bakerstreet | Dirty laundry

Dirty laundry

the LAUNDROMAT

Perhaps you live in a dorm or an apartment that hasn't seen renovations since the eighties. Maybe your luck has really dried up and your washing machine at home broke the night before a job interview and you haven't done a load of laundry in two weeks. Whatever your story is you've ended up at the local 24-hour laundromat. It could be creeping in on midnight or three in the morning. Either way, the place is a dead zone. Leaving you floating in a liminal space where reality has been stripped down to the sounds of clattering quarters and the continuous thrum of the machines under the buzz of neon lights. This would be a horrible time to bump into someone you know, or worse - a complete stranger while you're staring into the middle distance in nothing but your American flag boxers reading a paperback.

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[It’s late. Mia is tired. The bags under her eyes have bags. It’s that bad. Sleep evades her, as per usual, and she finds herself at the laundromat.

Keeping to herself, sitting scrunched up in a chair next to her spinning machine with her boots kicked up against the wall. Empty basket on the floor - the red spots are paint, don’t worry about it. The place is pretty empty - it’s way past midnight - so she takes up as much space as she pleases, occasionally casting a weary glance towards whoever or whatever makes any noise.]

[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)

[ inspo for the cute nyc college au -- tired af, behind on the reading for class, listening to something pretentious on cassette, and he probably forgot something critical like laundry detergent. he can be in his boxers if u really want and i can write a starter just lmk ]

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.

"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.]

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.

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...]

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.”

"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."

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."

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 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 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."

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."

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Dirty laundry

mia allen | evil dead | ota.

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jonathan byers | stranger things

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

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

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