Brights and Whites
Connor let himself into the apartment after the run-in with Blond Boy, put the groceries away, then set about cleaning himself up. The sweatshirt was a loss, ripped from the armpit down, and he threw it away before holding a wet washcloth on his nose, which was still bleeding a little. He'd seen the cat when he came in, and he checked the animal's food and water bowls while putting away the dishes that had dried in the rack. He'd eat something, maybe hang around until Francess came home, then go out for patrol.

The Destroyer fixed a pot of coffee, started throwing together some leftovers from the fridge. Thank God he could taste real food again. Avery was right; having taste buds that worked made everything different. He put it in the microwave and set the timer, then sat down at the little kitchen table once the beep sounded. His nose had stopped trickling blood, and he took the cloth away, folding it up so he couldn't see the red spot. Mental note - bleach for the towels and stuff during the next wash load.

Speaking of the laundry, Francess had made an 'uh-oh' on the load she completed before work that afternoon. Knowledge of her great clothing catastrophe weighed heavily on her soul during her shift. It was with a hanged-puppy look that she unlocked the apartment door and let herself in. "It's me!" she yelled, a shaft of light from the kitchen letting her know Connor was home. Still in theater uniform and smelling of popcorn, she hustled past the open door and the room that smelled of reheated food. All Connor would've seen was a speed-walking beanpole making serious tracks to her bedroom.

"I'll be out in a second." She shut the door, turned the wand on the window blinds, and stripped out of the burgundy outfit. Her cherished nametag bounced across the dresser and fell behind it, a source of panic for the next day. Francess changed into her comfort clothes: a tank top, EAT SPAM! pajama pants, and fuzzy orange socks. When she re-emerged, she was carrying a bundle of clothes. Her walk to the kitchen was like a march to the gallows.

"Um... Connor?" Francess shifted nervously.

"Mmmf."

Connor had put together two sandwiches, one meatloaf and the other tuna salad, and a glob of mayonnaise slithered out from between the pieces of bread and splotched onto the plate as he took a bite. He looked at Francess out of the corner of his eye, noted the orange socks, then finished chewing to wash down the food with a drink of coffee. For a second, he forgot that he was partially unclothed in front of someone else's girlfriend, and then his cheeks pinkened. He very carefully set the sandwich down, directed his attention to the clothing his roommate was holding.

"What's up? Why do you look like someone kicked your dog? Cat, I mean?"

"I... was doing laundry." She remained in the doorway while Ivan, her overeating pet, nudged her shin with his giant head. As that failed to catch her attention, he began to pick at her socks with his claws. "I thought it was empty, so I put in my brights." Slowly she lifted the wad of striped hose and sweaters, the effect something like a meteoric ball of melted-together crayons. "Your dirty socks were in there. These used to be white, didn't they?"

It became clear that some of the multicolored clothing wasn't hers. "I'm sorry!"

He just looked at her for a second, his eyebrows scrunching together as he started to lift his weight out of the chair. He had left some things in the washer, intending to do them the next day before he didn't have a full load yet. The leg of his favorite pair of jeans was dangling loose from the ball of fabric. It had a day-glo green blotch on it. He was out of the chair now.

"Uh..." Francess looked like she could panic at any second, and he had to remind himself that she'd never lived on her own before, with someone who wasn't a relative. At least this cut through the discomfort of being shirtless in front of her. The Destroyer grasped the pants leg, got a closer look at some of the other damage. The jeans, a pair of socks, a formerly white T shirt. Ivan chose that second to pick at the denim of the jeans Connor was currently wearing. He did his best to ignore the animal.

"Ohh-kay." This, he supposed, was one of the benefits of sticking to casual clothes, not to mention doing lots of shopping at thrift stores. Still, that had been his favorite pair of jeans. "Guess I should've put up a Post-It. 'No brights, this machine is occupied'." It was a weak joke, but he didn't want Francess looking like he was about to throw her out a window. He took the bundle of cloth from his roommate, inspected it more closely. "Well...I guess it'd be a shoo-in for some kind of modern art contest."

Fran's mouth wobbled. "M-maybe it'll come out," she suggested, tormented because she had only ever ruined her own belongings. "I didn't put them in the dryer. If we just wash them again... separately, of course! The colors could rinse out. It's worth a shot." Those bright clothes that belonged to her, she balled up tight and tossed at her open bedroom. Ivan the cat chased after them. It seemed ingrained in the very nature of felines to wrestle with clean laundry, leaving puffs of cat hair in their wake.

"Anything new with you?" She padded into the kitchen, long brown braid swaying against her shoulderblades, and opened a cabinet. The fact that Connor was bare-chested had finally dawned on her, but she met the realization with the same response she had given as a young girl, when Gilbert's college friends crashed at the Penn household on breaks, and wrestled around the place in boxers. She pretended her eyeballs would electrocute her if she rolled them below face-level.

Fran unclipped a bag of yogurt pretzels and took a bite.

"I had a fight with some jerk." Connor mumbled the response, looking a little forlornly at his jeans, which he still held. Maybe it would wash out. He could try it. He set the items aside, returned to his food before it could get cold. He picked up his meatloaf sandwich and ate a little of it. And that reminded him anyway.

He went on to give a brief description of Blond Boy, then told Francess, "If you see that guy around anyplace, let me know. He's the kind of creep that lurks around waiting to cause trouble. I can give him that if he really wants it."

More coffee, and the Destroyer said a belated, "You want anything to eat? I don't think I realized we had so many leftovers, I can heat you up a plate."

Chewing a pretzel, Fran covered her mouth and mumbled, "No thanks." Once she had it swallowed, she added, "I'm not too hungry. I ate a huge bag of Skittles on my break. And a hot dog with relish." It was a lucky thing the brunette was tall; it helped spread the sugar around. She took the seat opposite her roommate and crossed her ankles. "I doubt that guy'd cause trouble with me. I usually fly under the radar, because what would he get? My velcro wallet? Course, lately I keep walking into trouble on accident."

The scratches on her face and throat had mostly healed, but she touched the pink line on her cheek. Francess was aware of how close she'd come to having her eye poked out by a harpie-thing-wing. The image kept catching her when she least expected it: a big, flapping black wing, her eyeball stuck on the end like one of those antenna-toppers, staring back at her.

Making a face, Francess ate another pretzel. "Hey, did I tell you Grace doesn't wear panties?"

He had returned to eating, and the bite of sandwich he'd just taken went down the wrong pipe, resulting in a coughing fit that had him flattening one hand against the tabletop and the other against his bare chest. He gave Francess a dirty look, one he hadn't allowed himself to give her over the laundry, and when he could breathed again he managed to wheeze, "Don't tell me how you found that out. Seriously." Because that was what he needed, the knowledge of whether or not some vampire ran around without underpants.

"How's life in the theater business?" he asked once he'd recovered a little more. "Do you get to see a lot of the first-run movies when they first open?"

"I didn't do anything dirty," Francess said, wrinkling her nose. Her roommate had advanced the conversation, but she was stuck worrying Connor thought she was like a... vampire floosy. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and removed the elastic band. "What, you think... just because I'd make out with one vampire, I'd make out with them all? Well I wouldn't, and plus she has a vagina. Which I can confirm, unfortunately. Besides, Avery was with me and can vouch, and not in a creepy threesome way."

Francess felt her face growing hot. She concentrated on unplaiting her hair. "And yes, I get to see movies. It's for free, too, except I have to watch them in pieces because of being managerial. But I was thinking of maybe taking a writing class for fun, too, or getting into a community theatre. The stage kind, I mean."

Connor was just looking at her now, going from aggravated to semi-amused in less than two minutes. "Sounds delightful," he said, leaving it undefined as to whether he meant the idea of taking classes or having Avery to vouch for her more-or-less chaste ways among the undead. He indicated the bag of pretzels she was munching from. "Can I snag one of those? I usually like them plain better, but the yogurt ones are okay too."

"Sure." She pointed the open end at Connor. It sounded like Ivan was doing acrobatics in the hallway. Francess straightened up and craned her neck, just in time to watch the cat gallop by with a pair of pantyhose draped around its neck like a scarf. She shook her head and placed her chin in a hand. "I have a question. But brace yourself, because it's kind-of weird." There was a pretzel on the table, and she poked her index finger through it and spun it around and around. "Say you liked somebody, a girl, and this girl happened to be the person you were dating, so hooray. And recently you two had a chat about... taking things to the next level."

Francess moistened her lips. "Not like the top level, but maybe a rung or so higher. But you and this girl were both kind-of shy. How big-time awkward would it be if she made the first move? And what would be an okay move? Oh! And in this scenario, the girl is twenty, and you're a youthful almost-seventy, so when you grew up, girls were modest and wore slips and..."

She trailed off, doing the verbal equivalent of a flail.

Connor was paying diligent attention to his pretzel. He picked off one section of it, then another, then another, watching the yogurt-covered snack get smaller as he ate it. As though it were a meditative act, consuming the object one small bit at the time. Giving himself time to think, his expression placid and thoughtful.

On the inside, however, he was quietly alarmed.

"Well," he said after a minute, "I think that if you and Avery are ready to take that next step, then it's good that you've...discussed it, the way any other couple would. I know that he really seems to like you, and he seems like the kind of guy who wouldn't rush into anything without considering it. Y'know, giving it the thought it deserves."

Kindness was preventing him from telling Francess any of the things he was thinking, but the alarm was pulling up a chair and opening a beer for itself. He had carefully put this out of his mind, this business of his roommate making time with Avery, but things he was avoiding had the strangest ways of announcing their presence, almost as if in retaliation for trying to ignore them. The pretzel was finished. He plucked another one out of the bag.

"Does this mean you two are going to go steady?" Wow, an attempt at a joke.

Francess fiddled with a lock of hair, winding it around her fingertip. "I think so," she said, giving the lock a tug. "I mean..." She looked up at the light fixture, narrowing her eyes against its brightness. "I never said the word out loud to him... 'boyfriend', but I'm not seeing anybody else, and I don't think Avery is."

She pulled herself into cross-legged position on the kitchen chair.

Boyfriend. Oh, wonderful. The Destroyer systematically ate the second pretzel, then said, "Are you ready for that? The second step, whatever that is in this case? He's...Avery, he's different, not like other guys. You know some of it already. Have you talked about...everything with him?"

That was as close as he was going to let himself come to saying 'he used to kill people', but he was already preparing himself for a later conversation with the vampire. He'd kept out of it as much as he was able to, but he felt like Francess was putting the matter on his plate, so to speak. If that was the case, he didn't have much choice but to get after it with a knife and fork.

"Is there something you're worried about over it?"

"No," Francess said, shaking her head. "I'm not worried about him being a vampire, if that's what you mean. I know that stuff." She picked up the pretzel and flaked at the yogurt coating with her thumbnail. "I feel safe with him," she closed her eyes, "and comfortable in ways I'm normally not. Like ever." The brunette looked at her roommate, and since she didn't want to fidget where he could see, her feet wound around the chair legs and locked in place. "I was just... I was just asking for advice on men. A man, who happens to be used to old-fashioned girls. Would it be weird if I was forward, or would he want to make the first move?"

The whole conversation was burning her cheeks.

Safe. Avery made her feel safe. Connor looked at his still unfinished sandwiches, pushed the plate aside. There were a hundred things he could say, beginning with the fact that Avery didn't even have a soul and might not be able to comprehend real romantic feelings for someone. The soul might not be conscience, but it could serve as a buffer.

"I don't think it would be weird necessarily," he offered carefully. "I think Avery's a little stuck between decades, if that makes sense. He remembers a lot of what it was like when he was still human and he's kept that with him, retained it for the present day. Maybe that's even what keeps him from being dangerous, remembering that stuff."

That made him wince inwardly, but he kept a straight face because he didn't want to hurt Francess' feelings. He knew what it was like to feel hopeful about something, hopeful and excited, and it was hardly his place to advise her on her love life. Whether she'd asked or not. Like he was some kind of role model for relationships, right? And yet...

Damn it. He was going to have to talk to Avery.

"I don't think you should do anything you're not comfortable with," he advised. "I don't know if you've done the boyfriend-girlfriend thing or not, but slow and easy is usually the right way to go."

Francess wrinkled her nose with good nature. "We met in July. Six months with nothing but kissing is probably considered nun-slow, in some circles." The trash can was within reach; she extended her arm and tossed away the battered pretzel. Connor hadn't given her any direct advice about whether or not she should make a move. It mostly seemed like he was uncomfortable with the topic. Vaguely, Fran wondered if it was because of the subject matter or just because she was her. Maybe Connor had trouble imagining Francess with that kind of urge and she'd been relegated to the group of people everyone knew who were considered asexual, with Barbie-and-Ken crotches to match.

She got up and pushed her chair beneath the table. "I think I'm gonna do it. Not... it, per se!" Francess raised her splayed hands. "But something." Nodding with the solemnity of a woman who'd set her chin and was prepared to run a gauntlet, Francess's socked feet took muted steps into the hall. "I'm gonna check the mail and go read. Thanks, though."

"Yeah, sure. Anytime, Francess." He hadn't helped. He hadn't helped and he knew it and he was going to have to buttonhole Avery and crap-crap-crap-crap-crap! Connor looked at the bag of pretzels his roommate had left behind, picked it up and closed it to keep the contents from going stale. Ivan came romping back through the room, the pantyhose still wound around his lower body. For an animal so large, he sure could move fast.

The Destroyer finished his sandwiches, cleaned up his dishes. He would find an unripped shirt and put it on, then go out and do some patrolling. Maybe he could learn something about who might be selling Orpheus in the city so that he could give William the information. The other thing could wait for a while. Francess was smart. She was also an adult and could take care of herself. He shouldn't be so quick to foresee problems.

It would all, as the saying went, come out in the wash.