112ounces | OPEN RP LOG

[Of course one of the first things Negan does is find a foothold with higher powers, an in for positions he'll eventually take over. If it doesn't take a zombie apocalypse here to get that, fine. If it does, also fine. He'd survived the last one. He'd survive the next. Not just survive, but thrive. He'll get to that point here, too. It's inevitable.

And in the midst of finding footholds, he's gotta listen to a few birdies, too. Keep an eye for What's-His-Name. Prick's kid, the little angry pirate. Soon enough, he's just...there. Miraculously. Somehow, one morning, just sitting in the corner of the kitchen, idly using a kitchen knife on a block of wood. To the untrained eye it's woodwork and threat combined. To the trained pirate eye it's just plain threat.]

Mornin' kid. [Whether Carl has turned the light on or not doesn't matter; there's enough sunlight to show him. He chips away at the block. It could be a door stop. Or a stake. It's a slightly pointy bit of wood being made by an asshole in leather wielding the largest knife in Carl's kitchen and that's what matters.] Didn't get that beauty sleep, didja?

[He isn't Dwight but Grimes Junior's only saving grace is his hair.

There is a shadow on the other side of Negan, slim and sharp, something leaning against the chair he's chosen. Something named Lucille.]

[ Carl is already dressed for the day. (His hair, however, is an amazing uncombed mess that added nearly a foot to his height.) When he sees Negan, he stops cold. A person can feel the hatred coming off of him. Not in waves, but in a slow, uneven crawl.

Carl went back and seen the man that drove his father into a gibbering wreck some time ago. He seen Abraham and Glenn die in the line-up, in shivering horror and in silent rage. And now Carl is alone, and for once, he's grateful. He doesn't want his family to deal with this. He can handle this just fine on his own.

Carl stares at the man, seizing him up. He doesn't dare turn his back on him, to run back and get the pistol at his nightstand, to close his bedroom and locking his dog Tommy away. He sees the barb wire bat. He might have a gun on him as well. So he stands there, his eye narrowed, his damaged (missing) eye hidden away by the leather patch.

He doesn't even give the man the answer to his question. ]

Surprised to see me? I get it. I understand.

[He's a swell, stand up guy, after all. He has a great understanding of people's concerns. Just a fantastic boss to work for, a great guy all around. He accompanies this obvious character trait by tossing the block of maimed wood on the table and using said table as a holding place for the knife.

Whoops.

He leans back, spreading his legs like this is his home. Like he owns this room. Hands clasp and he rolls his shoulders, a casual, happy sort of shrug to match the shit-eating grin on his face as he looks right at Patchy Grimes.]

So what's for breakfast? I could eat a whole Goddamn cow right about now. Been a long ass time since you could just buy bacon and eggs at the store.

[ That poor cheap table. It's been abused regularly by Carl himself, and now this asshole. Carl slips his hands into his pockets, as if he's trying to be casual as Negan.

Of course, he's discreetly checking if he's got a knife he forgot to take out of his pockets. But no such luck. His unimpressed stare never changes. ]

There's a MacDonalds a block down. Have at it.

Really? Hell. A big mac and a beer would not be a bad way to start the day. [No accounting for taste. As if Carl ever assumed Negan had taste in the first place, vampire bats taken into consideration. It's okay. They know each other. They're all friends here. That casual chair-hogging stays in place, so do the smiles.] But...tss. I don't feel like walking a block down! Everything we need is right here.

[We, he says. Congrats on being in a "we" with Negan, Carl. Facebook is concerned about this status change. Nothing is right here.]

You know how to cook. Don't you?

[ Carl's hospitality is officially gone now. ]

I'm not cooking for you.

[ Bluntly. ]

Get out.

[The smile grows and Negan chuckles, pleased as punch. Carl's hatred apparently makes him stronger. Or happier. High, maybe. Whatever the case...]

We're having breakfast. You cook for you, too. Christ. I'm not gonna keep you from eating, kid.

[This is how to be generous. Focus up, Carl.]

[ The nice thing about this place is the powers. While Carl doesn't like one of his powers, the two remaining ones suited him just fine. Controlling rusted metal, and creating corrosion is a handy power. All sorts of metal pieces hidden away discreetly. Even the metal legs of the cheap table as been a little rusted by Carl himself if he needed to use it too.

Carl doesn't know Negan's powers, but he'll try his damnest to make sure Negan doesn't get the chance to use them. ]
.
I don't want to do anything with you.

[ The words are rolled with short bluntness, like a hammer.

Tommy enters the room, tail wagging slowly with hesitation. An English Springer Spaniel, it is white and brown, its brown color on its eyes and ears in one giant spot make it look uncannily similar to his owner. ]

Get out.

Or I fucking make you.

Edited 2016-11-09 23:21 (UTC)

[Still all smiles, like Carl's everything is one big joke. Until the dog enters, that is. Then he extends his bare hand. He leans forward. Fingers snap. He lets out a low, quick whistle and, almost, seems like a man who once owned a dog and really did have a heart for that dog.]

Thank Christ somebody around here is a good boy. C'mere.

[He makes that dog tut-call, fingers wriggling, and perhaps it's no shock to Carl that Negan has some skills with getting lesser creatures to accept invitations...]

[ Tommy is a young, inexperienced dog who would later learn to be a little more hesitate to strangers. But not this time. Tommy wags his tail and approaches Negan before Carl could say a word.

Carl's shoulders tense and he stares at Negan interacting with Tommy like a protective owner would. One move that he might see as threatening to his dog and Carl will probably attack. ]

[At last, Carl is being ignored. Should be a load off! Right? Not having Negan bearing down on him, with or without Lucille, damn. That's something that'd give any of them a moment's relief. Carl done hit jackpot!

Bare fingers move over a fluffy neck, Negan leaning down closer. There's something nearly human about him when the dog shows dog affection back. When Tommy's tail wags, when a little tongue comes out, when Negan looks ready to get on his knees for once and ruffle up the pup.]

Cute. You're real cute. [He is talking to the dog, tone remarkably less shitty compared to what he'd use with a human. It helps encourage the dog he's made a good decision. And Negan, for now, doesn't give any vibe to contradict that. His hand moves over doggie neck and back and shoulders, along the spine without ever pressing too much or lingering too much on any given spot.] Probably wondering where's your breakfast, too. He treatin' you right? You look a little thin there...

[He looks back up at Carl now, fingers lazily working behind Tommy's ears.]

What's his name?

[That's a more Negan-y tone.]

[ There's the smallest of pauses, as if figuring out if giving out his dog's name might be a risk. ]

Tommy.

Tommy? Jesus. [He laughs like Carl's just told a funny but tasteless joke. Was Tommy that ginger chucklefuck? Where is Simon when Negan needs him.] Weird ass name for a dog.

[Clearly all dogs are Max, Rusty, Bruiser, Spike, or Pluto. Negan finally stops touching Carl's dog, though if Tommy tries to hop on his lap or just chills under his chair, he isn't going to do anything about it. Except be chill with it because he knows it's gonna bug the piss out of Carl and that's what matters here: Carl having pee pee pants. Yikes.]

Not surprising. You're a weird ass kid.

[ He's not going to mention that Enid was the one who named the dog, but he's not going to let Negan know about Enid that easily.

So he scoffs.]

You don't know a thing about me.

[ He probably doesn't know his name. ]

[His name is Captain Future Serial Killer, duh.

Negan laughs, again, and this time it's definitely in line with what Carl remembers from a particularly long evening. Might be easy to imagine Lucille over his shoulder instead of leaning on the chair. His gloved hand goes to her at last; just resting atop her.]

I know you're right-handed. [#greatmemory] I know you've been here a while, even though that doesn't make a Goddamn bit of sense. And I know you're not quite the same as you once was. Neither am I! [He puts on a very announcer-like tone, though it's fully mocking.] Harmless radiation and superhuman powers.

[He doesn't give much time for that to sink in, switching back to his normal bastard self and being as blunt as a bat:]

I read the pamphlet, kid.

[Carl's got gifts Negan doesn't know about, and that's okay. Because it works the same in reverse.]

[ And Carl naturally focused his eye on Negan's hands . . . and Lucille. ]

And what do you think of it?

[ Normally Carl doesn't care to ask people he detested of their opinions about, well, anything. He's learned his lesson of trying to give second chances to people when they are undeserving of it, so he makes it a goal not to be personally involve with them. Not even to ask them their opinion on the weather.

Unless, of course, they are from home. And that's where Carl feels has no choice but to take it personally. ]

[Up go the eyebrows, down go the lips; an exaggerated thinking face. The hand around Lucille turns her a few degrees. Then he's standing, hauling her up as he does so. He looks down so he doesn't step on Tommy, even shifts his walk a bit to prevent that. How could he be a threat, keeping the dog safe and all.]

I think... [Lucille is pointed at the fridge.] ...it's time for fucking breakfast. If you can't fry up some eggs and bacon then step aside! No shame in it. I'll show you how it's done.

[He tilts his head, resting Lucille on his shoulder. There's two ways this can go. And only one of them has the potential for a peaceful breakfast to host swear-filled but actually beneficial discussion.]

No, thank you. [ Negan is not touching a damn thing as far as Carl is concerned. >:[ He's not sure if he can trust Negan with food that might be poison -

wait.

Carl turns around and opens the fridge, picking out the eggs and the bacon. He's been running low, but after this he's not sure if he can stomach eggs and bacon ever again. ]

That's better. [He chuckles, smug as fuck as per usual. Negan turns and he grabs the knife from the table.] Might need this.

[He sets it on the counter with some distance between Carl and the chair before he sits back down. He puts Lucille back down. He lets his bare hand hang so he can idly pay the pup some attention. It's not domestic. Not really. Not with Carl knowing even the basics of Negan. It's a bastardization of a happy morning, a mockery of the very idea. Negan watches Carl in passing—he's also looking around, getting a better idea of the layout with more light to do so because he isn't from Hannibal, he can't see everything in black voids.]

Are you...the hell they call it? Are you Registered?

[Genuine question. Imagine that.]

[ For a teenager living (mostly) by himself, his apartment is very much sparse of anything remotely teenage-related, with the exception of a video game console and a few games (that turn out to be standard racing games, not even first person shooters are part of Carl's collection). There are hunting magazines and newspapers; books that are in the young adult category scattered in every table, and work related papers, which is mostly just lots of pamphlets of animal shelters and adoption.

In fact, it's a lot like Carl doesn't really live here. Not really. It lacks a personal touch.

There's no photos of friends, first of all.

He narrows his eye at Negan as he pries the limp strips of bacon. Carl doesn't answer right away. Every answer that comes out of Carl's mouth is going to be measured, as if each word is carefully evaluated before handing over to Captain Overkill. ]

Yes.

[ Just like that. ]

Edited 2016-11-12 02:39 (UTC)

[Negan definitely takes notice of everything he can; he'll have to learn how to play racing games, maybe, because of the whole alpha male thing he has going on. Gotta learn how to literally own Mario Kart. Why not. Gotta own Toad's tears too.

Yes. Just like that. Huh. Did the government have to do anything other than provide? The whole package seemed fairly sweet, with no mention of giving half or watching loved ones get their heads bashed in...]

They do what they say they will?

[Genuine, again. And he almost sounds Concerned—but it's difficult to come to a real opinion (that isn't "this is bullshit") without having a few more facts that aren't from the horse's mouth. So as long as Carl does as told and fills in blanks, Carl will get his answer. A more informed one, and who doesn't love that.]

For now.

[ And in contrast to Negan, Carl does not sound concerned at all. Only because he's been here for so long that he's become a little numb to it. ]

But they are at war with Russia, so that can change any day, any time.

[ Carl turns on the oven, little blue flames flickering into being, automatic and solemn. Carl doesn't see the harm in telling Negan the basics, especially when the basics are common knowledge and any other helpful imPort would have told Negan anyway. ]

Edited 2016-11-12 04:32 (UTC)

S'always Russia. It was Russia when I was a kid.

[Fuckin' Russia. Even James Bond had to deal with them. This sounds familiar, though. This set up. Two parties providing for each other in ways only they can Until The Unthinkable Happens...though he doubts the government takes half of their shit so openly.]

I think that's a pretty good deal there. Yeah, real great deal. Until the moment it ain't. You know how that is, on top of the world one second and realizin' you ain't shit the next.

[v subtle]

[ Carl's stare at Negan is so flat, one can skip stones on it. The words are familiar, the heated coiling feeling in his gut more so. He flicks the bacon strips into the pan, and with the heat underneath, the meat sizzles. ]

The Russians tried to brainwash imPorts. They kidnapped them, wanted to use them as weapons. They about forced almost half of them into being their loyal soldiers before the rest of the imPorts and the US government managed to put a stop to it.

[ As far as Carl is concerned, Russia is very much a threat. ]

[Well hot damn, you go Russia. Probably didn't have as rockin' tunes as the Saviors but not everyone can reach that level.]

Which side were you on? [He chuckles.] They kidnap you or you get to play big fuckin' hero?

[DID HE KILL RUSSIANS IN THEIR SLEEP]

Both.

[ He did win an award from the President for his efforts in killing Russians. ]

I help break out the prisoners. When the Russians invaded a month later and started the brainwashing, I stayed behind. The Porter stopped me from being brainwashed.

[ It was a nasty shock realizing that he lost an eye just as he was being forcibly brainwashed. Something about the trauma saved him from being a loyal Soviet soldier, and led him to kill actual loyal Soviet soldiers. ]

[A pause follows, and as soon as it's possible Carl may believe he got lucky and Negan is shutting his trap for once, the sound of applause hits the air. He doesn't say anything (it's a miracle) but the shit-eating grin only reaffirms that this is not, right now, genuine applause. Whoohoo, great, kid's a hero. Here, anyway. Gravel McGees in the forest didn't have Grimes heroes.

No flat stare will cut through. Actually, if Tommy shows any distress at the upsetting frequent loud noise, that's what'll have Negan stopping early. Go figure.]

[ And Carl's going to ignore the fuck out of Negan as he cracks the eggs and cook the bacon. Tommy is going to slink off, unnerved by both the noise Negan is making and the tension the dog is starting to detect. ]

[Usually, ignoring Negan is a really bad idea. But this time it comes in hand with the whole getting fed thing sooooo he'll tolerate it. For now. He stops clapping, of course, and keeps his spot, legs spread like he's king of this particular kitchen. As soon as things start sizzling, though, Carl may hear an unnerving sound. Like spinning a bat idly around on the floor. Because that's exactly what Negan ends up doing, just like it's no big deal. Just keeping his hands busy. No threat here nope. Tommy was wise.]

[ The bacon sizzles and the eggs harden, and Carl is left wishing he could have his other eye back so he can keep an eye on both the cooking breakfast and Negan. He sees movement of the bat out of the corner of his eye.

As he goes to gather (paper) plates, he briefly touches the metal handles on the drawers and cabinets, giving them just enough rust for Carl to control.

He looks at the eggs and bacon. They look about past halfway done. He'd wait a little while longer, but he doesn't intend to give a good breakfast.

After all, Negan didn't specified. ]

[He did not specify; he'll learn to deal with Carl more accurately sooner rather than later.

Lucille spins and spins. This is probably the quietest Negan has been in ages, outside of sleeping. What a lucky kid that Carl Grimes is. Lucille stops spinning—if Carl looks, it's about the same time that Negan catches sight of people outside the window. Just walking to their jobs, or schools, or just getting the paper, but it's weird. Usually the people outside of Negan's window were doing just what they should or no longer people.

Having to face this return to normalcy is going to take some getting used to.]

[ If Carl really wanted to, he'd sympathize. It's hard, the first months. When there's a herd of people, the immediate thought is not, oh, rush hour, it's a large herd of walkers. There just isn't enough people to make up that kind of mass anymore, not where they come from.

But Carl doesn't want to sympathize with Negan, fuck that guy.

Still, he takes an opportunity of Negan's moment of rediscovering civilization by opening a drawer to give Negan a fork and a knife . . . and a knife for Carl, who rusted the handle slightly so he can control it even without gripping it, and discretely puts it in the small of his back, hiding the knife with his shirt and jeans.

The egg is half hard and runny, the bacon is just a sad sight, half of it burnt to a crisp and the other half just barely cooked. Good enough. He puts the bacon and eggs on a plate, along with the fork and knife and puts it on the table on the side closest to Negan. Carl then backs up, his back leaning against the wall with his arms folded. ]

[A Negan needs no sympathy X( But if he was adjusting well, he might not have found Carl's place and let himself in. Here he is, though, staring at a group of folks who are definitely not the bitey type. A few of them could probably use a kiss from Lucille, but. That's just how humanity operates.

He turns when the plate hits the table.

He blinks. He leans forward.

They have, all of them, at one point in time, had to stomach what they never would have imagined before the world went to shit. Packaged goods way past expiration date. Veggies and fruits shoved into mouths with no thoughts given to washing them. Even raw eggs sucked straight out of their shells. And worse, always, always there was someone who'd had it worse. Or who'd gone after worse and grew a taste for human flesh.

Negan peers at the horrible excuse for breakfast a few more moments.

He leans Lucille against the chair again, removes his usual one glove, and starts to separate what's properly done of the bacon from the rawer bit.]

That daddy of yours taught you to cook this way, kid?

[Not poorly. Poorly on purpose. There's a message here, and it's not that Carl's just too fucking stupid to cook some bacon and eggs straight through. It's that little spark of fight Rick held onto even with his face spattered with friend residue. That spark willing to shoot at Saviors and talk after. Negan pops the extra crispy section in his mouth and looks up at Carl, expecting an answer and giving away absolutely no signs of distaste about this Breakfast of Assholes.]

Edited 2016-11-20 06:30 (UTC)

Oh no. I had to learn how to use the oven here. [ Which is true - Carl did learn to cook mostly from here, though Carol and Michonne and Dad and others taught him a little of their knowledge back home. He learned enough how to cook well enough to feed himself, and knows how poorly to piss someone off. ] I usually spit in my meals while cooking them.

[ But he didn't. Although that's a lie, Negan doesn't need to know that. ]

[The change on Negan's face isn't shock or disgust—he has like nine wives or something, a little spit is nothing—but amusement. He laughs like he does at his own stupid jokes. And then a bit more than that, bringing his hand down loudly on the table edge twice like Carl is just That Funny. He even wipes at an eye. What a joker, that Carl Grimes.]

Shit! Where d'you come from? Goddamn. [He won't be trying the veal, no worries there.] Spit's the least of your worries. This egg ain't done all the way.

[His hand goes back to Lucille, who helps him stand.]

But we've established you cook differently for yourself than you do for anybody else, haven't we.

[He gets the insult. Of course he does. And yet there's something to be said for even (not actually) spitty, shitty hospitality. When he provides a service, he expects a great deal in return. This is similar, so Negan finishes that sad sad bacon with eyebrows raised in Carl's direction. Can't spit on this, buddy.]

[ He'll fucking try and will definitely kill Negan's friends in order to do it. ]

What you see is what you get.

[ Carl's not even going to do an half-assed excuse on his cooking. Not when it is so obvious. ]

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