lazyandincompetent | (no subject)

Nathan has decided this place isn't half bad.

Exhibit A: His flat. No more crashing in the community centre, curled up in a shitty sleeping bag on the cold floor. Instead he's got a bed. In an actual bedroom. And it isn't just a mattress on the floor either, he's got a proper bedframe and a headboard and even a little bedside table where he throws his cigarettes and his weed and his lighter after a long day. There's a living room with a proper couch, a kitchen, and his bathroom doesn't have a single stall door in the whole thing. If he wants a shower, he can draw a curtain. True privacy.

Exhibit B: Weed is legal. Weed is legal. He's cheerily smoking a pre-rolled joint now, right out in the middle of the sidewalk where anyone can see, and no one is going to stop him or try to arrest him. Not for this, anyway, and Nathan takes a nice, big hit, then lets out a contented sigh. He's spent the better part of the last week and a bit mostly stoned, as soon as he rounded the corner from his flat during an exploration day just after his arrival and found a dispensary just staring at him. He wonders if he can work there. Talk about a dream job.

Exhibit C: Everyone is pretty friendly, including a very pretty woman in his building. She looks kind of old timey, with long pale hair and a proper high necked nightgown, but Nathan can dig it. They haven't really talked any, but he can see it in her eyes. She's interested.

There are probably other exhibits, other things that make this place better than Wertham, and maybe Nathan misses Kelly, maybe he even misses Simon a little, but this is still better. A flat and weed. That's all he needs. The money helps, too, although he's blown most of this month's cash on said weed and a lot of food and also a really nice record player and a pair of expensive wireless (wireless!) headphones for his new phone, which holds way more music than his iPod ever did.

He's got those headphones on now as he walks, smoking his joint, listening to Soundgarden as loud as he possibly can, when he's stopped by someone. A young guy waves at him, trying to get his attention, and Nathan pauses his music, then pulls down his headphones.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Do you know where High Gate Terrace is?" the guy asks. "I'm supposed to meet someone there."

"Nah, sorry, mate," Nathan answers, then gestures with one hand, indicating the city at large. "I just got here. New to this whole thing. I don't even know where I live half the time."

"No," the guy mutters. "No, this isn't right. I have to be there."

"You're not about to have a mental breakdown are you?" Nathan asks, only partly wary. The rest of him is downright interested. "Just snap and go completely fucking mad? 'Cause that'd be fun to watch."

[Nathan is talking to a ghost, but doesn't know it, because he doesn't know he has that ability yet. :D]

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"Not last time I checked, anyway," she says, smiling at the waitress as she ushers them towards a table. "I think immorality is always pretty impressive, Nathan. No matter how it happens, right?"

"Does it help if I tell you most people shit their pants when they die? Imagine coming back to life like that."

Well, fuck. She's not going to want to kiss him now that he's said something like that. What girl wants to kiss a guy who's just told her that he's shit his pants before?

One day, he thinks, he'll learn to think before he speaks. Just not today.

Marianne is in the process of taking off her coat when he says it, and she pauses for a moment. The look on his face is sort of hilarious.

"Is this when I tell you about the time that I peed myself because of a UTI to make you feel better?" She says, arching an eyebrow.

"I mean... it helps," Nathan answers, although he doesn't think someone peeing themselves because of a UTI or just anything isn't that big a deal. He's not actually that concerned with shitting his pants either, but he knows not everyone thinks that way.

"I don't plan on dropping dead in front of you," he adds as they sit. "So there's that."

"I'd really appreciate it if you didn't, yeah," says Marianne, settling herself into a seat and reaching for a menu. "That'd be pretty stressful for both of us."

"You could just wait until I wake up," he says. "Tell the waitress I'm taking a nap. Hopefully no weird bodily functions happen while I'm dead and then bam! I'll be alive again. No muss, no fuss, yeah?"

He has no idea how long it actually takes. Someone might eventually call an ambulance if he just doesn't wake up for hours.

"I think I'd rather not risk it," she says, raising both dark eyebrows, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Pretty hard to make conversation if I'm waiting for you to spontaneously resurrect, right?"

"Good point," he says. "You could just leave me here and ask that they don't bury me again, then I'll text you when I wake up. Just so you know I came back."

If this is his life now, he thinks he needs to figure out ways to make it work for him. He wonders if he can make money off this weird ability. Maybe get paid to scare people straight somehow or something.

"I don't think I could actually leave you somewhere dead, either," says Marianne, chewing on the corner of her thumbnail for a moment as she thinks about it. "Wouldn't that make me a horrible bitch?"

"Nah," he answers. "You have blanket permission to just leave me slumped wherever I die. I dunno how long it takes to come back, you could be there for hours and everyone has better things to do than stand around and watch my beautiful corpse for signs of life."

"I guess we'll see what I do if it happens," says Marianne, looking up at the waitress and smiling when she comes back to the table.

She orders her usual.