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Hobie twisted his neck in defiance, as he does with most things. A firm hand on his hip as he brushed his teeth, making faces at himself in the mirror with a serious glance. Gwen laughed at him.
“Y’know you’re the first cool electric guitar player I’ve met? First one that hasn’t…You get it.”
She’d been staying for quite some time now. She hadn’t always stayed with him, she’d become a bit of a couch hopper but with far more dimensional consequences that she didn’t even have to worry about. She just did it when it worked. When no one would really question her. When Jess promised she’d have her back and wouldn’t tell him. The grouch who ruled with a ‘clawed’ first, no iron. He wasn’t like them. It was almost like in a certain way, he couldn’t be… and that was a good thing. At least that was what her gut told her. But none of that mattered. Not here, not with Hobie. Maybe one of the world's most obnoxious punkies, and she didn't know many so that was a spot that couldn’t be beat, no.
“Really? Not surprising. Most electric guitar players don’t get it .”
“Oh Yeah?”
“N’ most drummers got thick skulls, not in a good way. You do too but s’ likable.”
“Well, thank you.”
Gwen flashed him a smile at him before spitting into the sink with only a knowing smirk being returned. Lingering for a few more moments until Hobie gave her a complicated glare that told her she should waltz her ass over to the laundry room. She was only here washing some clothes, staying for the night was a last minute thing. And she had her own tooth brush here anyways, it wasn’t a big deal. No matter how hard Pavitr had tried to make it one. Fishing into the basket of clothes the Punk had next to his couch, she grabbed a new shirt of his to steal. Changing with a haste she's perfected over the years. One shirt off One shirt on so fast it seemed she’d had it on the entire time to begin with. Containing imagery of a band she felt was familiar, but Hobie insisted there was no version of a band as good as this.
(Not other than his own, anyway).
With a click-clack noise made via his tongue, Hobie waltzes into his own living room. A studio apartment with no real bed (just a mattress on the floor doused in thin blankets and makeshift pillows), a couch, a bathroom, and a washing room he could barely afford. He shot Gwen with a concerned expression, one he rarely just hands around. He always has a look of pride on his face, or disapproval, maybe even unabashed joy. But now there was concern. Gwen didn’t like that.
“You got an edge on you. Somethin’s wrong.”
“What? You sure your Spidey senses aren’t just… acting up?” She suggests, a fake laughter in her tone.
His lips shift into a slanted line. Not impressed. She frowns, averting her eyes. Now sitting with her legs crossed on the floor. Hunched over herself. Hobie doesn’t join, he only moves to stand beside her.
“You still ‘aven’t visited your dad?”
“No, a-and I don’t plan on it…Don’t–-don’t tell me you're on the ‘you should go see him’ side of things.. Are you?”
“Now why the hell would I be?” He speaks almost with a scoff, quirking an eyebrow. A smirk was growing.
Thank God. She liked that.
“I could just tell that somethin’ was up with you. You don’t gotta talk about it now if you’re not feelin’ up to it. But I'm here. Y’know?”
“I know.”
“Aces.”
“...Thanks.”
“It’s nothin’.”
It was now that Hobie had joined her on the floor in a similar position, though he’d eased into it. Like he was trying to play off ‘getting close to her’ with the stretch of his leg, leaning out toward her. She ‘knicked’ (as he would say, which is an improper use of the phrase yes but he isn’t known for following rules, is he?) him in the shoulder. And he knicked her back, with a sharp ‘Oi’ that had the both of them laughing now. Only when he’d reeled his leg in did she moderately sway in his direction, side-eyeing him with a smile. But he was staring out the window now. Moments like these only lasted for so long. Her smile faltered. Eyes scattering to look somewhere else the moment he started getting up. If his eyes moved to her she didn’t want him looking at her and knowing she was staring at him. Why? She barely knew herself.
“Is It-”
“I’ve got a gig.”
“Yeah? That’s great-” Another nervous laugh. She was terrible at acting fine.
“Yeah… don’t you have work to do? With Jess n’ all that?”
“.. I do. Sorry to be a conformist.”
“You got problems, Stacy.”
“With conforming? Yeah I know, I’m trying to work on it.” One more nervous laugh or stupid joke and she might pass out.
He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled. There were moments he worried for her, when he looked at her and could see the yarn unraveling in her chest, how much she had left in her? He couldn’t know. But he had a faith in her that overpowered any worry. She would be fine, do great things, she’d rise above her ‘oppressors’. And he planned to help. All in due time, when the bells of REVOLUTION rang. But for now he had a gig, a mission of his own.
“You're alright, Gwen. You’re alright.”
“You too Hobbs.”
“Don’t call me that.”
With a swift pace that was constantly changing (somehow), he disappeared once again into the bathroom. Now it was her turn to do the same. Put on the suit and clock into work. Disappear. The only thing she had left, now. The only thing she was capable of stomaching now. Somehow. and Though there were certainly moments that made it clear one wrong punch could make her puke she moved past it. She couldn’t afford that, or anything really. She’d finesse this somehow, break the system… see Miles.
For now, she just had Jess to talk to about this ‘Spot’ and his sudden stopping point.