Participants:
| Scene Title | Inbetween Days |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | In between the harder days, the Gun Hill crew takes to more casual pursuits, and is introduced to a new friend of Sable's. |
| Date | June 8, 2010 |
I don't care if Monday's blue
There's a certain energy that comes with the return of warm weather, a revival of the city of New York from its frozen stillness and silence. People are out on the streets again, the sun is warm and the snow has all but entirely melted away, just a few crusted lumps of ice sitting wet in puddles on the clear sidewalks, soon there'll hardly be any sign that he world nearly froze to death just a month ago.
Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too
Just past the north end of Manhattan in the Bronx, the urban beat pulses soundly again, with the rumble of engines, the honk of horns and the noise of life happening on the busy streets cracked and split from frost. Sure, the city looks worse than it ever has, looks to be in more disrepair than it has in nearly four years, but the spirit of the New Yorkers can't quite be squashed.
Thursday I don't care 'bout you
Situated at the top of Gun Hill Road, the fire-engine red, five story tenement building rather obliquely codenamed Gun Hill by the Ferrymen hardly stands out against the urban backdrop, even despite its garish exterior. It's busy even out on the sidewalk though, where a young red-haired girl carries a pair of paint buckets in and up the front steps and inside the lobby, while a dark-haired boy soundlessly carries a cardboard box of paint rollers and brushes in behind her.
It's Friday I'm in love
Sitting on the stoop outside of the Gun Hill apartments, Colette Nichols has earned the title of supervisor of the refurbishing efforts that have enlisted help from several of the older children from the Lighthouse under the guidance of Eric Doyle. While Junipter and Lance may not have much hands-on skills, there's never too early a time to learn. Dressed in an olive-drab tanktop and camouflage pants, Colette Nichols looks to be taking advantage of the warm weather in her attire.
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart
Crouched down beside a beat up old dirtbike, Colette isn't so much working on the refurbishing of the apartment but something much closer to her heart at the moment and far more mechanically inclined of her. Twisting a socket wrench, she's currently attaching directional lights onto the rear fender of a beat up old red and white dirtbike, toolbox open at her feet, a streak of oil or grease smudged across her cheek beneath her blind eye.
Oh, Thursday doesn't even start
Nearby to her, an old paint-dappled black boom-box blares out the tinny sounds of an old classic spinning in the CD tray, while it may not be Friday today, Colette certainly is in love, even if at the moment it's with the piece of machinery sitting in front of her on the sidewalk. But as the tunes carry down the sidewalk, the sounds of hammering and conversation spill out from the lobby and the sun hangs low to the west, it's pretty obvious that despite everything going on, it's at least not a bad day.
It's Friday I'm in love
Even if it's not precisely comfortable yet, there is an undeniable urge to open windows, just because you can. Such a temptation, being both reckless and heedless, is just up Sable's alley, and so the sounds of the peerless Robert Smith drift up from the stoop below to the aperture overhead. It's only so long before a dark head appears from over the edge of the sill, and yellow eyes scan the street below for the song's source. Her gaze fixes on Colette, and she cracks a smirk. She cups her hands to her mouth and calls down. "Damn kids and yer damn rock and roll music!" Her impression of a bitter senior citizen is chillingly good - hope that she dies before she gets old, "Get a job, you bum!"
"Just bring those up to the second floor where we had to scrub out that mold off the walls," Eric Doyle directs with a grand sweep of his hand up in the direction of the front door as the red-head and the quieter kid vanish into the lobby. At the calls from above, he tilts his bearded chin up to smirk towards Sable, lifting one hand to shake his fist, "Hey, quiet up there, grandma! We've got toothbrushes and bleach for the downstairs bathrooms still!"
Not on site has been Tasha, who had an "errand" to run that she was a little evasive about and from which she is returning — she managed to get out of the building unseen by anyone, but returning is a little more difficult now that people are awake and working. For once, she's dressed not like a fourteen-year-old boy but rather professionally as she comes down the sidewalk from the subway station at the corner. Tasha is wearing a dress.
Nothing too frilly — the dress is a black and white damask print in a little bit of a '60s retro cut, with a red cardigan thrown over and red ballet flats on her feet. A red knit cap finishes the outfit, though as Tasha nears Colette near her bike, she glances up with a little frown at the senior-citizen impersonation — surely Sable is laughing at Tasha's "bourgieness" from above. "Hey," she says to Colette. "Getting a tan?" she says with a smirk. It's still a bit chilly for tank tops, but Colette could use the sun!
Certainly not a bad day at all, and as Quinn’s scooter comes to a jerking stop the smile on her face relays that fairly well. Parked, and digging through the back compartment, she regards the numerous folks out and about outside of Gun Hill with curiosity – in her few trips out here, she’d never once seen it so busy, or really seen anyone who happened to live at the complex besides Magnes and Sable. Her headphones pulled down around her neck, the sounds of Robert Smith give away to… the sounds of Robert Smith? Now, that was just too funny. About a decade of difference between the songs, and still such a distinctive voice.
She’s dressed for the warmer weather – perhaps a bit underdressed in her long yellow skirt and long sleeve, but thin looking, somewhat frilly shirt, but having spent your formative years in a place that could get as cold as Ireland caused that sort of thing. Pulling a pair of CD cases from the back, she whistles, trying her best to keep the tune of the music. Her pace slows as she reaches the front door, taking in the several people she sees before she finally hears Sable shout out, gaze drawn upwards to her window.
“Saaaaaable!” Yelling over the music wasn’t much of a problem, she was more worried about the forming habit of not calling before showing up.
Too busy flipping off Sable from where she crouches by her dirtbike, Colette only notices the approach of several people at once by the noise they make that distracts her from her work. Peering up and over the dirtbike to see Tasha in — a dress — Colette stares somewhat blankly and confusedly at the brunette, her jaw slack and eyes wide before her focus on whatever work she was doing goes to the wayside and that socket wrench is laid down with a clatter on the sidewalk.
Standing up straight and raking one hand through her hair to sweep dark bangs away from her unblinded eye, Colette is only afforded a moment of pause to try and formulate words before the rumbling sputter of a scooter approaching has the young woman looking over her shoulder Quinnwards. There's a furrow of her brow at a stranger approaching, at least until she calls out for that very girl that Colette was playfully flipping off a moment ago.
Quirking one brow inquisitively, Colette shifts her weight from one booted foot to the other, then awkwardly shuffles to the side before turning and heading towards where Tasha approaches. "H— hey you— you're… were you at a really cheery funeral or somethin'?" Colette asks with a sheepish and unusually nervous smile.
Bare shoulders and pale skin give visible emphasis to the darker and more textured skin of scars over much of Colette's exposed flesh. A very obvious bullet wound on her left shoulder enters one side and exits the other, looking almost like a circular dimple on her skin. A perfectly straight and smooth groove on her opposite shoulder is a burn of some kind, but who would believe from a laser? Assorted smaller cuts on her forearms from the teeth of feral dogs look less greivous but still more than a girl her age should have.
"S'really busy here…" Colette murmurs under the sound of the radio, glancing up to the stoop and the door where Doyle is with a warm smile, then nervously back to Tasha as she ducks her head with a sheepish grin. "S— Seriously, why're you all like… you look— um…"
Sable beams as her fingers spread, then close, catching the bird Colette sends her way. She tugs the front of her tanktop and makes a show of dropping the invisible finger down her shirt, before patting it down - for safe keeping - and giving Colette a thumbs up, just to make things fair. Doyle gets a stuck out tongue, and this is about when Sable would retreat from view, but then Quinn shows up, forcing improvisation.
"Aw, hell, it's you again," Sable shouts down at the gal on the scooter, grinning like a jack o' lantern, "Why d' you keep on comin' back here? It's just sad. Move on with yer life!"
The broad-shouldered - and generally broad - form of the puppeteer turns to step along down from the front steps once the Lighthouse Kids have vanished into the building. There's a light baseball jacket tossed on over Eric Doyle's shoulders, a far cry from the heavy layers of coats he had to wear just a couple weeks ago. The big man's lips tug up in a grin at the awkward greeting between Tasha and Colette, his head shaking slowly from side to side.
"Oh, just tell her she's beautiful and kiss her for chrissake," he suggests, then pauses, a sly smile curving to his lips, "Slowly preferably."
"A funeral? What? No," Tasha says, blushing a little more, and then turning to grin at Doyle's quips. He hasn't killed her yet for volunteering him to be in charge, so all's well that ends well. "I had an appointment," she says, shifting the large artist portfolio that was angled just so that it was difficult to notice. "I … um. I interviewed for a… new art school. Because my stuff was late, I had to go in for an appointment in person." She blushes a little more, and then glances toward the building.
"I'll go change and I can start working. You want me to do a mural somewhere, or are we going to be boring and go with plain walls?" she teases, before stepping closer for the kiss Doyle suggested, though she leans so as not to get any bike grime on her nice clothes.
“’ey! Stop givin’ me a reason to come back, an’ I’ll stop showing up at your doorstep!” Quinn’s grin only widens. “Besides, you know you love seein’ me!”
Her gaze comes back downwards, to the gathering crowd of folks near the entrance to the complex. The slightest hint of a blush creeps on to her face, feeling she just made a total fool of herself in front of a bunch of strangers. Her smile returns, if in a more mischievous manner, as she catches glimpse of the kiss exchanged, and she can’t help but chuckle. Pulling her free hand from her pocket, she waves at the group, as she makes a slight detour from the door i their direction.
“Heya.” It’s a very nonchalant greeting for a crowd of people she doesn’t know. She stands a bit away, on the periphery. “Friends a’ Sable?”
About to turn and pass out another whipped bird to Doyle, Colette finds herself instead caught in that unexpected ambush of affection, color rising in her cheeks and shoulders rising as she ducks her head down sheepishly, about to move an arm around Tasha's waist before realizing she has grimy oil and grease stained hands. There's a reluctant recoil of her embrace, lips creeping up into a lopsided smile as she glances over to her dirtbike, then to Tasha.
"I ah… um, it— they're doin' a primer coat in the lobby right now. A mural'd be cool, like, once that's all done an' stuff. S'why I'm workin' on my bike, I mean— aside from the fact that I gotta for my job." With that ambiguous notion delivered, Colette steps precariously close to Tasha with her grubby self and leans in to press a kiss to the other brunette's forehead before realizing that accented greeting was aimed at her and Tasha.
Colette wheels around, mis-matched eyes wide and then squeaks out an embarrassed noise, ducking her head down and sheepishly smiling as she tilts her head to the side, bangs sliding down to fall and cover her blind eye. "Ah— we— " there's a look up to Doyle again, nose wrinkling before she settles her attention on Quinn again. "Y— Yeah you could say that, kind've a mix between roommates and co-workers and a bunch'a other… stuff… are…" Colette's words begin to become more distantly spaced apart as she thinks, "Have we met? 'Cause like I'm terrible with names an' stuff."
"Oh, fuck no," Sable says, pointing down from her vantage, "Don't you fuckin' dare meet each other without me t' handle the goddamn introductions. Christ knows what'll fuckin' transpire. No one say a goddamn word 'til I'm down there!" She hurriedly pops out of view, sliding the window closed as she does and tromping down the stairs, pulling on a shapeless grey wool sweater as she does. It's not long before she's barging out onto the stoop, hand going out to grip a railing, preventing what might have been a momentum-enduced topple, such is her eagerness to get down there. She's panting a little from the rush, and a little just for dramatic effect. "Quinn… Colette, Tasha. Tasha, Colette… Quinn," she says, crouching as she catches her breath, "Quinn's joined her talents with those 'f Magnes 'n' myself. We're stronger now th'n ever before!"
Oh, hey, that's not someone that Doyle's seem before. The big man hesitates for a heartbeat or three, and then flashes a broad grin over towards Quinn, a hand lifting in an easy wave, "I'm Jason. I sort of, uh, run the building, we're just doing some renovations and these lovely young ladies were nice enough to offer their lesbian talents to my whim."
He pauses, then scratches at his chin, trying not to grin, "Huh. That sounds kinda creepy out of context."
The portfolio hugged to her chest, Tasha turns to smile at Quinn. Friend is a strong word for the precarious truce she has with Sable. She gives a nod when Sable introduces her — yes, she is Tasha, that much she can agree to, then nearly gives herself whiplash at Doyle's (Jason's??) comment. She arches a brow, before her eyes narrow, though the upward tic of the corner of her mouth into a smirk suggests she might not be actually offended. She holds up her hand, index finger half an inch from the thumb.
"Just a smidge, there, big guy. I can't really think of how you'd make it less creepy in context, to be honest," she tells him, before offering the same hand to Quinn. "Nice to meet you. What do you play?"
“Met? I fancy I’d remember if that was the case.” Was that bad taste, a comment like that when clearly her girlfriend was right there? She begins to speak again, extending a hand out, but then Sable calls out from above like some kinda of… well, angel certainly wasn’t the right word, so she was forced to let it linger momentarily until she joined them in a more proper fashion. But once she did, it was extended fully, an eager smile on Quinn’s face. Silence is held through the introductions, but the moment Colette’s name is given, there’s a distinct flash of recognition and a furrowing of her brow.
“Pleasure to meet you all. Roommates n’ co-workers, hm?” She glances side long to Sable, her mischievous grin reaching its fullest length. “Lazin’ on the job, Sable?” She accents the comment with a playful shove in Sable’s direction, taking a moment to laugh before turning back to the others. Her eyes next move to “Jason”, free hand returning to her pocket. There’s a mock scowl, though it might not be so distinguishable to someone who wasn’t used to her mannerisms. “You know, it makes you look like a real ponce when you gawp like that.” There’s a chastising wag of a finger from the hand holding the CD cases.
That Colette doesn't jab Doyle in the stomach is perhaps because she is too stricken with embarrassment to do anything other than cover her face with one grease and oil smudged hand, fingers spread so she can stare out at Quinn with furrowed brows and an apologetic groan elicited by Doyle's words. "Don't— pay any attention to— to Eric.," she mumbles into her hand, "he— " only around Doyle does the L-Word come up and somehow it always causes Colette to turn six shades of red. Probably because it's never been a public issue before, probably because Eric is a lecherous bastard, but still a lovable one.
Looking askance to Tasha as Colette lowers her hand, there's a look with her brows raised of apology as she leans in and presses her nose into the brunette's hair at her temple, then steps away and ofer to Quinn, offering a wave and a fleeting look to Sable. "Yeah, uh, name's Colette. I'd do the whole handshake thing but like," she turns her palms over to show the grease on them, "been playin' mechanic today."
Wrinkling her nose, Colette sidesteps away from Tasha across the sidewalk and over to where her dirtbike is leaning up on its kick-stand by the stairs, coming to crouch beside the toolbox as she starts putting the discarded socket wrench and other tools away. "So you're like, a bandmate and stuff? S'cool, you must be the drummer that Sable's been lookin' for, yeah?" There's a grin at that, and Colette looks up and over to Tasha over the seat of the dirtbike.
"There's clean laundry stacked up on our bed if you wanna' change, I went down to the laundromat while you were gone and did like three loads. The clean stuff's in the heap on the bed and the dirty stuff's the heap on the floor!" Because that is an important distinction of heaps.
Sable gives a defiant sniff at Doyle's formulation. "Pervert's 'n' pennies - smelly, dirty, 'n' of no real goddamn value, yet yer always stuck with more of 'em than y' know what t' do with," she quips, rising to her full stature (such as it is). She tugs at the hem of her sweater in an oddly fussy gesture, before glancing up to grin at Quinn in appreciation of her take on Doyle's 'gawping'. The poor man's outnumbered! Though that in and of itself might not upset him…
"Far fuckin' from it," Sable replies to Quinn's jibe, tapping her puffed-out chest, "I'm gettin' properly employed. Tryin' t' make a break from my life of vagrancy 'n' petty larceny. 't least I will as soon as Magnes pulls whatever goddamn strings he claims t' have available."
The small of Sable's back supports her as she leans against the railing, folding each arm into the other arm's sleeve, rubbing her hands against herself for warmth. "Naw, we're still in th' market for a drummer," she grumps, "But ain't that always how it is." The yellow eyed girl dips her head in Tasha's direction, "That's a public fuckin' service yer doin', wearin' a dress this despite the cold. Allow me t' thank y' on behalf of all of us as have workin' eyes." This, evidently, will serve as a 'hello'.
"That's because I'm a horrible excuse for a human being," Doyle replies cheerfully at Quinn's accusation, a grin curving across his lips as he sweeps his hands to either side as if to show off the entire gathering and the building behind him, "Just ask anyone. I'm completely…"
Then he's called Eric and he tries not to wince. He tries, he really does. He doesn't entirely succeed. Clearing his throat, he offers, "So, uh, whatever your name is— did you want to throw in and lend a hand?" A quick smile, brows lifting, "We can use the help!"
Tasha's smile fades a little as it is Colette who answers the question that she had asked Quinn, dark eyes flickering to Sable whose comment brings about the return of the uncertain grin. "Had to dress like a grown up. Interviews and Invader Zim pajama bottoms don't really go well, or so my mother tells me," she says.
To Doyle, she reaches out and hits him with the art portfolio. "You're not a horrible excuse for a human being, Jason," she tells him, repeating the name he clearly wanted to go by today, hoping that's the one that sticks instead with Quinn, if she's not going to be one of them. "All right. I'm going to go get changed. No one needs to see my pale-ass legs any longer than necessary," Tasha adds, before heading toward the building.
Quinn’s posture relaxes a bit with every few moments, until it almost seems like she’s slouching as she stands. “The closest I get t’ drumming is a drum machine,” she notes, beginning to rock band and forth on her heels as she continues to take in the new faces. As Tasha turns to the building, Quinn offers a wave and a smile. “Good luck at y’r interview… thing!” With that, she turns back, but her gaze is cantered firmly on Colette for several moments. “I’m not keepin’ you all from anythin’, am I?” She holds up a pair of CDs, just like the ones she’d carried the other day, and offers them over to Sable. “Thought I’d bring a bit more ‘round for you.” A smile is offered, along with a tilt of her head.
Her gaze finally snaps over to Doyle as she processes the question he posed, and she gives only a shrug as an initial response. “If you’re not yankin’ on me…” She turns, eyes looking upwards as she makes an intentionally ditzy and vacant expression. “Maybe. Not like I got much else t’ do today.” Her jovial tone carries froth as she speaks, maybe she doesn’t think that poorly of Jason.
A combination of flaking blue paint, rusted hood and dated license plate makes the 1961 Dodge Pickup that pulls up in front of Gun Hill immediately recognizable to at least one of the Ferry operatives loitering outside, and if there was any doubt about the identity of the woman behind the wheel, it dissolves when the engine cuts off, the driver's side door pops open, and Eileen climbs out, a large paper bag cradled in one arm, the other braced against the truck's dilapidated frame.
The warmer weather finds the petite Englishwoman in a deep violet dress matched with darker stockings, a black cardigan and Doc Martens laced tight above slim, effeminate ankles. Her flower of choice is a sprig of pale baby's breath tucked behind one ear rather than pinned to her collar, its stem held in place by a solitary bobby pin lost somewhere in the windblown mess of her brown-black hair.
She slams the driver's side door shut as a pair of starlings alight on the roof of the truck's cabin, beady eyes trained on the bag, but they aren't bold or greedy enough to make a pass at it when Eileen crosses in front of the vehicle, keys dangling from her fingers.
With Tasha making her way into the apartment building, Colette is left with an askance look to Doyle, lips pursed and brows furrowed as she tries to puzzle out the reason behind his reaction and fails. Blinking her focus over to Sable and Quinn, there's a wrinkle of Colette's nose again and a smile as she slams the toolbox lid closed and catches out of the corner of her eye Lance standing right beside her holding out a screwdriver with an expectant look in his blue eyes. Colette shrieks when Lance just seems to appear out of nowhere and she falls backwards onto her rear away from the ten-year-old, staring wide-eyed at him and gaping before she notices his smirk.
"Lance I swear to God I'm gonna stuff you in a trashcan and roll you down the hill!" Springing up, Colette snatches the screwdriver from Lance's mitts and offers him a half-hearted glower to which he only responds with the flash of a smile and a sidestep away from her before motioning to the pickup truck that parked at the curb.
Colette's brows raise, her head jerks to the side and she looks over her shoulder to spot Eileen circling in front of the old beat up truck. "Oh— shit," Colette hisses under her breath, flashing a quick look to Sable and Eric before wiping the grime and grease off of her hands onto her camouflage pants, booted feet clunking across the sidewalk as she makes her way to where Eileen's coming up onto the curb, completely forsaking her conversation with the others.
"E— Eileen," Colette splutters, "is somethign wrong?" Because to be honest, Colette never sees Eileen outside of when someone it getting shot, stabbed or imprisoned in a basement.
"Aw, thanks hon," Sable says, taking each CD between her fingers, one between index and middle, the other between middle and ring. She fans them like a magician might their cards and examines the inscriptions. She looks over the fan at Quinn. "We got shit t' talk about, you 'n' I. 'bout how t' make our sensibilities more fuckin' mutually conversant, dig?"
And then Colette cries out, causing Sable's eyes to cut to the sounds source with great suddenness. Whatthefuck? Oh. Kids. Sable wrinkles her nose. Little larval humans, mingling with grown folks like it's nothing. Just as Sable's adrenaline levels are dipping again, Eileen appears, and Colette’s reaction elicits another burst of concern. Dammit, couldn't she have just saved the scream for the actual worry? She's running some folks ragged here. Sable examines the bad omen, though nothing looks immediately objectionable to her. Seeing as Colette's engaged, Sable leans over to Doyle and makes an inquiry in a low tone. "Whozat?"
A soundless laugh shakes Eric Doyle's shoulders as that most quiet of little boys startles Colette enough that she tumbles back onto her ass. Making his way along down from the entrance, he drops a hand down to rustle through Lance's hair, murmuring in conspiratorial approval, "Nice one, kiddo."
The englishwoman gets a greeting, one big hand lifting in a casual salute as he calls over, "Hey! What's up?"
At the quiet inquiry, Eric leans back a bit, murmuring through the corner of his mouth, "S'Eileen. She's, uh, building management."
Quinn wrinkles her nose at Sable’s ascertation of the two having things to talk about – she wasn’t surprised, given the impromptu songwriting session that had started the other day. She gives a nod in response, her smile thinning a bit. “Somethin’s not wrong, is it?”
If there’s an immediate response, though, Quinn doesn’t hear it. She’s too distracted by teh sudden yelp and thud that emanate from Colette, prompting her to burst into laughter. Loud enough laughter that, not only does her face begin to redden from a bit of embarrassment, but that she also fails to notice the immensely beatup pick-up truck pull up, though as people begin to give their varying reactions to its occupant, she slowly shuts up, letting out a happy sounding sigh at the end. “Right good fun, that,” she mutters quietly, before righting her posture and turning her attention to the new arrival. She regards the woman with curiosity, watching her closely as she backs up and moves closer to Sable.
Eileen lifts both her brows at Colette's question. "Only if someone's got an aversion to fish."
She tucks her keys into the leather satchel she carries draped over one shoulder, which is incidentally the same place she keeps her utility knife, phone and pocket watch when she isn't wearing a coat. One of the starlings opts to stay behind and watch the truck; the other flutters down, hooks clawed feet into the fabric of her cardigan at the shoulder and parts its bright yellow beak around a shrill but cheerful screech in imitation of Colette.
"There's a European deli over in Riverdale," she says, and although this explanation is addressed to Doyle as much as it is to Colette, her green eyes have settled on Quinn, the only person she doesn't recognize on sight.
Which, given the fact that she and Sable have yet to be properly introduced, means that she's probably been spying. "I thought you lot might be hungry. Hard at work?"
What did Eileen just say?
Colette gapes for a moment, lips parted and brows raised before suddenly eliciting an, "Oh!" followed by a bout of awkward laughter as she looks the brunette up and down. "Oh n-no that— that's so thoughtful of you, Eileen! I— I'm sorry if I got a little uh," Colette ducks her head and reaches up to scrub one hand at the back of her neck as she takes a step back from the older girl.
It's not that Eileen is much older than Colette that elicits such a submissive and attentive reaction from her, but that she presents herself at least a decade senior in her mannerisms and presumed maturity. Despite her youthful appearance, Eileen acts like a woman ten — if not more — years later in life, likely due to her very selective upbringing and the hard life she's lived. "Um, we— I borrowed a couple'a the kids from the Lighthouse to help out, but," there's a glance to her dirt-bike, "I was getting my bike street legal so I could pick up a job at Alley Cat. I found out it has to have directional lights and a head lamp when I went to go get it registered… so…"
Dithering a little, Colette steps over towards Quinn, wrinkling her nose and looking up to Doyle, then uncertainly over to Eileen. "Um, this— this is Quinn, I— guess a band-mate of Sable's? Quinn, this is Eileen Spurling," and only because she doesn't know her as any other name does Colette not fail at pseudonyms, "she's uh, sort've like a friend and stuff?" It's a hard-fought answer, because aside from the bird of ill-omen, she doesn't know what to consider Eileen.
"Oh," Eric replies with a shamelessly wide grin, "I don't think anybody here has any problems with eating fish, Eileen."
He sweeps a hand in the direction of the doorway, suggesting, "Why don't we go inside, so we're not all standing out here in the open like this was some sort've street party, huh?"
Coming out of the building now in shin-length cargo pants and a red-white-and-blue Manhattan Bobby Sox All Stars raglan-tee, Tasha looks a bit more like herself. "Hey, Eileen," she says with a smile and a wave for the British woman. Pausing in the open door, since she catches the tail end of Doyle's words, she notices the bag of presumably food. "Lunch time?" she asks, cheerily.
Quinn remains quiet at first, offering a smile and a nod as Colette introduces her. “Uh… bandmate, yeah. Pleasure to meet ‘ya.” A part of her wished she could say more than that, but such as it is. She extends a hand again to Eileen, running a hand through her hair with the other. “Robyn Quinn.” There’s a fair amount happening around her, and Quinn’s fairly distracted between the new arrival, snickering at Doyle’s comment, Tasha remerging in a different outfit – clearly she’d miss understood something earlier. But no matter. At Doyle’s suggestion they move back inside, she looks around, seeming almost a bit flustered.
“Well, um, I was just here t’ see…” A pause, and a whip of her neck to get some of her red hair out of her face. “Eh, whatever. Wouldn’t mind gettin’ to know everyone, if you don’t mind. Figure I’ll be around here a lot, since both Magnes and Sable live here.” She beams a smile out and slips her hands into her pockets, and for the first time since she arrived, music finally stops playing from the headphones around her neck.
Eileen offers Quinn a tight smile in lieu of a proper hello. Old habits are difficult to break; that she's here at all without pretense isn't the first step she's ever taken toward being truly sociable with people she doesn't know, but she's not gone far enough yet to feel comfortable giving a stranger her hand. "There should be enough for everyone," is what she says instead, moving toward the door where Tasha is situated at Doyle's invitation. "It's good to see you too, Tasha."
The puppeteer's double entendre buzzes right over the top of her dark-haired head, and maybe this has more to do with her ashen complexion and the unnaturally hoarse quality of her voice than it does willful ignorance on her part. She's tired. "Some time off the island is exactly what they need right now," she tells Colette with a fleeting glance in Lance's direction. "The Met's putting on Aida later this month. Tickets are going for what amounts to lint and buttons, so I picked up a few for the older girls and anyone who might be interested in helping chaperone. You and Tasha are welcome to come if you'd like."
Somewhere between her smile and turning to greet Tasha, Eric Doyle's head disappeared from his shoulders. It's an unusual looking thing for anyone who notices his sudden headless state in their periphery, just a big round body, shoulders, and then a perfectly flat and smooth neck stump where a head should be but is currently invisible, which is to say Colette belt light around him and threw him in the dark. That's payback for the puppeting incident down in Grand Central and the joke.
Snaking an arm around Tasha's waist, Colette offers a smile that almost comes off as a grimace in light of Doyle's comment but is more awkward due to her glaring lack of understanding on what Eileen just offered. It's around this time that Doyle finds vision come back, along with a little neon green >8( hovering in front of his face, looking fingerpainted in the air.
With her back to that, Colette hooks an arm around one of Eileen's and just sort've tugs her towards the stairs. "C'mon! We can cook down in Lyn— d— down in Lynette's apartment," the stutter comes from the remembrance that Lynette is gone. "It'll— it'll be awesome, you're more'n welcome to come, Quinn. Just watch out for the little kid with the dark hair, he'll totally rob you blind if you're not lookin', just punch 'em or Eric if either've 'em cause you any trouble."
With her presumed joking about child and Doyle abuse rolling off the cuff, Colette gives Eileen a tug towards the stairs before quietly leaning in and whispering, "I dunno what you're talkin' about," once they're a bit away from Tasha, "an' I don't wanna' look dumb in front've her. Was that like… a Mets game or something you were talking about?"
Down at the bottom of the apartment stairs, the boom-box continues to noisily play the Cure.
"Hey!" A startled shout from Doyle as his world is plunged into darkness, his hands swinging around blindly for a few moments before that darkness fades, his head reappearing to see that luminous smilie-face hovering in the air. He smirks, brushing his fingers through it and turning, "It wasn't that bad…"
A bit of a chuckle as he heads up into the building, "C'mon, c'mon."
A knock of her forehead against Colette's, along with a giggle at the antics at Doyle's expense, is Tasha's greeting. "Aida! I've never seen it, but I hear it's really good," the former little thespian says eagerly as Colette leads Eileen into the building. She waits for Eric to come closer, reaching out and punching him lightly on the arm. "You are a cad," she tells him with a wide grin, before slipping an arm around his waist. Well, half-way around his waist, at any rate.
“Aida?” Despite the fact that Quinn listens to and enjoys a decent amount of opera, she’s never actually been to one, and maybe that little tidbit from Eileen would give her the opportunity to rectify that in the near future – assuming she could spare the cash. She doesn’t get the chance to make any kind of comment before she catches sight of the little practical joke played on Doyle. “Whoa.” Spoken like someone in a bad movie, it was fitting of her surprise, and as everyone began to meander inside, Quinn stood silent for several moments, staring down at her own hand, wiggling her fingers.
Finally, though, her attention returns to the present, and she shuffles no forward, slowing when she comes up beside Jason and Tasha, smile worn wide again. “You… okay?” It’s a question asked probingly as she eyes Jason, curious. She had a vague idea of what may have just happened, given the little foreknowledge she possessed. Her hands are stuffed deep i her pockets, though she doesn’t look too nervous. “That was kinda wild.”
"The Met as in the Metropolitan Opera," Eileen says, her voice growing low to match Colette's anxious whisper. "Aida. It's about an Ethiopian princess and an Egyptian military commander who has to choose between his love for her and his love for his Pharaoh. They sing in Italian, but you shouldn't need to speak it to understand what's happening."
Inside Lynette's apartment, she places the paper bag on the kitchen counter and begins to unpack its contents. As it happens, most of the cooking has already been done for them at the deli. The first thing out of the bag is a box of teacakes and a small jar of red ligonberry jam, set aside to make room for a series of plastic containers priced by the pound with rectangular stickers for labels. Chunks of pale fish swimming with potatoes, carrots and onions in a thick white broth. Deviled eggs. Fermented pork sausage made with a mix of barley and potatoes. Pickled herring and tomatoes. Cabbage rolls. Some sort of golden brown casserole bearing list of ingredients that contains words like grated potatoes, anchovies and heavy cream. A tin of salted licorice — saltlakrits — in the shape of baby sardines.
The last item out of the bag is a six-pack of imperial stout even though only half the prople in the room are old enough to legally drink. "You'll like it," Eileen promises Colette. "The food, too. With any luck. Gabriel seems to."
Wrinkled noses all around at pretty much everything Colette is presented with as she comes into Lynette's apartment alongside Eileen. Disengaging from the hooked-arm approach, she's giving one of those looks to the notion of the Opera, to the notion of anchovies, to pretty much everything that Eileen is bringing to the literal table. There's a look over her shoulder, back towards the doorway to the apartment. Despite being so lightly furnished, Lynette's apartment has seen considerable use even since her disappearance.
Colette looks ready to dismiss both the food and the Opera off-handedly until Eileen says the magic words; Gabriel likes it. It could mean the Opera, it could mean the food, but Colette doesn't really care which. Her own personal mentor and idol is willing to give it a shot, so clearly Colette has to as well!
"Oh I— does— do you need help preparing anything? I'm pretty handy in the kitchen, I— I mean, more'n anything else really." There's a sheepish smile as she turns to look over her shoulder at Tasha, smiling broadly. "The… the Opera sounds fun," because if she reiterates what it is clearly she didn't just have to ask Eileen.
"You know, I… I'm really surprised you came by, Eileen." Colette offers an askance look to the brunette, then down to the food shes' taken out of the paper bag a bit confusedly, trying to puzzle out how it all comes together or is even used. "You always… I dunno, seem to only show up before something bad happens." There's a flash of a smile and Colette dips her head down slowly. "It's… good to see you get out when there's not a crisis."
Yet.
"Eric! The lightbulb died up here, where're the other ones?"
It's a call from upstairs just as Doyle reaches the edge of the doorway, and he looks up with a faint chuckle, flashing the gathered a rueful smile, "Be right back." To the stairs, then, heading to rescue Juniper from the dark as he calls up, "They should be out in the hallway - are you sure Lance didn't move them…?"
The odd medley created by the combination of fish and cabbage and sausage gets an uncertain glance at the array of food. "I don't know if the kids will give this a fair shot, but it looks, er, great," she says diplomatically. She might be one of the 'kids' not giving it a fair shot. "It's really nice of you to bring us lunch," she says a little more sincerely, as she moves to the cupboard to help gather plates and glasses to set the table.
Looking a bit lost as she sees Jason wander off, Quinn follows closely behind Tasha. Her eyes wander between the other present, before finally settling on the various bits of food and drink. She doesn’t stay at the back along, quickly making her way up beside the other, fingers drumming on teh counter. She looks at the food appraisingly. “Looks like a good lunch t’ me,” she says as if she deserves it, for some reason.
“So, hey…” she looks up, and first her gaze moves to Colette, but instead of continuing, she pauses, backing away a bit from the counter. “C-Colette, right?” She motions at the girl and her unusually miscoloured eyes, a grin on her face. “Magnes mentioned your name the other day, an’ I wanted to ask you somethin’.” She’s backed up a bit further, as if she expects the other girl to walk over to her.
This is probably not the time to tell Colette that Gabriel might only be eating what she gives him because things like pickled herring and preserves keep well in the Dispensary's kitchen. Invoking his name has the desired effect, and that's enough. "The sausage and fiskesuppe — that's the soup — need to be reheated. Probably the potato casserole as well. Everything else will be fine as it is."
The mirthful note in the Englishwoman's voice is so wry, so subtle that it might go unnoticed if no one is listening for it. She had to have anticipated that this is the reaction her offering would receive. The whole thing almost seems like some sort of secret joke between her and the starling still perched on her shoulder.
Ladies and gentlemen: Eileen's sense of humour.
"Silverware and plates," she says, opening the first of the containers. "Glasses. Tasha has the right idea." If she has any other instructions, they aren't as important as the exchange that's about to take place between Colette and Quinn. She's silent as she moves to help Tasha with what's in the cupboards, suddenly more interested in what it is the musician has to ask than she is in her apparent game.
The youngest of those in the room arches a brow over at Quinn, curious as well, but she doesn't say anything as she sets the plates out on the table, then the napkins beside them, folding each just so — again, horribly "bourgie" of her, no doubt, but that's how she was brought up. Forks and knives and spoons are laid in the proper order. "Fiskesuppe? Is that … Swedish or something?" Not a bad guess, if not quite accurate. "I've never had fish soup before…"
Confusion comes when Colette looks up at the sound of Quinn’s voice, fishing through those paper bags for the soup with a still-wrinkled nose and a furrow of her brows, tongue rolling across the inside of her cheek thoughtfully as she just sort've stares at Quinn. "Uh yeah I— I'm Colette," though the answer comes with a touch of scrutiny offered to the friend of Sable's. "So like, exactly what did Magnes say about me, 'cause not to be like mean about Magnes or nothin' but sometimes like— he's a little weird."
Which is to say that is something of an understatement.
"Should I warm food for Eric too? Is— he coming back?" There's a look from Colette that goes past Quinn to Eileen, across the apartment to Tasha with a fond smile, and then just barely catches Sable sliding out of the apartment into the lobby through the same door Doyle did.
Quinn’s glance shifts momentarily back to the other two, nervousness began to creep over her. Funny, how that was happening to her a lot lately, it was a very unusual thing for her. She swallows hard, wanting to make as sure as she can that she doesn’t over step any boundaries amongst these folks she’s just met – the last thing she really wants to do is get friends of Sable’s mad at her for some reason or another. “Well, no, it was Sable… but I guess it was Magnes…” She reaches up and scratches the back of her head – just be out with it, already.
She leans over to Colette, whispering as much as she can and still be heard, unsure exactly what anyone’s reaction would be she just up and asked out loud. “They said you play with lights.”
Fox steps into the apartment, appropriately dressed for painting: hair covered with a folded handkerchief, teeshirt, old bluejeans with holes, and barefoot. There's splotches of white paint wherever she has exposed skin, including her face. Upon reaching the entryway, she calls to those in the kitchen. "Um, excuse me…is there someplace I can wash my hands before I accidentally touch anything?"
"He'll be back," Eileen says of Doyle, unlatching the kitchen window and cracking it open just enough to let in a draft that will hopefully circulate the air in the apartment and sweep out some of that fresh paint smell wafting in from the hall outside. The starling at her shoulder takes it as an invitation to leave, and with a flick of its tail launches itself out the gap.
"It's haddock," she tells Tasha. "They cook it with carrots and potatoes. This one's got leeks and parsnips in it as well. Fairly mild." She makes room for Fox at the sink, but leaves directing the child there to someone else while she attempts to get a better look at her.
Finishing setting the table, Tasha moves to find salt and pepper and other accoutrements, not sure what goes with the meal that Eileen has so carefully and lovingly picked out for the group to eat. Now's probably not the time to admit she's a picky eater — something she's kept under wraps while working with Ferry because beggars can't be choosers, and because she could always count on peanut butter and jelly to get her through if she didn't like someone's cooking.
"I dunno if I've ever had a parsnip," Tasha says a little dubiously, glancing over at Quinn whispering to Colette curiously, but darting her eyes away. She heads to the refrigerator to pull out the remains of a six-pack of Coke leftover from their dinner their first night in Lynette's apartment — Eileen may be willing to share stout with the other underaged adults, but she's pretty sure it's not for Fox, Juni and Lance.
The look Colette affixes to Quinn is a mild one, eyes narrowed and jaw crooked to the side. Not quite put off but certainly going to at least have words with whichever of her sorta-kinda-subordinates that let spill her not-so-secret ability. By the time she's actually reached that end of her own train of thought Colette's a little less flustered about it and passes it off with a nonchallant, "something like that," she admits off-handedly and looks askance to Quinn before trying to determine which setting on the microwave best suits the temperature that fish soup should be reheated at.
Wrinkling her nose again, Colette decides that reheat works fine and how can you make fish soup worse? With the microwave humming, Colette turns and crosses her arms over her chest, giving a more scrutinizing look to Quinn before asking, "and?" It's not the most friendly way of admitting to what she can do, but for someone she just met, Colette's remarkably open.
On her way past the sink, Colette hip-checks Eileen and in the same motion reaches out to ruffle Fox's hair on her way past the young girl before making her way to the dining table that Tasha's doing her best to set, coming up before the brunette and distracting her with a kiss to the back of the head before turning around to look at Quinn with one brow raised expectantly.
Quinn stands with her arms crossed for a moment, looking pensive as the others continue to make food, and Colette makes her way across the room. She scratches the back of her neck again, shrugging. “Well, I mean…” Colette had answered her question well enough, she should have the decency to at least do the same. “I was wondering because I do too, kinda.” To anyone who didn’t hear the initial question, it’s probably a bit of an odd statement.
Fox shyly dips her head and smiles slightly when Colette ruffles her hair through the handkerchief tied there. Spotting the kitchen sink, she makes her way up to it, being careful to keep her hands from brushing against anybody en route. Using her wrists to start the water flowing, she proceeds to scrub her hands as well as she can, then cuts the water and dries off. Whereupon she looks around the kitchen to determine what sort of food is being prepared; she peeks into the microwave, sees some sort of soup, but can't tell what kind. She contorts her mouth to one side and squints.
They're a little like carrots," is all Eileen has to say on the subject of parsnips. Colette's hip bump earns her a sidelong look directed at the younger woman's back but no reprimand or wrinkles of displeasure appearing around her eyes and mouth. Her attention soon shifts back to the girl in front of the microwave and, as if reminded of the rest of the food waiting on the counter, she begins moving it over to the table two containers at a time so people can serve themselves. The deviled eggs, salted licorice and teacakes with jam are the tamest of the offerings, and the first to be laid down.
Turning to glance at Colette with a grin, then glancing back at Quinn curiously, Tasha finds she has nothing else to do without direction, and simply sits down at the table, pulling one leg up in front of her. She tilts her head at the licorice, eggs, and teacakes. "It all looks great, but it seems a little… I donno. Multi-personality disorderish. Are you pregnant with quadruplets by any chance?" she quips.
With her back to the table and unable to see the atrocity in the name of food laid out behind her, Colette's rueful focus is solely on Quinn. If ever there has been the prospect of someone being like her it never seemed like a reality to Colette. In a way, she was unique, the only light manipulator she'd ever met and the notion that another could be out there — Gabriel notwithstanding — seemed likely but so far removed as to be a non-issue. Now, here, is either a bad joke or an incredibly unlikely coincidence.
"Oh…" is the disappointed answer Colette finally forms after all that internal digestion of what Quinn reveals. Running her tongue over her lips, Colette shakes her head slowly as a certain odor begins to fill the apartment. Fish soup has a unique smell to it, but when it's re-heated in a microwave it's a pungent scent of the sea that comes rolling in like a pier at low tide.
Colette turns, looking horrified at the smell before seeing what Eileen has laid out on the table. Her eyes nearly cross when she tries to figure out what the licorice is, and then just stares up with a lopsided and awkward smile to Eileen. "This— is— a europe thing isn't it?" She grimaces nervously, trying not to be insulting to what clearly must be Eileen's strange european cultural nonsense before turning to look back to Quinn.
"After we're done eating?" She points a finger at the brunette, "rooftop." It's almost like an order, and with that Colette's headed back to the microwave to make it stop.
Quinn’s shoulders slump a bit, looking a bit deflated by Colette’s response, or lack of it. Well, she was excited! Although now she was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable; also unlike her. Her face scrunches a bit as the smell finally wafts her way, instinctively wafting it away from her nose with one hand. She other is held a bit in front of her, her gaze centred on it as it glows a little; almost like a candle, unaware that anyone’s looking at her anymore.
The mention of a “Europe” thing does grab her attention, however, and she looks up, still holding a sleeve over her nose. “I know Ireland was a bit better about food,” she says with a chuckle.
Fox scrunches her nose at the odor of fish soup, and catches Colette's movement in the corner of her eye. She takes a step back so the older girl can access the microwave, but after a moment, she turns and flees to the nearest open window for a little fresh air.
Eileen's hand drifts down to her abdomen, knuckles grazing the material of her dress, but the expression on her face and the quiet tone of her voice remain as mild as ever at Tasha's comment. "I hope not," she says, popping one of the salted fish into her mouth, lips pursed as she sucks on the candy and clicks it a few times against her teeth. It's harder than American licorice, meant to be nursed rather than chewed; the next time she talks, she has to trap the candy against the inside of her cheek. "I've got enough on my hands without needing to juggle dirty diapers and bottles of baby formula."
She takes a seat at the table and uses a fork to dish out a whole herring onto her plate to start, as well as a teacake and a fat dollop of jam on the side. "Norwegian, mostly. The man Gabriel and I used to work for sent me to a little city on the coast when I was," getting clean is what she wants to say, but probably not what she should, "starting out."
Fish and teacakes. Tasha shakes her head and helps herself to one of the teacakes, glancing at the fish skeptically still, though her eyes dart over to Colette; she tries to read the other's mood toward Quinn. A little jealousy that she's not unique? That, Tasha can understand, given that she feels it all the time, mundane as she is. Not that anyone in the Ferry makes her feel that way. Just herself. "I … volunteer to cook some spaghetti for dinner," the teenager says, a slight smirk curving her lips upward as she notes the reaction of the tween in the room. "You know. After we've worked up an appetite again after this awesome lunch." She bites into the teacake cautiously, lest it be flavored with fish oil to go with the theme.
Covering her mouth and nose with one hand, Colette lets out a nervous stream of laughter as she backs away from the table and hunches her shoulders forward, looking squarely at Eileen. "You know this— this lunch is wonderful but ah, I um— I— we're… there's not enough for the kids!" It's a coy enough cover as Colette has to wonder what sort of cast-iron stomach Gabriel must have to consume something like this on a regular basis.
"Tasha, do— do you want to go tell Eric that it's okay to— come down again?" Unfortunately for Colette, when the microwave door is popped open the stink of that fish soup comes wafting out in quick fashion causing Colette to leap back away and offer another nervous laugh.
For all that she may admire Eileen, she's seriously going to need to re-evaluate her cooking capabilities and food choices sometime. But how to demurely back out from this concoction of foods doesn't come until she sees what Fox is doing, and promptly goes to open a few more windows.
If the neighbors don't complain about the noise, they may well complain about the smell. Despite all of this oddity in the food though, there's something here in this apartment building that seems to exist solely in the Ferrymen's style of community; it feels like a family, and it feels like home.
All bad lunches included.