Participants:
| Scene Title | Rum Cake |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Semi-serious conversation and in-your-end-ohs over a pleasant, sophisticated luncheon. |
| Date | September 17, 2010 |
A place.
Black Dog Records is never exactly booming with business, but today is extra slow. For lack of anything to do, any customers to accost, any products to ring up, Sable's restless energy, a growing problem in recent days, has her discoursing vehemently on the importance of dying young to the ethos of rock 'n' roll. Her boss, who was trying to do a Sudoku and enjoys Sable's weirdo semi-philosophy for about the first five minutes of any given rant, decides that maybe she should take her lunch break a little early, and make it a little longer than usual. This proves a brilliant tactic, and no sooner is she permitted this than Sable is out the door, her phone flipped open. Quinn's at work, Elaine is still MIA, Magnes is still locked down and… oooh!
Of course.
Joanna King receives a text message informing her in no uncertain terms to come to Greenwich village, and to bring 'grub' which, judging by the hour, means 'food' not 'larva'. The text assures her that Sable is 'good for it' but to 'get here befor it aint hot no more'.
She has her orders. Sable keeps watch, perched on a granite post meant to keep cars from careening onto the wide sidewalks.
Isis's arrival is considerably less 'glam' than her previous sneak attack at the movie theaters, in truth. The young woman is dressed particularly conservative - a maroon turtleneck and black skinny jeans tucked into a pair of her usual, ass-kicker boots. On this occasion, she has donned her old gloves, though, and taken the time to hide up her red hair under a black bandana that sits low near her thin brows.
The woman under the guise of Joanne slides up beside Sable, leaning casually against the cement cylinder before looking around to take in the straggling passersby in the area. Shifty gaze complete, Isis turns to regard Sable with a half-smile before handing over a bag o' goodies. "I don't cook," she explains, as she passes off the bag of McD's. "But, I at least put in one of my special deserts." In a little Tupperware container, one can find a Twinkie. Not just an ordinary Twinkie, though. Oh no. This one is soaked in Captain Morgan spiced rum. "My version of Rum Cake," she explains with a smirk.
That's fine, Sable's never been into the glam period. Rock ain't what you wear on your sleeve, it's what you bear in your soul. Isis alone is glamor enough, and Sable turns towards her on her perch, grinning and reaches out to snag the bag. The contents is instantly investigated, and the tupperware singled out as 'not belonging'. Isis's explanation sparks interest in Sable's eye, and the young rocker cracks open the top to get a whiff of the sweet alcohol. Yellow eyes dart up to Isis's never-quite-the-same-day-to-day ones.
"Y'all bring one for yerself? 'cause I don't never drink alone no more."
Isis chuckles and grins - already spending time with Sable seems to have banished the worries that had hung heavy over her throughout the day. She waves a hand at the bag and its accompanying treat. "Eat up. Trust me, a good half of the batch is already in my tummy." She bends back, exaggerating her stomach outward and giving it a soft pat of her gloved palm.
That said, the redheaded turns about and positions herself in front of Sable, leaning back against someone's Volvo in a casual posture. "So, what's new, hot stuff?"
Sable does a quick visual check for signs of drunkenness in Isis. She's seen it once before… it only amplifies what's already present. Mischief, spontaneity, slyness. Hard to say really. Sable grins crookedly. "That so?" she says, "ain't gonna get drunk and disorderly, are y'? Do so close t' my place 'f business, hon, 'n' I may be forced t' restrain y'." The glint in her eye is not strictly necessary to convey the layers to her words, about as subtle as geological sediment.
The bag is quickly emptied, various food items coming to rest on Sable's legs, which she pulls up into a cross so as to give herself a more stable surface. She starts off by munching in a french fry, a appetite whetter if ever there was one. Mmm… vegetable oil. So deeply fried. "Newest thing in my life is yer fair self," she says, "well, that 'n' th' goddamn trouble at Gun Hill, which I'm sure y' heard 'bout but…" she wrinkles her nose, "like t' f'rget it while I c'n afford to, y' know?"
"
Isis nods and scuffs her boot absently against the curb, a nervous twitch setting her into a restless style. She tucks her hands into her jean pockets to keep from fidgeting, taking another scope of the wandering peoples milling around them. "You planning on staying at Gun Hill?" she finally inquires, the words blurted out as if she had overcome a fear in voicing the question, ultimately tearing them from her lips like a sore band-aid.
The little woman does reach out and snag a fry from Sable, though, popping it into her mouth with a half-hearted smile. She seems impatient for the answer, her own internal-debate of her state likely a thing to be influenced based on Sable's response.
Sable quirks her lips to the side. She's already damning herself a little for bringing it up, dampening the mood. But it's one of many worries that have been roosting in Sable's head, making skeleton-finger-twig nests in her dark hair, upsetting the already delicate balance of sense and madness that she's done her best, of late, to keep level.
"Honest? I dunno," Sable admits, fiddling with one of her fries absently, eating momentarily held in abeyance, "mostly dunno where I'd go if I did. But I don't want t' take up a place f'r someone who really needs it bad. I ain't runnin' from anyone in particular. Hell… just yesterday I was stupid and got m'self, like, registered. Figure mebbe it'd be better f'r me t' make trails…" she wrinkles her nose, "but it seems a poor thing f'r the Sage t' leave her Hill."
"Registered?!" Isis pops up from her casual posture and traverses the distance between the two slender woman in a single, broad, and hurried step. She leans forward, bracing her fingers around the ledge of concrete on either side of Sable's lap. "What? Why would you do something like that…" Isis pauses, her face all screwy in a rather adorable arrangement of confusion. "Hold on, I've been inside you…"
Another pause, this time with an added blush that draws a grin along her lips. She punctuates the inappropriate comment with a wink before continuing on in all seriousness. "I didn't… feel an ability. I mean. Usually, without control, something pops up." She snorts. Sexual in-your-end-oh-s galore!
Finally, she gives up on the topic with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand. "I don't know if I'll stay either. I've…" Got matters on my mind I shouldn't share because I've been lying to you about who I am? Yeah, NO! Isis grunts and looks away, glaring at the innocent passersby. "Someone's looking for me and I'm not sure why. I don't like it. This person has put posters up all over town trying to find me. Maybe it's only a matter of time before someone leads her to the Hill?"
Inside her? Yeah, okay, that's a fruit hanging too low even for Sable, who usually just grabs whatever's in reach. Not short jokes, please. All she does is give Isis a brow-lofted 'really?' look, though as Isis blushes, Sable swaps it out for a waggish grin. The wink demands comment, though. "Ain't somethin' y' tend t' f'rget, eh?
"My gifts are subtle, hon," she goes on, as if the little interchange hadn't happened, like it's all just conversation, "m' boy Magnes says it's somethin' t' do with m' reflexes, things I c'n see comin', but," she pops a fry into her mouth, chomp, chomp, swallow, "I c'n tell y', that ain't nothin' to my incredible musical genius," she shrugs, like, no big thing, "just how it is."
"If you go… 'n' Quinn's mebbe goin', 'n' Magnes 'n' Elaine are gone already. Then…" Sable gives a huff, "What th' fucks th' point?" Her nose wrinkles, "Figure mebbe some might not mind me goin'. Not that they'd ever say it, nor mean ill by it, 'course."
Isis turns her pale visage back to Sable, her hazel eyes made all the more vibrant for the bandana's success in pulling away her fiery locks to reveal the orbs lined in accentuating shadows of green and sweeping strokes of thick, dark liner. Isis remains still a long moment, even as her body calls out its natural warning - too close, too long. She brushes aside the internal alarm of the affront to her personal bubble and watches Sable a moment longer.
Finally, the slender redhead straightens, lifting her arms a moment before legging them fall anew with a soft clap against the outsides of her thighs. "Fuck it," she mumbles and braces her hands to her hips. "I'm sick of this shit. I'm staying. No more running. I didn't do anything wrong." Well, not intentionally… most of the time. Psh! Not intentionally on the occasions for which she is in trouble, at least!! So, there! Isis huffs. "Stay with me. The Hill would be so boring without you. Diogenes is great, but…" She rolls her eyes. "If I wasn't crazy before I met him." She makes a long whistling sound and shrugs. "Say you'll stay, Sabe. Please?"
Sable can see how people move. Alleged genius or no, the gift of her blood is knowledge of the human body and the motions it is capable of. The path it must take, lines of force making both grace and clumsiness possible. Watching Isis's movements, the almost move away, an imperceptible suggestion of a motion not taken… Sable has no conscious notion, but she gets a feeling.
She decides to stay, even though she may be more used to running. That's a sort of bravery.
"Gotta consult with th' band," Sable says, up front - despite the way Isis's words could be danced with, the spin they could be given when served back, she must be true to certain principles, "gotta know what's best f'r our art. But… sure, hon, I'll try and stick it out. Hell, we're so close t' Elaine and Magnes, movin' from here'd be movin' further from them almost f'r certain." She flashes a grin, "plus I got this fine ass neighbor, 'n' I think she's int' me. So that's a reason to stick around."
Isis's soft features fight off the urge to frown with a much more ease than it had fought the urge to withdraw from personal -bubble-invasion-syndrome. She nods slowly, finding more encouragement with each honest word from Sable's lips. In the end, Isis lofts a brow.
"Hot neighbor? I'll kick her ass if I have to," the redhead teases, grinning as she makes a show of lifting her arms to show off her 'muscles' - her arm strength leaves much to be desired, but she's got other ways of whooping ass, you know. More at ease, now, Isis leans forward and nabs another fry. "Alright, hun, you better get back to work. I have too book it, anywho. Trying to get signed up for some weird online courses and I should probably start the hunt for a job." She groans theatrically and gives a wink.
"Cath you around, and tell that neighbor of yours to watch herself, yeah?" With that Isis begins walking backwards, watching Sable a moment longer and giving a friendly peace-sign in the arrangement of her gloved fingers before wheeling about and slipping back down the street towards home.