Approaching Normal


quinn_icon.gif sable_icon.gif

Scene Title Approaching Normal
Synopsis Sable shows up at Quinn's intending to repay her musically, and discussion is had.
Date June 15, 2010

Quinn's Apartment, Brooklyn

It's been a crazy couple of days.

Sable feels good, though. Out of it, maybe, unable to really feel her feet firmly on the ground, but a certain lightness of being isn't so unbearable, no matter what's been said. She totally claimed Magnes' electronics and, in a flurry of illegal downloads and CD burning, she's produced a series of mixes for Quinn - it's long since payback. Under her arm, too, acquired from one of the most lax stores she knows of, is a tall, thin bottle of Johnny Walker. Sable wears her headphones, listening to the bittersweet lilt of one of the very songs she'll be sharing with Quinn. But we'll talk about that when we get to it.

This will be her second visit to Quinn's this week. Last time was eventous. This time… she must hope it is not so. She hopes it's just another fine old time.

In a very uncharacteristic move, Quinn’s apartment door is closed, locked and secured tight. Sound comes from within, however, so her not being home certainly isn’t the cause of the locked door. Acoustic guitar played a decent speed might be barely audible from within, paired with distinct sound of an Irish girl singing alongside it muffled even more.

It's a credit to Sable's sense of decorum that she takes off her earphones just before trying to doorknob. It's a discredit to that same sense that, when she hears the first notes of the guitar, and of Quinn's voice, she doesn't knock an announce herself… she becomes an unseen audience member. She goes so far as to set her ear to the door, cupped by a hand, and listens intently as the song goes on. Of course, as she starts to make out the lyrics… 'Buried deep as you can/Dig inside yourself,/And hidden in the public eye./Such a stellar/Monument to loneliness./Laced with brilliant smiles/And shining eyes perfect makeup/But you're barely scraping by…' she feels very, very strange. Quinn isn't alone, insofar as Sable is there, but Quinn doesn't know that. Because Sable is too busy spying. But… she doesn't want to stop her in the midst. To let Quinn know that she was overheard. There is a brief struggle, something on the level of what Sable could only describe as her moral philosophy, and in the end… she chooses to honor the music, and let the song finish. And then she knocks.

A long sigh follows the end of the music – and then with the knock, the twang of a guitar falling on its strings and a bit of a crash as it sounds like something falls over. “What the bleedin’ ‘ell?!” and a few other choice phrases follow. There’s a rustle and a bit of a clatter, and then silence for several seconds before Quinn’s door finally swings open, and she’s standing there, dressed in pyjamas and her hair wet – and black, instead of the red it had been for the past several weeks.

“S-Sable?” A look of surprise passes to a look of confusion passes back to a look of surprise. “I… did I miss a text?”

Sable was going to just come out and tell Quinn, up front, that she overheard her. This is the only way, in her mind, to resolve the moral tension. Let her have her song, but let her know she listened, and have her judge accordingly. But black hair? Sable’s thoughts are instantly thrown into disarray, the somewhat crazy process of interpretation (one that made her hair a matter of import) kicking into shambling motion as she tries to account for this. She blinks. Blink blinks.

"Y'… uh… y' look good," Sable says, saying what you're supposed to say when someone changes their appearance. And she does look good. So it's not just empty. But it doesn't fully account for her thoughts - her thoughts are currently unaccountable. She suddenly remembers, in a flash, what she was supposed to do from the get go, "I heard y' playin'," she says, "Waited 'til you were done, 'n' all. Didn't wanna disturb."

Quinn begins to reach back and run a hand through her hair, but pauses as she remembers the current state of her hair, and instead her hand moves to her hips. “What? You…” She wrinkles her nose – she doesn’t seem displeased, but she doesn’t look entirely thrilled. “I’m workin’ on a little experiment. Come on in, and-“ She begins to turn around, and then stops, just for the slightest moment hanging her head. She turns back, a half frown on her face. “I need t’ change still.” While tries to show it, there is a slightly palpabable bit of uneasiness. Quinn herself doesn’t mind, but… well, she’d rather not run a risk. She’s trying not to, and that’s an improvement.

Sable nods. She consider the issue of Quinn changing a very legitimate concern, requiring communication. There's something determined, almost businesslike, when she says, "I'll stick it out in the bathroom, give you some space," she squints at Quinn, still talking seriously, though her words take a turn for the different, "I come out t' find you nekkid, or wearin' anythin' appealin', I'm gonna march back in there and hide in the bathtub, y'hear? We're a delicate fuckin' moment here, dig?" She manages to keep a straight face maybe for five seconds before she smirks - all her effort only prevents a grin.

See, that manages to bring a smile back to Quinn’s face, the girl stepping aside to allow Sable in. “I’ll make sure it’s not an issue. And No need t’ do that, I need to get some things outta the bathroom anyway. I’ll… just change in there.” So much for the notion of not being forced to change in her bathroom, but supposedly it was for the greater good. To the drawers, clothes withdrawn, and Quinn disappears into the bathroom.

"Aw hell, but now I don't got nowhere t' hide," Sable quips at Quinn's retreating back. She snickers. Amusing herself, as she often does. As she waits, she starts to look through the discs her brought, though first she grabs glasses and pours them each a good three fingers of whiskey. Drinks read, discs in hand, she waits, and occasionally glances up towards the bathroom door.

“I said, no need t’ worry!” It’s shouted from the bathroom, echoing down the small alcove between it and the rest of the apartment. After a few moments she reemerges, and for Sable’s sake, clothed. “Well, about the naked part, at least. “I can’t really help the rest.” She smirks, hands on hips as her eyes move to Sable and the glasses, and immediately she quirks an eyebrow, a questioning look given to Sable. Again, any other time, a time for jokes. She has a feeling that’s going to be the case for a bit.

Sable takes one loon at Quinn, then turns her head away, swiftly, facing the opposite direction. It's to the wall that she speaks, though she's addressing Quinn. "You are unkind, gal. I toldja this is a very delicate fuckin' moment f'r us both." Blind, she reaches out and grasps one of the glasses she's poured, lifting it out towards Quinn. "We gotta drink. It'll help this feel more fuckin' comfortable. Plus if anythin' were t' happen, at least we both had the minimum bullshit excuse of 'we were drunk', dig?" She reaches out with her other hand to toggle at Quinn's CD player, slipping in the first disc she's chosen. It spins, the machine hisses lightly, and then the music plays. Rock, with a touch of blues, dirty and alternately hard and high. The Black Keys. Strange Times.

Quinn isn’t sure how to react to the comment, she wasn’t lying a moment ago – she wasn’t exactly trying here. She kinda hopes that Sable’s joking, or this is going to be harder than she thought. Hands fall to her side, and she shrugs. “If it’s that big a problem, I can turn on the air an’ put on my hoodie.” It’s not said without mirth, at least, as she plops down on the edge her bed. The drinks, however, seem like pushing it even to her. Still, she reaches over and removes the glass from Sable grasp, staring at it a moment before taking a long sip. It’s only the early afternoon, and already she’s drinking with someone she feels she really shouldn’t be. Quite a tone setter for the day ahead.

But as the music plays, she lets that slide away, at least for now. She’s never heard the song, and doesn’t know the band. But the sound, at least at its core, is familiar. First it reminds of the Manic Street Preachers, but then it changes a bit, and she’s not quite sure what it’s like. It’s like.. an amalgamation, something she can really appreciate. Before long, she’s got that kinda half-stoned lookin’ head bob going.

Sable gives a laugh, turning her head back to Quinn and giving her a huge grin. "I'm just fuckin' with you, hon. Only I'm just tryin' not to be so flatterin' as to seem like I've designs, but I don't neither want to tell you that you ain't damn sexy, since that'd be a lie. So this is my stupid fuckin' way of tryin' to have it both ways." She shakes her head, "I'll knock it off. Ain't nothin' should stop me from being charmin'." Her smile is utter mischief and humor. This will feel normal. Because it should.

“This is easy," Sable says, but she's talking about the music, "Black Keys. Very modern. And this ain't their real bluesy stuff. But it's a good song, 'n' I figured I could warm us up with it. Next… aw… this one I love," she beams.

Quinn’s eyes narrow as this song starts, the girl scooting back on her bad so that she’s almost propped against the wall. A look over to Sable, and a smile offered. “Don’t worry about it. DO whatever’s gonna make you comfy, dear.” Because I sure am is almost what follows it, but she decides to keep that little part to herself, in the fear of being misunderstood.

This song doesn’t get a headbob, but it seems rapt with Quinn’s attention regardless. Still a somewhat familiar feel to it, but if Sable’s goal is to get back to the honest Blues, she’s building a good bridge there. As the song goes on, Quinn gives a nod. “I can see this in m’ collection,” she comments. Maybe not DJin’, but definitely in her collection.

Sable takes a log swig of her drink, then pushes off her shoes and swings her legs onto the bed. Still holding her glass, she spins around and lies on her belly, head near Quinn's feet. She eyes them, warily, then smiles at Quinn, lifting her glass.

"Now this is somethin' we could do if I practiced banjo, and y'know how t' use that violin like a proper Tennessee fiddle," Sable says, grinning with absolute wickedness. She's excited to see Quinn's reaction to this one. 'Smoke and Wine', by the heir of a country music legacy: Hank Williams III.

Quinn looks stoic for a moment, and hand to her chin as she listens and staring straight ahead. After a moment she draws her legs inn, arms wrapped around her knees, and her expression shows that she just doesn’t know what to think.

“It’s…” She shakes her head. “I’m honestly not sure. The guitar work is impressive, an’ the violin faster than I can do. But…” One hand taps the bed. “I dunno.”

Sable lifts her hand and taps the side of her nose, "Thass fair," she says, "Rockabilly's 'bout a certain lifestyle 'n', like, way of thinkin' 's much as its a musical style, y'know? You gotta put y'rself in his place, imagine the fuckin' sheer wildness, th' ups and downs. What country owes t' blues, which is most fuckin' everythin', is th', like…" she pauses, trying to find the words, "Divin' headfirst int' the sheer senselessness of things. But without bein' bored or anythin', like it is with grunge. It's got energy."

The next song starts with three clacks of drumstick on drumstick, and then the guitar surges into a rapid riff. The lyrics roll out in a eager country rush. 'When I first met Doreen she was barely seventeen/She was drinkin' whiskey sours in the bar./The way she knocked 'em back I coulda had a heart attack,/But as it is I let her drive my car…' Sable digs this song, it's clear, and she tosses her head back and forth in quick motions on the off beats. She even pipes up during the chorus, unable to repress herself: 'Doreeeeen, Doreeeen, last night I had an awful dream/You were layin' in the arms of a man I've never seen/Come clean, Doreen./Come clean, Doreen.//

This song sits a bit better with Quinn, legs still curled up to her chest, chin now resting on her knees. “I’m a bit more… in with this,” she comments as she listens, glancing down at Sable. “Lot better than the last one, I ‘ave to say. The vocals are a bit…” She raises a hand and makes a so-so motion with her hand. “But I like the rest ‘a it.”

She smiles, eyes moving to the CD player. “Whatcha got next?”

Sable wrinkles her nose, rolling over onto her back, towards Quinn, there being more space on the bed. Her drink sits atop her chest, kept balanced with the help of both hands. "I ain't expectin' you t' love all 'r any of this," she says, "Some things we ain't gonna see eye t' eye on. Just know, when I start ravin' durin' practice 'n' all, this is part of where I come from. Musically 'n' fuckin' geographically."

The next song begins with building layers of simple acoustic guitar playing. And then multiple voices pick up, voice familiar to a whole generation preceding Sable and Quinn's. 'Well the first days are the hardest days/Don't you worry any more./'cause when life looks like easy street/There is danger at your door./Think this through with me/Let me know your mind./Oh ooh what I want to know-oh/Is are you kind?' The Grateful Dead, playing 'Uncle John's Band'.

Quinn smiles as she takes another sip of her drink, shaking her head at Sable. “Just the same as a lot of the music I gave t’ you being where I come from.” It’s only fair, really. “Wasn’t tryin’ to offend or anything.” She chuckles, reaching down and pushing on Sable’s nose. “I get you, though.”

Now, this is a voice she recognises, even if she’s never really listened to The Grateful Dead much. She’s not familiar with this particular song, though, so she pays careful attention as it plays, and after a moment she seems to be getting into it. “Not somethin’ I’ve listened to a lot, but I’m not entirely unfamiliar.” She shifts a bit, shrugging. “This, I’m open to. It’s certainly not bad.” It’s not great either, but it’s pleasing enough to her ears to keep her from dismissing it.

Sable props herself up with one arm and eyes Quinn. "Not bad? Gal, that's Panama fuckin' Red," she says, "A man who changed music with one less finger than most of us got. Personal taste aside, there ain't no argument on the matter of Jerry Garcia. That'd be like feelin' two ways 'bout Hendrix. It ain't up t' us mortals. That's divine fuckin' gospel." See, there are opinions, and then there are opinions.

The yellow eyed girl leans out to click the pause button, then gets to a proper sit, crossing her legs and giving Quinn one of those looks again. One of those that suggests she's going to make things maybe a little uncomfortable. Intent, a bit piercing. And of course, even the question is the same. "Yer hair. Why'd y' dye it again?"

“Well, I can’t argue with that.” Particularly on Hendrix – again, not her scene, but denying his influence would mean having to turn in her guitar and probably not play again. And that certainly was an unpleasant future. She never bought into the phrase “personal taste aside”, though.

And then a question is posed the makes Quinn stop in place all over again, in the middle of opening her mouth to offer another response. She shuts it slowly and her head tilts away from Sable, exhaling sharply. “You gotta be feckin’ kidding me.” She makes no attempt to hide it under her breath or anything of the like, and for a brief moment, she’s actually very annoyed. I mean, there wasn’t a problem Sable had with this too, was there?”

“You said…. you said the other day that th’ red hair reminded you of someone.” She still isn’t looking at Sable, probably because she doesn’t want the other girl to see her look of frustration. “I figured it’d be best t’ solve that problem, in th’ interest of moving right on and such.”

Quinn's frustration is matched by Sable's suspicion, though the shorter girl nods, expressing at least that she understands what Quinn is telling her. But there is some essential lack of satisfaction, an experience Jagger and Richards would relate to. "Why black?" she presses. There is a moment where she considers just leaving it like so… but she's not so callous as not to pick up on Quinn's irritation. She tries, as best she can, to ease things a little by adding. "It looks fine and fair on you, so if you were tryin' to make yerself less appealin' to my eye, y' certainly fucked that up royally." This comes with a smile, one bravely donned. Jokes, yes. Jokes are things friends share in normal conversation.

Head’s still tilted away, and the joke, while appreciated, makes Quinn mentally wince – if it shows physically, she’s trying not to acknowledge it. “Brown’s what I have the whole rest’a the time, so that’s boring, and I’m not feeling brave enough t’ bleach my my hair again.” Which is the strict truth, actually. “Is it going to be a problem?” And thus the real worry is broached, and finally her head turns back to face Sable. A part of her wants to say something, but she’s too worried about how things might get taken at this point to pose it – yet.

Sable's grin is crooked, a not uncommon angle for her, but this is one of the less carefree examples of that expression. "Aw, right, cuz yer not crazy like I am, and thus not fuckin' taken t' making a mountain of ever molehill y' see," she says, slipping into self deprecation as maybe a less loaded form of humor. "No. No it ain't. Even if I make somethin' of it, what it tells me is that yer makin' the effort t' keep t' a resolution that ain't even yer own. If yer that true t' my stupid fuckin' principles, how c'n I be so fallen as not to be just as true?"

Quinn’s expression becomes noticeably stoic as Sable speaks – and there in lied the one thing in all of this that she wasn’t really happy about over everything, it wasn’t even her principles she was violating and that was what made it a hard adjustment, which was what made trying otherwise so soon so important. She wasn’t the kind of person who was willing to make someone go against themselves, at least not intentionally. That was the other sore point of the other night, the one that made her feel bad and further drove the quick attempt at turning things around.

“Well, I need t’ make an effort don’t I?” She finally brokers a smile, shrugging. “Band an’ all that, right?”

"No, you fuckin' don't," Sable says, insistently contrary, "Which only makes you the bigger 'n' better of the two of us. Yer playing warden t' my head-sized goddamn crazy house, when y've got other shit you surely oughta be doin'. So… thanks," her expression is dead serious, "I fuckin' mean it. I… ain't so good with, like… long term fuckin' relationships of any kind. Don't tend to stay in one place f'r more than half a year. But this I give a shit about, this I wanna stick it out with, 'n' my wham bam thank-you ma'am horeshit flies even less."

As usual, there are two distinct lines of through that come down Quinn’s mental pipeline. And choosing? A lot harder than it should be, really, given the current situation. But after several moments, her legs stretch out and a hand movies to her forehead, a look of mock exhaustion on her face.

“You’re a goddamn handful, Sable.” Said with what she feels is just the right amount of jollity for the situation, and her expression lightens up just a bit. She takes the time in the pause that follows to finish the rest of her drink, setting the glass down carefully. “But if I can keep us both in check, it’s all well and good. Capacity aside, I’ve not connected with anyone as well as you, an’ Magnes, an’ Elaine in a while. You’re gonna have help in keepin’ this long term friendship.” The last work is spoken with distinct emphasis, both to reinforce the point of teh conversation, and maybe alittle bit to convince herself.

“But know well, you gotta help me find a replacement an’ all!” And there’s her full, normal smile.

Sable, determined not to be outdone, knocks back her own drink with a flick of her wrist and the toss of her head. She winces as the whiskey burns its way down her throat, and she rubs the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist. "I'm glad we can come t' some terms on this," she says, nodding. The alcohol makes her head a little giddy, as it ought to. Nothing like a whiskey buzz. Nothing like a whiskey hangover, too, but you take the bad with the good. "F'r what it's worth, I'm tryin' t' mend my ways across th' fuckin' board here. Seein' if I c'n just be true to one gal. I know it's in me. I just gotta stop seein' signs that confound my better fuckin' intentions."

Oh ho! This last remark brings a smile to Sable's lips as well. "I dig," she says, "Can't possibly be too hard t' find someone willin'. A fair sight harder, it'll be, t' find someone up to scratch," she grins, "I mean, I know I'm a tough act t' follow." Yup, about normal here, too.

We have come to terms. The phrase echoed in Quinn’s mind like a freshly written song lyric, and she half smiles. “One gal?” She’d never quite caught on to the implication otherwise until now, despite the fact that Sable had made it clear in her own somewhat roundabout way. “An’ who might the lucky one be?” And then she reaches down and flicks Sable’s ear. “Tough act to follow? Maybe here-“ And she pats down on the bed a few times, smirking, “But at th’ very least, I got your number elsewhere.” A wink and a laugh. “And I’m not that picky. You know that.” And so it continues, the jokes at each other’s expense are probably just what’s needed, in a way.

Sable winces and ducks away as she's flicked, but she's sniggering as she does so. Liquor and easing tension do wonders for your temperament. "Aw, sure, I know you ain't picky. I mean, y' took home some crazy ass gal y' met at a bar. How picky couldja be?" Tit for tat. Though she leaves aside the matter of the patted bed. Jokes in that direction might turn perilous. "Because I'm fuckin' glutton f'r punishment," Sable says, leaning over the side of the bed to grab the bottle of J.W. She reaches over to refill Quinn's glass with a generous spirit, coming rather close to Quinn as she does, noting that she still feels a stir, noting also that she doesn't have to do anything about it. "'f course I'm goin' f'r the chick who's gonna have a screamin' infant on 'er hands, come enough months and all the crazy shit in between. How's that f'r stupid choices, huh?"

Her drink refilled, Quinn takes to it very quickly, preventing her from offering an immediate response to Sable. “You’re kiddin’, right?” There’s genuine disbelief in her voice.

Sable's not going to let Quinn have all the drunk. She refills her own drink before screwing the top back on and letting the bottle fall among the sheets of Quinn's bed. "T' terrible decisions 'n' changin' diapers, if I'm fuckin' lucky," she says by way of both toast and answer, lofting her glass.

Quinn looks down at her glass for a moment, swirling its contents. What Sable proposed meant a final sealing of things, at least symbolically, regardless of any future developments.

Sometimes, a sacrifice has to be made. She smiles as she raises her glass, clinking it against it’s waiting compatriot, smiling all the while. Besides, she was serious about Sable aiding in finding someone else.



Sable takes a long drink. It feels less painful, and more just warm, which means it's working. She snickers again, a clear sign of advancing drunkenness. "Arright, arright," she says, as if they had somehow gotten off track of something more important. What could that be? "We need t' find you a gal, don't we? Can't be too hard. This fuckin' city is just lousy with lovely ladies. Fuckin' crazy, honest," she scoots to the side of the bed and extends a leg, her socked toe reaching to eject the CD in the player, "You put somethin' on. This is yer show now. Who wants t' get with 'n Irish Rose!"

Quinn makes a funny face, feigning confusion. “You must know somethin’ I don’t. I’ve always had a right hard time myself, unless I’m obvious about it, and then…” She waves a hand side to side dismissively. “You get unwanted attention, you know?” At Sable’s insistence that she pick something herself, she hops up – but instead of making her way to the CD player, she beelines to her computer, and sits, fiddling with something. At the first click, the speakers blare back what sounds suspiciously like the very song Quinn was singing when Sable arrived, played by the Irish girl herself. This elicits a nervous laugh and a look back at Sable.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she begins as she turns the knob on a black subwoofer at her feet, bringing the volume back down to respectable level. Like I said, I was workin’ on an experiment earlier, with recordin’ and a few things.” She pulls a studio quality mic into view, and then slides it back out. “But something to listen to…” She clicks, and a piano begins to play, upbeat, with a male voice singing.

She thinks I'm much too thin/She asks me if I'm sick/What's a girl to do With friends like this?/She lets me drive her car /So I can score an eighth/From the lesbians /Out west in Venice/Oh, California in the Summer/Ah, and my hair is growing long/Fuck yeah, we can live like this

“Jack’s Mannequin,” is Quinn’s only remark as she stands back up and makes her way back voer to the bed, plopping down.

Sable perks up at once. "Shit, that ain't half bad," she exclaims, "I mean… yer awesome, 'f course, but the recordin' quality. We could do a demo, once we get our shit together." This is thrilling news, as far as Sable's concerned. She crawls across the bed and takes a seat next to Quinn, though she observes a certain space of separation. An unfortunate precaution, but likely a smart one. That whiskey is making its way into Sable sip by sip.

"Care t' explain whatcha mean by 'unwanted attention'?" Sable inquires, "Y' mean dicks gawkin' at you? How's it y' usually go about pickin' up a lady that's caught yer eye?"

“Well, a demo here-“ Her hand motions out to her apartment. “That might not be entire feasible, I only have the one mic an’ my computer, no proper mixing equipment or sound proofing. And… I know shite all about production. Just simple recordin’.” She leans back, her hair now dry enough for her to lean flat against the back wall. “And I mean… well, yeah, jerks gawpin’ at me, ladies taking offense at a wrong judgement, that sorta thing.” She looks thoughtful when she gets to the last question. “I… dunno. I usually look t’ see if anyone’s really payin’ attention, and then follow through on it.”

Sable quirks her lips to one side. Quinn's pragmatism and realistic expectations rain her parade a little, but that's just how reality is - always getting in the way of your optimism. "Mebbe we need t' find someone with th' skills. Or mebbe ask Magnes t' put down the comics f'r a sec and pick up a manual or somethin'." She turns her head to look right at Quinn, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, "See, I can't speak for any way but my own, 'n' I dunno if I'm exactly th' gal t' play, like, role model or anythin', but that wait 'n' watch thing leaves too much t' luck, as far as I can tell."

"I mean… well, when you 'n' I made our connection," Sable says, with a bit of a smirk, "Mebbe you noticed I was gunnin' pretty strong after you. Which is just my way. But unless yer waitin' for someone else as flat out shameless as m'self, y' may need t' go in a bit stronger. Risk the gawps 'n' the offense. Fuck 'em if they can't turn you down gracious-like. Such sticks in th' mud are beneath yer fuckin' notice."

Quinn nods slowly, crossing ehr arms across her chest. For ads adventurous as she was, and positive as she normally was, just charging out into the midst of things when it comes to finding someone she likes has always made her kind of nervous, even before she found herself. “Well, I mean… that’s a bit different for me, Sable.” She cracks a grin, looking over. “I may need a wingwoman the first few times, just in case.”

Your pride?” Quinn laughs, punching the girl in the shoulder. “My pride an’ more’d be at stake!” She exhales sharply, grinning. “Tell you what, we’ll go out sometime soon and see how it goes. If all else fails, the club I got a job at’s havin’ a date auction at Grand Opening.” Her smile curls up mischievously, only to give way to a sudden look of remembrance.

“That’s right! I never told you how I knew Melissa, did I?”

She barely feels it. Yup, that's the whiskey already. Sable dissolves into cackles, tipping away from Quinn and reaching out to to set her glass down on the nightstand, rather than risk spilling. "I said yer pride, too! I took it into consideration!" she manages through her laughter, lying back and spreading her arms and legs, staring up at the ceiling, at least for a moment. Quinn's mention of some sort of date-something-she-isn't-sure-she-caught pulls her eyes over and, when that proves not enough, she turns her head as well.

"Uh… naw, y' never did," Sable agrees then, with a touch of thoughtfulness, "She's a fine sort of gal. Though I didn't get anythin' promisin' off her," just while on the subject, "I guessin' there's a story t' tell? Speak, sister, speak!"

Well, that thought hadn’t occurred to her yet, but she took Sable’s note to heart. “Well, not much of a story. Met her out in Central Park after the storm, ran into Magnes too. But it turns out she runs a club called Tartarus that’s opening soon.” Her smile widens, beaming with a sense of pride. “Guess who’s one’a the new DJs!”

Sable wrinkles her nose, "Iiiii'm gonna take a wild fuckin' guess 'n' say it's…" her hand lifts above her, moving in wobbly circles before descending to point at Quinn… or at least in her general direction. Let's not split hairs when you're carrying two strong drinks in a miniature frame. "You!" she says, displaying cunning insight. She turns onto her side, to face Quinn, propping her head on one hand, grinning. "I'm dead on, aren't I? What's my prize f'r guessin' right?"

That is what one calls a tortuous question, prompting Quinn into an expression that mirrored Sable’s initial one. “Nothin’ for you, I’m afraid.” She smirks, and then nods. “Yep, An we’re having a date acution at grand openin’. And a raffle. You should come.” A beat, and her smirk widens to a grin. “You… should be in the auction.”

Sable scowls, "Foul fuckin' play!" she declares, waving an arm around in protest. The slight lack of focus in her eyes suggests that ethanol is finally hitting the places that count. "Deviousness! Fuckin' devilry!" She gives Quinn a punch in the leg - a light one of course. And that's before she registers Quinn's suggestion. Sable's mouth opens, in a less-than-graceful gape. "…wha'?"

Quinn snorts in response, and then covers her nose with a blush, but she doesn’t offer another comment on the subject of a withheld prize. “The date auction! You should enter. It’s all for charity, maybe this sweetheart of yours can… bid on you.” There was a bit of a twang inside as she said that, but she fought off showing it outside of the sudden slowness of the second half of the sentence. “I’m enterin’. It’ll be a lot of fun.”

Sable squints, instantly wary even through the mediation of liquor. "What's, like, th' full fuckin' deal here?" she says, "We go up t' the choppin' block 'n' see who'll pony f'r an evening's, like, innocent consideration?" she wrinkles her nose, "You expected t' put out if they bid enough, 'r anythin'?"

She shakes her head, waving a hand. “What? No… what?” That’s a good sign that it might be enough for her and the whiskey. It’s still the afternoon, after all.”I mean, you go up on the block ot be ‘bought’ for an evenin’, yes, but it’s not… a sex thing or anythin’. I guess if the night goes real well, you can, but otherwise…”

Sable remains unconvinced. "I dunno…" she says, eyes darting to one side, "I dunno that my particular brand of, like, personal fuckin' magnetism would, like… communicate, y'dig?" She looks back at Quinn, "There's a reason I tend t' be so active 'bout gettin' to know a gal," she grimaces, "Plus what if a dude bids on me? 's likely 's anythin' else. Moreso, even, seein' how people expect things t' be…"

Quinn only offers a shrug in response. “So ride with it. If a guy buys me, I go with th’ flow, though I’ll let ‘im know what’s up if he gets too… handsy” She slips forward on the bed a bit. “It’s for charity and all. Tartarus isn’t keepin’ a dime, far as I know.”

"Huh…" Sable says, the notion having never occurred to her. Deception of that sort, if deception it can be called, is not something she's used to. Not in this particular context. Though, then again, an auctioned date is really nothing like anything Sable's ever done. This is wholly new territory. A new kind of performance.

"Y' really want me t' be part 'f this… whatever it is?" Sable asks, blearily.

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine.” Quinn hops up from her bed, wandering over to the computer so that she can change a track that’s started to play, rather quickly at that. “I just promised I’d ask a few people, an’ I though there was a small chance you might want to.” She turns back, grinning with her hands on her hips.

“You’re lucky. I’m not giving Magnes an’ Elaine a choice.”

"Well, hon, I wouldn't want t' make y' seem faithless to any folk," Sable says, with a smirk directed up at the standing girl. The smirk spreads into a grin, "And like hell I'd miss a chance t' catcall at Magnes when he's up on stage. Sign me up."

“Awesome! I’ll have to let Melissa know later.” Well, that took less convincing than Quinn was expecting. “Besides, you know never know who might buy you for the night.” She winks, still grinning.

There is simple mathematics to the agreement. Stage + attention + making fun of Magnes = a happy Sable. What more could she ask for? Well, Quinn has a suggestion of what more she might hope for. The girl, pretty fairly tanked by now, rolls back onto her back - a favorite drunk position, by all indicators. "I mayn't dream," she warbles, "Should wakin' be too painful. I daren't hope, should my hope be lost."

Quirking an eyebrow, Quinn marches back towards her bed. “I think it’s time t’ cur you off, for now.” As she speak, she leans down, poking Sable in the stomach. “Come, we can talk about it a bit more later. What’ya say we go do something? Work of this buzz.” Which she has too, which probably lends itself to the rest of her sentence. “And, I dunno, go lookin’ for me.” A smile.

Sable peers up at Quinn, and gives the other girl a woozy smile. "Blame it on the' blues," she says, as to her current state. "If we're gonna look f'r a lucky lady… best there be another 'f us, lest we two look like a pair." She lifts her arm, a finger pointed straight up. Idea!

"We need Elaine!"

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