2013.07.01 - Bookworms

Elijah is sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, just outside a used bookstore. He gathers change and such from sewer grates and the like, spending some of it on food but more of it, frankly, on books. He's currently got a copy of "The Sun Also Rises", the paperback laid across his knees. His hood is pulled back and his scarf down, leaving his face exposed, although he's arranged the scarf to hide the scars at his throat. He seems to be turning the pages quite quickly, absorbing the material at a rapid pace. He sometimes spends half a day like this, reading five or six books, trading them in and getting a replacement in a cycle. The bookstore owner has grown somewhat fond of the quiet, intense boy, even occasionally undercharging him when he's down to nickels and dimes.

Fern likes coming to the Village to people watch, and hit some of the second-hand stores when she's scraped together some money of her own. But, it's between paydays, and she had to make rent, so today her trip is purely sight seeing. Well, there might be a stop for a treat later, but it's not likely that it'll be ice cream. Not yet. Although, for all intents, events like that on the previous day tend to run off Fern like water off a duck's butt. She's been involved in enough that she's learned to just take it in stride, because freaking out never did anyone any good. There's a lightness to her step as she makes her way along the avenue, her sandals slapping lightly on the pavement. Although clouds threaten again, there hasn't been any rain since early morning, and she's taken a hopeful position that the sun will come out by wearing a flowered sundress. She even put sunblock on her pale shoulders, in her optimistic fashion, and a light scent of coconut wafts around her because of it. She walks past the seated young man, and is quite a few steps gone before she turns, looking back, as it registers that there's a familiarity. Fern stops, her head tilting curiously, lips pressing together before she decides to retrace her path and approach. Despite the fact that she expects not to be remembered, she offers a tentative "Hello?" to the reader.

Elijah isn't used to being addressed, but, sensing your presence so close (even amidst the constant buzz in his head from all the other humans in this particularly dense part of the city), his head comes up and finds the woman from the ice cream wars standing there on the street. He raises a hand in greeting, mouthing the word, "Hello!", the instinctive act of speech a remnant of the days when he could still speak aloud. He pushes up off the sidewalk, his back braced against the storefront as he comes to his feet. Tucking his book into his pocket, he wipes some grit from his hands, the hint of coconut in the air a nice, refreshing change from...well, from New York. He gestures towards Fern and gives thumbs up, an attempt to indicate that she's looking well.

The greeting changes Fern's tentative smile into something more sure, lips parting for a flash of pearly teeth. "Hi," she says, repeating herself without the question in her tone, "You're the guy from the park. With the sticks." Because he might not have known that. The thumbs up gets a soft laugh, and Fern looks skyward a moment. "Thank you. I was hoping the sun might get the idea and come out." Blue eyes drop, although her head still stays tilted a measure as she looks up at the taller young man, and her smile takes an apologetic cast. "I didn't catch your name. I'm Fern." Automatically, her hand goes out, offering a customary introductory shake.

Elijah looks up at the sky when you gesture towards it, grinning and nodding in agreement about the sun. He takes the proffered hand, his own grip slightly rough, his fingers callused from both the time spent practicing with his weapons and pushing himself along rooftops and such. He considers using his soul bond, but knows it's a very intrusive ability, not one he'd push on someone he just met. Others are often protective of their secrets and their thoughts, after all, and he doesn't want to intrude. Instead, he holds up a finger and, as he finishes shaking your hand, draws a small notepad and pen out of his pocket, writing quickly. His script is loopy cursive, a bit florid and almost artistic, but quite legible as he writes, "Elijah. It's nice to meet you properly, Fern. I am glad you're okay."

In contrast to his, Fern's hand is softer, although her grip is comfortably firm, and considerably smaller than Elijah's. Her brows lift expectantly at the signal to hold on a second, curiosity plain on her face before it eases as the pad is produced. She waits while he writes, watching the movement of his hand. She steps closer, both out of the path of foot traffic and to lean to read the pad almost before he even offers it out. "Elijah." She looks up, "Thank you again for your help. I'm glad that everything worked out as well as it did. Lucky thing all of you were around. I wonder what that guy was so mad about."

Elijah follows Fern's lead, stepping beneath the awning of the bookstore to get them out of the path of New York City pedestrians, although oddly, he'd seemed to weave easily when some of them nearly ran into his back, dodging out of the way as if he could tell their presence. Still, Fern could get run over easily enough so he gets out of the path. He writes, "I don't know. He seemed like he might be mad. I was amazed to see so many special people around at once, it was amazing."

Again, Fern tilts her head to read Elijah's words, and she nods as her eyes lift. "You all seem to come out of the woodwork at times. Or... out of the trees." While he wasn't in any sort of special costume like some of the others, it's obvious that there's more to the young man than most might expect. Plus there's that whole ninja thing going on. "And even that little girl," she says, in reference to Josie. "You all just jump in and take care of business. That's very brave." The words come easily, not in an attempt to flatter, but as a statement of fact. Then it dawns on her. "Oh, but I'm interrupting.. you were reading. Something good?"

Elijah nods, kind of amazed at the little girl himself, not to mention the cat and the guy in the metal suit. He lives among mutants every day, as a resident of Mutant Town, but there was relatively little heroism there, much mor squalor and self-pity. "I was just trying to help," he writes, not one prone to taking much in the way of credit. "I am just glad that no one was hurt. And yes, I was reading some Hemingway. He's very provocative, but good. I do not agree with everything he says, but it is always interesting."

"I haven't read much Hemingway," Fern offers in return. Then she amends, a bit sheepishly, "Well, not much as in I don't think I've ever. I do love to read, though." If you call her preferences reading. "Stephen King and Dean Koontz are my favorites. But I've read some actual literature." This comes in a lightly self-deprecating fashion, as if she knows that her taste doesn't exactly run to the high-end authors. "Assigned reading in school." She's not abashed about her questionable preferences, and looks amused in the admission.

Elijah smiles and nods. Seeing that there's a small cafe next to the bookstore, he gestures towards it, helping them to get off the street and also giving him a chance to set down his pad and write more directly, "I read anything! I like King better than Koontz, but both are good. Koontz writes good Frankenstein stories, but not as good as Mary Shelley. I did not go to regular school, so do not know what kind of books you read there."

Fern doesn't hesitate to shuffle over with Elijah, moving to occupy one of the small tables. She scoots her chair around the table, so she's more beside him than across from him, making it easier for them to share the pad as he writes and she reads. Before she even looks up again, she's responding. "Oh, I liked his take on Frankenstein. I got them from the library, but I waited until he'd done the whole series. I hate waiting." There's a grin to share as she looks up. "Grapes of Wrath. A Separate Peace. The Great Gatsby," she rattles off. "Those are a few that were assigned. Things they didn't expect we'd read if we didn't have to."

Elijah smiles, able to put the pad somewhat on the table between them to share, the rounded table allowing him to scoot so he's somewhat shoulder to shoulder with his new friend, his pen racing. He doesn't get much chance to converse, after all, his world a largely lonely one. And, to be fair, he's made it that way. The rooftops offer him contemplation and peace, even as they sometimes set him apart, and protecting his fellow mutants is an important task, one set for him, he believes, by a higher power, even if it isn't always a particularly gratifying or well-appreciated one. It's nice to be almost...normal. "A Separate Peace I read. Very sad. I hated seeing the friendship fall apart. Grapes of Wrath, too, very sad. I mean to read Gatsby. I keep seeing the posters for the movie. I can understand why kids would not read them. They are not always fun, not like King or Koontz are." As he writes, his sleeve peels back again, showing the scar on his wrist again...

There's a light frown as Fern ponders momentarily, "I think I have my copy of Gatsby here." Again, as smoothly as the tide takes footprints from the beach, the frown turns back into her smile, "I'll see if I can find it so you can read it. I haven't seen the movie, I don't go to the theater much, and I'm not entirely sure I want to anyway. Everyone feels they have to change so much, to take artistic license, I'm almost afraid to see movies like that any more." Her eyes drop again, lingering on the exposed scar for a moment, but she still doesn't question it and her eyes lift back to Elijah's face. "Have you read Watchers, by Koontz? That's my favorite."

Elijah smiles and writes, "I would appreciate that very much and take good care of your book." He'd definitely make sure to find somewhere to stash it, in case it got damaged during a fight. "I have never actually been to a movie. I have seen movies on television before, when I was little, but I don't remember them very well." he writes. He looks a bit sheepish at that, knowing movies are a common experience and not seeing them is another mark of his difference, but he also always tries to be honest. "I don't think I've read Watchers."

Fern's brows lift, but she doesn't look as surprised by the admission of his movie deficiency as some might. Moreso, her curiosity is piqued because, in her experience, the people she's met who admit to not really conforming to the social norm have been aliens, or clones. "I'd invite you over to see one, but... I don't have a tv," she offers easily, with a soft laugh. "And it's not the same as in a theater, anyway. We should go see one of the action movies sometime, those are theater worthy." She pauses, then explains, "Meaning, they're worth paying to see on a big screen. Not all movies are theater worthy. Gatsby, for example. Not a lot that I think you'd really need to experience, ya know?" Her rambling is easy and friendly, without self consciousness or hesitation.

Elijah is relieved to not be accused immediately of being a freak, not that he really expected that from Fern. He's only just begun getting to know her, but he can already tell she's not the kind of judgmental person...well, the kind of judgmental person that he lived among for most of his life. He smiles, writing, "I have no television myself." Or roof. Or furniture. Again, not that he mentions this. "I usually do not have money to go to a movie, but I might be able to save up sometime. I hear there are sometimes festivals, too, in the park, where I might be able to go for free. I am definitely looking forward to the experience someday, though. Most people seem to like it."

There's an eager nod as Fern reads, "And there are second run places, they're less expensive. Usually less crowded, too, because everyone has seen the movies on the first run." She shifts, then turns, spying a waitress a few tables away. Eventually she'll surely come to where the pair take up her patio space, so Fern shifts gears, turning back to Elijah. "Do you want a cup of coffee, or an iced tea or something?" she offers. It won't break her budget too badly, and it's better to have a treat with a friend than alone.

Elijah bites his bottom lip. He doesn't like to impose on other people. His needs are met, usually, often through charity and sometimes just from the world itself. He's not above dumpster diving, as needed. Still, the fragrant aroma of the cafe is certainly a temptation and, while he still believes, he's learned that he can allow himself something on occasion and shouldn't be so quick to deny himself small pleasures. "Tea," he writes simply, "And thank you, very much. I don't care if the movies are new. I am told that old movies are often the very best movies."

The thoughtful frown is back at once, and Fern muses aloud, "I think someone at the restaurant mentioned that an art house is showing the Marx Brothers films. Do you like comedies?" she queries. But, before he has a chance to write an answer, she's back off track, popping to her feet. "Two iced teas, coming up." Instead of waiting for the waitress to come over, she'll just pop inside and get them. It's faster and she doesn't mind giving a fellow waitress something of a break. Her hand drops lightly onto Elijah's shoulder as she nods to the pad. "Your assignment is to tell me what kind of movies you think you might like to see." There's a teasing command to the words, and Fern grins at him, closer to eye level than when they were both standing. "I'll be right back." There's no waiting again, as she spins with a light ruffle of her skirt, slipping through the tables to disappear inside for a moment.

Elijah smiles at the easy and natural way Fern treats him, a rarity for him. It's like the way people interact in the books he reads sometimes, really talking, listening to each other (or reading, in Fern's case). So much of his life was spent afraid of other people, it's strange to feel something almost like...trust again. He never imagined tea came in an iced form, but he's intrigued enough not to say anything, deciding to try the new experience. When Fern returns, she finds he's written. "I've heard of the Marx Brothers. They are said to be very funny. I think I would like funny movies."

It's just a couple minutes before Fern's back, carrying a small tray, weaving the path aided by her mad waitressing skillz. The tray is set down as she settles back into her chair, and she immediately unloads two glasses of iced tea, setting one closer to Elijah, and a sandwich on a plate, which goes between them. "Do you like egg salad? I hope so, it looked so good that I had to get one." There are also napkins and straws for their tea, some sugar packets, and four lemon wedges in a little dish. She sets about without preamble to plucking up a lemon wedge and squeezing it into her tea, as she leans, her attention on the pad of paper. "Oh good, I'll ask Jerry about it, I'm pretty sure he mentioned it." She doesn't explain who Jerry is, but prattles on, "I've seen a couple of their movies, my folks like them. They're funny, but my favorite parts are when Chico and Harpo play music. It's amazing to watch." Despite Elijah's silence, there is no lacking for chatter when Fern is around.

Elijah imitates Fern's actions with the tea, adding a bit of sugar and lemon, stirring it with his straw, enjoying the sound of the ice cubes clinking against the sides of the glass. He takes up the sandwich and considers it for a moment, but takes a neat bite, trying to be careful. The food is more than he asked for, of course, and he feels slightly ashamed at how quickly he's taking it, but it's hard to deny hunger once food is actually in front of you. He'll say a longer prayer tonight, in thanks. He doesn't try to follow up on Jerry's identity, rather liking the assumption that he might know a Jerry. Perhaps Jerry's very famous and he should know who Jerry is. He's not even sure entirely who Chico and Harpo are, but nods nonetheless, "I am very fond of music. Sometimes, I sit outside the Metropolitan Opera, up on the rooftop, and i can hear the music through the walls. Even feel it. I like it very much."

Taking up the other half of the sandwich, Fern leans to see what's been written as she takes a bite herself. Before she comments on it, she closes her eyes, sighing softly, looking like she's thoroughly enjoying the first taste of the sandwich. She chews and quickly swallows, opening her eyes to direct them at Elijah. "Wow. That's almost as good as my mom's egg salad." Another sigh gets her back on track yet again. "That sounds nice. We went to hear the orchestra up in Cleveland every year, at this pavilion where you could picnic out on a big, grassy hill and listen. We'd lay back and listen to the music and watch the stars. I'd usually fall asleep," she admits, smiling with the memory. "Do you watch the stars on the rooftop?"

Elijah makes his sandwich disappear pretty quickly, although he tries not to make too much of a show of how rapidly he scarfs it down. He takes a long sip of the tea as well, finding the flavor unusual but pleasant. He writes eagerly, "I try. It is difficult to see, often, in the city, because the lights are so very bright, even at night. I often just have to imagine them there. But I remember what they looked like, over the countryside. It was always one of my favorite sights."

Fern doesn't eat as quickly, partially because she's busy talking, but she gets in a few bites as Elijah writes. Her head bobbles in agreement, "Yeah, they are. Kind of wash out the sky. I wonder if you can see them better up higher, like from the Empire State Building." The thoughtfulness in this speculation might give one the idea that she now intends to find out sometime. She actually stops talking long enough to take another bite, and then a sip of tea before she's off again. "I'm from Ohio, if Cleveland didn't give it away." Fern turns her head to look at Elijah, asking "Where'd you grow up?" before her eyes drop to the pad in expectation of a reply.

Elijah considers for a moment, writing quickly, "I had not thought of that. I will have to try and climb a higher building myself. Tenement rooftops do not seem to be high enough." he writes. At the question about growing up, he considers for a long moment. Finally, he writes, "Upstate New York, on a farm. In a town called Solomon's Wall." Solomon's Wall was a small town indeed, but made major headlines five years ago after a cult there, the Brethren of the Way, were involved in what was believed to be a mass suicide, virtually all of the cult burning alive. A boy had survived, a minor, but his name had been protected when he went into the foster system. Of course, whether or not Fern might remember any of those details depends on how much she paid attention to the news.

In Elijah's hesitation to write, Fern glances back up at him, studying his face without being obvious about it. She had suspected that might be a more difficult question to answer for him than it may be for some, and seems to be proven somewhat correct. Her eyes drop as his hand moves, and she murmurs, "Solomon's Wall." There isn't an indication the name means anything to her, and with care not to ask too much too quickly of a new friend, she meanders back to a previous topic. "I think I have that Koontz book, too. Watchers," she adds, since she does realize it's kind of a jump to tie that back in without some guidance. "I can loan you that along with Gatsby." While it is an offer, it comes out as more of a statement, without a doubt that he'd accept.

Elijah smiles, grateful that Fern doesn't bring up the Brethren. HE was braced for it, of course. He knows how much coverage it got at the time, how it plagued him when he first entered the system. With his scars, it was easy to identify him and he wasn't always proud of how he responded to some of the curious kids who asked him about it. One went through a window, for which he still prayed forgiveness. He'd been very angry, very angry indeed. "Yes, please. Thank you," he writes. "I will try to find something I can do for you in return." he writes, never considering that what he'd done the day before might have counted. That, after all, was his duty, his purpose. He could have done nothing differently (Well, maybe less stick fighting ice cream people).

Fern thinks differently on the matter, apparently, as she laughs softly, "You mean something more than getting me safely away from trouble?" She chides gently, good naturedly, and then waves her sandwichless hand dismissively. "Friends do stuff for each other. It's all good." The last bit of sandwich is popped between grinning lips. There really aren't many hoops to jump through to be considered a friend by Fern once you've saved her from herself. Still, her sharp mind has captured the the town name, and it will be likely to get plugged into a search engine next time she's using a library computer. Her curiosity rivals that of any cat. "How was the sandwich?"

Elijah hasn't had much in the way of friends. Not ever, really. Not among the Brethren, at least not after he was named the One Chosen. Not in the foster system. Not even in the city. Some of the residents of his neighborhood appreciate him, certainly, but they also keep away, unsure, at a distance. He smiles, happy to have earned the designation. At the question, he smiles and writes, "Very, very good. I enjoyed it, thank you." His smile turns to a frown as he hears something in his head, a soft cry. A plea. A prayer. A cry for help. Even on a nice day in the Village, bad things happen, it seems. He shakes his head and sighs, writing quickly, "I have to go soon. Someone needs my help. It is hard to explain." he writes.

"You're welcome. We'll have to remember this place and come back again." Fern's smile falters as Elijah's fades, and after a moment her frown mirrors his, concern in her eyes. Her head shakes gently, "You don't have to explain. You're special. When ya gotta go, ya gotta go." She's no stranger to friends having to go heroing on the spur of the moment, whether it's from a call or a feeling or hearing a prayer. She reaches over and lightly removes the pen from Elijah's fingers, scribbling quickly on the pad. Her handwriting is a cursive/printing hybrid, but easily enough read. "This is where I work," is said as she writes the name and address of Anita Bella, "In Brooklyn. If you're ever around, stop in. I'm there odd hours, so it's just as likely you'll catch me as not." Finishing, the pen is laid onto the pad. "Now go," she says lightly. "Do your thing." No question of what his thing is, or how he knows he's needed. Maybe they'll get a chance to go into that another time.

Elijah smiles and makes sure to put Fern's information in a safe pocket, rising up. He tucks his pad away and closes his eyes for a moment, centering himself as he feels the prayer again, the susurrus of voices in his head swirling and churning until he's able to close in on the right voice. Four blocks east, one north. A girl being dragged into a car. He'd best be quick. He turns and bows, pressing his palms together, mouthing thank you again to his new friend, and then heads off. As he hits the street, he leaps, his body flying up out of view with the inhuman strength of his legs...