⇨ The Tourist Trap: WEEK 1

[ringleaders]

Who: Anyone, anywhere in Portland.
When: October 1st - 7th, 2017
Where: Portland area, in the new reality.
What: Memories begin returning to the displaced as the fall gets chillier. How the hell did we end up here, again? Also, apparently, the fair is in town.
Warnings: Individually marked!

PORTLAND BY NIGHT↴ Memory regains will come into effect at the beginning of October, to whatever degree you've decided upon, and may be regained at whatever pace you desire from then on. For those with their full carnival memories, it will be like waking up in the body of someone else - for those with half and half, it will be like rapidly recalling sets of memories from a totally different life. Those with full amnesia will simply feel as if this is how it's always been. Unfortunately for you, memories aren't the only thing you have to deal with. The supernatural community of Portland is bustling all of a sudden - could your presence and these events somehow be related? ► THE OUTER CIRCLE: As of the start of the month, the Portland Circle of Enlightenment will find itself starting to get swarmed with members from other chapters. Most notably, it would seem that a small cabal of top mages from the North American Enlightenment Council will be making their home in Portland's HQ. For anyone but the highest of ranks, the purpose behind their visit will be unclear, but it seems like something is definitely up on a metaphysical level. The Circle will be buzzing with rumours of unique planar activity and threatening omens. It seems that it all started with an unusual flare of activity in the planetary ley-lines, starting approximately a week ago. However, even if you would usually be the type to keep tabs on such things, you will find that you oddly have no memory of observing this phenomenon yourself. ► THE ANIMAL FAIR: Good news, the fair is in town! Or, at least, it would be good news... if this was a regular fair. Instead, what's being observed is a bunch of nearly identical flyers, spread all around Portland - each of which bears only the words "THE ANIMAL FAIR", a seemingly bloody paw-print of unknown origin, and the directions to a vague forested location outside of the city. It's dated for October 7th, and all instances of its posting having been discovered with a scattering of rose petals, crow feathers, and pre-burnt matches laying on the ground around them. Most are taking this to be some kind of bizarre viral marketing campaign, but others may know better. ► THE EARTH SPIRIT: If you have connections to The Pack or any of its many variations, you'll probably hear whispers of something very odd that occurred last week - according to the elders, it sounds as if the Earth Spirit, the magical and spiritual center of the planet, has suddenly taken a wound. It's not clear why or how, but there is a fair bit of concern among spiritual types, as it is werebeast belief and nebulous magical fact that the magical forces within the earth are the source of all magic here, as well as the source of life. While many werebeasts claim to have felt the Spirit succumb, you strangely have no memory of such an event occurring. Though things do feel strange, if you know how to tap into the Spirit yourself. ► THE WAR CRY: Though Anath's rain of terror across North America lasted for the first fifteen years or so of the Severing, most independent demons have had enough time to start taking the arch-demon's relative inactivity for granted. For that first while, the warrior queen had seemed determine to rebuild an army on earth by forcing her scattered brethren into service - only for her to gradually settle down in a fortress somewhere in Texas and dig in her heels. Of course, this was too good to last - it sounds as if she and her demonic legion have begun tearing their way up the west coast, their goals remaining a mystery. Their destination, however, is almost certainly Portland.

Comments

[whattaprick]

Inanely, Lambert finds himself hoping aliens aren't real, too.

"You said you chose to serve one," he points out. "That make you a monster too?" It's a rhetorical question, of course. John's a dick, a certified stalker, and keeps too many secrets, but Lambert wants to believe he'd recognize an actual monster if he saw one.

Then again, it's not like he was ever a great judge of character to begin with. Maybe he'd just let himself get flattered someone was going out of their way to spend time with him.

"Who's 'they' -- the master it was talking about?" The Beast had seemed so certain about who he served, even without him saying a word. Lambert reaches out to grab his arm, running a thumb ober the feathers sprouting from his skin. "He give you these?"

[atouts]

Does that make him a monster, too? Lambert may not like the grim smile that question gets him, but he won't answer it. He'll leave it be. Let the man have his own image of the changeling, whatever it might be. The smile does, thankfully, fade soon after.

"For that answer," he pushes away from the counter, almost tugging his arm free, almost, but then he comes short of stepping far enough away to do that. Childermass looks back, down at the feathers, the same uncomfortable air he'd had about himself when first revealing his real appearance — all those months ago — returning. "For that answer, I really don't want to be sober."

If that tells Lambert anything about it.

[whattaprick]

There it is again, that strange expression Lambert doesn't know how to interpret. On anyone else, he'd call it 'shame,' but the idea of idea of him being ashamed of anything is laughable.

"Fine," he says. He'll hold on to that arm a moment longer, before he lets him go. "Then let's get unsober."

It takes him a few moments to double check that everything's locked down securely, and then he'll beckon John out after him, heading for his shitty little moped. Theoretically, they could both fit on it, but he assumes John's already got his own mode of transportation planned. Outside, the sound of the city at night is startlingly normal, distant bass beats and cars on the road a surreal counterpoint to tonight's encounter.

Lambert fishes out a crumpled cigarette pack from a pocket. There's only one left inside -- he is supposed to be quitting, but he makes a face at it anyway -- and he'll stick that between his lips, not lighting it yet.

"So, where to?"

[atouts]

John does indeed have his own method of travel, obvious reasons point to turning into a literal bird, but that's an unimportant detail, unlike Lambert's sad and crumpled cigarette. It's an automatic reaction to produce his lighter, a cheap and simple one, so it's not as suave as one could hope for, but it'll light things. That's all that's needed.

He thumbs the flame on and raises it, eyebrows lifting similarly in an unspoken question. Does he need a light?

But to the actual question, he just says, "I figure we just swing by a liquor store and take storytime somewhere without eavesdroppers. My place?"

Surprise, he does actually have a place. He just hasn't cared to mention in the three or so months they've known each other, but that shouldn't be a shocker. He is, as always, a shady bastard.

[whattaprick]

Lambert was already patting his pockets down for a lighter, but... sure, this is convenient. He raises a brow and leans forward, an unspoken cue for the other man to bring the lighter closer.

Once it's lit, he'll take a breath and exhale, smoke curling from his lips as he smirks, feeling a little more like himself again. "City's got an open container policy, you know. That includes parks." Why yes, he has kind of been assuming John has been living in bird form in one of the city's parks this whole time, of course he won't pass up the chance to make fun. But if he actually has something that isn't a bunch of twigs stuck up a tree? Yeah, he'd like to see it.

"There's a decent store about twelve blocks away. Meet you there in ten?" He's already slipping onto his bike, but putting on a helmet would mean having to stop smoking, which he's not inclined to right now. There's always the chance he'll just ... run off without giving him any answers, but somehow he doesn't think he will. Lambert pulls on the cigarette again, contemplative, before he absently holds it out to him with a raised brow. In case John wants one puff for the road.

[atouts]

"Good thing we aren't going to a park, then," John answers, though not without a roll of his eyes. Honestly, does he expect werecreatures to live in forests instead of, say, his own apartment? No? Well, whatever. He tucks his lighter away again and does accept the offered cigarette, though, despite having his own pack stowed away in a pocket somewhere, taking one drag off of it before passing it back.

"See you there."

Because as soon as Lambert's taken his cigarette back, there's a flicker of motion, too fast to see or make out regarding details, and a crow immediately takes off from where he'd been standing a second before, the only sound he makes the flap of wings. He'll undoubtedly beat Lambert there, with enough time to change back and find a spot to casually lean against just outside while waiting.

[whattaprick]

It says something about what his life has become that the sight of that barely merits a blink anymore. Lambert's had an inkling of what his new feathery friend was when he'd first told him about iron, but he'd never asked. Partly because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, partly because he'd never expected to see the man again, much less to strike up an odd friendship built mostly around giving each other shit.

A faerie of some kind, he'd thought, but the way he spoke of it just now, it didn't seem like that was what he was. Maybe closer to a cursed human, like he'd first assumed.

Something to ponder over later. For now, he'll finish his cigarette, stubbing it out and flicking it away into a bin before getting on his bike again. He'll go ahead and stride right inside without waiting to see if John will follow. As the changeling would know, beer's normally his go-to -- and in Portland, there sure is a hell of a lot of it -- but tonight feels like it deserves something stronger.

"What's your poison?" he murmurs, then reconsiders. "Better question: what's your budget?" Because hell if he knows if John has any money, he's never seen him buy anything. He doesn't really know much about him at all, so following him back to wherever he lives with the full intention of getting wasted should by all rights be the worst of ideas, but instead it just feels ... comfortably familiar.

[atouts]

"Wine," John answers easily enough, "And cheap."

He has cash on him, more than enough to cover whatever he wants. Overall, though, it's apparent he's pretty unworried and is looking more for something to get drunk off of, not something fancy. That all said, he slips away from where he'd been leaning and strolls into the store, giving a nod to the clerk as he goes by and straight on over to the aisles of bottles.

Unless Lambert argues with his choice, it's two bottles of red wine he ends up picking out, a zinfandel and some kind of fortified dessert wine, though the quality isn't exactly assured at the cheaper level of the spectrum for those. Alcohol content, however, is. Should Lambert want something else or some beer, he'll pay for that, as well. A wad of cash covers them and he gets them bagged, hands them off to Lambert, seeing how a crow sure isn't going to carry a bag with glass bottles in it.

"There's a Chinese place on the way there," he adds as they step out. He'll point out the way to go, giving him directions to the takeout place first, and then it's a repeat of before, though he steps somewhere out of sight to turn into a bird this time. The clerk doesn't need a headache of his own for the night, after all. In the end, they'll end up with booze and Chinese with a severe overdose of awful, tasteless fortune cookies piled in with the rest of the food. It's only afterward that Lambert gets the final address. It's a game of tag with that, since it's unlikely to be a neck of the Portland woods the Lambert knows, which means the crow flies ahead, lands, waits, then flies ahead again, to make sure he doesn't get lost.

It's way up, up, up into the bluffs overlooking the city, where trees grow thick and houses start looking like ominous mansions out of ghost stories this late at night. For that matter, the one John leads him to may as well be one straight out of a ghost story. It's obviously abandoned, despite being a large, fairly abstract-looking mansion of its own. It is the right place, however, since John's already back in his human form and waiting for him there — idly leaning on rust-covered but still solid railing — where the yard creeps down into the balcony, one that borders what's more or less the place's basement.

Yeah, sure nothing shady about this. Nope, nah, not at all.

[whattaprick]

On the reassurance that there's hard liquor where they're headed, Lambert doesn't have any further requests to make. And so they'll make their way across the city like that, the smell of food making Lambert's stomach rumble pathetically and remind him just how long it's been since he's eaten. Turns out near-death experiences can give you a real appetite, who knew? The uphill road's a struggle for Lambert's bike, but despite a few moments where it seriously looks like it's about to give up the ghost, it manages to persevere.

When they arrive at their destination, he looks incredulously up at the building, at John, then back again.

Well, fuck. No wonder he hasn't invited Lambert around. Lambert's beginning to wonder if he's ever invited anyone around, because how many people can a guy who turns into a crow possibly convince to come over to his creepy house on the hill? The thought of some stories holding that vampires can shapeshift as well as any were briefly occurs, but is dismissed just as quickly. He can't see well in the dark, but even he can tell this place is too fancy for John to possibly own, and there are subtle signs of neglect and disuse that just scream Hi, I'm probably full of mold and spiders and ghosts. There are probably paranoid neighbors already wondering what the noise is about, trigger-finger hovering over the emergency dial...

This really is stupid. Nevertheless, he'll heave a sigh and park his bike, hooking his fingers into the plastic bags with food and drink and joining John on the balcony. He moves gingerly, with his eyes still adjusting from the brightness of the headlights, so he's not even going to try to squint into the interior. Also because of driving, now he's fucking cold, and he grimaces as he hands off the bag with the wine, fighting down a shiver.

"At least tell me you have heat in there." Should that really be the most pressing thing on his mind? Probably not, but it's the only thing that's immediately affecting him.

[atouts]

Just one ghost, actually, but Lambert will discover that very soon. Anyway, the comment on heat has John raising an eyebrow and looking back over his shoulder at the house. Well, technically—

"I do have a space heater," he says, glancing back towards Lambert and shrugging. "But no gas. It's a little like camping out, I admit."

There are also enough blankets for the rest of the time, but being a changeling from the Winter Court has other perks. Cold just doesn't bother him. He imagines that's an answer Lambert will get later tonight if his questions ever wander into 'things that do and don't affect faeries' or whatever.

"Feel free to grab any blanket you want, if you really get cold enough."

But that's all there is to say because after that he'll offer to take one of the bags — whichever one, doesn't matter — and lead the way down the stairs. Whether he's worried paranoid neighbors might do anything about them, well, you'd be surprised what kind of enchantments you can buy for a place. Let's just say he's not bothered by that, either. Down the steps directly to the balcony, then along the semi-circle of it, leads to bay doors padlocked shut. He doesn't produce a key, just touches the lock. It falls into his hand, along with the chains, seemingly without breaking and without ever being unlocked, almost like the chains themselves melted through the door handles and reformed together again. That done, he'll push it open and step in, heading for the lightswitch.

The place is strung up with various strings of lights, some generic ones, some for holidays, all sorts of different shapes. It's enough to light the place up just fine, if strangely. The rest of the house probably looks like shit but in here? It's been cleaned up. Previously, it must have been used to host guests or parties, including a small kitchenette, a minibar, and an amazing view of Portland spread out below. The floors are clean, the walls are clean, the furniture is clean, even if it's all very sparse. There's probably a bathroom and a washing machine room tucked away somewhere, too, though it's dubious if the water will actually work in here (it does, but it requires John to turn the pipes on manually and, oh, you better not hope for hot water).

Furniture-wise? A mattress on a boxspring in the far corner, actually made, sheets neatly pulled up and folded under. A coffee table, a secondhand couch, a TV stand with a cheap, older version of what flatscreens are today and one or two older game systems hooked up. Books, too, stacks of them, though it looks like the most he's invested in bookcases are cinder blocks and wooden boards. And, yes, there is a space heater, but it's tucked away to one side, as if not often used. So basically, it's like a college student took over a fancy basement, only the college student is a thirty-something changeling who turns into a bird sometimes.

"Not the best place to live, I admit, but it does the job."

[whattaprick]

Lambert keeps the food bag, naturally, because it's the one emitting the most heat. He watches John unlock the door like he's burning it into his memory, only to find himself blinking against the light soon enough. Moving cautiously inside, he obviously can't help looking around -- maybe it's because he's had his private space invaded often enough that it feels only fair to get the chance to pay it back.

Though he had no solid concept of what the man's place could possibly look like before this, he can say the only assumption he'd made that bears a remote semblance to the reality is the neatness of it all. Lambert toes off his shoes automatically, leaving his socks on as he steps over to put the food down on the counter. That seems like the obvious place to do it, but he won't stop there, heading over to take in the view and cupping his hands against the glass so that it isn't obscured by the reflection from John's fairy-lights.

"I don't know," he jokes, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. "This whole setup is pretty romantic. Almost makes me want to become a squatter myself." The jibe lacks bite, and he turns away from the window to continue his investigation -- hunger temporarily forgotten in favor of being nosy, apparently. As soon as he catches sight of the games hooked up to the TV, he snorts, bending down to pick up a controller.

"Wow, this brings back memories. You actually play?" The idea amuses him, obviously. Childermass and video games, now that's a mental image he didn't think he'd ever have.

[atouts]

"Sure, romantic," John scoffs. It is pretty cushy as far as places to squat illegally go, but that has more to do with paying a hefty sum in favors and other less monetarily based ways for all the charms and enchantments to make it work. "If you don't mind the wind shaking the place like it's about to be knocked over in the winter."

Which it very well might, perched on the side of the bluff as it is. Good thing the only current full-time occupant can sprout wings, right?

Lights settled, his next move is to walk over and set the wine down, along with the chains and padlock. If Lambert wants the heater on, he'll have to walk over and turn it on himself, because his feathery host is going to look into getting down mugs (mugs, not glasses, because he has mugs, mugs and plastic cups and the mugs just look better). Searching out actual utensils, too, from drawers and such.

"What, those old things? Of course I do." The systems are, as mentioned before, pretty out of date compared to today, akin to Nintendo Gamecube and an original Playstation, with similarly old games. "You think I was never a kid? I didn't start skulking broodily in shadows and acting like a cryptic old fuck until my twenties."

[whattaprick]

"You mean you weren't born that way? I'm learning new things about you already." Lambert never really had a chance to play with these things either, though he has a vague memory of a summer wasted on video games at least in one home ... how old had he been then? It's surprisingly hard to recall.

It does remind him of why they're here at all, though, which makes the smile fade a little from his face. While John is presumably handling the drinks, he'll turn the attention to the food, taking it out of the bag and opening the tightly packed containers of rice, greasy noodles, stir-fry and chicken. He isn't going to wait for John to finish dishing out utensils before he's already breaking the cheap chopsticks apart to start picking at the chicken, speaking around a mouthful of food.

"Got any music?" Heading over to the space heater, taking a moment to puzzle over the controls before turning it on.

[atouts]

"Does it look like I have a stereo in here?" He asks, even though the answer is obviously no. He doesn't have music in here because what's the point if it can't be played loud? Even the TV is left on a low volume. So, he does without. It's yet to bother him. "And while I realize that was meant in jest, no, I wasn't born that way. I was actually born human."

Kind of. There hadn't been a single thing different or outside the norm until after seventeen, though the why and when and how of every difference are all a vague blur to him. Something he's also not bothered by, since what he does know is he wouldn't want to remember any of it, anyway. On that note, he gets the first bottle of wine open and fills up both mugs.

[whattaprick]

It's too bad, because it would have been fun to see if his taste in music was as old fashioned as his taste in video games, but with the wine poured and the subject at hand broached, it doesn't feel much a time for jokes anymore. Lambert ambles over to retrieve his mug and a plate for piling the food into, taking a sip and grimacing before taking a bigger gulp. Drinking on an empty stomach, a terrible idea, but one he can't much be bothered to worry about. He wants to get drunk, that's the point of the whole exercise.

There are a lot of follow up questions he could ask, and he'll consider his options as he loads up on food. He'll eat standing at the counter, since that seems less effort than moving to the couch, unless Childermass wants to be sitting own for this.

"What changed?"

[atouts]

"Dear old dad remembered that I existed, that's what," Childremass answers, voice absolutely bitter. He isn't even going to disguise it. As much as he plays the sarcastic 'who cares, not me' card about most things as a public face, it's far from the truth and especially when it comes to family matters.

He'll get to food later, provided Lambert doesn't pull off the amazing feat of eating it all on his own before then. No, he's going for his own mug of wine first. If he's inevitably going to talk about how he's connected to all this weird-ass faerie shit, he — as mentioned long before — isn't doing it sober and for good reason. It's a family thing. That makes it so much worse.

[whattaprick]

It all lines up in a terrible sort of way. Lambert slows down chewing to mull that over. His gaze, inevitably, drifts over the feathers sprouting from John's arms, disappearing under the hem of his sleeves. Since the first time they met, he'd always wondered how far they really go, but now their delicate shapes are more than decorative -- they're a part of John's story, which he already has a more few guesses on, with this informaiton.

"Take it that wasn't a happy reunion." His brows draw together and he frowns over the edge of his mug. He has so many questions to ask, but he isn't sure how much time John wants to give him. After all, once the subject of family comes up, all bets are off. Lambert certainly hasn't gotten into detail about his own.

[atouts]

"More like it wasn't a happy first meeting. I had no idea who he was before," he replies, shrugging as he does, but one of those half-hearted, one-shouldered kinds of shrugs. "Wouldn't have minded never finding out, for that matter. I assume you have some idea of what a changeling is, right? With all those stories you read?"

[whattaprick]

"A bit, yeah," Lambert nods, picking up another bit of noodles to put in his mouth before he continues. "Most commonly, the stories involve fairies or elves replacing a human child with one of their own, or sometimes a bit of wood spelled to look like the missing child. The parents would then raise without knowing any better. That's the changeling." He scowls. "Superstition held that one way to get the human back was to put the changeling through all sorts of shit, freak the fairies out and make them change their minds. Mostly sounded like an excuse to an abuse children, if you ask me."

But that doesn't line up with what John's told him so far, and he visibly has to stop, snap his mouth shut, and cut himself off before he rattles off any more information. This is John's life, after all, not just some story, and even someone like him can recognize that. I wasn't born that way and until my twenties...

"Sometimes 'changeling' is used to talk about the stolen human, like in Shakespeare. Stories have less of a consensus on what happens to them." In some, they're used as a tithe to the devil, or raised to be servants, or treated like kings ... but even in those, the child never seems to want to remain.

[atouts]

It's not like it bothers him, to hear Lambert rattle off how many different possibilities there are for the word 'changeling'. He already figured he would know the usual lot, judging from what he's been studying.

"It's a mix, actually," Childermass can confirm some of what was just said, but it's none just one or the other. He'll set his own expression into a very careful neutral look when going into this topic. While letting Lambert ramble on about it doesn't bother him, admitting what his own life has been is a little different, even if he doesn't plan on giving away too many details. "Most are just people who've been stolen or traded away for power. There's a lot of them in Portland, the ones who've managed to get out, but they try to keep to themselves. They spend most the time hiding, trying not to attract attention. Sometimes, though, a faerie will have a child with a mortal."

[whattaprick]

"Like you," he'll finish. It's the obvious conclusion to make. He doesn't add anything more after that, though, because for once in his life, Lambert apparently knows when to shut up and listen. He leans his weight on one elbow as he continues to alternate between his food and the wine, though he's clearly more attentive to the words than what he's putting in his mouth.

[atouts]

"Like me," he agrees and he would have gone on, if not for the fact that the container of General Tso's has started inching its way ever so slowly towards the end of the counter the two aren't closest to. Childermass doesn't look away from Lambert, though there is a flicker of mild amusement breaking the mask of neutrality because he does notice it. "And if you want some of that, Baker, you need to materialize and ask like a good dog."

The container immediately stops moving and there's a long pause, long enough that one might begin to wonder if they were just imagining something if not for the fact that Childermass was definitely talking to someone. That doesn't last forever, though, and the black form of a dog about two feet and some inches tall — black-furred, red-eyed, but tail wagging and attempting to look innocent despite being up on the counter — begins to take shape up there next to the food.

[whattaprick]

How entirely unsurprising to see Baker here. Lambert has seen much less of the little ghost dog since that first unfortunate run-in, but he does tend to hang around at John's heels. For the most part, it's an uneasy truce. Lambert had been a cat, at one point, after all, and snapped at Baker's master (or at least the changeling he'd adopted as such) to boot, but the dog is such a dope it's sometimes easy to forget he can turn into a red-eyed monstrosity given the slightest provocation.

In this case, Lambert will reach out and scoot the container back to safety, giving Baker a baleful look. Yeah, buddy, the cute act doesn't work even with his sister, and she's a lot cuter than you are.

"Does he actually need to eat?" Lambert snorts, before he pulls a face at the sight of paws on the counter. It's not his house, though, so whatever. He thinks it's weird John spoils the ghost dog so much, but not his call.

[atouts]

The ghost dog whines as Lambert retrieves the chicken, giving him scary glowing red puppy dog eyes regardless of how it's not going to work on him. It barely ever works on John, either, but the possibility of it working exists and so he tries. As for John, well, he just chuckles and holds a hand out as if to pat the ghost.

He does, in fact, pat the ghost, since Baker can materialize enough to become semi-solid. It's weird, but it just means he can't rest too much weight down on the ghost's fur while scratching behind one floppy ear.

"He doesn't need to, no, but he's capable of it," he answers, "Don't ask me where it goes. I assume it just burns up into extra energy, all of it."

[whattaprick]

"He should teach that trick to one of the ghosts at the university," Lambert answers dryly. "Or they could team up. He likes smacking food out of people's hands." Watching John pet Baker is surreal for more than just the obvious reasons. There's a sense like he's seen something like this before, but he shakes it off quickly, with another smirk.

"But he's not the one who needs it, anyway. Come on, dig in before it gets cold." If it does, it's no doubt a simple matter of sticking it into the microwave, but the dog's arrival has effectively derailed the conversation for the moment, anyway. Lambert ends up devouring as much as one would expect a college student to, more wine gets poured out, and Baker even gets his chicken, eventually. Lambert a few drinks in is a Lambert who is really curious about what a semi-translucent dog eating food even looks like, apparently.

"So," he says not too long later, when the food's mostly been squared away and they've migrated to the couch. Lambert's triumphantly liberated a few mini-bottles of vodka from the bar, and they're the perfect size to pour into their respective mugs and mix with the wine, no matter what John's protests might be.

"So," Lambert says again, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and handling John his mug. "You met your dad. What happened after that?" They're both totally going to regret this tomorrow, probably, but right now Lambert's got his glasses pushed up on his head and the room is pleasantly blurry. He's got an elbow up on the back of the couch, and with Baker wedged in between them, he's even tipsy enough that he's letting his fingers hang down and tousle at ghost fur.