tampered | good men keep neat appearances

good men keep neat appearances

When; Tonight! (10/23)

Rating; PG, PG-13 for language possibly

Characters; Lin (

notapreacher)

Summary; Lin needs to buy shampoo. He runs into someone who knows a lot about haircare!

Log; How were there people in the world who actually enjoyed shopping? To Lin, the aisles of the drug store were like suicide central. On the radio, some man was howling about a girl he knew in college, or so Lin assumed.

I won't be held responsible, 'cause she was touching her face...

That was some heavy listening to buy shampoo to. Lin wasn't sure that he would actually classify any sort of music as suitable to shop at a drugstore by, but this seemed particularly out of place and grim.

And really? Deciding between 'moisturizing and conditioning' and 'strengthening and conditioning' and trying to decide whether his hair was oily, dry or normal was bad enough. He didn't need some whiner with a guitar adding to his malaise. What was the scientific criteria of determining this, he wondered. And would he rather smell like a fruit basket, a flower or a barber shop?

So there Lin stood, a bottle of shampoo in either hand. He had probably been standing there spacing out for a good minute or two. He had a basket on one arm. There was a can of shaving cream, some new razors, and a bottle of tea already in. Also, three bottles of hair gel.

In a hair gel, at least, he was clear on what he wanted.

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So for the bathrooms in the remodeled place they would need soap and shampoo and just to be thorough (if not a little stereotypical) about the whole thing, bubble bath. About to reach for his usual shampoo -- the kind that smells like key lime pie and sunshine -- he stops and holds very still and watches Lin with no small bit of amusement. He's never seen someone focusing so hard on two different products.

Finally, he clears his throat.

"You..." Reaching up, he touches his own hair so very lightly. "...use them to wash your hair. Or you can always use the bottles as paperweights, I guess." It's hard not to laugh, but the way Lin's standing there is so incongruous. He looks so baffled.

It's just shampoo.

Oh, hell.

How dull have his senses been getting in the City? That's absolutely deplorable, because he should easily have been able to hear someone approach him. And before he even looks up to the one clearing his throat he knows because his nose is full of that sweet, clean smell.

"I understand the purpose of shampoo," Lin mumbles.

"I'm just not sure which one I need."

Well...

"What kind do you usually get?" Nonplussed, he reaches for the white bottle with the blue letters. There's nothing specific about it that goes with his hair type or length or any of that nonsense: he just likes the way it smells and the way it cleans his hair.

Unscrewing the cap, he samples the smell and nods. Just a hint of key lime and something else fresh and light that he's never been able to isolate, but he likes it. It's a brand he never heard of before he got to the City, but he adapts easily.

Anyway, the shit on Callisto coupled with the incessant cold there was terrible. He's surprised his hair hasn't all broken off at the shoulders. It's even more resilient than the rest of him.

"I don't know. Whatever kind they stock at hotels. Always seemed to work well enough." There are some habits Lin has never been able to break. Maybe it's the years he spent as a street urchin, maybe it's his own painfully practical personality, but free things hold a near-irresistible attraction. He learned quickly that when you stay at a hotel on Red Dragon business, they give you as many of those free bottles of shampoo as you like, and they tell you you can keep the towels and bathrobe.

The smell of Gren's shampoo is nearly overwhelming: he can feel it sifting through his lungs, warming his blood. It's such a pretty smell, not the least bit cloying. It's nearly enough to transport him, but Lin's imagination isn't quite up for the tak.

He hasn't spent a lot of time at hotels in a long, long time. Having a bounty on your head is a little bit limiting in terms of vacation options. So is being as poor as a mouse, but he's always made do and he's making do here too. Sure, he shouldn't have spent that much money on a camera, but he'll recover it even if he has to play his saxophone on the side of the street with a hat out for coins. In a way he finds the concern awfully bittersweet; he never worried about money growing up.

He does now, though. Still, there are little luxuries and this is one of them; the scent fades as he screws the cap back on and lets it join the glycerine soaps and bottle of bubble bath already in his basket.

"Do you need help picking something out?"

It's a little weird, but at the same time making the offer seems like the least he can do.

"I suppose. It's all just shampoo, right? I could just pick something, but, I don't want to have to buy more if I pick the wrong thing." What a distressing life Lin leads, truly. An extra shopping trip for the wrong type of shampoo might just send him over the edge of misery, though.

He truly hates this kind of stuff. Yet he sort of...

"I just want nice shampoo. My hair's not that bad or anything, but, maybe it could look a little nicer. I don't know."

"Your hair is beautiful. Don't worry about it." As far as he's concerned, the best shampoo is one that seems like it fits. Lin shouldn't have something too flowery because it doesn't suit his personality.

Then again, there is no shampoo named Syndicate Hit-Man.

The only way to tell is to open up each bottle and see what the product inside smells like. "Orange. That's kind of nice." He hands that over; Lin needs to see what he likes. "Rose: too sweet. Kiwi -- I think -- what do you think of this one?"

He's a little bit biased to his own. "Don't get any of these down here on the lower shelf. They're no good. They'll dry out your hair."

As if he's some sort of expert? Still, he knows a little bit about this stuff.

"My hair is..." Lin has no idea what to make of the compliment, and he shuts his mouth trying to respond to it. He takes his time sniffing each shampoo, wondering if it's really okay to pick on scent alone, but, it's not an unpleasant experience anyway. The rose was an immediate no, it would definitely give him a headache. Which left...

"I think I prefer orange over kiwi. It's not as strong." And Lin doesn't want to smell like a fruit salad. He's not sure what he would like to smell like, but an fuzzy little fruit was not one of them.

Orange is good, rose was too perfume-like, kiwi or whatever it is nondescript. Then there's always the kind he uses, and he doesn't hold any claim to it. It's the last bottle he picks up and hands to Lin. "Here. This one smells like City curses and handcuffs."

With a laugh, he runs his fingers through that stray edge of his own hair that always falls in front of his eyes no matter what; it's been doing that since he was seven and he's resigned to it now. The only way to keep it in line is to cut it short and he's not interested in that, thank you very much. "Actually, I think that's key lime and a little bit of peppermint. It's a pain in the ass, this Chinese hair of ours. All it does is hang out there, untameable, doing exactly what it wants." Unless they use enough gel, that is; his eyes stray to the items in Lin's basket out of sheer curiosity. "I've never really been able to figure out what to do with it, so I just let it grow. Mine's been long since I was fifteen."

He thought he was going to have to cut it when he joined the Army, but they told him that was a thing of the past and he was pleasantly surprised to find that out.

And now he won't touch it with scissors. He likes the way it feels too much when Lestat plays with it like it's a measure of rare silk or something.

It's difficult for Lin not to stare. The softness of Gren's hair, the smell of his shampoo. At least he still had the comb, that lingering piece of him, or so help him, sometime he was going to...

"You've got Chinese? I didn't know." Properly it might've been 'I couldn't tell,' and perhaps it shouldn't have been as surprising as it was. These days, everyone had a little of everything. Someone who wore his background as easily as Lin was relatively rare. And even he wasn't so stupid to claim a pure bloodline, though he would have liked to.

"That long? Seems impractical."

Awkwardly, he hand the shampoo back. The scent and standing here is getting to be too much. "It smells wonderful," he admits, "But I don't want to smell like you."

It's not an insult. More of the opposite, really.

That's one less bottle to have to choose from; it goes back on the shelf readily enough. He doesn't mind in the least either way because at the end of the day, it's not him. It's just shampoo.

"They tell me my birth mom was Chinese, but for all I know they lied. I never knew her." He was an infant when he was adopted, and all he knows about the people responsible for his conception is the very small amount he knows. The orphanage itself was Chinese-run so it's always been something he's accepted, but it isn't like the circumstances of his birth really matter. For one thing he's dead, so it's all kind of moot. But for another, he grew up with a very loving mother and she's the only one he's ever considered immediate family.

His fingers play with his hair again, almost annoyed this time. "But this almost stands alone as proof, doesn't it. Really, I'm just another Martian."

So is Lin, so is Spike, so is Vicious. Was. Whatever. They're all yesterday's news to the real world. His eyes drop away from Lin's face to the items in his own basket: that's probably everything. Setting up a new place is fun. Setting up a newly-remodeled place is fun too. And setting it up for someone unused to these kinds of things is even more fun. Just the thought of it brings a small private smile to his face, but it's gone by the time he looks up again.

Lin nods slightly. "It's likely my father was Chinese, but there's no real way to know. My mother was." He suspects there might be a little something else mixed in there, responsible for the way his eyes could shift color slightly, blue to green to dark, dark black depending on the light, and perhaps on his emotions.

He picks the orange shampoo and sets it in his basket. Glancing away when Gren looks up - he's so sure it's obvious that he stares.

"I must be keeping you, sorry," he stammers. "I'm done here, anyway."

So he heads to the checkout stand.

"Lin."

His hand closes on one more bottle on the shelf; he tosses it in Lin's direction.

Its purpose is written right there for everyone to see: Orange-Blossom Conditioner. For that silky smooth feel.

Amused -- and maybe a tiny bit saddened -- he moves off to another section of the store. There isn't anything here he needs, but he does it to give Lin a little bit of privacy. There's still so much about him that's about this close to breaking wide open. But at least he's out and about and doing things, and that's a good sign... he thinks.

Lin's tough to read.

Lin honestly believed he was in the way of Gren's shopping. He was also a little flustered, true. He was thinking about dinner - cooking was so unnecessary, but he did it anyway - and spacing out a little again as he stood in line. It was a long one, and the woman being checked out was arguing with the cashier over price.

So it was a bit inevitable, really, that he ran into Gren on his way out. "Have you eaten?" he asked Gren, hopefully not too suddenly. "There's a good Chinese bakery around here. It's not Chinatown, but, it's pretty good no less."

It's an all-too-human thing, he thinks, to confuse food with comfort and comfort with food but this is the second time Lin's approached him around food. The assumption (right or wrong) is that Lin likes props; they make him feel somewhat more at ease.

"A bakery?" Since he took up with Lestat he eats significantly less than he did before and he supposes he doesn't really need it: he's dead. Apparently his body regenerates as much as it's going to every day or so regardless of what he does. The phenomenon is pretty curious and while he hasn't tested it with grievous injury, he did watch Anita come back to life after being murdered.

Some weird magic at work here.

Really weird.

"Sure, I have..." A glance up at the sky: maybe an hour and a half before dark. "Enough time." He'd feel terrible turning Lin down. There might be an awful lot he doesn't know, but he does know that social niceties that are so easy for him come really hard to Lin. The last thing he wants to do is... well, no, maybe it's the second-to-last thing he wants to do but regardless, he can still be polite. "Lead the way."

Maybe this will give him a chance to explain a few things, anyway. There are things that need to be made clear, and they're probably best said in neutral territory.

For both their sakes.

"Okay."

It's for the sake of appearances more than anything else. Lin cooks and barely eats, buys bottled tea and leaves the mostly-full bottle in the fridge for weeks, brews tea and watches the steam. He had very few habits to fall back on, very few pleasant memories. But eating was a necessity and he had to calm down and do that, a part of routine.

There's very little else left from who he used to be, he clings to that, it almost makes him feel normal.

And so it's not really a surprise that he buys them buns and then has no interest in doing anything but poke at it with a fork. It gives him something to look at. "How have you been?" he asks.

"Busy."

That's an honest answer: busy with work, busy with the dogs, busy with his friends, busy with Lestat. He has no compunctions about tasting the bun and Lin was right: it's a typical pork hombow. Not the best, not the worst, but it definitely tastes like the ones on Mars and like all things familiar and for that he has no complaints.

"There was this food stand on the corner a few blocks from the house I grew up in and one of the guys there made these, and the beef variety and the vegetable kind too. My mom used to take me there every once in a while for a treat. I was... oh, probably six, seven. Something like that. I remember being so impatient to peel off the little wrapper. Burned the shit out of myself more often than not because I didn't wait long enough, but... well, I was a kid and kids are like that."

He hasn't thought about that in a long time. This bun is like a little slice of home.

"My brother and I were pretty crazy about them when we were kids, too. There was this baker, Grandpa Wu, he'd always keep back anything left over from the day and give it to us. Hombow usually sold out, though. If we ever got one, we'd split it up and it pretty much made our week. Shin would eat his all at once, I'd eat mine slowly. Then Shin would get jealous of me still having some and I'd end up giving him whatever was left." Lin took a bite. He got the feeling nothing would ever quite taste as good as it did back then. Something about children's tastebuds, or nostalgia. "That stopped when Grandpa Wu died, though. His daughter took over the bakery and she hated us hanging around. She threw a brick at me when she caught us going through the garbage, and that sorta ended that. I guess I don't blame her. We were were homeless and filthy." Another bite, chewing slowly. "Around then I promised Shin we'd be able to eat hombow every day. And we'd buy it at the front of the store, too."

Lin went quiet, then. He really didn't need to say how much he missed his brother. He couldn't express it even if he tried. He was embarrassed to be thinking it at all.

All of Lin's stories are sad stories, it seems, but sympathy isn't what's needed here. He sets the bun back down, and just like in those days long ago a thin layer of bun paste sticks to his fingers and he has to lick it off gently.

"And did you? Eat hombow every day?"

He really hopes so. There's no contest when it comes to being impoverished. Lin grew up that way; he ended up that way only not as badly. He's had some rough times, but for most of his life he hasn't known the dull ache of hunger or the resentment for people who had a roof over their heads.

Only for the people who didn't lose it in prison like he did. The ones who weren't part of the Army's special testing program. And those were the same people who...

"Do you want some tea to go with this? I'll buy us a pot."

The funny thing about other people's sad stories is the ease of which the reality of it is accepted by the teller. Lin is unaware of any bitterness and resentment he might harbor over his past and thinks only of his brother and what a struggle it was to keep them both alive. In a way, he misses those times. Every morning, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

"We did, for awhile, after we joined the Dragons. After awhile, we were too busy with work and wouldn't see each other every day. But we'd still try and eat one together every once in awhile."

And that's the sort of thing that endears him to the syndicate even now. Safety and a chance to eat hombow every day were priceless to him. Better that way, considering no one could walk away and stay alive. Not really.

"The tea blend here is good," he says with a nod, by way of agreement.

Tea's practically a requirement at a place like this, so he gets them a pot, lets it steep, eyes the small ornate cups and the fierce dragon relief on the cast-iron pot. For someone who grew up on Mars, he really doesn't know a whole lot about the crime families there, although he knows there were two main ones. Red Dragons, White Tigers: everyone knew about them, and that there was a rivalry. But beyond steering clear of them he couldn't tell anyone any specifics.

It's like that belongs to a different world entirely. And even here -- even sitting across from a member of the Dragons -- he's sure his view of the entire thing is completely wrong. Skewed in the opposite direction from reality.

What can he say? Nothing about syndicates, that's for sure. "I used to wish I had a brother or sister. I think that would have been..."

What would it have been? Besides an utterly selfish wish? "...a comfort a lot of times. And later, a comfort to my mom." He wishes the last time he saw her hadn't been when the military police carted him off. She looked so distressed.

"Perhaps it would have been. She sounds like a kind woman." No comments about his own mother, no comments about how she didn't want either of them.

He poured the tea (force of habit, ever the servant) and had a sudden, vivid memory of doing the same for her. She was pretty, so pretty but so tired, with that hard, jagged edge of anger always lurking just beneath the surface of any smile or embrace. Good for both of you for being so good-looking, she would say when she was feeling kind. If you'd been girls, I could keep you by my side, but as it stands...

"My brother was indeed a comfort. We understood each others thoughts immediately, did not have to speak when we were together. However, to know someone that intimately - for lack of a better word - can be disquieting. He grew to be... a lot like you. Outgoing. Passionate and fierce, with an underlying core of decency that seems so inappropriate in our line of work. Beautiful, easily loved by many people."

Lin picked up the tea more to keep the words from coming out all at once than to drink. He blew on the surface of the tea to cool it, then sipped.

"You want the best for someone, when you are that close. I broke his heart by never becoming more like him, I think."

Unintentionally, he thinks, Lin has just flattered him in a way that no one else here besides Lestat would ever even think to do. It's slightly unnerving -- he's already done his time being admired in more ways than one -- but he recognizes it for exactly what it is.

"You're kind. I'm betting your brother thought more highly of you than you know. We're always our own worst enemies, aren't we?" The teacup is hot in his hands but it feels good: if there's one thing he misses, it's being warm himself. It's a small enough price to have to pay to death for being allowed to continue to exist, but he does miss it.

What else can he say? That not everyone wants anyone else to be like them? That they all set themselves some impossible standards and no one in their right mind should try to meet them? Maybe none of them are in their right minds anyway. Maybe this city itself is the strangest place he's ever been: he's not sure, but he's been to some pretty strange places.

"What would your brother think of this city if he was here?" It's only asked out of curiosity: he's rarely heard Lin mention him but he wonders. He's a little jealous of the fact they were twins: every kid ever wishes he had a twin at some point. The closest thing he has to what Lin's describing is the way Lestat reads his thoughts when he gives permission for that. But it's a one-way street, ultimately not as fulfilling as it could be were he able to do the same thing.

And he's not even tempted.

"He likes it here. More than me, at least."

Lin pretends he didn't just talk about his brother in the present tense, as if he still spoke to him. The thing he, he does, but it's not something he really needs to discuss with Gren.

And that's when Shin-in-his-head chimes in that Lin would never let anything slip he didn't really want to share with someone, and he breathes his tea and starts coughing.

Shit.

"Are you okay?"

He's no trained medic or anything, but he knows how to stop someone from choking on tea if need be.

Maybe they'd better not talk about Lin's brother.

At all.

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