Good Kid


sable_icon.gif ygraine_icon.gif

Scene Title Good Kid
Synopsis Drinks and discuss take a turn for the confessional, their subject absent.
Date December 8, 2010

The Garden

Situated in a copse several miles away from the nearest stretch of asphalt, the Garden is accessible via an old dirt road that winds snakelike through the woods and dead-ends at the property's perimeter, which is surrounded by stone wall plastered with wicked coils of rusty barbed wire to keep would-be intruders from attempting to scale it. Those with a key can gain entry via the front gate.

The safehouse itself is a three-story brickwork cottage over a century old and covered in moss and ivy. It slants to one side, suggesting that the foundation has been steadily sinking into the wet earth; incidentally, this may be one of the reasons why its prior occupants never returned to the island to reclaim their property when government officials lifted evacuation orders and re-opened the Verrazano-Narrows shortly before its eventual destruction.

Inside, the cottage is decorated in mismatched antique furniture including a couch in the living room and an armchair nestled in the corner closest to the fireplace that go well with the safehouse's hardwood floors and the wood-burning stoves in some of the spare bedrooms. A heavy wooden table designed to seat eight separates the dining area from the rest of the kitchen, which is defined by its aged oak cabinetry and the dried wildflowers hanging above them.

The sun has pitched below the tops of the trees, sinking first into orange, then a deep blood red as the sun becomes the thinnest of menisci above the horizon, a burning scarlet swell that paints the sky delicate colors that range from pale pink to deep indigo. It's getting dark, less safe to navigate the dirt road winding its way to the Garden, which is incentive for Sable to cling only tighter to Ygraine as they make their jouncing way through the thick of the trees.

As befits the day and its content, Sable is remarkably somber, her around-the-waist cling tight and consistent, the bumps received without complaint or curse, audible or otherwise. When they finally arrive back in the clearing around the three story brick of the Garden, Sable dismounts with a gentle 'oof' and tugs off the helmet so graciously and responsibly provided by her British friend. She gives her head a short, sharp canine shake from side to side, casting her hair back into is more traditional and disarray, then looks up at the woman still astride the motorbike.

"Y'all come on it," she says, raising her voice as high as needs be to be heard over the rumble of the engine, "we're gonna crack out that whiskey, name a few 'n' knock 'em back." This is not an invitation. It's more, even, than a request. It's an out and out statement of fact-to-be.

"'m gonna be five foot nothing by the time this finishes", Ygraine mutters, not yet having removed her helmet, her third trip of the day along the dirt road clearly not overly enjoyed. At least her ability helped to avoid accidents on the slick and half-frozen surface, the Briton having tweaked matters so that both herself and Sable were securely anchored to the bike - giving it, in effect, a much lower and more stable centre of gravity than it would otherwise have.

Sighing heavily, she reaches up to unfasten the chin-strip, but doesn't take the risk of exposing her head to the cold air. "Oooorgh. A chance to unkink a little would be welcome. Maybe get the contraction of my spine down to just a couple of inches…."

Hey, don't make jokes about being five foot nothing. Some people live with the burden of shortness every day. It's no laughing matter. Sable takes hold of her hair, grips and tugs, cracking her neck before rolling her head. She sets her helmet, the borrowed spare, in one of the bike's panniers then starts to sidle towards the building.

"Fair warnin', hon," Sable says, glancing over her shoulder at the Briton, "I ain't likely t' let y' drive off in th' dark with drinks in yer tummy. Lucky thing we got rooms aplenty in this place, but it's mighty cold anywheres that ain't by th' fire. Thass where I tend to hunker down. Sleepin' with th' dogs." There's an inverse pride to this statement, an embrace of abjection. A few steps and she's at the door, tugging it open and slipping inside, keeping it just slightly ajar for Ygraine to follow, but without the risk of letting too much warm air out. The jangle, tock and scuffle of canine greeting can be heard through the crack in the door as Misty and Jupiter welcome the humans.

"Ooorgh", Ygraine repeats, before offering something a bit more coherent - a smile audible in her voice. "I've camped rough in the past. And maybe sleeping on boards'll be good for my back. I tried a bit of training this afternoon, but wound up carrying someone up and down walls, which wasn't exactly the best thing I could have done for easing out the muscles."

As she talks she swings off the bike, wheeling it under cover before starting to wrestle a cover into place over it. Might as well try to stop it freezing solid overnight. "So long as you've got warm food, and warm bedding, I'm sure I'll survive. I'll need to be on my way again, first thing, however."

"Thass fine, hon," Sable says, peeking out of doors, the back at the dogs. They've been cooped up, it occurs to her. She presses her back against the door, ushering the hounds into the clearing. Misty and Jupiter gambol out into the frozen clearing, unbothered by the temperature. They have legs to stretch and calls of nature to answer. Sable, meanwhile, steps back outside, closing the door behind her and hunkering down on the front steps, arms folding around her as she gives a small shiver. "Didn't used t' be such a goddamn pussy 'bout th' cold," she gripes, "lived on th' streets 'f Boston f'r th' last wick of winter, b'fore C.C. took me in. That was fuckin' cold."

Ygraine winces again - though this time it's not because of her grumbling back. "Ouch. That must've been tough", she says sympathetically. "I've come damn close to giving myself hypothermia, racing in cold rain and sleet, in the past. Not quite the same, but I have felt cold right down into my bones - cold that didn't seem to want to go away at all."

She shudders at the thought. "I remember having sweat running down my back, and still feeling the cold so very deep inside…."

"Some things," Sable says, rocking back and forth slightly, breath coming out in frosty plumes, "don' matter how it is y' feel 'em, how y' come t' feel 'em, the feelin's always th' same. Jus' how much 'f th' feelin' y' get, 'n' what y' do with it that's different, eh?" Jupiter trots to the edge of the clearing, trying to shake Misty who worries the older dog's legs incessantly, with the eagerness of an annoying toddler. "At th' further, though, makes 'f us all jus' our mere bodies 'n' minds, th' second bein' still bound int' th' first."

Stiffly crouching down, Ygraine secures the cover around the wheels of her beloved Alfred, pat-patting the bike before pushing herself to her feet - leather and joints alike both offering creaks of protest - before starting towards the door. "Somehow", she says dryly, "I have the impression that you're not just talking about the weather now…"

"Naw, really?" Sable says, cracking a crooked smile and slowly pushing herself to her feet, turning to pull the door open. "Dogs!" she calls out at the trotting critters, "ya'll come on. Come on, now." She claps her hand against her thigh, drawing the attention of both animals. Misty looks uncertain as to what's expected of her, but as Jupiter lopes back towards the door, the younger dog follows suit, and soon they are both safely back inside. Sable dips in a bow, making a flourish to the door. "Proper ladies first," she offers to Ygraine.

"Right now, I feel like a waddling old crock", Ygraine groans - though her gait is rather more a stiff-legged lurch when she moves inside. Eagerly starting for the fireplace, she comes to a halt a few paces inside the door, there to set about removing some of the most filthy of her outer garb, apparently still not comfortable with trekking half of the road in with her.

Sable ambles in after Ygraine, shutting the door securely behind her and shedding her own outmost and most dirty layers. Soon enough she's in her BU hoodie, cargo pants and socks, padding into the living room, but only on her way to the kitchen. Her goal, previously stated and by no means forgotten, lies within, and when she emerges she has the bottle of whiskey Ygraine brought earlier that day, along with two glasses. Sable takes a seat, not far from the dogs and thus not far from the fire, and sets the cups down, unscrewing the top of the liquor bottle and pouring out a couple fingers of amber liquid into each glass. "Settle on in, give yer ailin' back a rest," she urges Ygraine, "dunno we ever shared a drink you 'n' I, but 'bout time we did, I figure."

Beneath her leathers, Ygraine proves to be wearing a form of skinsuit - though this is rather more a high-tech cold-weather exercise affair than the lycra she customarily wears for cycling. Perhaps to Sable's disappointment, it's also paired with a woollen sweater, though that only covers her to the waist. As it is, the former athlete seems to be quite unselfconscious about limping over to the fireplace, easing herself stiffly into one of the chairs.

"Not much of a drinker, to be honest. Tend to save it for special occasions. while I was competing, it wasn't exactly something I could afford to do routinely, so… it never became a habit. Always something to roll out for a special event."

There is no leer from Sable. Her attention seems more fixed upon the drinks then upon those legs, even as they scissor by. That's not to say that, seen, they fail to be appreciated, but what might otherwise be avidity is muffled by numerous factors. Life is complicated. That's part of why people drink in the first place. Sable scoots over to sit on the floor next to Ygraine, and lifts a glass of whiskey, offering it up to the other woman. "I tend t' toke more th'n I drink, 't least since I tried turnin' my life 'round a little," she says, "but I'll be fuckin' straight with y'all - I'm feeling a tidbit blue, 'n' th' blues they call f'r a certain kinda medicine."

For a few moemnts, the drink is ignored… then Ygraine opens her eyes and notices it, leaning forward to carefully accept it. "Heh. Feels rather odd to be disposing of more of the supplies I only brought over this morning, but… thank you", she says gently, cautiously leaning back and stretching out her legs - one foot quivering as she tenses the ankle muscles.

"Mmmmm. So - what're you blue about? Must be bad, or weird, if you're turning to me rather than Robyn." A slight pause. "She's not done anything to upset you, has she?"

"Call it yer vig, hon," Sable suggests, smiling slantedly, "yer haircut. Courier's fee. Hazard pay. Or call it a favor t' a friend, who don't wanna be left to drink by her lonesome like some sorry ess oh bee." She lifts her glass, peering at it with one yellow eye, catching the low glow of the fire, burned down to seething coals. "…Norman," she says, abruptly, then kicks the drink back, gulping down the whole thing in two grand swallows. She makes a pained face, taps her chest, then pours herself another, this time just one finger.

"What? Upset me? Hell no, naw naw naw," Sable insists, shaking her head, the very notion blasphemous, "bumped int' her at Strawberry Fields. Fine thing seein' her. But no… no. It's jus'… some shit y' don' wanna bring so close t' home. Know what I mean?"

Though, as is sometimes the case, Ygraine has been quite thoroughly lost by portions of what Sable has just said - Norman?!? - she nonetheless sips at her own drink, then nods slowly and worriedly. "So… what shit do you want to offer me to go with the whisky, Miss Diego?", she asks formally. "And should I be offering you a couch to lie on?"

"Y'all save that therapy bullshit f'r th' bourgies," Sable says, directly a mostly put-on glower in Ygraine's direction, "'n' where'd y' hear that name? I look like a spic t' you?" Charming. Sable gives a huff, scowl pointed at the fire once more. It's slowly dying. She'll need to toss a few logs on soon. Soon. As in not now. "Honest, Quinn's already heard 'bout this, though, like, b'fore certain developments. Jus'…" she wrinkles her nose, "y'all mebbe have a certain impression 'f me. Like, 'n' I can't blame y' f'r it neither," a small, crooked smile, "seein' as I did sorta make somethin' like a pass at y' here 'n' there. But, like…" she looks up at Ygraine once more. "Y' know I been a one gal woman f'r most 'f my days. Way things are, like they are now, that ain't how I usually am, how things usually are with me."

The first part of Sable's reply is soon forgotten - at least for the time being - as Ygraine finds herself attempting to parse the fractured English and the convoluted references that follow. "Something like a pass, yes", she says with a wry smile, cocking her head slightly.

"So… this is something to do with affairs of the heart, about which Robyn has heard a… now out of date version? Okay. I'm certainly willing to listen, and offer advice if you want me to."

"Gonna keep y' 'round," Sable says, with a snicker, "have y' be my translator. Fuck…" she peers into her drink, "Bein' real honest, this here manner 'f speakin' ain't much older than my stay in th' city. But I got a right t' remake m'self. I just wonder how much I went 'n' did it, without knowin'." She shrugs, lifts her glass. "…Bert," she says, again, inexplicably, and knocks back the whiskey once more.

Another grimace later, and she's talking again, throat still burning a little. "I know love ain't just a single silver arrow. Y'all don't jus' get one shot, nor is there jus' one target. But, 'til now I've always had a real narrow type focus. I love hard, hon. I'm like a rollin' stone, gatherin' speed 'til it's like a goddamn avalanche inside me. 'n' usually… usually I get what I'm after. I want it 'nuff, will it 'nuff… it comes t' be. Only way t' live yer life, I figure, when y' don't got nothin'. Follow?"

Ygraine nods slowly and cautiously, studying Sable with some interest. This particular kind of openness, she's not seen from Sable. Open about her desires, yes. Herself? Not till now.

"I… understand, I think", she says softly. "So… how many targets for love do you have now? And are the avalanches mixing up with each other?"

Sable's eyes close and she cradles the empty glass between her palms. "I meant t' have jus' one," she says, "'n' I've been courtin' just one. I been real clear 'bout that, or tried t' be. No thought 'f leadin' noone on. But things've… changed. It's… real fuckin' complicated, 't least from where I'm standin'." Her eyes open. "But I ain't sayin' shit. 'course it's complicated, it always is. Aw… hell," a palm rises to rub at her wrinkled brow, "y'all wanna hear th' whole 'f it, t' th' best 'f m' shitty fuckin' understandin'?"

Laughing softly, Ygraine allows herself a sip of whiskey before nodding. "Yes. That would help. Rather than having me guessing blindly, it'd be good to have someone's understanding of what's going on…."

Okay, give her just a moment. Sable first gathers her thoughts and feelings, steels herself against their intensity, then, ordering them attempts to articulate. Here goes: "Me 'n' Colette had a little somethin' b'fore th' big freeze. Jus' a single night, 'n' I didn't expect nothin' of it, as she said she was all, like, destined t' be with Tamara 'n' all. But, damned fool that I am, a feelin' caught powerful hold over me 'n' I ended up with a real bad case 'f longin'. Further fool that I am, I acted too slow. She went on 'n' found some other gal that wasn't Tamara, leavin' me out in th' cold somethin' awful. Worse, even. Trapped in th' fuckin' Lighthouse with them two 'n' my terrible pinin'. I-" she stops up, "I ain't gonna get int' detail, but- but it was real rough. On everyone, I figure. But, 'ventually, I gave up. I figured t' look elsewhere. Only thing t' do.

"Thass when I started gettin' tom cattish," she says, reaching for the bottle and pouring another finger, before offering to top Ygraine off, "I ain't half bad with th' charm, so I got prospects. But like I said, I've been a one gal woman since I learned t' love, so I narrow things on down t' jus' one. Th' lovely Miss Trafford 'f our mutual acquaintance. Figured there was somethin' there. Won't get int' why, jus' sound crazy. 'N', like, it's been me chasin' after her f'r months 'pon months now, 'n' mostly it's fine jus'… sometimes feel like I ain't gettin' nowhere, not really.

"She didn't jerk me 'round, though," Sable amends, emphatic on the point of Delilah's honor and decency, "I'd never say that. She was on th' level with me. Said she weren't ready f'r no commitment. So, like, fine I think. No commitment 'til she's ready. I c'n wait. 'n' as she asked nothin' 'f me, I pursued my affairs with other fair ladies, keepin' it clear all the while that I was dedicated t' th' courtship 'f Dee, ready t' switch right on over t' th' single 'n' true when that's what she wanted 'f me.

"'N' thass when our dear angel Elaine entered th' picture. Started off jus' me showin' her th' ropes, so t' speak. All cleared with her man. Only… I told y', I love hard. 'n' I can't say what I feel f'r Elaine's short 'f passion. It's an uncommon thing, nothin' like I've known, 'cause th' way things were, she had her man, 'n' I had my gal t' chase, so what we had was this… somethin' else. 'N' we could trust that it'd say safe 'n' clear 'n' bright without us takin' it nowhere troublin', 'cause I could never betray my boy, 'n' she knew I had my heart set on Dee.

"Only now she 'n' he ain't t'gether no more, so th' balance is all off, 'cause I dunno that I c'n be with her, not so soon after my boy's heart's been broke, but she don't have a love that's jus' her own t', like, keep everythin' fair. Now, time has passed, 'nuff that I get t' wonderin' if Dee's ever gonna look at me like I look at her, so I start t' think, well, mebbe I jus' gotta wait shit out, give Dee a little more time, but if I don't see that she honest t' God wants t' be with me like I want t' be with her… be smart. Call it off, 'n' beg Magnes' f'rgiveness f'r darin' t' love she who left him.

"But now comes th' last part 'f th' tale, so I beg yer patience jus' a little longer, 'cause it's almost done. 'cause th' last part comes with me comin' here with Colette, th' gal who started all this off if y' recall. 'N'… fuck… I dunno. I feel… I feel like somethin's 'bout t' give. We fight, jus'- jus' fight all th' time. But it's that kind 'f fightin', like we both know somethin's comin' on. 'n'… shit, I can't help it. She gets me. She's so fuckin' bad f'r me, but 's soon as she turns my way, th' rest 'f th' fuckin' world just… disappears."

The phrase "me n' Colette" was not exactly a wholly unexpected beginning, given Ygraine's own knowledge of the young woman in question, and the canine presence here. Still, it's a good one for ensuring the Briton's close attention to Sable's words. When offered the bottle, she accepts it - but rather absent-mindedly, just holding onto it rather than using it for anything. After all, the story just keeps gaining new layers…

"I… wow", is about all she can manage immediately, when Sable's voice finally comes to a halt. She wets her lips with the whiskey, savouring the taste for a moment as she tries to find suitable words herself.

"You and Elaine as a couple, I admit I… hadn't thought of. But I'm dreadful at match-making, of any kind. So that's no surprise. But… Christ. Colette really does know how to put her foot in it, doesn't she? And still come through it all with people falling over themselves to be allowed to help her…."

Shaking her head, Ygraine smiles ruefully, her voice somewhat wistful - if also blackly amused. "You're either in a good, or a very bad place", she warns her diminutive companion. "The people she really cares about - the ones she's told she loves - those, she's a track record of running away from whenever the brown stuff hits the whirly thing. She did it to Judah. She did it to me, as the very next thing after I gave her freedom to ask for anything at all that I might be able to do to help her. And it seems like she's done it now to Tasha - who, not too terribly long ago, she was insisting to me was the stable rock upon whom she could henceforth always depend. She didn't need anyone else to talk to, there was no way she'd ever…."

Ygraine voice trails off, and she blinks at her hands, abruptly realising that both are full and she doesn't have a finger free to check she's not embarassing herself with overly damp eyes.

"Her response to stress is atrocious. And her response to feeling affection can be nearly as bad, at least in combination. She'll shower you with sincere, loving attention. Make you feel that she's delighted to see you in a way that almost no one else ever has been. And she'll mean it, too. But when things go sour for her - especially if it's not your fault - she'll want to turn herself into a martyr. Again. 'Cause part of what makes people want to protect her is that she's so badly broken, in some ways. And that's part of why she hates herself at times, I think. She's decided she's too dangerous to be around people. Too worthless. Too personally harmful. Too likely to bring down trouble on their heads. Too useless a person in her own right. You name it, she's probably used it as a tool against herself, and an excuse for pulling away from others - or trying to push them away from her."

Sable was tipsy throughout her monologue, the whiskey slowly leaking into her system. But there is much too much of it, and much too little of her, for this to last. Without further ado, Sable has begun to slide steadily towards drunk, evidenced by the bleary, sullen look she directs at the fire. Ygraine speaks, confirming in articulate, organized terms things Sable had already something of a sense of but only in the inchoate, weirdly symbolic way she makes 'sense' of the world. As Sable listens, she gets unsteadily to her feet and wobbles over to the hearth, pulling logs from the nearby woodpile and tossing them on with underhand throws that send cascades of sparks spiraling up into the chimney.

She's still hunkered down by the side of the fireplace when she swings her ever-boozier gaze back to Ygraine. Sable's expression is dark, tense, her mouth tugged down at the edges. "Thass jus' it, they don't fuckin' talk," she says, unable to hide her indignation, "they lie 'n' hide 'n' keep secrets from each other. They fuckin'- fuckin' protect each other with silence, 'n' their love don't make them love themselves anymore. They each think less 'f themselves, set next t' the impossible fuckin' virtue 'f th' other. 'She's so beautiful, I'm not', 'she's so clever, I'm not', 'she's so perfect, I'm not'. It's all fuckin' wrong, 'n' I saw it from th' get go."

This, it seems, is a cup of bile Sable has been saving for some time.

"That girl 'f hers is a bourgie fuckin' pushover, 'n' that'll never be 'nough when everythin' falls apart," is said through clenched teeth, "She came t' me," she taps her chest, yellow eyes glinting rather savagely, "when push came t' shove. Because I do not back down 'n' I do not think so little 'f myself as t' be chased away. 'N' she knows it. She jus' won't admit it."

In the intensity of her narcissism, it takes several tense, hard breathing seconds for her to notice hers is not the only upset in the room. With a creep of shame, Sable slowly picks her way back to Ygraine's side, taking a slow seat and peering up at the other woman. "Y'all know this too well. Whatall happened, hon? I been- been railin', as is my way, but you… Y'all tell me your story. I wanna- wanna hear it. I feel like I gotta. Only fair."

Still barely into her first glass, and with vastly more mass than Sable - for all that she says she's not a drinker - Ygraine is still pretty much stone cold sober. Which makes Sable's rapid deterioration somewhat unexpected, to say the least. But still she listens carefully and attentively, finally offering a rueful smile as an initial response to that final request.

"Ohhhhh", she lets out, half sigh and half exasperation. "The short version is that… at various points, she's come to me for love advice. More than once. I revealed to her that I was Evolved, back when it was a secret. I offered to help her train. I got to be the one to break the news to her that her chosen mentor - whose offer of help she had accepted - had died. And that I'd listened to him do so. I got to hear her confess to trying to blackmail someone into healing her step-father. I got to be there while she freaked out as someone else who cared for her showed up at the wrong moment, and she sent him away without even opening the door…."

Sighing, Ygraine shakes her head. "And I got to find out that she was giving away a present I'd given her, after she got hurt one time, by turning up to find her in the process of getting rid of it. I got to be someone she confessed to attempted murder to - and her guilt over not having gone through with it. And I got to be, yet again, someone whose words weren't enough for her, because she had to find someone else to really make her feel better."

Another sigh, and she closes her eyes, head resting against the back of the chair. "And I got to have her tell her she loved me. And, later, make it clear that she didn't really need or even seem to want me in her life - because we'd 'drifted apart'. When I'd told her whenever I could that she could ask me for help or comfort any time she needed it. But… I just wasn't what she really wanted. Not more than a handful of times at most. I was always just the substitute, I fear."

"Cruel," Sable says, mouth tugged into a line that grows thinner with each further layer of Ygraine's own story, "she's simple cruel, 'n' it's an effort t' believe that she don't mean it, 'n' an effort further t' believe she don't know it. But cruel is what she is, like only th' kind can be. T' not be fed, that y' expect. T' be fed day after day, then t' have yer bowl set b'fore you empty…" she shakes her dark head. "I'm real, real fuckin' sorry. I d- didn't know 'bout all this. I'm a fuckin' latecomer, don't got nearly th' history you got. Got no claim next t' you. If I knew- shit… I'd've not troubled y'."

Sable shoulders slump as she lists forward. "Damn fool I am still. For all this, y'd think I'd know now t' step away. T' call it a bad thing. Fuckin' hell, but I already did. I know. But it don't change a thing. Who'm I t' do any better? If you couldn't, after all y' did f'r her, a mean little shit such 's me don't got no goddamn chance."

There's a momentary consideration of the bottle in Ygraine's hand, but Sable is just enough on this side of smashed to think better of it. "I need t' ask, 'cause I don't know m'self, but yer cleverer th'n me so maybe you got it figured… not that havin' it figured'll help," her head tilts, "why? Why do we do it? Why stick it out, knowin' it'll just be smacked back 'r chopped off?" The irony being that Colette already asked Sable herself this question, and at the time Sable disdained its very asking.

Ygraine offers a low - and somewhat bitter - laugh, shaking her head at Sable. "Oh, don't do yourself down", she says gently. "From what I can see, you're quite right - she came to you. You're someone she either dislikes or likes enough to offer some semblance of honesty when she's on the verge of trying to martyr herself. Others? She's pulled away from them entirely. D'you know of anywhere further out in the wilds she could take herself than here? But however… tense it's been, she has spent time with you. Spoken to you."

A low sigh, and Ygraine leans forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "The first time she disappeared - dropped off the face of the planet - she didn't even leave a note. Call. Nothing. I lived two floors directly above the apartment she shared with her stepfather. Somewhere Tamara used to sleep, from time to time. By far the one place she'd surely have felt safe, and thought of as home….."

"After a while, she called him. Let him know she hadn't died. Re-opened contact. She didn't leave me any message. And she wasn't Ferry then. So… no network to ask about her. For all I knew, she was dead and gone - just another lost corpse in the city of the dead and the dying…."

A heavy sigh, and then Ygraine lifts her head and then her gaze, offering a twisted smile to Sable. "Why do we still try? Still watch out for her even after she's pushed us away? Because there's a heck of a lot of good in here. She's risked her neck to help people. Sure, a lot of her troubles she brings on herself… but some she brings down because she's striving on behalf of others. And some of us are suckers for the broken and the lost. And she used to be so very broken and lost. How she survived, I'm at a loss to imagine, really. But she managed it… so she's not just pitiable, or naive, but she's got spirit as well."

"Sadly", and Ygraine's tone turns sardonic, "she's also a right bitch, at times, with a real penchant for wallowing in self-pity and for using self-loathing as an excuse to torment those around her as she does stupid things."

Sable listens intently, with the focus of someone who is taking mental notes, making connections, drawing conclusions. There is a lot Sable doesn't know, a lot that Sable didn't know she didn't know or - if we are to be forthright - didn't bother imagining might be there to know. Sable has clambered her way slowly and irregularly towards her current state of maturity, hypertrophic in some places, feeble in others. Colette's full history is not something Sable ever really thought about. In counterpoint, however, time traveling missteps proved that Colette took approximately as little interest in Sable's history.

And it is ultimately her disinterest in the past and the pattern writ large there that brings Sable to her near-conclusion. Near-conclusion, because questions remain. But Ygraine is right here to ask. "Figure she needs me, now? However it plays out in th' long run… if I'm who she came t', then is it 'pon me t' do what I can?"

Ygraine shrugs slowly, then sighs and nods. "She's bloody awful at asking for help, except for when she doesn't really need it. There's almost no one she trusts enough to let truly close to her, and there's… well. She's prone to trying to disappear entirely, as best I can make out, when she hits a crisis and decides that it's time to isolate herself and prepare to do something self-sacrificing…."

Taking a long sip of her drink she shrugs once more. "So… if you can help her, go for it. The fact that she's a crazy, self-destructive bitch who tramples on the feelings of those who care most for her - that doesn't alter the fact that she's also a good kid who tries hard to make a difference in the world. And she's aware of cause and effect. Some of what she tears herself up over… they're things she hasn't done, things she could have done, things she feels she ought to have done."

Fixing Sable with a rather intent gaze, she quirks a rueful smile. "Unfortunately, I'm wholly serious about her having felt guilty for not going through with a plan to murder someone. At times that I've seen her, she's felt as if she… ought to purge herself of the things that make her human, to be frank. That she ought to be more ready to pull the trigger. To do whatever would be expedient. And I failed to persuade her that I frankly admired her for having the humanity and guts not to do the easy thing and kill someone in her power - for being brave enough to stay herself."

"Nothin' worse than nothin', no matter how poor th' somethin' y' got," Sable intones, a bit hazily but not without sincerity. It may just be her BAC, but Sable seems somewhat more grounded, the incessance of her fidgets fading into a centered stillness that seems like something other than simple fatigue. Her head bobs, up down, up down. Yes. Yes, she hears Ygraine. But at this point further information is taken as embellishment. Even this last, intensely grave insistence is rapidly incorporated into the vector Sable is settling upon.

Slowly, Sable tips back, until she's reclining, eyes pointed at the ceiling, a little unfocused. "Need a little time, hon," she says, the pause before she speaks a little time of its own already, "gotta- gotta ponder a little. She's comin' back soon." This is stated as fact-to-be, as Sable sometimes does. An claim upon what will be, in the face of indeterminacy, despite the very fact that running is precisely what Colette does, from all indications.

Yellow eyes slide shut and Sable takes to slow, steady breaths. One might almost think she's slipping into a doze, joining the dogs she shares the floor with. Silence rolls out, empty space filled by the pop and crackle of the fire.

Well. At least it's nowhere near as bad as having someone yawn at you in the midst of what had seemed like an enjoyably daft conversation. Ygraine does peer quizzically at the possibly-dozing Sable, waiting a moment before mutely toasting the younger woman with the remannts of her glass of whiskey. Having polished that off, she carefully sets aside the glass, seals up the bottle, and then rises to dispose of both in the kitchen, moving as quietly as she can manage.

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