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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 20, 2013 17:47:53 GMT -8
Of all the places in the building, Makara liked the radio stations the best. The majority of the building was nameless offices, one or two room deals that housed no one important. Most of them were new business, and most of them would fail within five years. The turnover rate was high, and even those that succeeded tend to move into a larger office space rather then staying. The whole building was full of companies struggling to hold on, and companies just trying to spread their wings. The only real exceptions were the radio stations, which inevitably picked the building because of it's proximity to the radio tower. The stations tended to be a lot more permanent, and tended to last quite a while, occasionally revamping but rarely dying.
It wasn't because they tended to stick around that Makara liked them though. Makara liked them because of the music. As a child he'd listened to relatively little, music being buried and suppressed in favor of 'the greater good'. Even when the war was over, the music had been slow to return, and it hadn't been until he got to America that he'd found he had any interest in music. The older he got, the more he seemed to like it, preferring quieter and more melodic pieces to the more modern pieces. Those were in short supply in the radio though, and he began to adjust, going for things that sounded more traditional. He eschewed pop and techno, hating the more modern sound, and instead found refuge in country. It seemed so distant from what he'd have enjoyed, but the chance of finding Sinn Sisamouth or Ros Sereysothea on the radio was next to zero. He still had a few CDs he listened to, but mostly he bounced between styles. The oldies station in the early mornings, the hits of the sixties in the early afternoons, and then bluegrass late at night. He'd found nothing to listen to during the dinner hour, and instead he spent that time in silence.
It was uncommon for Makara to sleep a full night through. More then that, really--it was downright rare. Nights where he woke at least once vastly outnumbered nights where he slept right through, and it was extremely common for him to circle through the building late at night, to check that everything was running smoothly. Most of the building was quiet and empty, and it wasn't until he was almost done his route when he paused, taking a few steps back.
The lights were on in the bluegrass station, and it was playing on it's own, but the lone occupant was slumped over the desk. He felt his heart flutter for a moment before he spotted the subtle signs of breathing, realizing that the kid was simply asleep, not dead.
Well, that was a relief. Makara found himself standing outside the glass window looking into the studio for a few moments before he drew away, returning a few minutes later with a small blanket. He let himself into the studio, finding it unlocked (although it didn't matter--he had the keys anyway). He'd never spoken to the boy who was working, but that hardly mattered, and he set the blanket carefully over him, effectively tucking him in where he lay.
With that done, Makara withdrew from the room, returning to his apartment to head back to bed. |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 22, 2013 6:21:16 GMT -8
It had only been sixth months since he began working there, or a vague estimation. Donovan didn't remember his exact start date, only could guess by how many paychecks he'd received in that time. But it had already became like a second home, cozy and quiet and familiar. On nights like this, it was preferable to going home, hit with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion just as his shift had ended and not quite up for making the ride home. It wasn't unusual for him to hang around a bit after hours, or even show up a bit earlier some nights to relax in the break room with coffee. With as few employees in their small station, it offered him some retreat that the rest of the city really didn't. A sense of peace that even his apartment, equipped with a loud and demanding roommate, lacked.
After Louisa had left, there really wasn't anyone else around to disturb him, and it had been far too easy for his close my eyes for a couple minutes to turn into a nap. Not that he had fought it too hard.
The soft click of the door shutting transformed itself into a gunshot in his choppy dreams, an embellished replaying of the robbery he got involved in the day before, a situation that definitely could have ended worse for him. Donovan jerked awake, glad to find himself in the safety of the booth and not the electronics store, his glasses smooshed uncomfortably against his face from where he'd rested against his forearm. He removed the glasses, cleaned the smudges from the lenses on the edge of the soft blanket, before replacing them. Everything still seemed blurry, and he blinked his eyes to properly wake up.
Blanket?
It took a few moments for his sleep-fuzzy brain to make out what was wrong with the situation, because nothing about blankets seemed immediately wrong nor threatening. In fact, it was rather cozy and warm, except it hadn't been there before and he didn't even recognize the blanket as anything from around the station. Donovan pondered where it might have come from, certain everyone else had left... and the lack of any suitable explanations to the mysterious appearance normally wouldn't have concerned him so much if he wasn't still a bit shaken from the robbery. But this couldn't have been the work of thieves, because they generally weren't so nice.
Ghosts?
Maybe it was ghosts, Donovan decided with a conviction of the absurd that could only come from the confusion from lack of sleep. Everything made sense at 3 am, even when it shouldn't have. Stumbling a bit from his chair, blanket wrapped around his shoulders because its questionable origins didn't keep it from being appreciated, Donovan quietly slipped out of the studio in search of whoever might still be around.
"Louisa? Are you still around?" he called out into the dark.
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 22, 2013 8:05:30 GMT -8
The hallways were dark and quiet as Makara made his way back to his room, and he was almost there when he abruptly halted. Makara himself was silent. He rarely made noise, having learned long ago that silence was his ally. He knew just how to stand and just how to breath to go as quiet as possible, and while he knew that he wasn't in any danger in this case, it still made it easier to listen.
The station had all its usual noises going on, but Makara tuned them out easily. He slept there, and he knew the sound the air conditioning made, knew the little sounds in each part of the station. Something else was going though, and all his listening was for naught when whoever it was actually spoke.
They were a decent distance back, around at least two corners, but it was quiet enough he could hear the voice clearly enough, even if he wasn't entirely sure what was being said. He paused for a moment to consider before deciding that investigating wouldn't hurt. It seemed likely that the voice was coming from the bluegrass boy, woken by his tiny act of kindness, and he began to head back the way he'd just come, rounding the corner in the dim light, pausing when he spotted him.
Definitely bluegrass boy.
"She's already left." He could only assume Louisa was the bluegrass girl, even if he hadn't known her name previously. His voice was soft, as it always was, and the accent was so dim it was almost unrecognizable. DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 23, 2013 22:22:41 GMT -8
He barely suppressed surprise as nothing more than a small squeak and a backwards stumble into the wall. If Donovan had ever seen a horror movie in order to compare the scene of a man appearing at the end of the hallway to ominously announce Louisa's departure, perhaps he'd be more amused at the parallel than startled. Although after a couple moments of staring in exaggerated horror at what appeared to be nothing more than a regular man, Donovan chuckled a bit in relief at his jumpiness. Even ghosts would have been less unsettling, as he was already in the mindset of expecting it.
Nothing about the man looked ghost-like. Perhaps a bit familiar, but only in the way most people looked vaguely familiar to Donovan no matter how many times he'd run into them before. Still, he couldn't figure out any specific context that the man's familiarity would have fallen into, although the only thing that would make sense was that he'd been around the station before. Not one of the morning crew, luckily, and it was still a few hours too early for that anyway.
"Ah, yeah I thought so," Donovan agreed a bit uncertainly, pulling the blanket around him a bit tighter. "I just fell asleep, and woke up with this blanket... so..." Donovan trailed off, hoping that if the other man was the one responsible, the question was implied and easy to clear up. And if he wasn't the one who did it, hopefully Donovan didn't sound too crazy for being confused about a blanket. Because really, blankets weren't too threatening, he had to keep reminding himself. Not as threatening as men in masks robbing electronics stores. So whoever this was probably wasn't any sort of intruder.
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 24, 2013 5:59:33 GMT -8
Makara was a very quiet person, and he knew that could be unsettling. Most people probably would have responded to bluegrass boy right away. They'd have cut in and explained. Makara didn't though. He simply stood there as bluegrass boy trailed off until he was good and sure that he wasn't going to keep talking. It was only then that he chose to talk, breaking the silence that he'd let build up.
"It's my blanket. You were asleep and looked cold." Makara announced, as if that explained absolutely everything about the situation in two brief sentences. It hadn't occurred to him that bluegrass boy might not know who he was. He actually hadn't introduced himself to the vast majority of the people in the station, but he still expected them to know him for no real reason at all. He was simply always there--a background presence that people paid little mind to until things went wrong, and then suddenly cared about deeply. He supposed, after giving it a moment of thought, that nothing had gone particularly wrong while bluegrass boy had been with the station, and so it was entirely possible that he didn't know who he was.
But he wasn't one to act upon assumptions, and was entirely content to stand there in the further silence. DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 27, 2013 6:10:53 GMT -8
As prone to awkward silences as Donovan was, the drawn out pause before Makara answered didn't seem particularly unusual, distracted by his own ponderings that by the time Makara had answered he'd almost forgotten what he asked at all. "I was, wasn't I? Thanks," he rubbed his eyes sleepily from under his glasses at the reminder, had slept worse than usual the night before with how jumpy he'd been that even the thought of sleep caused his mind to drift off. He stared at the unknown man with a blank expression, trying to puzzle him out.
Part of his regular schedule, Donovan was no stranger to the 3 am darkness and emptiness of the station, those few hours where nobody else bothered to linger around and he really had rush to get home. Maybe he wasn't the most observant, using that time to comfortably withdraw than paying much attention to the nothing going around him, but this was the first time he'd noticed anybody else lurking. He occasionally ran into other people that worked in the building as they were getting off their shifts as he was only beginning his, passing each other without more than a nod of acknowledgement or comment on the weather. But other than his co-host, who was difficult to ignore (and he'd attempted a few times to have confirmed) he wasn't even aware of anybody's names or what they actually did. And even if this man did belong there, why had he been in the studio to know that he needed a blanket? Not that he minded, not enough to make any accusations.
"Wait, what's your name again?" he asked, missing the fact he never knew the other man at all.
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 28, 2013 12:54:13 GMT -8
Makara couldn't help but find himself faintly amused by bluegrass boy's question. What was his name again? Makara has a good enough memory to be entirely sure they'd never even spoken, let alone exchanged names. Because he was good at names--or at least American names. America names seemed so distinct and interesting, and he found it amusing to try and keep track of them all. By comparison, all Khmer names had meanings, and people tended to use the same names. Girls for beauty, men for traits, and a whole lot of slight variations of foreign names--mostly Chinese or Thai. Meanwhile, American's would name their kid almost anything. He'd seen some bizarre and interesting names, and the variety kept them distinct in his memory.
Makara found himself with a tiny smile at the thought--that bluegrass boy was either trying to be polite under the assumption they'd met before, or was so absentminded he didn't know himself. He nodded his head, a slight little version of a bow, an old habit he'd never managed to kick, and then opted to introduce himself.
"We've never met." Straight and to the point, no beating around the bush. "My name is Makara. You work for the Sunshine station." It wasn't a question. Makara already knew he worked for the Sunshine station. He'd heard him on the radio, and he'd seen him go in and out. He had access to the cameras after all, and while he certainly didn't sit around watching them all day, he did peek around every so often to make sure there wasn't any trouble. He was one man--he couldn't patrol the whole building all at once.
It didn't occur to him that Donovan didn't know who he was, with regards to the building. After all, to Makara, his job was self explanatory. Who else would be in the building so late at night? It wasn't as if just anyone could get in, and the building didn't have a proper security force. There wasn't anything valuable enough for it to be worth it.
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 29, 2013 2:23:42 GMT -8
"Oh, okay, good," Donovan sighed with visible relief, having found himself offending people far too many times with his tendency to forget they ever met at all. Makara. Makara, Makara. Nothing he'd heard before. He had recently read that repeating names three times helped commit them to memory, though he hadn't actually tested it out yet. As unfamiliar he was with people from other cultures or countries, unable to even guess if somebody was a natural citizen of a foreigner, the name didn't really help place an ethnicity on the man. But that was really the least of concerns when it came to puzzling over his identity, which the man really wasn't doing a good job of hinting at.
People simply didn't keep his attention very well, not for long, yet even as little impact they had on his life they all somehow expected for him to remember when they happened to bump into each other again. But they hadn't met before, although Donovan was almost convinced that he'd seen Makara around before. Somewhere. Makara apparently knew who he was, so he refrained from introducing himself in return.
All of the ease of talking on the radio was lost when confronted with somebody that could talk back, that he couldn't quite guess what they were expecting from him. Did the man want his blanket back now? Donovan slipped it off from his shoulders and began folding it into an approximation of a square, though after he finished he held it to his chest instead of approaching the man to return it quite yet. "I thought you were my boss or something," he admitted, because his lack of attention extended to authority and even who signed his paychecks. But the owner of the radio station really never came by to check on things at night, Donovan assumed he had a wife and kids and some sort of normal life the night shift seemed to lack.
"Unless you're my boss's boss and you're here to fire me for... misplacing those documents last week."
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 29, 2013 7:16:31 GMT -8
Makara watched as he folded up the blanket, faintly wondering what he was going to do. Was Bluegrass boy going to stay? Or was he going to pedal home on his bike? Even if Makara didn't know the boys name, he did know that he rode a bike to work. He saw it attached to the bike rack almost every nice, and most other people drove. It made him stand out, and it was nice to be able to put a face to the bike.
The very mention that he thought Makara was his boss was enough to make Makara's eyebrows raise in surprise. Him? Anyone's boss? The whole thing seemed farfetched and bizarre to Makara, but he supposed that bluegrass boy didn't know him well enough to realize why. He'd really only handled people once, and he'd hated it. He didn't like having to deal directly with people, let alone bossing them around, and bluegrass boy's mention of losing some documents was the first he'd heard of it. He didn't get told about the inner workings of the stations or the offices. If people got hired or fired, he found out when he got a note for his security file, explaining that someone either was, or wasn't allowed on the premises. He certainly hadn't memorized the file, but he had a vague idea of who was and wasn't going to be around during the night shifts.
"No." He began, staring at Donovan for a moment before continuing. "I'm the building manager, not the radio station manager." Best to get that out of the way. "I handle the building, not the radio station specifically." He paused, then held out a hand for the blanket. "Are you going home? Or are you staying here?"
It was only after a few seconds that Makara realized how his words could be taken, and he cleared his throat before expanding what he'd said, hoping to make it sound less like 'get out'. "There's not a problem with you staying overnight, I meant--I just wanted to know if you were still going to be in the building." DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 29, 2013 8:12:34 GMT -8
Donovan didn't have a clearly-formed idea of what a typical boss was supposed to be like, hadn't worked for many and barely knew of the one he had now, and making quick judgments about people wasn't something he was practiced in. He never knew most people long enough to ever get past a first impression to prove himself right or wrong. Makara could have said he was the janitor or the mayor of the city, and Donovan would have readily believed either.
"Ah," he nodded along, not quite sure what managing a building would even entail other than apparently draping cozy blankets over whoever fell asleep there. Misinterpreting the man's outstretched hand, Donovan grasped it with his own in an attempt at being polite, but his handshakes were never quite firm nor proper. Good thing he wasn't a businessman. And while pondering what sorts of tasks would be involved with Makara's job and glad he wasn't the one responsible, Donovan recalled why he looked so familiar. "Right, I saw you once. I think. Changing the locks on the doors." And then Donovan frowned, couldn't even remember how long ago that had been, or even which doors they were. "Or somebody that looked a bit like you." Couldn't really be certain.
Maybe Makara could be of help to him, though. "Is there anywhere quiet for sleeping around here?" he asked, glad he wasn't being immediately ushered out for staying past his working hours and actually offered the option to stay longer. He really didn't want to be woken up by the shrill cheerful voices of his morning coworkers, and who else would have a better idea of the layout of the building than the manager? Maybe some currently unoccupied office or a storage closet. He wasn't too picky.
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 29, 2013 9:54:00 GMT -8
Makara had not intended for his outstretched hand to be a handshake, but when bluegrass boy turned it into one, he rolled with it. He gripped lightly, giving it a brief shake before immediaely withdrawing his hand. He wasn't the type who enjoyed handshakes. In Cambodia, bows were the expected method of greeting, and while people were getting slowly used to handshakes, locals always bowed. Among the refugee community, bows were also expected. It was only when you got into the wider world of America that people expected handshakes, but Makara had never been in a job formal enough to require them regularly. He simply wasn't used to them.
"Possibly. I change locks sometimes." Once upon a time he'd gotten a locksmith out every time, only he'd long ago realized it would be far cheaper to just do it himself. It wasn't a particularly hard skill to learn, and did just fine with the vast majority of the doors. Some required special care, but when it came to changing the lock on a door because there was a disgruntled employee lurking around, he could manage just fine.
"It was probably me. I'm the only building manager." And the only person who looked like he did--small and underweight, with tanned skin and oddly styled hair. He was hard to mistake, and his height alone would have made him noticeable.
The first answer he thought of was his couch, but after a moment he decided that no, he wasn't going to let a random boy into his apartment, even if he'd heard him talk plenty of times. His apartment was for him and him alone, and there were other places he could sleep. "The lounge." He answered after a moments thought. It was on the complete opposite side of the building from where they were, and used almost exclusively by the offices. He wasn't even entirely sure if the radio stations were supposed to have access to it, but there was no lock on the door and no strict rules. He nodded his head down the hallway and simply started to walk, fully expecting bluegrass boy to follow him.
There wasn't a bed, but there was a sizeable couch, and the boy still had his blanket. He wasn't going to ask questions about why he'd want to stay. He wasn't the judging type, and there were plenty of completely normal reasons why someone would want to sleep overnight at work.
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 29, 2013 20:19:30 GMT -8
The discomfort of the other man lost on him, still assuming Makara had been the one to initiate it, Donovan appreciated that the handshake was kept short. Not crushingly firm by somebody trying to assert dominance, or enthusiastically jerky that threatened to yank his wrist out of socket. His dad once tried to teach him the importance of a proper handshake, and he had failed to give it any serious attention. Apparently it said a lot about you, down to how long you held somebody's hand or if you were the first one to pull back. He tried to avoid it as much as possible, in case it gave away something he didn't intend. And all that he could really get from Makara's was that he kept it simple, and much like his speech- to the point. But if he tried to over analyze, it just left Donovan wondering if Makara wasn't the type of person to tolerate him for very long.
How important was it to stay on the good side of a building manager? He'd play it safe. The man did know where he slept, and was even offering him a better place to do so, after all. So maybe he wasn't too strict, because Donovan was sure that sort of thing was probably discouraged for whatever security reasons. He couldn't even imagine why anybody else would choose to sleep at work, but then most people had cars and didn't get off at 3am.
Following a few steps behind the man on the way to what he assumed was the lounge, he hadn't really been aware there was such a place in the building. Not that he explored it much, often kept to his own corner. They had a small setup for the station they used for breaks, but definitely small and cramped and nobody would call it a lounge. He hoped it was equipped with a couch at least, but he could settle with any sort of chair.
"Sorry that I've never said hello, before," Donovan hoped that no real offence was taken by his habit of blocking out most everything go on around him, sure he came off as rude or too self-absorbed to pay any attention. Maybe that was the case. "I don't like to bother people too much."
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 30, 2013 6:42:39 GMT -8
From a handshake, Donovan's assessment of Makara was fairly spot on. He kept it simple, and he didn't like to beat around the bush. He wasn't going to lead you through an elaborate conversation before telling you something--he'd just tell you flat out. He wasn't one for pleasantries or smalltalk, and he himself was much like his handshakes--well intentioned but kind of awkward.
The building manager wasn't going to be first on anyone's list of people to get in their good graces, but it was a good policy just the same. Makara was the one who was going to handle you if you got locked out after hours, and he was the person who was going to make sure everything was working nicely. He was hardly above small acts of petty revenge, and those that mistreated him tended to find their repairs being pushed to the very end of the queue. More then once he'd 'forgotten' to do a repair for a shitty tennant, essentially driving them out of the building that he was master of. If anyone ever complained, it was never passed on to Makara himself, and it was likely the building owner simply trusted Makara's judgement on such things.
"It's fine." Because it was. Makara was rarely greeted by people. He was part of the background, like the furniture, and worth no more thanks or praise. He was fine with that, and he was fine with not being noticed. Sometimes, though, it wasn't so bad. He didn't mind bluegrass boy, didn't mind him because he was polite.
He stepped into the lounge, opening the door with ease. It wasn't locked, and it was significantly larger then the one Donovan was used to. There was a couch in front of a TV to one side, and a little kitchenette area to the other, with a fridge, microwave, and coffee pot. It was the sort of area office workers would spend their lunch in, and there was certainly enough room on the couch to sleep. DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 30, 2013 9:00:01 GMT -8
Donovan liked to think he had a similar amount of respect for about everyone, regardless of rank or age, no matter whether they were of use to him or not. Where a building manager fell into whatever hierarchy, Donovan couldn't even begin to guess. He tried to be mindful of people he didn't know, people he knew he wouldn't like even if he did know them. As far as he could tell, Makara was helpful and perfectly likable in a way that wasn't too overbearing.
But respect simply didn't extend to wanting to draw any more attention to himself than necessary, to go out of his way to acknowledge or interact with anyone he didn't have to. He simply tried to avoid causing any problems where he could, and Makara seemed like a busy enough man that wouldn't appreciate being hassled too much. Not more than he already had. Which made him think twice about making any jokes asking for a bedtime story when they reached the lounge, didn't want to stay up much longer anyway in the unlikely chance that Makara would take it seriously and agree. Though he did wonder what sorts of stories the man would have to tell, real or created.
Stepping inside and peering around at the furnishings through bleary eyes, he was immediately struck how much nicer it was than what he'd been using. And how much busier it must have been during work hours, which was enough to prevent him from thinking it'd be a good idea to make a habit of going there. "Thanks," he smiled lightly, taking a few steps closer to the couch, doubting the man would want to stick around for a chat. "What time do people start showing up?"
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Nov 30, 2013 10:17:22 GMT -8
Makara was definitely not the type who would stick around and chat. As far as he was concerned, his duty was done. He'd shown bluegrass boy the lounge, and once he'd finished his questions, he'd be off.
"Some people show up at six, but most don't arrive at the lounge until seven or eight." Makara wasn't entirely clear on the times, and it varied by day anyway. Some people got into the office and immediately beelined for the coffee machine, while some picked up coffee on their way to work and were good until closer to noon. Likely he'd be unbothered until about seven at the earliest, but Makara wasn't going to commit to anything beyond a vague, general idea of when people would show up.
Makara did not say goodbye. He was polite, certainly, but he didn't see the point in saying goodbye to someone he'd literally just met. He'd helped him, yes, but there was nothing beyond that for the moment. He'd likely run into him again a few more times, and nothing was different about that time. He gave him a little nod, leaving the blanket behind as he stepped out of the lounge, heading back the way he'd came before taking an abrupt turn closer to the radio station.
Makara rarely slept through the night. It was his habit to wake around two or three. If he woke then, he struggled to get back to bed. He'd gotten into the habit of circling the station to make sure everything was alright, and by the time he got back to his apartment he was tired enough to fall back into dreamless sleep. He went through the motions as he returned to his apartment, locking the door and getting the lights, peeling off his clothes in the darkness before crawling into bed.
He'd hardly had his head on the pillow for a minute before he was out like a light. DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 30, 2013 21:32:02 GMT -8
It took Donovan a bit longer to fall asleep the second time around, although it wasn't from any discomfort. The couch was plenty big and soft, and didn't smell strangely like the old armchair they used at the station, but he knew well enough that their small budget didn't allow for replacing things just because they were a bit smelly, or else they'd have replaced Louisa a long time ago. (He was glad she couldn't hear his thoughts, or he'd wake up with a boot in his mouth.) Maybe he could snag one of those scented candles in attempt to make it a bit more tolerable.
Wrapped up snugly, Donovan fell asleep to the thought of sandalwood and lavender, only to wake up four hours later to the gurgling of somebody making coffee and too much sun in his face. His first instinct was to turn over, bury his face into the cushions and get at least a few more hours of sleep, rarely awake before 11 after his late shifts. Until remembering where he was sleeping, and that he wasn't alone, and then Donovan was definitely awake. Peering over the arm of the couch, Donovan squinted to make out the vague shape of somebody at the other side of the lounge waiting by the coffee pot and reading the morning paper, guessing he hadn't yet been spotted. He fumbled for his glasses, and rolled off the couch with as much grace as his stiff limbs would allow.
Lines from the blanket still pressed into the side of his face and hair as if a bird made a nest of it, Donovan looked significantly more ruffled than usual and made no attempt to smooth himself out before approaching the paper-reading office worker. Managing to get the blanket refolded in his arms, he calmly poured himself a mug and leaned back against the counter to drink it. "Morning, Joe," he nodded to the man who was probably not named Joe.
After an awkwardly dull conversation with not-Joe-but-Bob and an emptied mug, Donovan felt a lot more prepared to ride home despite dreading the morning rush of traffic. But first he had to return the blanket to Makara, not wanting to leave it in a heap in a public room. Following the directions to where he could find the building manager, Donovan ended up outside the man's door with a couple light knocks, not sure if the man would even be awake yet. Otherwise he'd leave the blanket outside his door, digging through his pockets to see if he could find a pen for a thank you note.
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Dec 2, 2013 11:20:44 GMT -8
An unfortunate side effect of being shot at for the entirety of his childhood was that Makara slept very lightly. Any unexplained noise was enough to jolt him awake at a moments notice, and even several decades later, he still woke in the same pattern when startled. First there was a noise--then he sat bolt upright, hand reaching to his side to try and grab a weapon that wasn't even there. It had been habit to have one at his side, and while he'd slept with a kitchen knife at his side through his teens, he'd forcibly broke himself of that habit by the time he'd hit twenty. He was in America, and the war was long over. He didn't need a weapon--anyone who was coming to hurt him would not be knocking at his door. It had always been a sort of half-concern that someone might find him from back in Cambodia, but as the years ticked on it seemed less and less likely.
It took him a moment to process it--that it was a knock on his door and he should get it. No matter the hour, Makara always answered, because people were told to come to his door if something went wrong. If a water pipe burst in the building, it didn't matter what time it was--he was going to be there fixing it. The first trick was that he had to find out how long it would take, so he clawed his way out of bed, grabbing a large, overly fluffy blue housecoat and pulled it around him. He belted it quickly before heading to the door, and it couldn't have been more then a minute when he finally opened it.
Makara in a housecoat didn't look all that different from how Makara did normally. He was so used to waking up at odd hours and running on minimal sleep that any effect it might have had on his appearance was so minimal as to be hardly noticeable. He kept the door half closed as he peered out, and it took him a moment to realize who it was. It took him only a second longer to take a random stab at what he wanted.
"You came to return the blanket, bluegrass boy?" It hadn't even really occurred to him that calling the boy 'Bluegrass boy' to his face might be odd. Nicknames were just normal for him, and technically he was the bluegrass boy. He hadn't expected a return delivery--he'd expected to find the blanket in the radio station later that afternoon, perhaps folded and maybe with a small note. Hand-delivery seemed a bit excessive for him. DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Dec 4, 2013 0:14:36 GMT -8
It was unlikely that the building manager was even in his office that early in the morning, since he was around so late the night before. That probably wouldn't be a functional shift, during what Donovan guessed were some of the slowest hours. But then he really had no idea of what a building manager even did to decide what sorts of hours they should keep, maybe it'd be easier to get work done when nobody else was around.
He wasn't sure if perhaps there was anyone else that watched over the building during that time Makara was away, a secretary or a security guard or if there were such things as co-managers. Not thinking anyone was coming, Donovan began scribbling out a note to leave with the blanket outside the door when Makara answered. Thank y was as far as he managed to get, but it was now rendered useless and Donovan crumbled up the scrap of paper in his hand with a sheepish grin as he pocketed it.
"Wow, do you live here?" he asked in reference to Makara's seemingly excessive hours than an actual wondering of it as a possibility. Not used to nicknames but not minding at all, Donovan couldn't help but smile wider at being called Bluegrass Boy as he held out the blanket. "Didn't want somebody else taking off with it," he explained, because things laying around had a tendency to disappear, whether stolen or moved out of the way or mistaken as lost or abandoned. Losing his own things was unfortunately common, but he wasn't comfortable doing the same with something borrowed. Donovan tilted his head to the side to get a better view of the man halfway behind the door, although made no attempt to stare past him inside, figuring it was some version of a typical office.
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Post by MAKARA SOM on Dec 5, 2013 19:32:39 GMT -8
He guessed, by bluegrass boys tone of voice, that he was kidding. He didn't actually mean 'do you live here', but likely instead meant 'you seem to be here all the time'. Even so, he was dead on. Makara literally did live there. He held a hand out to take the blanket when offered, scooping it into his arms.
"Yes." He clarified, answering Donovan's rhetorical question. "I do." He didn't really see a point in hiding it. Better to just be honest about it. "I'm pretty much always here if something goes wrong." It saved plenty. It meant there didn't need to be two shifts to tend a relatively small building. It meant he had a place to stay, and didn't have to worry about a commute. He also didn't have to try and find a suitable apartment, something that was always difficult and painful when you lived in a city like LA. It was an ideal situation for him, and while others might have found it odd, Makara didn't mind it in the slightest. He wasn't ashamed, or embarrassed--if anything, he was proud, although he wasn't going to boast. DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 14TH, 3AM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Dec 6, 2013 3:19:58 GMT -8
Having nothing to hold, Donovan casually shoved his hands in his pockets, not wanting to linger around too long. He doubted his roommate would be all that worried or might not have even noticed that he never made it home, but there were probably some things he needed to do around the apartment and wanted to get in a bit more rest before his shift later that day. "Oh," he blinked in realization that Makara was serious. He was more envious than surprised at Makara's living arrangement, no idea if that was typical of building managers. But he liked the idea of not having to go too far to sneak off to bed.
"That sounds convenient," Donovan considered how much time it'd save in commuting, although he'd probably get out in the world even less than usual. Some weekends he didn't see daylight at all. Not that it was entirely unappealing, until he factored in how easy it would be for people to bother him if he was right down the hall. Just like he was doing to Makara now. "You were probably sleeping," he realized with an apologetic frown, taking a step back to dismiss himself.
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