time, great. Less chances to be bothered though. He is in more than just underwear, at least. Admittedly it's not much better, loose and faded t-shirt but criminally tight track pants. ]

[Having no shame, the rabbit-woman wasn't even bothering with wearing underwear. She was doing her laundry in the nude.]

[Being in one place for over three months has taught her one thing: everything accumulates. The dishes in the sink, the trash, fast food menus and those aren't so bad, the perfect escapable and disposable things they are. She has a special hatred for the laundry, the mess it makes is perpetual and the more concerted her effort to avoid the heap the bigger it gets. She could toss the clothes too but that leads to it's own kind of special hell and Blythe isn't ready to dwell on the thought of shopping, how easily exhausted her mind gets because there's too many fucking colors on the rack and who gives a shit if she's a cold winter, she'll wear orange even it makes her look yellow (honestly, the nonsense people say...).

So she's here, in some ratty hoodie and sweat pants, counting change in her hand for the machine.]

Edited 2024-01-09 00:22 (UTC)

[ This part is always the worst. Finally doing his laundry at a public laundromat. It's not like he isn't used to it- it's just a lot harder to get away with the whole bloody clothes situation these days.

So he's here at 4am in hopes of an empty place. ]

Edited 2024-01-09 00:09 (UTC)

[ did he separate darks and lights? nope. ]

[ of course he didn't, which is why he reaches out just as vash moves to close the washer, one hand holding the cover open. ]

How many times do I gotta tell you?

[ just gonna hip check vash a little (scoot over, spikes) before digging through the clothes, pulling out the lights. which are mostly meryl's clothes, tbh. ]

Shortstack's gonna yell at you again.

[ and of course vash makes a big deal of that tiny check, staggering to one side with a small oof of exclamation, rubbing at his hip as though he'd taken more damage than wolfwood himself from how bony his ass is. ]

Ahaha ... Sorry.

[ why does he continue to be assigned to laundry duty, they won't know ...

he sidles up to the other's side as wolfwood digs through the untidy tangled pile of clothes stuffed into the washer, reaching out to take the bundle of clothes from his hand. ]

Good thing you're here too, right?

[Always traveling means she has to haul her laundry into laundromats. Not that she'd complain as the time waiting gives her a chance to collect notes for her next supernatural romance novel by observing others and having some time to her self to think. Really she shouldn't be scribbling down titles about supernatural beings and romancing laundry...Boo in the Rinse Cycle. If anything it might help the writers block.]

[ He's lucky that this world has laundromats. Or maybe he's unlucky and the washing machine at home's busted.

Either way, it's shit o'clock and there's a scarred-up dude in the building wearing nothing but black boxers and a bright orange apron with SOUPER NOODLE printed on the front.

Watching two machines have a rattling contest is super engaging... ]

[Her last good work shirt is splattered with blood and she's crossing her fingers that most of it can wash out. Might as well do the rest of her laundry too, right? Himeno's been slacking-- she's down to a tank top and pajama shorts. I know, what a fashion plate! At least she has a decent coat to keep her warm while she sits outside for a smoke. It's gonna be a while.]

( oops did something of hers end up in yours. did it end up tinting the whole load?

pink is probably a good look on you anyway right )

[here's a demon disguised as a human... washing his clothes. like a normal person. what? you think he has magic to wash his clothes? that would be too convenient, wouldn't it? other demons or monsters are welcome to see through his disguise. in any case, Nova is half falling asleep while he waits for his load to be finished. he's sitting on a bench, cheek and shoulder pressed against the running dryer itself. rumbly and warm, soothing]

[Some kind of 'everyone lived' AU? Gone to college maybe?]

[She might be washing clothes, she might be washing random pieces of fabric, she might be tumble-drying pillows, it's anyone's guess, really.]

[She tries to stop in at a laundromat once a week, but it doesn't always work out that way, it just depends on when she can find one that's open.]

[Holga's the kind of person who believes in being prepared - spare quarters, extra detergent & dryer sheets, she might even have snacks, and even if she doesn't, she'll watch your dryer while you run down to the McDonald's on the corner.]

[Laundromats are a great place to peoplewatch and collect new mannerisms. Also good for a stakeout now and again.]

[Nicky's the one who cooks, Joe's the one who can be trusted with the laundry, though it's clearly the laundry of a whole family's worth of people. He's probably got a spare quarter if you need one, and he'll apologize for taking up so much space at the folding table.]

There’s a weird sort of wishy-washiness to how Frankie’s whole existence works, and he’s not sure of the particulars in certain cases. The Coven honestly won’t let him figure it out. Like… he’s pretty sure he could just make his own clothes out of Void-stuff, but the Coven obviously wants to keep him under their thumb in as many ways as they possibly can, so here he was with actual real clothes with actual real blood caked onto them and no other options to get them clean again. He’s voiced his displeasure at the whole situation before, but again. No other options.

Usually the 24-hour laundromat is empty at 3 in the morning, but for some reason when Frankie showed up there was a guy there with a whole mountain of clothes, which meant Frankie would have to try again tomorrow or just. Deal with it. And since he’s out of fucks to give, well. It’s 3am, if the guy wants to get upset about Frankie’s handful of blood caked clothes, Frankie will… eat him. Or whatever. He doesn’t care.

After staring through the window for a couple minutes he finally sighed and went in and just picked the nearest open washer, throwing the clothes in with extra strength detergent and putting it on as long a cold soak as the machine will allow for. With that all done, he looked down at his hands and realized just holding the clothes had left them dark red with old blood. He swore softly, made sure the machine was running, and went to have a Lady Macbeth moment at the sink.

Joe had always made it a point to only take up two machines at a time, even at this hour, either two washers, a washer and a dryer, or two dryers. Generally he could get it all done in three loads, delicates, regular, and then heavy duty for bedding and towels.

He'd noticed the young man's apparent indecision over coming inside, but had just continued with what he was doing while keeping tabs on it from the corner of his eye.

That was definitely blood on the clothes the kid had just dumped in the washer, but, given the state of the towels sloshing around in his own machine, he didn't have much room to talk, and wouldn't have called attention to it in the first place, that was just rude.

No, instead, calm as anything and quiet -if just loud enough to be heard over the machines- he asked: "Do you need peroxide?"

He froze with his hands under the running water when the man spoke, and watched as red ran off his hands down the drain, and yet still somehow his hands were red, red, red.

Never get caught. Never be seen. No witnesses. But Frankie was just. So tired. And the man wasn’t accusing, wasn’t threatening, just… offering. So Frankie sighed deeply and rubbed his hands with soap.

“Suppose it couldn’t hurt, if you’re offering.”

Edited 2024-01-11 04:11 (UTC)

He smiled easily, setting aside the shirt he'd been folding to fish the bottle out of his box of supplies, moving closer to offer it over, "I've got a roll of boxer's tape, also, if you need to stick your knuckles back together."

He wasn't sure yet if the kid was actually injured or if it was just leftover from what was on the clothes he'd thrown in to wash, and he wasn't going to ask about that, either, unless it became obvious that he should.

He finished washing his hands, having managed to get most of the blood off, and dried them on his shirt. They were still stained pink, but the worst was gone.

He laughed a bit, somewhat hysterically, and lifted his hands to show off how unhurt they were.

“It’s not mine.” He shook his head and grabbed the bottle and brought it over to his machine to add it to the soak. “It’s never mine,” he muttered softly, not really intending to be heard, but having fully lost his last fuck somewhere down the drain.

His brow had lifted a little at the tone of that laugh, though it creased a moment later at the actual answer, but he nodded all the same, "Some days it's like that." He agreed after only the barest delay, moving back to the work table he'd essentially taken over so he could continue folding.

There was definitely something going on with the kid, but since he didn't hear sirens, he wasn't overly concerned. Which was probably the wrong way to go about things, but it had worked for them for a long while and Joe didn't think this was going to be the time it didn't.

That comment probably should have put Frankie on guard, but something in him had snapped. Not in a dramatic collapse, but a sagging structure slowly sliding to the ground under the weight that kept piling on top. He didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t. He had no space left in him for it. And maybe that’s what the coven wanted, but he didn’t care what they wanted anymore.

He turned away from the machine, back out to the room, and looked down at the clothes he was wearing, picking at the shirt and scowling.

“You know, if they’re going to make me wear actual clothes you’d think they’d give me more than two outfits, right? Like, obviously they don’t want anybody to see me, but it’s just being assholes to only give me two fucking pairs of everything.” He glanced over at the man calmly folding his laundry and sighed, leaning back against the machines until his head thunked against them.

“You seem nice. I’d ask what it’s like having a nice normal life, but you’re here at three in the morning washing clothes for an entire army and giving the weird kid peroxide and offering to fix up his wounds so I don’t think you’d actually be able to give me an answer.”

Well now that was concerning, but they -especially he- couldn't get involved, the current job was too important to sidetrack or derail that way.

"One to wear and one to wash is a step above fast food workers with a single shirt, so yes. Asshole behavior." He shrugged, whipping a strip of boxer's tape around the stack of folded towels to keep them together, "My husband would tell you that 'normal' is what you make of it, and my little sister," the barest hesitation because it had been on the tip of his tongue to refer to her as our little sister, since she was, "would tell you that normal is simply a setting on a washer."

He shook his head, "And for me, I don't think 'normal' really exists, people are too varied for that and can't agree on what habits are 'normal' as it is. It's a collective assumption, that's all."

Frankie smiled dryly, and loped over to the table and set the bottle down by the stranger's elbow.

"Sounds like you've got a bunch of philosophers in your family," he said, and leaned on the table languidly. "Wish I could remember mine, though I kind of have a feeling they weren't the philosophical type."

He chuckled softly at the response, nodding as he returned the peroxide bottle to the basket alongside the detergent, "That much is true. Though we're all recovering soldiers, philosophy kind of comes with the territory there, I think."

A considering noise, "Or alcoholism, and we've had our share of that as well." He studied Frankie for a moment, pausing between folding towels and setting in on the shirts, "Do you mind if I ask what it is you do? I'm guessing you're not a courier."

He snorted at that last bit, then laughed, and found an empty bit of table to hop up on to sit. He sobered pretty quickly as he looked over the man and his piles of laundry. "I'm not sure I should tell you. The fact I'm talking to you at all... if they find out, they're not going to be happy."

He straightened a little at that, because while it was incredibly unlikely that he would, entirely by accident or circumstance, run into one of the victims of the trafficking ring they were there to deal with it was still possible, which was why a statement like that got his attention.

"I see. And are you being watched that closely? Or will they only find out later?" If he needed to call in reinforcements he definitely would, but if it was better if he just left, he could do that, too. But either way, the kid was on his radar now.

Frankie shrugged. "They'll find out later, if they ask the right questions. They don't always." He leaned back on his hands, considering the man carefully. It was highly unlikely he'd be able to help in any meaningful way, but it had been so long since Frankie had just talked to someone that he was finding it difficult keeping his mouth shut.

"How much do you know about magic?" It was a bit of a long shot. Public perception of magic was a little bit like the public perception of theoretical physics--most people knew that it existed, or at least the study of it existed, but for the vast majority of people it didn't necessarily affect their day-to-day lives. The people who studied it, however, knew it was everywhere, affected everything, and knew the power it had. If this man had just the basic understanding of magic, then Frankie would have a much better excuse to keep his mouth shut. But if he knew... well. That was a different story.

He considered the question for a moment as he started in on folding the shirts, checking how much time was left on the dryer with the rest of the clothes, "I know it exists? That it's out there and some people are more in tune with it than others."

A little shake of his head followed, "But where it comes from, and why some have a stronger connection to it? Those are things I don't know, and things I leave to the actual philosophers to discuss."

He regarded Frankie for a moment, "I take it that's the kind of thing they'll want to know, if they ask?" There had been no sign that the victims so far were any kind of magical, but that also wasn't something the four of them had specifically been looking for, either, "Rest assured you haven't met any kind of witch, wizard or warlock. I'm as regular a Joe as you can get."

Frankie smiled a little, then laughed, and kicked his feet back and forth playfully before swinging them up onto the table to sit cross-legged. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

"That wasn't why I was asking, no." It would be harder to talk to the man if he didn't really understand, but... well. Frankie could make it easy to understand. He looked at the man for a moment, hard, calculating, then straightened and pushed up the sleeves of his henley shirt and leaned forward to pull down the collar to expose the skin right over his heart. His forearms were covered in intricate black tattoos, twisting lines that curled around and through each other in complex runic bracers, beautiful and sinister. The pattern was echoed on his chest, but in a more simplified circle, and somehow even more ominous than the markings on his arms.

"These," he said softly, "are binding marks. There's a more complicated explanation behind them, involving rituals and spells and sacrifices and so on, but it all boils down to this: I belong to them, and whatever order they give me, I'm forced to obey." He dropped his hand from his collar and slowly pulled down his sleeves again. "You asked me what I do. The answer is, quite simply, whatever it is they tell me to do. Often, like tonight, it happened to be murder, but it's been a wide range of other things too."

Joe had had decades of practice at not letting brief flashes of recognition cross his face when they hit, especially when it was something he shouldn't rightly have recognized without being told what it was.

He could only hope that practice was still in effect, because those marks -while not exactly the same- were incredibly similar to ones he'd borne himself not long before, ones that were still etched on the bones of his forearms because bones didn't heal the same way skin did.

As it was he just lifted both brows slightly at the explanation, "And do you often admit murder to people you've just met?" It was utter curiosity, and 'admit' instead of 'confess' was a very deliberate choice of phrasing, partly because confession implied a level of guilt that was currently lacking, but mostly because the question in and of itself wasn't an accusation to be confessed to.

Frankie shrugged, a small smile on his face, though it was tight, wry. "Well," he said, "I can't say I do. I don't get to talk to people very much."

He leaned back again, arms braced behind him. "But you were nice, and no one's ordering me not to, so maybe I'm taking advantage of my momentary freedom."

He considered the answer for a moment, but nodded, "Likely I should be more concerned by that answer, but it's hardly the strangest thing I've heard, especially at this hour." It was the kind of statement that was rarely taken at face value, "And if you're going to take advantage, I say you do so to the fullest." He added, a shadow of a smile catching at the corners of his mouth as he pulled a small plastic container out of the basket, popping the top off and offering it over.

It was half full of oblong cookies, each about the size of a walnut, smelling faintly of citrus and almond, a light crust of powdered sugar baked onto them, "Ricciarelli, because my husband still thinks I need to be bribed into doing the laundry."

Frankie froze for a moment, staring down at the container. The smell coming out of it was unlike anything he could remember--though granted, that wasn't saying a whole lot, given he couldn't remember much from before the coven. Still, the scent was enthralling, and Frankie wanted to stick his whole face in the container and just breathe it in--but he restrained himself, and managed to stick just to taking a single cookie and smelling it carefully, his eyes sliding shut and a small smile--a real smile--tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He took the time he wanted just smelling it, then, since it was too small to do anything else, he popped the cookie in his mouth whole. He chewed slowly, savoring it, and after he finally swallowed, he sighed, smiling.

"Thank you. That was..." He shook his head a little. "Your husband makes a really good cookie."

Joe had eaten one himself in the meantime, watching Frankie's reaction as he set back into folding the shirts, picking up where he'd left off with the chore. It was about what he'd expected it to be, making it obvious that the kid hadn't often had treats.

He smiled again, more easily than before, at the response, "He does. He enjoys cooking for people, it's, ah, what do they call it now? It's his love language." The smile was all the warmer, shaking his head just a little, "And I've never met anyone with a bigger heart."

Frankie liked the way the man looked when he talked about his husband, though it made something in his chest tighten in a way he didn't like. He took a deep breath.

"How long have you been married?"

"Officially? Only a few years now, but we've been together almost as long as I can remember." There was an undeniable fondness in his tone, because that was the thing about Joe, all of his emotions were right there on his sleeve, despite attempts in recent years to keep them better in check.

More than that, the statement was absolutely true, they'd been married more than once throughout the centuries, but had always been together even despite having been on opposite sides when they first met.

"That's nice," Frankie said. He stared down at his hands in his lap and stretched his fingers out wide, then folded them into fists. He was jealous. He wanted that. But it was impossible in his current situation.

He sighed and looked up again. "What's your name, anyway? If you're comfortable sharing it."

"Joe, it's Joe." A soft huff of amusement, "And before you ask, yes, I do at least try to make friends with strangers at the laundromat at this hour. Or at the very least I do my best to avoid making enemies of them."

And there was the smile again, taping a stack of shirts together the same way he'd done with the towels, "Most of the time I even manage it."

Frankie laughed a little at that. "So when you said you were a regular Joe you weren't actually speaking colloquially." He shook his head a little, then stuck out a hand. "I'm Frankie. Nice to meet you. Sorry for dumping all my shit on you unasked for."

"Not entirely, no." He replied, that smile back in place. He accepted the hand, clasping Frankie's wrist instead, just briefly, a so-called Spartan handshake, "It's good to meet you as well, Frankie."

He tilted his head, not quite a negation of the apology, but something more than acceptance, "Don't worry about it, you're not the first. I just have one of those faces, I guess."

The washing machine with Frankie's clothes buzzed, and he hopped off the table to go tend to it, opening it up and inspecting his clothes for any remaining blood stains. The peroxide soak seemed to have done its job, and Frankie sighed a little in relief that he wouldn't be punished for ruining another set of clothing, even if it was in service to the coven.

He popped everything into a dryer and got it going, then turned back to Joe. "So what do you do? Other than huge stacks of laundry in the middle of the night."

"Retired military." He tilted his head from side to side, "And freelance journalism now. Nothing regular, but it's enough to pay the bills when a job does come up." It wasn't exactly a lie, either. They did sell articles sometimes, but mostly it was all off the radar sorts of jobs.

But even with what Frankie had already admitted, Joe wasn't about to say anything about being part of a small mercenary team, even if that's really what it was.

Frankie let out a soft huh and wandered back over to the table, this time sitting in a chair next to it so he could talk. He sprawled, throwing his legs up over the arm of the chair and getting as comfortable as someone could in a plastic laundromat chair.

"You know, retired military doesn't really surprise me. You've got the... what do you call it. The bearing." He crossed one leg over the other and considered Joe for a moment. He wouldn't have been surprised to find out Joe wasn't telling him the whole truth--there was something off about him that Frankie couldn't quite put his finger on. It was a feeling, like an itch in his brain he couldn't quite scratch. But it wasn't any of his business, and probably the less he knew the better.

"Have you lived around here long?"

He shook his head, "No, actually, only a couple of months now," which was longer than they tended to stay in any one place, but they needed to stick around until they actually cracked this one, and it wasn't unheard of for them to settle in even for as much as a year, "just long enough to know where to do the laundry and what markets are open after dark if we need an emergency ice cream run."

A small smile, "And if you think I've got the bearing, you should see my husband, sister and I working on a task together, even if it's just setting the table for dinner. We're a unit now, unto ourselves."

Frankie smiled wistfully, and looked away, his gaze losing focus. "That must be nice, to have people like that." All he had was himself. No friends, no family, just a group of people who owned him and told him what to do.

Most of the time, he was able to keep from thinking about it too hard. But right then, he felt the loneliness like an ache, like a hole in his chest.

He made a thoughtful noise at that, but nodded, because Frankie wasn't wrong. Granted, recent losses complicated things, but having Nicky and Nile was only a good thing.

"This is... it's probably another question I shouldn't be asking, and if it's something you can't answer, that's fine, you just have to tell me." He considered, expression serious as he continued, "Are you the only one that your," the briefest hesitation before settling on, "handlers have control of?"

Frankie's gaze immediately snapped from the middle distance to focus on Joe's face, scrutinizing him intently.

"What a very interesting question for someone with only a passing curiosity in a stranger's life to have." He sat up, putting his feet back on the floor. "And it creates a problem for me. Because, you see," he stood up and walked around to the other side of the table from Joe, so that when he leaned on it, he could still be looking at Joe head on, "I don't give single solitary fuck about them and what they may or may not want me to tell anyone. Honestly? I'd be happy to tell you anything you want to know, provided I haven't been previously ordered not to divulge it. However, all they have to do is ask me the right question and I'm telling them all about you and everything I told you in turn. Now, I'm too valuable to them for them to punish too badly, so whatever happens to me, I know I can handle it. But you'd have their attention. And that's not a good thing to have. So, before I answer your question, you need to answer mine."

He stood up again, back straight, hands on the table, gaze deadly serious and unblinking. "How badly do you want to know? Are you prepared to risk the consequences getting answers from me could bring?"

"Journalist." He replied, giving a little tilt of his head, "Can't help it."

The rest of what Frankie had to say, however, had Joe going still in turn, one brow lifting a little, setting down the shirt he'd been in the process of folding. It was a warning, and a concern, that clearly bore some weight, and he wasn't going to just disregard that.

He was, however, prevented from answering right away by his phone buzzing in the laundry basket, and he glanced down at it, "Ah, and that's the husband. Always seems to know when I'm about to get myself neck deep in something. Hang on." The text exchange was a quick one and Joe set the phone down again, nodding once, "Yes, the information is worth the risk."

Even if this wasn't the group they were looking for, it was definitely the kind of thing they should be looking into, and since they were in the area, there was no reason not to try and get two birds with one stone.

Frankie stayed silent and motionless as Joe checked his phone, then, at his answer, a smile spread onto his face. "Oh, you are interesting. Alright, I'll answer your questions." He crossed his arms, and his posture relaxed a little. He'd given his warning, anything that happened now would probably involve him but it wouldn't be his fault.

"I don't know about anyone else magically bound by..." his mouth worked a bit when his statement couldn't naturally avoid the name of the group who owned him. He'd been forbidden from saying it, and from divulging particular aspects of the group, but he sure as hell would talk as much as he could when he could. "By them. That doesn't mean they don't exist, but I have never been told about any, and I've never interacted with any. I am, however, extremely certain that I'm the only one of my kind."

He studied Frankie as he spoke, just absorbing the information, sparse as it was. If the organization was big enough -and the marks Frankie bore really could indicate a small close-knit group or something more sprawling and bureaucratic- it was entirely possible that there were others in his situation that he didn't know about, keeping them away from each other would keep them from banding together, it would prevent an uprising.

He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat, clearly thinking something over, but what he asked was: "Will I regret asking how you know that for certain?"

Frankie smiled a bit, then shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know you well enough to be able to say. What I can say is... what I am is unique. They worked a very long time to figure out how to make me happen, and the price of their actions was... extremely high." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "More than that, what makes me what I am means that I'd be able to feel if there was another like me out there. And I don't. So there isn't."

That was an incredibly familiar fact as well, and once again Joe had to consider that their family wasn't the only group of immortals out there, that there were other groups like their own.

He was still reasonably sure that even with as big as the world was, they would have run across each other, and he was reasonably sure they never had run into the same people after more than a regular lifetime.

But instead of letting that show on his face, he just nodded, "I see. I imagine it makes things easier, knowing you're the only one of your kind." His brow creased a little, "I'd imagine it's lonely, too."

Frankie tilted his head. "Considering what it took to make me what I am, I'm pretty glad I'm the only one. I wouldn't wish it on anyone else." He sighed a bit, and shrugged again. "But yeah. It's lonely. They don't want me spending time with anyone, even them."

Joe's fingers twitched, just briefly, because that definitely struck a nerve as well, considering everything Merrick and the doctor had spouted off about their plans for keeping himself and Nicky under control.

He nodded at the actual answer, however, "Part of why talking to me could be dangerous. I see." He tilted his head, almost a shrug as he resumed folding the shirt he'd set aside, "I'm hardly going to be the one to tell you not to, though."

Frankie smiled a little and leaned on the table again. "I do appreciate the opportunity." His smile faded. "Though there's a good chance that if they find out about all this, they'll send me after you."

He tilted his head, considering Joe for a moment. "I have serious doubts about how honest you're being with me--I'm not mad about that, it's smart. I don't want to know anything more about your life, in case they do send me after you. But I am starting to wonder if maybe you'd be a little more capable of holding me off than the other poor SOBs they tell me to kill."

"Maybe." He replied, "But I also don't know what you're capable of, so I can't say for sure." He shrugged, "I am better at handling myself in a crisis than most random guys off the street, though. Depending on the crisis."

A small smile, "But let's hope neither of us has to find out the outcome of that altercation, hm?"

Frankie shrugged. "Yeah. I guess we can hope. Or try, anyway." He tilted his head the other way. "Kind of gave up on that a while ago. But I'll give it a shot," he said, and smiled a little.

He inclined his head, a magnanimous nod and acquiescence, though his own smile had gone just a little impish, "Well then it's a good thing that I've generally got enough hope for three men." He shrugged, that amusement spilling over into his tone, "It's a gift, one that my husband often wishes I could return, apparently it makes me insufferable."

Granted, it had been a very long time since Nicky had said anything of the sort without affection being the underlying tone, but that wasn't something that he needed to relay just at the moment.

Frankie smiled. "Well I'm appreciating it right now." He made his way back over to the chair next to the table and sat down again. "Might be a little overly sentimental or something, but it's nice to be around that after not getting it for... a while."

He sighed deeply, then got comfortable in the chair, looking over at Joe. "Any other questions?"

He considered for a moment, weighing just how much more risk he'd be adding even by asking, but once again deciding that it was worth it, especially when he knew what Nicky's response would be -the answering text of 'whatever it takes' was clear enough- which was why he said, "Only one more. Your handlers, are they headquartered here, or are they more mobile than that?"

A little shake of his head followed, "And if that isn't something you know, that's fine, too." He suspected that kind of thing might be above Frankie's pay grade, or at least one of those things they kept from him to keep him under control.

Frankie tilted his head as he considered the question. He actually was much more aware of the coven's locations than they probably would have liked him to be, but that was required if they were going to use him to keep their activities hidden. But the answer was slightly complicated.

"A little of both. The actual base of operations is... elsewhere, but it can be connected to different places through... let's call them magical shortcuts. It's more complicated than that but it's nothing that you'd need to know. The shortcuts do take a certain amount of power to maintain, so they can only keep a small number open at any one time--the shortcut they've had to this area had been open for a while. There's a lot around here they want to keep tabs on, I suppose."

His brows both lifted a little, "Magical shortcuts. Fair enough." It wasn't disbelief, not really, if anything it was closer to curiosity, but he wasn't going to make a big deal out of it either way.

He wasn't sure if that made it more likely or less likely that this was, in fact, the same group they were there for. It was something that he'd have to go over the information they had once he got back home, keeping what he'd learned in mind to see if it fit.

"It's a high-traffic area, in more ways than one, I could imagine that's the kind of thing they'd want to keep abreast of, certainly the kind of thing I'd want to remain aware of if I was running some kind of criminal empire."

"They definitely like knowing things." Frankie stretched. "Almost more than actually doing things, they like knowing things." He leaned his head on his hand. "Though they've got very lofty goals."

That was about as much as Frankie could probably say about the coven, and he didn't particularly feel like testing his limits just then.

He nodded then, leaning more casually against the table as he continued folding, "Well, I've been grilling you for a while now, anything I can answer for you instead?"

He inclined his head, almost a shrug and almost an apology, "Of course, I can't promise I'll be able to answer fully, but that's the nature of the job isn't it?"

Frankie smiled and shook his head. "There's plenty I'd like to ask, but the less I know the better. If I'm lucky they won't think to ask me anything about tonight, but I can't be sure." He winked. "Better for you to stay a mysterious acquaintance who helped me with my laundry and happened to ask the right questions."

His dryer went off, and he went over to check his clothes. They were dry and stain free, so he pulled them out and folded them, which took only a couple of minutes. Before he picked everything up to leave, he turned to Joe with a sad smile. "It was nice talking to you. Thanks for keeping me company."

[He's definitely sitting where he can see the door and the machine he's using at the same time, despite the fact that it looks like he's reading a paperback copy of The Hobbit.]

[Evening Laundry in a country she's not from? Yep! Sometimes you just have to stop and wash the stains out. Johanna had just finished a job, which paid pretty nice, all things considered. Truth be told, she could have just bought a new pair of slacks, but she happened to like these, and walking around with blood on your knees was rarely a good thing.]

[Walking in with barely a limp (though a keen trained eye would say she was favoring her right side), she scanned over the laundromat casually, catching sight of the man in the proper placement to protect his back, and no one else. Fine. Taking a moment to ground herself she went to a washer, nothing in her hands to wash, and stood there a moment, peeking into one of the top loaders, frowning. A moment later she was shimmying out of her pants, and though not a modest woman, she had the decency to keep her trench coat mostly closed after. Holding the slacks up she curled her lip at them, before balling them up to toss into the machine.]

Oiy! [She called to the other in a thick British accent.] Don't mean to pull you out of Hobbiton, but do you have a shot of detergent I can use?

[ooc: hello darling. I'm unsure how well this will go, but I miss RPing with you all the same. I couldn't resist.]

Edited 2024-01-09 17:56 (UTC)

"Rhovanion." He answered without hesitation, "But close enough." He'd been paying attention to the fact that she was loading what she'd been wearing into the machine, trying to determine whether or not it was something he should be concerned about, but considering that she only looked annoyed by it and not actively distressed, he decided to just roll with keeping calm for the time being.

"And yeah, I do." The book was tucked into his pocket and the basket between his feet got hoisted up into the chair as he rose, digging out both a laundry pod and a pair of sweats that could be spared for the greater good. He crossed over to hand her both, "They're clean, don't have to worry about that."

[ooc at the very least it probably won't go to shit right away?]

Oh, we're getting technical, are we? "Is that before or after Mirkwood. It's been a while since I have read it." It was also a small telegraphed note that she had taken in the details of things as she came in, down to the book he was reading. It's really just a old habit. A very GOOD habit, but also an old one.

She started to pat her pockets, finding where her coins were in her trench coat, and dropping them in when the guy crossed over with two items. Her mouth opened to thank him for the soap, only to pause, seeing him hold out a pod and sweats? They're clean? He might see she had a curious look cross her face, as if it was taking an entire ass moment to realize he was lending her bottoms to wear. When it finally dawned on her, she gave a half hearted grin, barely reaching her eyes, before reaching to take the offered. "My hero. Thanks."

Taking the pod first to toss in, she'd close the machine up before looking the pants over. A nod was given to the sweats themselves, as if she gave her approval, and with no mind to dressing in front of another or even in public, she began to pull them on carefully. "Keeping a girl modest, huh? I suppose someone should. I appreciate it."

[I mean, you say that... but she's a trouble magnet and--oh so is he. ... yeah.]

He was used to that kind of sass from Steve, and hearing it from someone else was... weirdly endearing, it was also why he just answered instead of even feigning offense, "Before, but only barely."

He also didn't argue being called a hero, even though it was on the tip of his tongue to do so, instead he just gave a little shrug at the not-quite question, "Obviously you don't mind, and I wasn't going to complain." He cocked a thumb towards the office, the light was on, but it was unclear if anyone was actually there, "Proprietor might have something to say about it, though. Better safe than sorry, you know? Nobody needs a lecture this time of night."

[Just means they'll cancel each other out! Maybe.]

You should just be glad someone knows what you are reading came before whatever those new movies were. She's heard the kids say 'Oh look, this is based on the movie,' and had to bite her tongue. Honestly, one should be surprised she even tried to bite her tongue. Lets be real. "That tells me it's not your first time reading it. Wha'sit? Just a random repeat choice, or a standard washing day novel to transport you out of the thrum of spinnin' machines and dull chores?"

She did a little hop as she pulled the sweats up right, looking down as she would be swimming in them, seeing as he's not nearly as Hobbit-like as she is. Tugging the front strings a bit, she smirked as he mentioned the proprietor. "It's a laundromat. I'm sure they've seen a fair bit of tush before." Not tying the pants, but just tugging them tighter, she nodded to them in agreement that they, again, would do. Then she looked up at him. "All the same, thank you Mr. Baggins. After the day I've had, a lecture is the last thing I need."

[That's a good point. There is the chance that nothing but good can come from this meeting! Maybe...]

"Barnes." He said by way of correction and introduction both, "James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky." A little tilt of his head and a flicker of expression that would pass for a smile in the right light, "And I figure, place like this, this time of night, that means we're friends or mortal enemies, and you definitely don't seem like someone to make a mortal enemy out of."

It wasn't his best work, but it wasn't his worst, either, but it was also one of those things that felt true only after he'd actually said it, "And it's definitely not that thought-out of a choice. It's just what I had on hand that would actually fit in my pocket." A quiet little noise and a half-shrug, "But I've made worse decisions for better reasons."

Barns? Like where they keep horses? But he said his proper name and she smirked. Ah, Barnes. With his comment on her seeming like someone to not make a mortal enemy of actually made her smirk a bit more, a small smile of amusement on her face as she looked up at him. As tall as Dream, she'd say.

"So long as you don't try to eat someone's soul or something just as moronic, we're good. No mortal enemies." She said it like some joke, smirking still, but she happened to be rather serious. "Constantine. Johanna Constantine. If I had friends, they might call me something inappropriate, so Johanna I suppose will do just fine."

As he spoke of his book choice, she glanced around a bit, before moving to try and hop backwards up on a sorting table, legs dangling there. "The Secret Garden. That's my Wash Day novel. I always get a few more chapters in each trip. When I bother to do a trip at all." It wasn't like her messy apartment back home had a machine. Then again it wasn't as if she were home often anymore.

He shook his head at the mention of eating souls, nose wrinkling a little, "Nah, not enough nutritional value in souls, definitely not worth the effort."

He just leaned back against the edge of the table, not bothering to sit on it himself, nodding at the book, "That's a good one, too. Enough of a story to keep you entertained, but not so complicated that you'll forget what you're doing." A half-amused little scoff, "And not so dense you get confused or bored and give up on it." He shook his head, "Made the mistake of bringing the Canterbury Tales once, not annotated. That was a 'sit and stare at the wall' trip."

"I am fairly sure no one eats souls for nutrition, but you do make a good point." She said as if this were fact, and in fact, it might BE fact. Funny that.

Resting her hands on the edge of the table, she leaned there, a moment, listening to him as she stretched her back. Her hand came to rub along her upper thigh as if to work a kink or sore out. She had a soft hum in her voice as she spoke. "Chaucer, hmm? Aye, my wee English heart. That is a classic, but even I don't want to wade through the original non annotated works. The key to reading his work? Read every letter. Silent letters meant nothing back then." She paused, then a smile spread just barely visible on her lips. "It is fun when you get the blokes at the pub to try to quote it through a drunken state."

He snorted a laugh, "How did you know that's how I got interested in it?" A little shrug, "Couple of the guys I served with would trade off lines when they were drunk enough." A head shake, "I'm actually surprised they only got told off for it once."

Though it was probably because it wasn't always Chaucer that Dugan and Falsworth -with occasional interruptions by Dernier and Jones- would get drunk enough to recite. He'd even questioned Dum-Dum about it once, how he knew Chaucer because he didn't seem the type. He didn't remember the answer, only that it had been good-natured annoyance, which was generally the best to hope for with Dugan.

[Somebody manages to set up a laundromat out in the Zones and they'll make bank. Otherwise it's probably some kind of communal laundry room. Even Killjoys have to keep their duds clean.]

[If it's stakeout for a job it's during regular hours, he might even be posing as an employee.
If it's for doing actual laundry, it could be any time of day.]

[~~Literally my fav~~. Someone looks to have an insane amount of laundry that needs doing. He's probably going to be here for longer than he ought to, strategically parked at one of the folding tables reading between folding sessions.]

Dirty laundry

John | XMCU

Seth 🐐 Radiant | OTA

Kikka Kobayashi | Gundam | OTA

Piccolo 🪈 Dragon Ball

Aoba Seragaki | Dramatical Murder | M/M

Poppi | In Heat: Lustful Nights | OTA

Blythe Danner Marvel OC/OTA

Jason Todd/ Red Hood | Titans

vash | trigun stampede

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Sabrina Moore | Original

kaito nagano / original

Himeno | Chainsaw Man

carmy berzatto | the bear

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Nova || original || ota

Chrissy Cunningham + Stranger Things + OTA

Torii | OC | OTA

Betty Winchester-Singer | Supernatural OC/AU | OTA

Holga Kilgore | D&D:Honor Among Thieves | OTA

Eames + Inception + OTA

Joe | The Old Guard | OTA

hewwo :3c (i’m AUing him on the fly don’t… don’t worry about it)

I'm not worried that's a totally super normal thing to do >,>;

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Bucky Barnes | MCU | OTA

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