quinn_icon.gif sable_icon.gif

Scene Title Allegro
Synopsis Continuing to celebrate the end of the hellacious snowstorm, two people discover they have numerous relevant interests.
Date May 28, 2010

Lower Manhattan

A nightclub in New York, bustling with party goers, music, lights, and liquor, all continuing to celebrate the end of the snowstorm.

The term "mixtape" rarely rings as true as it does on the evenings where Robyn Quinn is lucky enough to get a job DJing. This particular evening, spent celebrating the end of the snowstorm’s grip on New York City, had found a rather eclectic assortment of bands and songs; everything from The Who and Boston to The Birthday Massacre or The Knife, as per the request of the party thrower to "mix it up a bit". Apparently there'd been an issue with their last DJ deciding it was appropriate to play Britney Spears for a few hours straight…

Even as the party was winding down and the gear was being unplugged and ready to be packed back up (though Quinn was still at a loss for how to get it back to storage), the last few songs, burned to a CD as the show closer, played over the speakers. Stepping down from the platform where her console and decks sit, she bends backs and stretches, yawning. She hadn’t felt entirely great since the night before, but she was trying to power through it. First times out and all.

All in all, a good night so far.

Any given night Sable goes out is either a night for reckless good times, or the drowning of sorrows, depending, in great part, to the music played at the establishment she attends. Mercurial at the best of times, horrifically stubborn at the worst, Sable's fake ID achieves one of its many purposes and manages to get her enough liquor to assure a similarly liquid emotional state.

Which helps determine, this liquidity, her attitude to tonight's music. In her deepest ruts, basically only blues and classic rock has the power to move her or interest her - her conservativism manifests in this way alone. But tonight she is able to appreciate the artistry and range the DJ provides. The DJ. She might have something to do with Sable's reaction as well. Immured behind the turntables as she necessarily is, Sable can't be sure about her, not entirely. But what Sable /can/ see of her… looks good.

So, the second function of liquor, that of liquid courage, kicks in at the end of the evening. The distance from bar to console is not great, but Sable has to shoulder her minute self through quite a few chatting groups in order to cut a proper b-line to the DJ. But goddamn if she isn't determined. The yellow eyed girl, not so drunk as to appear sloppy, but drunk enough to have a certain reckless gleam in her eyes, sidles up to Quinn and doffs her newsies cap. "Quite a fuckin' way to top off the thaw, hon," she says, voice lifted over the hubbub of the bar - so many people, revelling in the fact that they can leave their homes, finally. "You got pretty fuckin' decent taste, too, considerin' what you've got to work with. They set you up with free drinks or anythin'?"

Quinn jumps, startled from her focus on her equipment and thoughts on how to spend the rest of the night. She spins around to face the voice, almost losing her balance as her vision falls on the girl who had spoken to her. She simply stares for a second as her brain catches up to what had been said, and then very suddenly seems to perk up. "Oh! Um, thanks a right bit!" she yells just audibly over the music, her Irish accent managing to show through despite the strain and noise. "Couldn't think of a better way myself!"

Turning to fully face her, Quinn offers a wide smile. "Always nice to meet someone who thinks that," she continues, threads some hair out of her eyes and around her headphones- Oh, wait, her headphones. Maybe that was why everything seemed so dull. Slipping them off her head, she points to her ear. "Didn' hear the last thing you said, I'm afraid.”

Irish accent? Nice. Sable grins crookedly. "I asked if y' got free drinks as part of the, like, gig here? Which is really just my fuckin' smooth-ass way of offerin' to buy you one if you don't got that kinda deal. So, lemme be straight fuckin' forward. Can I buy you a drink?"

Quinn blinks and stares for a moment, not sure of how to respond. Wasn't an everyday occurrence such an offer was bandied about to her, regardless of who from. Ah, what the hell. She'd just spent the past several weeks trapped in a hospital. Couldn't hurt.

"If that was part 'a the deal, someone forgot to tell me!" she responds grinning. "So sure, why not! Good a night as any to get mangled!"

"Jesus, turn down the accent some," Sable says, tipping a quick wink, "I can't hear yer words past your lovely fuckin' way of sayin' them. Comon'," she gestures for Quinn to follow, and makes her way to the bar. Fingers lift as she signals the bartender, a guy with some serious tattoos and a very professional demeanor. "Gimme a Jack and Coke and… uh…" she turns to look at Quinn, "What'll you have, hon? Crucial fuckin' question, and I can't answer it for you!"

"Redheaded slut!" she shouts to the bartender, and as he gives her a look, she frowns. "Peach schnapps and Jäger!" she clarifies, shaking her head. "Christ, does my hair look ginger?" she mutters with in a jovial tone, following it with a laugh. "Thanks for this! Not often I get a drink after a show."

This is one drink Sable hasn't heard of, and so the name Quinn shouts out makes her blink in surprise. Who? Where? Oooooh. She chuckles. "You dunno it, but if you were tryin' to impress me, you needn't go any goddamn further," she says, "And lemme assure you, red hair or no, hon, gotta figure at least ninety fuckin' percent of this fine establishment was hopin' you were self describin' there." She sticks out her hand, "Name's Sable. And it's my goddamn honor to buy you a drink."

A laugh escapes from Quinn, though this time it's a bit more nervous than before. She totally can't help but blush though; she's so not used to flattery. "Well, I mean…" Hmm. "That hadn't been the point, but glad to know I can impress off the stage too," she responds with a smirk, nervousness somewhat passing. She takes Sable's hand, nodding. "Quinn. Pleasure, Sable! Always nice ta' meet someone at one a' these things!”

Does no one in New York ever compliment pretty girls? This is a trend that Sable must endeavor to reverse, a personal crusade for pulchritudinous justice! "Performers like us, hon, we can't escape some simple fuckin' facts - everything we are is spectacle. There is no 'off stage', not fuckin' really. This ain't a job, it's a lifestyle!" Sable avers as the drinks arrive. She sticks a hand into her cargo pants pocket, pulls out a wad of cash and counts out the proper amount, plus tip, tossing it up on the bar then grabbing the glasses, offering one to Quinn, "To a life o' music, our cruel and beautiful mistress!"

Yes, so, apparently Sable's a musician too. As she has none-to-subtly implied.

Quinn's face lights up a bit as Sable makes the fact that she's a musician clear, and happily she takes the glass and raises it. "To a life a' music," she responds, taking a long gulp of her drink afterwards. "I didn't know 'ya played,” she continues, grinning. "DJin' isn't the only thing I know how to do, but my guitar's with my gear and the rest'a my stuff's back at my apartment," she replies, her face still a bit blushed form the earlier compliment. "'s harder to meet musicians in town than you'd think, too! At least real ones."

Sable turns, leaning up against the bar and taking a sip of her drink as she listens to Quinn, her attention focused in that particular way a few drinks will get you to focus - on one thing in exclusion of all others. "Gotta let me know 'bout the /un/real musicians y've met," she says, quipping as only the intoxicated can, "What're yer criteria, precisely? I'm curious. If you've got high standards, hon, I'm wanna know so I can try and trick y' into thinkin' I meet 'em before you get to know me too well."

"High expectations?" Quinn replies with a raised eyebrow. Taking another long sip of her drink, she shrugs. "If someone knows their stuff, that's fine b' me, really. I may listen to alotta it, but if some pop princess walks up to me and goes" - and this part becomes particularly amusing as Quinn raises the pitch of her voice and begins to make exaggerated, airhead movements - "'Like, wow, I can tooootally play the guitar, man~' and only knows six chords, then eh," she says, leaning back a bit. "You don' strike me as that, though," she observes, pointing a finger at Sable.

Sable cackles with an unrestrained, wicked mirth that is probably only 25 percent her blood alcohol level, and the rest genuine crazy entertainment. She actually slaps her knee. Literally, Quinn produced a knee-slapper. Sable shakes her dark, shaggy head, "Naw, naw, I'm the rock pauper to the pop princess y'r talkin' about," she says, "So where the fuck y'from, huh? You sound… izzat Irish?" she points a thumb at herself, while taking another drink, "Atlanta here. Georgia peach." Her toothy grins makes this last self-description unambiguously facetious.

"I've never been to it Atlanta," she responds, half frowning. "Sounds like a right boring place, really." She sits up, taking a long, final gulp of her drink, and sets the glass down with a loud, clumsy clink, it almost seeming to dance as it teeters on its edge before settling down with another loud clink. "But, aye, Ireland. Waterford, specifically. Been in the states twelve years now." Had she said that already? She's been saying that a lot lately and couldn't remember who to. "Quite the crock'a shite that brought me here, but eeeeh."

"Aw, hell, it ain't that bad, actually," Sable says, "Sure, I got the fuck out, but I had personal goddamn reasons f'r doin' so. Jesus!" She blinks as she sees Quinn decimate her drink. "Okay, okay, I'm dealin' with a pro here. Hold on!" She wrinkles her nose, then proceeds to knock back her own drink, taking big gulps, and then giving a yowl as she slams her own empty glass down. "/Damn/," she says, grinning, "Still drink like y'r Irish, huh?" What a charming use of stereotypes! Sable is a classy lady. "An' what crock'a shite do you mean?"

Quinn gives a mock scowl at Sable. “When ya’ drink as rarely as I do, ya need to be able to drink like you’re Irish,” she replies with a wink, and then seems to slump a bit, shrugging. “Family stuff.” She doesn’t elaborate; trusting as she is that’s a bit much, or at least so she seems to think. “Wee bit too depressing to talk about now, though,” she continues, literally handwaving the question away. “So, what’d you think of the little light show that went on?” she asks with a curious expression. “You know I-“ She stops as something in the front pocket of her hoodie starts to beep just audibly enough to be heard, though it’s the vibrating that gets Quinn’s attention.

Looking down at her watch and letting a groan escape her lips, she slinks off the chair with a dejected look on her face. “Tch, they’re probably going to want to see me about payin’ me before things close up, and I need to call n’ get my shit picked up.” She pauses again, looking back up at Sable. “Can’t fit it on my scooter, have to get it picked up from gig ‘ta gig,” she says before Sable can ask, pulling out an iPhone, studying it for a moment, and then looking back at Sable. “Mind hangin’ a minute or two?”

Family stuff? Sable has a very unambiguous rule when it comes to matters of blood relation: fuck that noise. Quinn's handwaving could not be more heartily endorsed. She says nothing on the subject, but her scowl and her nod make it clear that she sympathizes in the most general, un-nosey fashion. The mention of the light show causes Sable, appropriately, to brighten. "Fuckin' rad," she enthuses, and listens as Quinn /begins/ to say /something/ or other. But then they are interrupted.

Sable gives a grim nod. "No fuckin' rest, huh?" she says, "Don't mind at all, hon. In fact, if you need a hand with anythin', these hands," she lifts them, "Know how to handle shit with respect."

Quinn balances the phone between her fingers for a moment before placing it down on the bar. Looking at Sable, as she nods, turns, and jogs off out of sight, giving a thumbs up to Sable. "I'll keep it in mind!" is barely audible over the sounds of party goers and music, the crowd beginning to thin somewhat now that the main part of the evening has come to a close. An occasional glimpse can be seen of her over the next few minutes as she walks up on stage and grabs another piece of equipment.

Sable peers at Quinn through her boozy haze. Her lips quirk to one side, a perfect image of unveiled consideration. This consideration is wide-ranging, taking into account all aspect of the other woman - her musical taste stands accounted for, so now she is perused for her bearing, for the way she handles her possessions, for her poise, posture, her form and carriage. And her looks. Of course her looks.

The yellow eyed girl pushes off from the bar and eases over towards where Quinn makes trips back and forth. Her hands are stuck in her pockets, and her mild squint suggest she is trying to remain focused. Actually less easy now that the senseless roar of the crowd is boiling down to a few more intelligible lines of discussion. She doesn't offer further help. If Quinn wants to do shit herself, bless her. Sable can admire that attitude, even if it robs her of the chance to be gallant.

Quinn lets a long side as she bends over to pick up a piece of equipment, and it’s only as she turns back that she pauses and notice Sable. She quirks an eyebrow up, a bit surprised to see her away from the bar. “Oh, heya. Mind grabbin’ me phone? I left it at the bar,” she asks with a smile. “I’m almost done with this, sorry!” With that, she turns and hustles out a door.

"Uh, sure, sure!" Sable says, blinking a little. Phone? Oh, shit, phone! She turns and hustles back to the bar, dodging a number of elbows on her way, the scourge of an individual of her stature. She reaches out and plucks the phone from its spot, peering at it with mixed interest and distrust. There is a temptation to fool around with it, but that's private shit, and Sable will keep her grosser intrusions of privacy to times when she can get away with it. She lifts the phone up like a beacon. Look! She did as she was asked!

Quinn comes marching back into the room almost as soon as Sable lifts the phone into the air, giving her the perfect beacon with which to find her among the people still milling about. “Hey, thanks a bunch ‘fer that!” she yells, waving at the other girl. “I got all the rest’a my stuff set to go back to storage,” she comments as she walks forward. Smiling, she holds up a check and waves it back and forth.” “And it’s gonna be a good-“ the sentence goes unfinished as Quinn manages to find a way to trip over her own two feet, yelping as she does.

Check this out.

Sable darts over to Quinn without a second's thought, her eyes catching the trajectory of the other girl's descent, her arms reaching out to catch her. Hands, one still holding the iPhone, slip up beneath Quinn's arms, and shoulders come up to brace Quinn's shoulders. Sable only gives a small 'oof' as her legs take the gathered force of Quinn's fall. "Wooooah there…" Sable says, slowly helping Quinn back to a stable position. She's half sure about how she was able to pull it off, and she is, at least for now, pleased as punch.

"Arright, you gotta admit," the yellow eyed girl says, releasing Quinn and folding her arms across her chest, "That was a pretty smooth catch." Oh yes, very happy with ourselves, aren't we? One arms emerges from the fold, offering the phone to its owner. "Here y'go, hon."

Quinn looks more than a little bewildered, her hair all in her face as she takes a step back, adjusting the headphones around her neck and letting out an exasperated sigh. “Whew. Well,”she begins as she threads the hair out of her face and behind her ears, a bemused and embarrassed smirk on her face. “Smooth would have been me not trippin’ to begin with, but I appreciate it dearly,” she replies. “I hate gettin’ all clumsy exactly when it’s least needed. It’s a surprise all my stuff got to the truck fine.”

She runs a hand through her hair, reaching out to take the phone. “Thanks a bunch, there,” she continues, slipping it in her pocket. “I was gonna say, though. I’m pretty much done here, for the night.”

"Aw, don't sell yourself short," Sable says, grinning, "You fall with no small fuckin' elegance," she tips a quick wink in Quinn's direction, "And no harm, if I'm around t' catch you, eh?" Sable reaches behind herself, scratching the nape of her neck, a telltale sign of nerves to anyone who knows her well enough. "And, well, shit. I'm sure you've got places to go and what-the-fuck-all else, but I'm sore t' take leave of you. You eaten yet? Mebbe I can buy you a burger or somethin'?" She arches a brow, "Give you a chance to explain how you managed such a top-knotch fuckin' light show in a venue like this," she thumbs over her shoulder at the rest of the establishment.

Quinn shrugs in response. “I’ve got nowhere to go in particular, really. I was just gonna head back to me flat,” she says as she glances at Sable, then back at the door. “Food sounds wonderful, though all I got is a few Hot Pockets,” she says, and then grins. “No need’n for you to buy this time, though. My treat?”

Sable gives an unabashed giggle. "Flat? Sweet Jesus," she says, snickering at the over-the-Pondness of Quinn's diction, "Bless your heart. I'd be an idgit not to take you up on that. Sure, sure. Let's go," she adjusts her hat, brushing her bangs back and out of her eyes, "Said you had a scooter? Like a proper fuckin' Mod, huh?"

Quinn wrinkles her nose Sable's snicker. "Aye, it's out back. I take it you need a ride? Gonna be a bit tight if so," she says as she waves for Sable to follow her. She lets out a chuckle, shaking her head. "You're lucky I keep two helmets with it, otherwise it'd be a really unpleasant ride!" This time a full out laugh. "Aaah… it's nice to be out again," she muses, hands on her hips. "Been a while since I was able to do anythin' like this."

"I ride my g.s. scooter with my hair cut neat./I wear my wartime coat in the wind and sleet," Sable warbles, half-singing, half-speaking. She follows after Quinn, needing a ride and certainly unable to drive herself for numerous reasons. "Christ on a bicycle if that ain't true. I've been cooped up in a fuckin'- uh- well, I guess I dunno that I can say," Sable begins, realizing that maybe some of what she was up to was, like, borderline secret or /something/ she isn't sure, "But dig this: stuck in one place for weeks on end, with a bunch of fuckin' kids, my only real fuckin' compatriot all tied up in his new goddamn love affair, which is cool but… Jesus, y'know? Never mind. I'm gotta stow the bitchin' and enjoy myself. Let's roll."

Quinn looks back over her shoulder and grins, humming a few bars of Sea and Sand. “I’m gonna look like an ass if you were goin’ for I’ve Had Enough,” she notes, chuckling. “And kids! I’d’a rather had kids than be in a feckin’ hospital!” she exclaims, throwing her arms up in the air. “For feckin’ real, a g’ddamn hospital for over two weeks!” She shakes her head as she pushes a door open, her scooter in sight. “I still smell antiseptic and old people sometimes.” She seems to gloss over Sable’s avoidance of where she spent the snow storm. “Sounds like a hell’a time, though. Can’t say if it’s preferable to what I went through, though.” Reaching the scooter, the musician makes her way to a compartment in the trunk and produces two helmets, tossing one to Sable.

Sable is utterly thrilled at Quinn's accurate ID. "Hon, that you pinned 'em both makes my heart fuckin' swell. It's my personal goddamn mission to combine Daltrey's showmanship, Entwhistle's craft, Townshend's writin' and Moon's sheer fuckin' insanity," the smile she bears could serve as an illustration of this last principle. She catches the helmet and fiddles with the clasp for a bit before sliding it down around her head. With her hat still on her head, this makes for a bad fit, and she has to tug the helmet off and remove her hat before trying again. Ah, there we go.

"Hospital? Shit. Arright, I'll agree that's, like, generally way shittier. But I swear I had particular fuckin' circumstances," Sable says. Tactless to bring up things she can't really talk about? Yes. But Sable's never really been big on tact. She flexes her fingers, "How do we do this? Am I supposed to get on behind you and, like, hang on fer dear life?"

“Ambitious!” Quinn remarks with a grin as she takes a quick inspection of the scooter, making sure everything is still in place. “Sounds like a ‘ell of a goal to me!,” she says as she motions for Sable to toss her hat in the trunk compartment. “Yeah, that’s how this tends to go. Bit of a tight squeeze, particularly with this tied to that back.” From the other side of the scooter, she lifts up a black guitar case and cables, and sets to strapping it as tightly to the back as she can.

Sable has already shoved her hat down her shirt, by force of pure habit. "Uh… naw, it's cool," she says, eyeing the trunk. She reaches out to touch the tips of her fingers against the guitar case. "Man… I only just got my first electric a few months ago, y'know? Still haven't named her. Used to just have my old acoustic," she grins, "Sort of lived hand to mouth for a good fuckin' stretch. Money for food and new strings. 'n' toothpaste. Gotta keep my choppers." She chomps her teeth, demonstrating. She takes her seat far back on her scooter, her fun-sizeness somewhat useful in this situation.

As she finishes strapping nit eh case, she frowns and look over at Sable. “Wow, really? I’mean, I’ve been in hard spots before, but that sounds bad. Better, now, right?” She plunks the helmet flatly on her head. “You should see my flat sometime. That there’s a classic flyin’ V I got a few years back, an’ the rest of the stuff I have at home’s real nice too.” Taking her proper seat behind the wheel of the scooter, she glances back. “I wasn’t jokin’ about holding on, this thing’s been jerkin’ something fierce since the snow storm.”

"Better? Shit, yeah. 'course I'm mostly freeloadin'," Sable admits, "'course now that shit is back in somethin' like workin' order I got no fucking excuse. Gotta get a job. Luckily my comrade in arms has somethin' decent picked out for me. Bless his heart." The yellow eyed girl simply whistles at Quinn's description of her musical spoils. She'd be envious, but she's too busy getting a proper hold on the other girl, hands locking onto her own arms. There's little doubt that Sable far from minds the proximity, but gratitude, good manners and the fact that her life is in Quinn's hands keeps her from misbehaving. "Hon, I don't need no excuse to hold on tight to you." Okay, misbehaving /too/ badly.

Someone observant would notice the returning blush on Quinn’s face, even in lit up night light. She responds with a chuckle, nervousness creeping back in. “So, uh… sit down or take out? I could go either way, myself.” That was kinda a silly question, but whatever. “I dunno where else we’d go, though, so I’m open to suggestions.” Even as she asks the question, she turns the key to the scooter, and true to word, as the engine comes to life, the scooter lurches forward quite suddenly.

If only Sable were in a position to catch that blush! But she's happy enough with her safe and sound grip on Quinn. "Take out, if you're down with my peekin' into your digs," Sable says, "Very decent fried chicken and waffle place not too far from here. Just, like, five 'r six blocks north, a couple west." Strong opinions and preferences are something Sable can be relied upon for. But no more are forthcoming as the scooter comes to life. Sable's hold on Quinn tightens out if instinct, but the yellow eyed girl gives a whoop of glee as they fly into motion.

Quinn did seem to frown a bit at the suggestion. Then again, not a few weeks ago she had offered a guy to come stay with her if things didn’t work out for him, and Sable seemed on the up and up. "I don't really mind, but… well, to brag to a fellow musician should be fine!" She shakes her head, a smile returning to her face. “Chicken and waffles? I’ve never had the two together. It sounds…” As the scooter takes into motion once more, her lips curl into a grin unfortunately invisible to Sable. “Decidedly American. Sounds like something worth trying!”

The scooter speeds off, Quinn remembering to ask for directions before she can get Sable and herself lost, something far, far too easy for her to do. It takes a few minutes, and bit of going in a circle because somehow “Left” and “Right” start to sound a bit too similar at times, but they arrive at their destination soon enough, order placed and food received. Meal paid for and placed firmly and safely into the trunk compartment, the pair speed back to the street, this time making a beeline for Quinn’s apartment. “Be careful when we get there, place is a right mess, even for a studio flat,” she yells as they approach her building.

The scooter is parked, food, guitar, other belongings collected, and Quinn lets out a sharp sigh, turning to the door to the building. “Well, come on, then,” she says as she motions for Sable to follow her. “Been a while since I bought anyone back to here to hang out. “

Sable tugs her hat out of the front of her shirt, where it formed a strange bulge, whips it into shape with one hand, then affixes it over her wild hair. She seems very enthusiastic about their intended repast, offering to carry the food and, when it’s in her hands, unable to resist taking a gander into one of the bags. "This'll blow your fuckin' mind, swear to God," she pledges, nose dangerously close to actually being /inside/ the bag, "Aw, killer, they gave us plenty of syrup. Right the fuck on."

She has to speed up a bit to catch up with Quinn, her walk becoming a dawdle during her culinary investigation. "Don't fuckin' worry. I've roughed it often enough that just havin' a roof is usually enough t' impress me. In fact, I'll think better of you fer the mess. If you were a neat freak… Jesus, I dunno. I wouldn't know whatall to make of it."

Quinn laughs as the two make their way up the step, walking down a hallway until Quinn comes to a sudden halt in front a door. Managing to balance the guitar case while getting her keys and opening the door, she pushes it open to reveal exactly what she had claimed – a decent sized, single room studio apartment, complete with a kitchenette off to the side of the main room and a small alcove leading to a bathroom. In the two back corners are a bed and a piano surrounded by several instruments, and almost blocking the door sits a square table, a plate still on it from breakfast. On the opposite wall sits a desk with a computer and TV, and all across the room a strewn notebooks, CDs, some vinyl records, and a whole lot of random crap. A flip of a lightswitch seems to produce no results, though a moment later a dim light fills at least most of the room…

Quinn laughs nervously, blushing out of embarrassment as the door swings open. “I… I thought I’d left it a bit less of a mess…” she says as she steps in, placing the guitar case on a futon in the middle of the room.

Sable's immediate response is to focus in on the guitars, stepping over impediments with heedless speed and hovering over the instrument with a fascination only a fellow guitarist could possibly summon up. She sets the bag of food, only moments ago her sole obsession, now temporarily forgotten. She looks over her shoulder at Quinn, "May I?" she says, indicating the guitar in question. She grins, "I swear, what I said about my hands was the God's honest truth."

Quinn looks down at the food, and then takes a seat where she can manage at the table, watching as Sable eyes the bright red acoustic guitar. “Sure. Just be careful, that’s me favourite guitar, that one. And try not to be too loud, I already got a complaint against me this month,” she responds with a mirthful smile, even as she turns to the bag of food, absolutely fascinated.

Sable lifts the acoustic up with a gentleness that is the product not of caution but rather of reverence. She knows her way around a guitar, but she also knows what a precious thing one's favorite instrument is. It's a talisman, a relic, a household god. She slips the strap over one shoulder, and her fingers find strings and frets. She grins at Quinn. "To each their own, huh? I've got my careworn Adelaide, scuffed and battered. And you, hon, you've got this gorgeous thing here." She plays a single chord. "Perfectly in tune, too. Fuckin' stunning."

Quinn chuckles, even as she continues to inspect the food, having actually brought her serving out of the bag now. “I got that when I turned 18, its custom made. At least, my dad said it was. If it wasn’t for that, it would look its age. The only instrument I have older is me violin, but I’ve had that since I was a wee thing,” she replies, a curious expression on her face. “So, like… do I eat these together, or dig into them separately?”

"Matter of personal preference, hon," Sable explains, with regards to the chicken and waffles. Fried chicken, warm waffles, syrup - the permutations are free for the eater to choose. Sable's hungry, especially after drinking, so while she's tempted to plink out a few tunes, the wafting smell of utterly unhealthy food calls to her on a deep, visceral level. She draws the guitar off her shoulder and sets it down with the same care, like one might set down a newborn. She saunters over, crouching next to the bag, "Got plates or somethin'? I don't mind eatin' straight from the cartons, of course, but you're a lady of taste and distinction, I can tell." Her grin veritably gleams.

“Oh. Oh!” Quinn hops up from her seat with a burst of energy, making her way over to the kitchenette. Rummaging through one of the few cabinets, she produces a small stack of paper plates. “Nothin’ fancy, but it beats hand washing every day,” she says with a grin as she plops the stack down, takes one for herself, and almost immediate sets into her waffles, with just the slightest bit of syrup.

"Damn straight," Sable says, who had quite a lot of handwashing to do over the past couple of weeks. She grabs a waffle of her own, levering it onto a plate and then pulling pieces of chicken free from a breast and laying it atop. The syrup covers both, and Sable folds the whole thing like a great big taco or somesuch, and bites into it. Her own preference is clear - everything at once. She chews, chews, chews, swallows. "Hell yeah," she enthuses, "So, tell me hon… what made y' play the music you did? I've heard a lot of it, sure, but it's not exactly… well, it ain't the sort of thing I tend to listen to. Good for what it was, I ain't sayin' otherwise, but," she tilts her head, "You playin' the crowd?"

Contrary to Sable’s policy of having as much at once as possible, Quinn took to her waffle like it was a bright Sunday morning, cutting it into small squarish pieces and chowing down one bite at a time, occasionally taking a bite of chicken. It was an odd taste combination, certainly not one she would have tried on her own. She was pretty sure she liked it, though. Repeated trials would be needed. “Well,” she begins to say between bites, “not really. Some of it, yeah, but you’ll find pretty much every song I ahd on vinyl and on the digital consoles somewhere in my collection.” She pauses to take a huge bite of chicken, almost finishing off the piece then and there. “My tastes ‘re pretty varied. Grew up with a father who listened to rock, and a mother from France, so…” Another big, chewy bite of waffle. “Found electronica and some’a that darker shit on my own, though.”

Sable nods, her lips quirked. "I'm sorta die hard classic rock, with a sort of, like, prog rock influences, some psychedelic," she says, "Stuff made later than, like, the 70's tends to never quite click. It's like… I dunno. Like seein' a beautiful woman, and you know she's beautiful, and you even desire her and all, but you can't imagine ever fallin' in love with her. Y'get me?

At first, Quinn quirks an eyebrow, but then a small smile slips across her face. “I… yeah, I think I do. Not that I’ve any shortage of classic rock, my CD colllection’s full of The Beatles ‘n The Who, among others,” she remarks as she finishes the last bit of waffle, mixing it with the last bite of chicken. Relaxing, she leans back in her chair, a bemused expression on her face. “I’m like one‘a those radio stations that claims to play just about anythin’ from any decade, except I actually do it.”

Sable eats with little grace and no wasted time. She mops up the remaining syrup, that which has spilled onto the plate, with the 'crust' of the waffle sandwich she forged. She wipes her mouth with the back of her arm, then looks instantly embarrassed and digs in the bag for the napkins that were included, proceeding to clean herself like a civilized person. She eyes Quinn with interest. "I think I'm mebbe a little envious of that," she admits, "And if you weren't so damned good lookin' and obviously fuckin' talented, I'd probably go ahead and hold it against you."

This time, the blush on Quinn’s face is pretty plainly visible, if not as thick as before, almost as if she’s getting used to it. “Nothing really to be envious about. Matter of preference, right?” she replies with a half smile that seems to fade after a moment, the girl leaning back in her chair silently.

Sable peers at Quinn, almost wary. She gets to her feet, at full stand, and moves over to Quinn, hands in her pockets, head tilted. "Speakin' of preference," she says, tone suddenly a little cautious, "While I'm certainly only speakin' the truth when I make much of your fairness and all, it ain't a wholly, like… uh…" she doesn't quite have the words for what she's trying to say, "It's not like me sayin' 'that's a beautiful picture', know what I'm sayin'?" she shrugs, "If y'need to lay down a line, I dig, but know that I wouldn't mind gettin' close to you," she flashes a grin, "For the sake of honesty and all."

Quinn quirks her lips, looking up at Sable as she stands over her. “Ah, well…” She thinks for a moment, scratching the back of her neck. “I figured that was the case. I’m jus’ not used t’ such…” She peers at Sable for a moment, before pushing her seat back. “Forwardness, I guess is the right way’a puttin’ it. Makes me a right bit nervous,” she says, with a chuckle that relays that same feeling. “Much less form someone who i’nt sure how the other person feels. Kinda refreshing, but…” This time she grins, rising from her seat. “I don’t really mind?” It sounds like a question more than a statement due the tone, muddying exactly what’s meant.

Sable's grin grows slightly rueful. Forwardness? Fair enough. "I like t' make my intentions pretty goddamn clear, so as t' avoid confusions and misunderstandin's," the girl admits, a hand reaching up behind her to scratch the nape of her neck, "I figure… get my cards out on the table, let someone like y'rself figure how to react." As Quinn gets to her feet, Sable's hand descends, the other one rising from its pocket, her arms folding before her, her hip canting. "And not mindin', well… that's a start, hon," she steps forward, one hand lifting to touch against Quinn's chin, "You tell me if you start t' mind."

Quinn grins, another slightly nervous laugh escaping from her. “Well, lettin’ people know when I mind something is one thing I do real well,” she replies, her hand reaching up to meet Sable’s. She chuckles, looking amused and nervous and… “Been a while since I met someon’ like this, you know,” she notes. “I-I don’t mean met… well…” Now it’s really obvious that she’s nervous and she hates it, or at least the cross look on her face seems to indicate as much.

Sable finds this nervousness adorable. Of course, there's a good chance she'd find most anything Quinn did adorable under the circumstances. For all that Quinn is cross, Sable looks gleeful. And at the peak of Quinn's consternation, Sable leans in to plant a kiss on Quinn's lips. Forward? You bet.

Amidst her frustration, the kiss still manages to catch Quinn rather offguard, causing her to tense up. It takes a few moments for her to relax, but once she does her nervousness seems to melt away. One of her hands finds its way to Sable’s side, attempting to draw the other woman just a bit closer. As the kiss draws on, Quinn slowly pulls away, blinking. “I guess I had the forward comment pegged?” she jokes, smiling. “Not that I mind, of course.”

Those few moments are crucial. Any longer and Sable, for all her forwardness, would have backed off. But then there's a hand at her side, and a pull that Sable wouldn't resist for almost anything in the world. Her hands alight on the other girl's upper hips, and her head tilts to let the kiss deepen, her eyes slipping closed. When their lips part, it takes Quinn's voice to reopen those eyes. She's thrilling, and it's evident all over her expression. "Call me whatever you want, hon," she says, "As long as we do that again."

As Sable does reopen her eyes marks the first time Quinn really notices the bright yellow eyes staring back at her, prompting her to raise an eyebrow. “Huh,” is all that escapes her lips, followed by another chuckle. “Well then!” A hand moves to Sable’s back. At least the girl really does know what she wants, and Quinn obliges with another light kiss pressed upon Sable’s lips.

The kiss doesn't stay light for long. Sable's fingers press into Quinn's hips, then rapidly alight from them, rising up to take hold of both of Quinn's earphones, drawing her into a fuller kiss, lips parting as she makes her want very, very clear. She takes the halfstep forward to reduce the distance between them to nil, hips and legs bumping against each other. When she finally breaks the kiss, she sounds breathless. "You set the tempo, hon," she says, "Because I don't plan t' slow down."

Quinn blinks rapidly a few times, though a smile remains on her face as her arms fully encircle Sable. “You know, all the music talk. I really like that. You don’t get that enough,” she remarks with a smirk, pulling Sable a bit closer. “Allegro, that works fine for me,” she continues with a wink as she throws out some more classical terminology, though her own breathlessness (and still a little nervousness) remains evident as she hesitates for a moment, before pulling Sable back in, lips parted as before.

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