goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"Good night," is the sighed response from Delta, still working on one of his reports, and Carolina responds with an acknowledging nod. She doesn't sleep right away, not until her brother has been gently harassed and herded into his own room after she's checked all entrances and exits.

The other security guards are on rotation, which is good. But even she can't stay awake all night. Bunking down on the couch, she makes sure to set her phone's alarm - vibrate, of course, no waking the client - and settles in for her own nap. She can sleep longer later, tomorrow.

She's still up before either of the men in her suite, however, pausing to use the bathroom to splash her face and tidy up. They don't have anywhere to be right away, but both Delta and York likely have plans. Or have them made for them, depending on any emails sent overnight..

He usually sleeps well the last leg of the tour. Complete crash, out for hours, dreamless sleep- all that jazz. Tonight- he's not that lucky. He dozes for a few hours, sure, but starts twitching in the middle of the third, the too sweet tinge of that smoke shifting to something acrid and hot. There is no rescue, there's just the flash of the grenade, the sudden shout of his pointmant.

Dreaming of the ambush never ends well. At least he's over the screaming nightmares. York jolts awake in a cold sweat, panting as he lets his surroundings register. Bridal Suite. End of the tour. D's in the next room. Right.

He shuffles off the bed and scrubs at his eyes, walking by feel to the coffee maker.

She goes still at the sound of movement, but given it's coming from inside the main bedroom, Carolina relaxes again, moving to open the curtains a little and let in some light as York moves into the main sitting area.

The couches here are large and clearly intended for, ahem, pampering; it made for a good night's sleep, at least. Her hair's no longer in its ponytail - it's been changed to a loose braid, and her jacket is over the back of the couch. The coffee pot isn't on yet, but that's merely a matter of time, and if York wants to go ahead now, she won't stop him.

"Sleep well?"

"Nope." He's quit lying about that. Took months but- D worked with him and earned enough trust for him to be honest. Besides. They'll be better able to manage him if they know how well or not he's slept. So. "Kinda expected that too, what with the-"

He waves a hand vaguely.

"Not exactly mustard or tear gas but way too damn similar for my peace of mind. And I JUST got over how twitchy the smoke machines would get me too, damnit."

"You'll have time during your break to work on that again, if necessary?" But it certainly wouldnt be her call to make him do it. Still, that did confirm a couple of things she'd wondered about. "Where did you serve?"

"Classified." It rolls off the tongue before he can quit, but sighs. "Seriously. Signed an NDA when I got the honorable discharge. Part of the deal."

He wasn't even spec ops, it just kind of HAPPENED.

There's a twitch at the corner of her mouth. But nothing else. It's dark enough still that he won't be able to see how her lips flatten further until she moves the conversation on. "But you did serve," she says instead. "Pop stardom seems like an unusual career track after the military."

"Yep. Two tours because I'm a masochist and they promised they'd pay for college!" He gives a cheerful little fist bump that melds into a slump against the sofa. Well. They hadn't lied. It just took more than he thought it would. "Knocked around a bit after I got back. Tried to remember how to be a person again, you know? And flashing lights and smoke machines and loud noises probably aren't the best thing to subject myself to but- exposure therapy, right? I liked dancing before. So clubs. Lotta clubs. With sucky music. Good beat, shit lyrics that were all weird or vapid or sexist or some kind of IST and man, everyone wants to just have a good time. Why you gotta make it weird, right? Decided to be the change I wanted to see."

"Not the educational experience you signed up for," she utters dryly, shaking herself mentally loose from the edge, before turning her back to the window, arms folding as she leans against the wall and watches York, listen to what he has to say. Makes sense, if a funny sort of way. Be the change you want. Sounds like a challenge. (The sort she could get behind..?) "So how did you meet Delta?"

"Casbah." He didn't talk about casbah beyond the bare bones for a reason. "A lot of booze, a lot of sugar- a mountain of jello, a dare, fireworks, a pvc nurse outfit, and a scooter. That's all I'm allowed to say."

"That's fine. I'm not entirely sure I want to know." Pop stars. Oi vey.

"It was Reggie's fault."

"Don't. Want. To know."

Except, well: "Who the hell is Reggie, though?"

"Eurotrash club poser indie bastard. I hate his moustache and his stupid face." No they weren't ever dating, E!

There's a moment of silence, followed by a rather undignified snort of laughter.

"He's an ASSHOLE!" Like if he says it vehemently enough she'll believe him. "And his music SUCKS."

That just makes it worse somehow, and she fails to shush him appropriately as she continues sniggering. It's still early, people are sleeping and yet, and yet..

"That sounds like you have a history," she eventually manages.

"He's an asshole and tried to steal my first gig." He mutters.

"How do you steal a gig, exactly?"

"Trying to undercut the standing price and promise a bigger payout through drinks at the end of the night."

"And yet, here you still are. Apparently he had reason to worry."

"Damn right. I'm twice the musician he is." He crosses his arms, scowling at the far wall.

"Wouldn't know, I've never heard his music to compare." Her voice is fairly even, no hint of a tease. She's not going to pander to egos, anyway, and she finally starts moving, heading over to refill the coffee maker and start a fresh brew. They're both awake enough to need it.

"He uses autotune." He spits the word out like it's satan's name.

Oh Musicians.

"Still reserving judgement," she informs him, quietly turning two mugs upright, setting one aside for him. "Creamer? Sugar?" Coffee's almost done.

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