12th Confession [Action]

[notabluesbro]

[Time for personal confetti because

~Wolfwood's back~

...Sort of.

Rather, he's smaller. Shorter. Even more scruffy and disorganized than before.

He'd woken up in a forest and spent a good 3 hours raking his mind over just what he was seeing—snow, actual snow. Of course, none of that was important for the meanwhile when he realized he was cold. Holy shit, was it freezing out here. At least whoever left him here gave him some clothes and... a gun in a holster?

Slipping on the way-too-big black jacket, he examines the handgun. Of course, Wolfwood always carried it on him, but... he's eight at the moment, so this information is just going over his head. It's not as though he's never used one, of course. He just never had such a nice holster to go with it!

But what doesn't go over his head is the fact that he has wings. Wings! What the hell is going on here? Where is he? Surely he's not... well, y'know.

He rushes around the dense for a for hours, stumbling and tripping in the groggy morning light, until he finds... ah, there are rooms in this building that aren't used? Maybe if he's sneaky, he can just stay in one of these here. Once that's done with, he wanders around town for a few hours with a stolen jacket sloppy thrown over his old collared shirt. Looking paranoid as he stalks through crowds. All right, Nick. You're in a strange place, but you cannot forget the number one rule: just survive.

Too many people around to steal from the stores. Stomach rumbling. Wait until night, then find a window, a door even, to sneak into.

When cold, black night eventually hits, he lassos the holster around his waist (hey, no more tucking into the side of his pants), under his shirt, and sets out, sneaking into whatever apartment or house he can. Perhaps sorting through your drawers, cabinets, or refrigerators. Hey, you can't expect him to know about all that free stuff, right? Despite him being as quiet as possible, there may be an occasional falling down of something—a pan, perhaps a glass. In case your character is a heavy sleeper. 8|]

[OOC: You can run into him any part of his day listed above! Replies will be from very very obvious journals~! Time and space is kicked often.

He might draw that gun in any robbery attempt, but he won't shoot at anyone. Unless they're trying to kill him. |Db]

Comments

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[Better than what he expected. Still, a tired sigh, and he gets to his feet]

If you get back over here I can help with that.

[notablueskid.livejournal.com]

[Get away from my safe corner? You're crazy!]

I can handle it myself! [But he curls up a little further into the corner at the attempt to move said limb around.] ...How'd you help, anyway.

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[It was worth a shot!]

Want the truth? I can heal it with my hands.

[notablueskid.livejournal.com]

[...you're so full of shit 8|]

That's stupid—y'can't just heal things with your hands...

[I'm a kid and even I know that. >:|]

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

Hoooo. Coming from the kid who thought I'd kill him, even when I said I wouldn't.

[That's right, brat. 8| You're not in any position to be doubting people]

Besides, if I was gonna lie, I'd choose something a little bit more believable.

[notablueskid.livejournal.com]

[...Well, he guesses that's logical. Even if you aren't.

He inches a few steps towards Sanji, gun still dangling in his hand, and then just puts out the swelling arm for the blonde-haired man to see. There, happy? Just don't turn on him, or else he'll... he'll... uh, try and shoot you. 8|]

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[He moves the jacket sleeve out of the way first, and... damn. So this is what bruises look like on a non-rubber body. It's almost enough to make Sanji feel bad, despite this not being exactly his fault.

But from what he can see, it's not beyond his level of skill. His grip is firm, but any discomfort that might cause is soon washed out by a more soothing warmth.

A few seconds more, and then one arm = completely healed. Voila.]

[not-a-blueskid.livejournal.com]

[By the time Sanji's done, Wolfwood quickly draws his arm back, though the look he has isn't quite hostile anymore. That. That was weird and unnatural.

And so cool.

But the matter at hand—the thing that snaps him out of his more childlike expression: you're still in a stranger's house. With that, he looks down, shuffling his foot once in his awkwardness. He's unused to a magical person who'd so strangely turn around and heal a thin little bastard like himself.

It was enough for him to say what he didn't ever want to say again. Hesitantly, but untouched by anything but subtle gratitude.]


.... Thank you, sir.

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

... [So this one has some semblance of manners. Sanji grins faintly and jabs a thumb at the fridge]

You hungry? I take it that's why you snuck in.

Lucky for you, I'm a chef, so I'll make you something.

[not-a-blueskid.livejournal.com]

[Wolfwood's shoulders took up their more squared appearance at the sound of that. This guy made no sense.]

Just...

[He wants to think up something independent to say, but his stomach cuts him off and makes a loud, demanding rumble. As if he didn't feel ridiculous enough, getting caught by a giant mouse trap, his stomach's gone and entirely betrayed him.

His cheeks redden, and he keeps his gaze on the ground.]

...a little.

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[Good. You don't wanna hear Sanji get started on the matter of hunger.]

Alright, go wait by the table for a sec. [He's got an idea on what he wants to make]

Oh. And your name? [rolling back to sleeves]

[not-a-blueskid.livejournal.com]

...M'Nicholas.

[He hesitates, but walks over to the table and sits rigid—always leaning back and forth to see what Sanji's doing when his back is to him.]

You can call me Nick, f'it's easier...

I am making myself hungry ;;

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

What do you prefer to be called? [Well, you leaning ninja, what you'll see is Sanji constructing a sandwich: wheat bread, ham, lettuce, onions, tomatoes, roast beef, and a tiny bit of mayo. Nothing extensive or fancy, since he has no clue what the boy likes, but he's more concerned with feeding the street rat than wowing him with presentation.]

8|a /makes PB&J

[not-a-blueskid.livejournal.com]

I guess Nicholas's okay.

[I WILL EAT THIS TABLECLOTH you do have a tablecloth right

Maybe it's a metaphorical tablecloth.]

...Who're you?

[Said like someone who has no idea how to get a name in return.]

My mom is making me bacon and eggs. 8| And tea.

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[There is a tablecloth, but jeez, the sandwich is about done. 8|]

Call me Sanji. [With that, a plate full of delicious is placed in front of Nicholas, as well as a tall glass of water.]

Go on; eat up.

>:| You tease.

[not-a-blueskid.livejournal.com]

[He tilts his chin down in thought for a moment. This felt all wrong. The last time he'd eaten at a real table... he was at least four. But then to have something so colorful and full and there...]

I can eat up here?

[He backtracks, thinks about the last house he'd been in, as a real 'home'. And it makes him grip his once bruised arm tightly. But this guy wasn't like that. He wasn't the same guy, so it wasn't fair to compare them.

He fixed up his arm—he set mouse traps.

He offered food—could be poisoned.

He gave you his name—so did uncle.]

[not-a-blueskid.livejournal.com]

[His shoulders grow lax.]

At th'table, n'stuff...

*^* It was delicious

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[Sanji watches the silence and what must be an internal battle, wondering what ugly type of life this boy must've led if he's that torn about eating at a table. Had Wolfwood told him? He can't remember.]

Of course. [He gropes at his pants pocket, taking out a cigarette] You're not some shitty dog who's gonna eat on the floor.

:'|

[notablueskid.livejournal.com]

[A quiet mumble:]

...Doesn't make you a shitty dog, if you eat on the floor.

[He doesn't scarf down the food, nor does he take big bites. They're small and quiet and careful, like a person handling glass.

But the water all goes first, in one long drink. He looks at Sanji—no, at that cigarette—and tries to control his brow from creasing.]

8D <3

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[A small grin]

Nah, I guess it doesn't. But it's a lot cleaner on the table.

[Admittedly, Sanji did expect him to scarf everything down, and so watches this delicate type of eating in bemusement. Nicholas is full of surprises, ain't he?

But because of it, he's quick to note the subtle look being shot at him. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and idly holds it between two fingers]

Don't like cigarettes? [Also, promptly refilling the glass]

Cruel, cruel person ;;

[notablueskid.livejournal.com]

[He shakes his head swiftly at that.]

No, s'just—



...Do you have anymore?

I would send you some if I could!

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

... Started young, did ya?

[This is said as he forks one over. >_> Hey, he started at ten!]

It's okay, I'll make cut-outs and pretend 8D

[notablueskid.livejournal.com]

[Wolfwood takes the cigarette, gratefulness masked a little by his caution, like always. He takes a long drag, and suddenly, he looks a few years older; what kid doesn't, with their elbow perched and a smoke in hand.

But he nods at the question.]

I found 'em around the house, sometimes.

Those aren't very edible though >_>

[oda-hates-me.livejournal.com]

[A shrug then, and he nods at the explanation]

So long as you know they're bad as shit for you. [He's not gonna stop him]

[notablueskid.livejournal.com]

[He shrugs back.]

More dangerous stuff out there than cigarettes.

S'why you should always have a gun.

[He pats his hip as he says it, sounding more than sure of himself.]