[Mother Fraser and her Children may be how Prior refers to her on the down-low but it's probably not appropriate just now. He's simple about it, when it comes down to it, just nodding.]
She said you helped her out. And I thought [Worried.] Well, you probably had enough dead children for one life time already.
[He stiffens on the spot. True to form, that only turns his smile brighter. A tick that Prior's no doubt intimate with by now. Discomfort pumps up his showboat tendencies, and the charms and smiles are growls and bared teeth against the prods poking at all his sores.]
She told you about that, did she? [He'd have guessed she'd keep those cards closer to the chest, but he supposes if one thing led to another and his name popped up, chatter might delve into unsettling things.] What is enough, anyway? I'd have said zero myself, but you don't get to pick your all your blessings.
[A joke that only sounds tasteless, and more worrying than a simple "I'm fine." Richie joins Prior on the bed with a gainless clatter and a sigh, propping the water on his nightstand.]
I'm still living, Pry, don't fret. I mean it's not the highlight of my month, but I'd be more worried for her. Is she all right?
[Just a little pointed. But really, that's the assurance he's going to offer? If vital signs were all Prior cared about he could have listened for breathing at the door.]
And I'm glad you're still among the living. There are people waving bell, book and candle all over the place out there, you might not have made it back unexorcised. [It's a weak little joke, but an attempt all the same to smooth back a little of that ruffled fur.] Has this month had highlights? I wouldn't want to watch the reel back, myself.
[He gets the memo, matching pointed tone with pointed look. He's never slept well, but what was there to be done about it?
Richie scoffs.] I'd be a damn entertaining spook if I do say so myself. Maybe if I got them laughing they'd spare me the exorcism.
[He zips open his drawer. A tin and a box of rolling papers lie among other toiletries, and the novel he's been consuming consumes half the sprawl. He takes out the rolling papers and pops the tin.
They're sixties kids. Why bother being shy? Richie sets to rolling a joint with all too practiced ease.]
Me either. I don't much care for ghosts. Even before all this shit I didn't like them. When has the supernatural done us any favors?
[Oh, this is a theme Prior can run with for miles. The very worst kind of ghosts, naturally, happen to be the ones who share his own name. But he's got enough vitriol for the poor souls trapped among them here, too. Vitriol and near boundless sympathy. It's a queer cocktail.]
And they're so intrusive. Non-corporeal or not, there is such a thing as personal space. Not to mention demanding. Praise this, dance that. Who knew all the restless dead really wanted was a decent errand service.
[Prior watches the rolling process as he speaks, pausing to exhale a laugh.]
Well look at this. I was going to offer a quaalude once I was sure you weren't trashed on anything worse. [It's not judgement, he holds up a finger to punctuate that.] Which - God knows I'd want to be.
Exactly! Congratulations on being dead, doesn't mean you get an eternal pass on fucking manners.
[Richie perks up at the mention.] Were you now? Well who's to say. If we feel like it after a toke or two we can make it a two course meal.
[He's not a junkie. But a better sleep would be divine.
The smart work he's done with the wrapping is finished in haste, and he lights the joint with equal ease. Richie claims first inhale, but passes the second on to Prior.]
I've...well. I don't want to go making comparisons. Calling one more tragic or gruesome than the other seems heartless. But the girl wasn't murdered. There is a difference, I think. Coming across a casualty versus a desecration. One's tragic in the sense of chaos. Abandonment. The other is just senseless spite.
Watching her fawn over it wasn't easy, either. Downright eerie as a matter of fact.
[Oh, fabulous work, Prior, come in to check he's not choking on his own vomit, come out having set up a better quality of trip. But neither are the kind of thing that leave you washed up in alleyways, at least. He's still a good samaritan - look at him taking the burden of half the joint.]
Love's often a mystery when you're not in it. I've seen lips locked across dinner tables that would chill the blood if they got anywhere near mine. A mother with rose tinted glasses and a sad story, that's all.
[He breathes out a sweet, white cloud and passes the joint back, waiting 'til Richie's hand is too occupied to swat his away before reaching up to slide the thick frames he's wearing down to the tip of his nose.]
Speaking of which. [Rose tints or sad stories?] Are these the same pair that kid in the apartment was wearing, or is it just your taste that hasn't changed?
And a hitchhiking thumb stuck up poor Claire's nose.
[Sad, yes. But let's not forget the toll on the living either.
He takes the bait, which in turn has his specs primed for the picking. Richie's nose crinkles.]
Stop — no, of course they're not the same! They're just spares. [Richie flicks them off his nose with a harried huff.] I had nicer ones in California, but these I took to Derry just in case.
[Oh, no forgetting the toll on the living. Not that a thumb up that otherwise dainty nose isn't quite the image. But there are a number of visuals it may be best not to let burn in too long.
Prior chases those glasses instead, catching them before they can be tossed to the bed.]
So that's why they're only allowed out under cover of darkness? It's a shame-
[And they're settled at the bridge of Prior's nose, instead. At which point he cuts himself off to blink into the fuzz. Louis' glasses were half for reading, half for making himself look more intelligent. These things are a disability aid. Prior's tilting his head up and around trying to adjust.]
Oh, wow. Like, totally spaced out, man. Either that stuff's stronger than it felt or you're blinder than I am.
Blind as a bat, basically. Prior looks a bit better in them than he does, even if the sight is fuzzed and frayed, but a horror's still a horror and he's not fond of those geeky glasses no matter where they're sitting.]
Probably blinder. My eyes failed early and they failed fast. Now come on, nobody wants Groucho Marx's cast offs.
[By rights Prior should be the proud owner of a pair of his own, even if they wouldn't properly correct the way his vision's deteriorating in fuzzy blotches - the blackness around the edge. But it's come to him as some sort of penance for prophecy, he's almost sure: swapping one vision for another. What good would glasses be for that?
He likes these more, having seen worse horrors through other lenses, and shakes his head to Richie's waiting hand, sprawling back a moment to look at the room in a wider view.]
I had this kaleidoscope in my pillowcase one Christmas. The height of fifties engineering. Don't deny me a moment's nostalgia.
[He leans in again eventually, reaching up one hand to the arm of the glasses without letting them be taken off yet. It's the crazy backward logic of ophthalmology. Only the closest things will focus in these.]
Good lord. [He looks down at the sprawling man with mirth and its piggybacking cousin, exasperation. If Prior kept the thick lenses on long enough he'd be seeing kaleidoscope diamonds for real.
When he comes back up Richie leans away, putting himself square in the fuzz zone. He takes his hands to his mouth and mimics a salute from three thousand miles away, drifting echo and all.]
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She said you helped her out. And I thought [Worried.] Well, you probably had enough dead children for one life time already.
[Spit it out sunshine.]
I wanted to see that you were okay.
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[He stiffens on the spot. True to form, that only turns his smile brighter. A tick that Prior's no doubt intimate with by now. Discomfort pumps up his showboat tendencies, and the charms and smiles are growls and bared teeth against the prods poking at all his sores.]
She told you about that, did she? [He'd have guessed she'd keep those cards closer to the chest, but he supposes if one thing led to another and his name popped up, chatter might delve into unsettling things.] What is enough, anyway? I'd have said zero myself, but you don't get to pick your all your blessings.
[A joke that only sounds tasteless, and more worrying than a simple "I'm fine." Richie joins Prior on the bed with a gainless clatter and a sigh, propping the water on his nightstand.]
I'm still living, Pry, don't fret. I mean it's not the highlight of my month, but I'd be more worried for her. Is she all right?
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[Just a little pointed. But really, that's the assurance he's going to offer? If vital signs were all Prior cared about he could have listened for breathing at the door.]
And I'm glad you're still among the living. There are people waving bell, book and candle all over the place out there, you might not have made it back unexorcised. [It's a weak little joke, but an attempt all the same to smooth back a little of that ruffled fur.] Has this month had highlights? I wouldn't want to watch the reel back, myself.
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Richie scoffs.] I'd be a damn entertaining spook if I do say so myself. Maybe if I got them laughing they'd spare me the exorcism.
[He zips open his drawer. A tin and a box of rolling papers lie among other toiletries, and the novel he's been consuming consumes half the sprawl. He takes out the rolling papers and pops the tin.
They're sixties kids. Why bother being shy? Richie sets to rolling a joint with all too practiced ease.]
Me either. I don't much care for ghosts. Even before all this shit I didn't like them. When has the supernatural done us any favors?
no subject
And they're so intrusive. Non-corporeal or not, there is such a thing as personal space. Not to mention demanding. Praise this, dance that. Who knew all the restless dead really wanted was a decent errand service.
[Prior watches the rolling process as he speaks, pausing to exhale a laugh.]
Well look at this. I was going to offer a quaalude once I was sure you weren't trashed on anything worse. [It's not judgement, he holds up a finger to punctuate that.] Which - God knows I'd want to be.
no subject
[Richie perks up at the mention.] Were you now? Well who's to say. If we feel like it after a toke or two we can make it a two course meal.
[He's not a junkie. But a better sleep would be divine.
The smart work he's done with the wrapping is finished in haste, and he lights the joint with equal ease. Richie claims first inhale, but passes the second on to Prior.]
I've...well. I don't want to go making comparisons. Calling one more tragic or gruesome than the other seems heartless. But the girl wasn't murdered. There is a difference, I think. Coming across a casualty versus a desecration. One's tragic in the sense of chaos. Abandonment. The other is just senseless spite.
Watching her fawn over it wasn't easy, either. Downright eerie as a matter of fact.
no subject
Love's often a mystery when you're not in it. I've seen lips locked across dinner tables that would chill the blood if they got anywhere near mine. A mother with rose tinted glasses and a sad story, that's all.
[He breathes out a sweet, white cloud and passes the joint back, waiting 'til Richie's hand is too occupied to swat his away before reaching up to slide the thick frames he's wearing down to the tip of his nose.]
Speaking of which. [Rose tints or sad stories?] Are these the same pair that kid in the apartment was wearing, or is it just your taste that hasn't changed?
no subject
[Sad, yes. But let's not forget the toll on the living either.
He takes the bait, which in turn has his specs primed for the picking. Richie's nose crinkles.]
Stop — no, of course they're not the same! They're just spares. [Richie flicks them off his nose with a harried huff.] I had nicer ones in California, but these I took to Derry just in case.
[And what a case it was.]
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Prior chases those glasses instead, catching them before they can be tossed to the bed.]
So that's why they're only allowed out under cover of darkness? It's a shame-
[And they're settled at the bridge of Prior's nose, instead. At which point he cuts himself off to blink into the fuzz. Louis' glasses were half for reading, half for making himself look more intelligent. These things are a disability aid. Prior's tilting his head up and around trying to adjust.]
Oh, wow. Like, totally spaced out, man. Either that stuff's stronger than it felt or you're blinder than I am.
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Blind as a bat, basically. Prior looks a bit better in them than he does, even if the sight is fuzzed and frayed, but a horror's still a horror and he's not fond of those geeky glasses no matter where they're sitting.]
Probably blinder. My eyes failed early and they failed fast. Now come on, nobody wants Groucho Marx's cast offs.
[He holds out his hand. Gimme.]
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He likes these more, having seen worse horrors through other lenses, and shakes his head to Richie's waiting hand, sprawling back a moment to look at the room in a wider view.]
I had this kaleidoscope in my pillowcase one Christmas. The height of fifties engineering. Don't deny me a moment's nostalgia.
[He leans in again eventually, reaching up one hand to the arm of the glasses without letting them be taken off yet. It's the crazy backward logic of ophthalmology. Only the closest things will focus in these.]
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When he comes back up Richie leans away, putting himself square in the fuzz zone. He takes his hands to his mouth and mimics a salute from three thousand miles away, drifting echo and all.]
Hellooo! 'ello, 'ello...
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Heathcliff? Heathcliff, come in from the moors, you'll catch your death of cold.