Participants:
| Scene Title | Complicatedness |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After every night to remember comes a morning to forget. |
| Date | September 8, 2010 |
Gun Hill - Sable's Apartment
KNOCK KNOCK
The sound echoes brutishly loud through Sable's apartment. Well, loud when one's world is shrouded in the discomfort and agony that is a hangover - penance the wonderful sin that is alcohol consumption.
Sable was not dreaming of her head being the clapper in a great church bell. She was dreaming of something far more pleasant, almost certainly. Maybe nothing really amazing, but better. Much better than the dream about her head clanging against curved walls of brass. Luckily such a dream is short lived as the noise her head makes, drawn from a noise in the outside world, draws her into painful waking.
Tangled up in sheets, half dressed, pillows scatter far from her aching head, Sable woozy tries to rise into a sit, and the pain between her ears shifts and slides like a rotten egg yolk. Fuck… that hurts. She points slitted eyes over at the door. Please… please let those knocks have just been in her head. It smarted enough to be internal…
KNOCK KNOCK
"Sable?" comes Joanne's tired curiosity through the thin door. Then, a more pronounced whine: "Saaaaablllllle."
Ow. Owww. Each blow makes Sable feel a sharp stab of pain run between her temples, and each stab is followed by a concurrent jab of hate for whatever motherfucker is at her d-
Oh, it's Joanna!
That changes everything, all at once. The whine… okay, maybe that's a little much, and Sable wraps an arm over her head in response, squeezing as if this might somehow press the pain out, like juice from an orange, but no dice. Dressed in just her tanktop and a pair of adorable cartoon animal panties she did not buy for herself, and has defaced thoroughly with black fabric marker, giving the guileless duck a horned helmet and the bumbling bear a big anarchy-A tattoo on his fuzzy tummy… where was I? Oh yes, dressed like this, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with a waking that would feel premature at any hour, Sable toddled over to the door and pulls it open. Checking to make sure it's Joanna.
The one, the only, the… horribly grouchy, disheveled, and equally hung-over Isis/Joanne stands present in the opened doorway. There's something different about her though. When did her face…
Become a bag of frozen peas?
The bag crumples and rustles annoyingly as the redhead lowers it enough to peer against the damnable lights day-dwellers so favor to take in her neighbor. She stares through slitted lids for a long while before mumbling…
"What. The. Fuck."
The troublemaker offers a tired grin and makes a little gesture of polite inquiry towards the door, only to follow it shortly with a little step to traverse the threshold. "That was… awesome," she murmurs, her voice gravely with the strain of 'Barbie Girl', sleep deprivation, and achy headedness.
Joanna's mask, on loan from the Jolly Green Giant, gives Sable a totally valid and legitimate reason to give the redhead a once over. Not that she wouldn't have anyways, but it's always nice to have casus ogli. She's on the upwards half of her trip when Joanna is good enough to reveal her weary features, but hey, too late now! Sable gives a crooked grin of her own as Joanna says three words that return Sable's own thoughts to her with alienated grace.
"Price 'f havin' a good time, eh?" Sable says, her own voice ragged, in no way helped by the fact she insisted on hitting the pipe when she got home as a preemptive hangover cure which very obviously did not work in the slightest.
Isis's entrance is facilitated by a shuffle to the side, an arm motioning to make it clear that she's more than welcome to make herself at home. "No fuckin' lie," she concurs, vis a vis awesomeness, "yer boy's got some fuckin' stage presence, I'll give 'im that. Where th' hell did y' find him?"
"Lithuania," Isis mumbles, shuffling in her socks - stripped various shades of green and reaching her knees - over towards the bed. "Don't tell 'im I told you. Mr. Grumpy-Secret Gills doesn't like sharing," she grumbles.
FLOP!
The redhead is a puddle of paleness and garnet-gold curls, flat and face-first on her neighbor's bed. "All night. In his sleep. Singing. Baaaaarrbie Giiiirrl." Isis rolls over onto her back, stuffing the bag of humiliated, frozen vegetables underneath her neck. "Ya like him, though?" she inquires with a sudden bite of more lively curiosity in her tone, lifting her head as far as the pain allows and looking down over the bridge of her nose with hazel eyes.
She's still in her pajamas, it appears - men's black, silk boxers and a green tank top to match those ever-so-flattering socks.
Sable has no idea where Lithuana even is. She's guessing either South America or Africa… only he's the wrong color for those place (at least in Sable's mind, still marred by certain not particularly PC assumptions). But her interest in Diogenes is not so great as to demand further questioning, however much the suggestion of secrecy suggests there is something to find out!!!. Let's get real here: even if Dio were present, he'd have a hard time competing with Isis for Sable's attention. He may find that very fact to be a blessing, in times to come.
The yellow eyed girl makes her way to the bed as well, settling herself down niiiiice and easy at the foot of it and sloooowly lowering herself into a sideways recline, head resting on her upper arm, hand dangling like a half-assed gallows arm over her head. It takes her a moment to figure out what Isis has actually asked her, 'cause she's sort of busy looking rather than listening. At this level of post-drunk, she's only got so many faculties available at one time.
"Figure I might just," Sable does manage to reply, though, without too much delay. She tugs her bare legs up behind her, draping a wrist over her stacked knees. "Sort of a weird fuckin' fella, but obviously quick as hell. Wasn't sure 'bout him at first, but," she grins, "like I said… killer stage presence. Gotta admire that." Her eyes close for a moment. The blinds on her window are not doing enough to keep the sun out.
"Somethin' between you two?" is the question that follows immediately after her eyes peek open again. It's a casual enough sounding question; it doesn't sound like anything's riding on it.
Isis's form stills in an awful hurry, taking on the form of a convincing manikin for a long moment. "Something?" she purses her lips, laying her head back carefully and staring up at the ceiling for a long while. After a few seconds, she drapes her arm over her eyes, grumbling. "Why do you torture me so?" she inquires with a theatrical tone before shrugging awkwardly under her arm.
"It's complicated. Diogenes is… different. Very different. We get along great at some times and others…" She pauses and lifts her hands, making a strangling gesture in the air above her. She slowly rolls over onto her side then, the mess of curls beneath her rising and falling to create fiery ocean waves in the forefront of her vision, clouding her image of Sable in a rosy halo.
"I don't know what we are. I mean, I can't think one could call it a 'relationship'." She wrinkles her nose. Hells no, that was certainly not a term to fit the companionship of the Bonnie and Clyde tag-team. "Wish I could give you a better answer but…" She taps the front of her own forehead by way of explanation and grunts, only to shift and use her free hand to grab her gold package of veggies and gently lift it to press it along Sable's brow.
Isis's words and gestures, in some parts performative, in other parts simply honest, are received by Sable with as much interest as her features can portray within causing her extra pain. Mostly she just gazes hazily at the redhead. When that russet veil falls into place, Sable appreciates its presence for a few moments before her gallows arm slowly leans out and brushes half of the curtain aside, her touch delicate, quite possibly describable as tender.
The press of the cool package, however, causes Sable to scoot over onto her back, reducing the amount of work Isis must do to hold it in place and, thus, encouraging her to keep it there. That's nice. That's real nice.
"Complicated? Hell, hon, I c'n dig that," Sable avers, arms folding over her chest mummy-style, "don't need t' apologize f'r that. Christ knows, I've got m' share of complicated. You ever wanna talk it out with me 'n' all… don't fear I won't unnerstand. Hell," one eyes opens and swivels over to Isis, "you tell me 'bout yer complicated, I'll tell y' 'bout mine, make it a fair trade."
Isis's uneasy state eases significantly with Sable's voiced understanding. The redhead shifts a little nearer, adjusting the cooling bag on her neighbor's forehead. She takes a moment then, shifting her chin to look down over the short length of Sable's person. The examination does not pose anything deviously lecherous or even remotely sensual, though. Instead, Isis's gaze seems thoughtful and calculating.
After a moment, Joanne lifts her chin to meet Sable's cat-like gaze. She lifts a foot, carefully laying her sock-clad ankle gently on Sable's calves. The gesture is, in all honesty, adorably awkward. Isis and touch are not quite like peanut butter and jelly. More like peanut butter and … pickles. Yes, that. Eww. Still, she shifts her shoulders until she seems satisfied with the arrangement.
"Fine, I'll tell you all about my complicatedness and hear yours… after we sleep." She smiles a moment before finally snuggling her cheek against the blanket and closing her eyes, drifting off easily.
It takes a moment for the significance of a touch, any touch at all, to sink in. It's not caginess, that light contact, it's quite the opposite. Isis must be careful because of her thing. The thing that brought her here in the first place. A thing that, however difficult it may make her life, and however much distance it demands be kept between them even as they nap, Sable will basically say 'arright, cool' to since it's the reason they met at all.
"You got a deal, girl," Sable says leg shifting a little, back and forth, an acknowledgement of the touch. "Sure as…" but Isis is already asleep. Sable takes a moment to watch the rise and fall of sleeping breath, a steady, gentle thing that deep in her heart she loves loves loves to see in another woman. A thing of small, simple beauty. But er own eyes are heavy and it's not long before they breath in common fashion, but slight syncopation. A restful rhythm.