Participants:
| Scene Title | Snowglobe's Echo |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Colette finally returns to the Garden, this time with someone in tow. |
| Date | December 26, 2010 |
Wind whistles thorugh the trees, the sky is nearly darkened from both the dense cloud cover and the seting sun. Snow blows on the strong wind gusting across Staten Island's greenbelt and heavy, wet snow clings to the deciduous branches of pine trees. Winter has come with a howling ferocity back to New York City, and the blinding snow that is rapidly collecting on the ground is like an aftershock from the horrible winter of last year.
The noise of a dirtbike's engine is the sole sound that carries over the howl of the wind, a high-pitched whining noise cutting through the darkening forest rdge, a single headlight shining bright down an unplowed path where several inches have already accumulated in thick fluff.
Rounding the bend on the snowy road, rear tire sliding in the snow, a red and white dirtbike marred with scars and outfitted with nubby, thick tires studded for winter use is the means of conveyance for not one but two wayward travelers this wintry evening. Bundled in black leather, collar up against the back of her neck and gray wool scarf wrapped around her face, Colette Nichols hunches forward while she drives, doing her best to keep the bike steady on the slick road and heavy snow.
A cool cap covers her head, snowboarding goggles cover her eyes and keep the snow out of them, and a dark shape seated behind her on the dirtbike clings on not only for warmth, but likely for dear life as well.
The whining noise of the dirt bike's engine permeates not only through the forest, but through the post and timer walls of a cottage decked with brown moss and thick white snow, plumes of smoke belching gray and cotton from the chimney. From a distance the Garden looks scenic; post-card beautiful in its design, from the frost-trimmed lantern-lit windows to the woodsman's axe planted in a snow-decked stump out front.
It's been a long drive for Colette and her passenger from the Rookery, even longer still when the boat ride from the mainland is taken into account. But — although belated in her journey — Colette's promise to bring Tasha Oliver with her to the Garden when she returned is maintained.
Even if her promise to talk to Sable before she left wasn't.
It's not as cold as it was the last time she was here, though roaring through the forest makes it certainly chilly enough that once they do stop, Tasha may need to be pried away from Colette — even if that weren't the case in a metaphorical sense.
Tasha buries her face against Colette's shoulder, letting just her dark eyes behind their own pair of goggles watch the Garden come into view. As happy as she is to be with Colette, part of her heart is left behind with Joanna, who gave Tasha her blessing to leave her, to do her work with Ferry, to spend her time with Colette.
"Thank God, I think my toes are falling off," she shouts into Colette's ear to be heard over the motor of the bike. "I think we'll need some whiskey in the hot chocolate to warm up properly."
Sable's foray into the real world on the mainland, outside the confines of the weird snowglobe idyll of the Garden, was short lived. For all that it seems insane (though perhaps it is not insanity as such, but rather this specific insanity that seems uncharacteristic), Sable has been adamant about observing her responsibility as operator of the still mostly-vacant safehouse. Garden though it is called, Sable has wasted little time in dubbing the setting a 'den' and herself 'denmother', a role she fulfills most obviously by running with the dogs, keeping them well exercised and the perimeter clear.
A firepit has been built (and it was she that built it) outside the main building, and scattered around are the remnants of Sable's brief but intense dabbling in cottage lumber industry. Her frantic timberwork has since ebbed to a much more sane rate of collection, but she's out here every day when the sun is up, axe forming a gleaming, ever more regular and practiced arc.
But as she's herself pretty recently returned from the world outside, Sable is much, much cleaner than she might otherwise be, and while she still smells thickly of woodsmoke, her skin is milky pale again, and her fingernails only partially soiled with soot and dirt, just what a five minute scrubbing was unable to free. The rattling sound of the bike reverberates into the interior of the Garden, and Sable clambers to her feet from her seat before the fireplace, flanked by sleeping dogs, who both also rise with her. Gruff discipline and occasional staring and/or wrestling matches have established Sable as leader of the pack, and its with appropriately territorial intentions that the small girl slips on her coat and reaches for her AK-47, pushing out the front door, heralded - if by mere seconds - by Misty and Jupiter, who both are wondering at the arrival of company as well.
As the dirtbike's headlight bounces along the path, Sable flicks off the weapon's safety, and grips it with stolid self assurance. Yellow eyes squint at the brightening point of illumination, and the rifle swings forward, its muzzle pointed at the ground on a low angle.
"Who th' fuck goes there?" is announced with more irascibility than gravitas. Southern, homesteading caginess rather than military security.
Through the blur of the whipping snow, that distinctive red and white paintjob begins to become more clear, as does the fire-damaged leather jacket worn by its rider. Looking over her shoulder to the bundled figure hanging on from behind, Colette offers a wordless nod of her head in agreement, then turns her focus towards the glow of the firepit and its tender.
Without so much as raising a hand, a very faint colored shape begins to take life inside of the light of the firepit; a blue and red butterfly of living light, the same as the one painted for Sable in Magnes' apartment the day she first met Colette; a sign.
As the dirtbike finishes its approach and begins to slow, Colette kicks down one booted foot to the ground, scraping thorugh freshly driven show and tilting the vehicle to the side. Planting her leg down and bracing herself, she lets the engine sputter and idle for a moment before turning the key ignition off, squinting behind her goggles at the snowy scenery.
"Merry Christmas!" Is Colette's sarcastic greeting as she lifts one gloved hand to Sable, waiting to dismount for Tasha to first.
"Sable!" Tasha says, lifting both hands as if in surrender, then swinging one leg off the bike and then the other — it seems graceful enough until the snow is thicker than she expected and she lands in the snow with an oof and a laugh.
Clambering back up, she strides toward Sable to offer the other woman a hug if she'll put down the rifle. "Merry after Christmas," she tells her, not as sarcastic as Colette's greeting as she tugs her goggles off her face. "How are you? I haven't seen you in forever."
"F'rever's a mighty long time," Sable replies, hitching a smile to her lips as she legs the weapon swing from her grip, hanging by the shoulder strap. The dogs bound up to the intruders, welcoming them with ferocious barks of joy and the threat of sloppy canine love. The yellow eyed girl wraps her arms around Tasha and gives her a fairly tight squeeze. "Yer gal said y' were comin', 'n' felt like f'rever jus' waitin'. I need 'nother artist 'round. Need to spruce this place up. You 'n' me, gorgeous," she points a finger pistol, harmless, at Tasha, "gonna make somethin' 'f this pile 'f bricks.
"But thatall c'n wait 'til later. Y'all'll catch yer death y' stay out here any longer. Jesus," Sable sidles back to the door and pushes it open, a foot propping it so as to allow the newcomers easy entrance. "Colette, y'all need help with that thing, darlin'? Elsewise, I'm gonna put somethin' on, treat yer girl right, warm those pretty cheeks b'fore red turns t' violet, turns t' blue, get me?" This is delivered with a good natured wickedness.
"Oh, 'n' merry after Christmas t' you too. Glad it ain't been long 'nuff t' be wishin' you a happy fuckin' New Year on top 'f it."
With Tasha dismounted from the bike, Colette swings one leg over and off of it, proceeding to walk it through the snow. "I've got it," she notes to Sable with a tilt of her chin upwards. "I'm gonna bring it in to the stables, might as well keep something in there since we don't have any horses here anymore." Veering off from the entrance to the cabin, Colette trudges thorugh the snow, gloved hands gripping the handlebard tightly as she tries to slog through the morass of powdery white.
"You go on an' get in!" Colette shouts back over her shoulder, voice raised to compete with the wind. "I'll be right behind y'both!" Squaring her shoulders, Colette returns to the thankless task of muscling the dirt bike through the snow and towards the stables adjacent to the cottage, leaving booted footprints in the several inches of snow that rests in drifts across the once green yard.
The wind picks up, carries more snow on it, and with the howl of the breeze whipping through the trees its hard not to remember the last bastion these three girls shared together on this very island.
Tasha's arms wrap around Sable tightly and she gives her a quick kiss to the cheek — any residual tension from the conflicts between them washed away with the joy of seeing the other girl again, and of course being here with Colette has something to do with Tasha's good mood.
"I've spent most of the past month being artistic so I'm not sure I have much left, but I can certainly paint a room or too. Don't need too much inspiration for that," Tasha murmurs, turning to watch Colette move the bike toward the stables. Back to Sable she nods, and begins to move toward the cottage. "Let's get some water on for hot cocoa." She greets the dogs with scritches and head rubs, though they bring a pang to her, reminding her of Tamara, and her absence.
"Precisely my thoughts, Tash," Sable says, tapping the side of her noggin and letting the door swing almost closed behind them. She pokes her head out of the last crack she leaves. "Don't you fuckin' disappear 'r nothin'!" she barks out at Colette, "I'll send th' hounds after y', that ain't no joke." Warning delivered, she removes her head and lets the door slide shut entirely. A few zips and tugs later, and Sable's free of her jacket, her nose already ruddy even from so brief a foray out of doors. The AK-47 is deposited beside the entrance, it's now-traditional resting place, not far from the poofy, shapeless black mass of the discarded winter coat.
Of the two furry sentinels, Misty is usually the most incessant and excitable, but Tasha is a person well loved, remembered and long seperated from, so both younger and older dog harass her. Sable stomps her foot. "Mutts! Manners!" is delivered with short, sharp force, and the canines fall in line, scampering and trotting, respectively, back to the fireside. Sable clucks her tongue softly. "Sorry. Can't blame 'em, 'course. Thrilled t' have y' m'self.
"And y'all'll get inspired, time I'm done with y'. We'll have a, like, artist's caucus. Get storms brewin' with our brains. I'm seein' heroic type murals, hon, mebbe, like… frescos!" does Sable even know what a fresco is? She is framing this all with broad sweeps of her arms. "Jus' gotta get Ygraine t' bring all th' shit y' need over."
The kettle is basically never not on the stove. It just needs to be refilled, and Sable does just that, the water sputtering from the faucet. "Shit's gonna get tough out here," she remarks, with a touch of gravity, "'nless we get more bodies 'n' hands t' keep this place warm 'nuff. Only gettin' colder. Might start bein' cozier t' build fuckin' igloo's at this rate. I sleep on th' floor with th' dogs most nights. Only way t' keep from wakin' up missin' bits!" Sable hikes herself to a sit on the edge of the table, legs swinging, palms bracing the edge.
There is a momentary furtive glance from the girl, over in the direction of the entrance area, before Sable's gaze fixes on Tasha. "Dunno if she'd even fuckin' tell y', way she is, but figure she's holdin' up, our gal out there?" is an earnest question, delivered earnestly.
The smell of woodsmoke and pine clings to the air of the Garden in an alltogether familiar way. It is hard for Tasha not to have memories evoked by the warmth of the cottage and the sounds of popping firewood in the hearth. This is, after all, where she and Colette first drew close to one another following the arduous raids on the CDC delivery trucks last winter.
The presence of the gray-in-the-muzzle Jupiter inside of the cabin is perhaps an unexpected one, his dark brows lifted, ears perked forward and chin on his paws as he stares up at Tasha from beside the fireplace, his devious sentry in Tamara's puppy Misty handling the scampering and leaping up onto Tasha's legs, tiny paws swatting at her knees in incessant desire for attention and investigation. Jupiter's certain she'll report back if she finds anything useful, or delicious.
The signs of habitation in the Garden are perhaps as surprising as Jupiter's presence. At least one other person aside from Sable seems to have taken up residence int he snowy safe house, judging from the coat hanging near the door and boots drying by the fireplace.
The windows wheeze plastic-wrapped breathe when the wind blows against them, flexing in and out like lungs. It's terribly cold outside, and for all its years in age this battered old cabin seems to be doing its damnedest to keep the heat in.
Tasha shrugs and drops her eyes. "She seems better than she was before," she whispers, so if Colette opens the door she won't catch the words too easily. "We haven't talked about anything today, nothing … serious, you know. She seems to be in a good enough mood and I didn't want to ruin it just yet."
'Just yet' implies at some point Tasha will ask the hard questions — but not on their first night together in days, their second night together in weeks.
The younger girl shrugs and begins to unwind her scarf and pull off gloves, moving to hang them up. "So who all is staying here these days?" she says a little louder, so that the conversation will be about something else when Colette does re-enter the house.
"Naw, y' wouldn't," Sable agrees, with just a hint of wryness. She wrinkles her nose a moment, then clears her expression, giving way to a slightly plaintive look. "Real, real glad yer here. Me 'n' her been tearin' each other t' bits when it's just us. Always at each other's throats, real ugly. Y'all might bring some, like, sanity t' th' proceedin's."
The shift in topic is taken up wholeheartedly, though. Concern, however legitimate, can wait for the moment. Colette's never so thoroughly discussed in the Garden as when she's not here. "One fuckin' button 'f a cute little thing, name 'f Koshka. Real well mannered. Honest, drives me a little batshit. I'm th' goddamn authority, yet I feel like I gotta try and encourage her t' some mischief. Then there's some oddball slip called Samara, pinch hit with ol' Brian th' nut from th' Lighthouse when I went back t' th' mainland. 'n' otherwise it's jus' been visitors. Simms from th' Ferry brass 'n' Ygraine, what keeps us eatin' 'n' all." She shrugs. "It ain't Gun Hill, but Gun Hill ain't Gun Hill no more neither, so…"
The front door swings open, along with a gust of cold air from outside. Shambling in with snow gliding off of the leather of her jacket and pants, Colette quickly swings the door shut in her wake, caked snow sloughing off of her boots as she stamps them down ont he carpet in front of the door. She's quiet on entry, gloved hands tugging yellow-tinted goggles from her eyes as she watches Sable and Tasha from a distance, letting the goggles come to hang around her neck as she crouches down and starts to work the knots of out ice-crusted laces.
Misty, on hearing Colette's arrival leaps away from Tasha and towards the other girl, bounding over and hopping up, cold nose and flicking tongue catching whatever it can. "H— hey c'mon— stop…" Colette murmurs in her crouch, trying to keep Misty off with one warding hand as her cold fingers tug ineffectually at her laces.
That they've been fighting, that Colette is clearly no happier brings a scowl to Tasha's face, but she laughs a little at Sable's irritation at Koshka's //well manneredness.
"You can't stand those nice girls, can you," she says playfully, grinning, knowing she herself has frustrated Sable more than once.
Tasha smiles when the young dog harasses Colette and shakes her head, sharing a glance with Sable before moving toward Colette. "Here, let me, my hands are warm already," she says, pushing Misty aside so that she can unlace Colette's boots for her. She tips her head up to kiss Colette softly. "Thanks for bringing me out," she murmurs softly — what she mans is, thanks for letting me in.
"Nice ain't bad in my books, hon. It's well behaved that drives me over th' cliff," Sable answers, with a touch of a smirk.
Misty's assault on Colette is not taken to be bad manners, apparently, or they are an instance of bad manners Sable is willing to permit, because there is no proscriptive bark. Sable instead slips off of the table and meanders over to the wood stove, tilting her ear down towards the kettle to discern its interior agitation. The roil she hears is, in her mind, good enough. Steam is gouting respectably from the nozzle. She goes about to acquire the powdered cocoa and, as if by some psychic instinct, she also procures a three-quarters bottle of whiskey, setting it down to be joined, shortly, by a trio of mugs. This is a well worn ritual, now. Anyone who comes through those doors is offered a hot drink. It's the least hospitality they can offer.
"Shit's ready!" Sable calls from the kitchen, "brush yerselves off 'n' get in here t' serve yerselves. I ain't yer fuckin' mumzy."
With Sable's call echoing through the cabin, Colette's focus is squared at the moment on Tasha. The older girl's windblown cheeks are reddened not just from the cold, her crooked smile implying that much as she dips her head into a sheepish nod. There's no verbal response while Tasha helps her out of snow-caked shoes, rather just the touch of cold and damp hands against the side of her cheek, thumb brushing briefly brneath one of Tasha's eyes.
Tugging the boots off one by one with Tasha's help, Colette picks them up by the laces, leans in and brushes her nose through the side of Tasha's hair and alights on socked feet for the fireplace. The boots are set down with a pair of heavy clunks, even as she turns to look over her shoulder and through the doorway into the kitchen. While Sable's just shy of being in view, she needn't be to hear Colette.
"Anything happen while I was gone?" Which is to say, anything happen after I bailed on you? Colette offers a quick look to Tasha and a jerk of her head towards the kitchen before heading in that direction, following on the heels of her question to Sable, hands wringing together to try and work warmth back into them.
"Thanks," Tasha calls back toward the kitchen, standing and brushing snow off her fingers to melt on the ground, clomping after Colette in her own still-booted feet that can wait a few more moments to be free of their confines.
"Hey, she read my mind," she says with a wide grin at the whiskey. "You're a saint," she tells Sable as she moves toward one of the mugs to mix the cocoa, whiskey and hot water. "And yeah, any news? I'm a bit out of the grapevine the past few days," she admits.
"Nothin'," Sable answers, voice lifted to carry to Colette, "Oh… 'cept t' be told that those fuckers - th' Institute 'r whatever name th' Man goes by nowadays - that they might know 'bout this place all th' same. So's I gotta be real careful 'bout who I let in. If they ain't been in th' Ferry long 'nuff, 'm s'pposed t' turn 'em away. 'r so says th' Ferry brass. I jus' been doin' things by vouch, 'cause like I fuckin' know who's been with y'all f'r how long, know what I mean?
"Otherwise, darlin'," the yellow eyed girl says, scooping cocoa into her own mug, heaping pretty generously, "jus' been tryin' t' keep makin', like, decent use 'f m'self." These last words are delivered with a matter-of-factness that in and of itself is a little off, denoting some vague significance. "But nothin' worth mentionin' t' nobody."
Tasha gets a wide, toothy smile as Sable adds whiskey and hot water to her own mug. It's lifted in and offer of 'cheers'. "No saint here, good lookin'. Just another sinner."
"Which idiot said that?" Colette sharply directs to Sable with her brows furrowed and eyes half lidded. "About the Institute I mean? If they knew where this place was we'd have been up to our assholes in people scraping the ground for us by now. Or they'd have come for me or fuck— anything." Shrugging off her water-beaded jacket, Colette steps into the kitchen and hangs it over the back of a chair closest to the woodstove so it will dry out. Her hands come up to uncurl the wool scarf from around her neck, letting that drape over the same chair.
She turns her attention to the stove, eyeing the bottle beside the steaming mugs, then furrows her brows. "Institute would've burned this shit-hole to the ground looking for that Liette girl last winter, or looking for the Council during the riots. We're like… a mile, maybe two from the Reclaimed Zone. There's no way if they knew that they'd just fucking sit on it. Whoever said that…" Colette picks up the tin of cocoa, spooning some out into her mug, "don't know their ass from their elbow."
The word Institute has Tasha stiffening with nervousness, a glance thrown to Colette in worry of what the word will do for her. She stirs the cocoa and whiskey into her mug before bringing it to her lips, blowing it lightly before taking a sip.
She wraps one arm around Colette to reassure her wordlessly, before turning her eyes back to Sable. "The Ferry brass said that?" she echoes.
"Dunno 'bout all that, darlin'. Jus' what was told me by some blonde biddy, Barbara Simms," Sable says giving a helpless shrug. She doesn't keep track of this sort of thing. She called Eileen Ruskin 'babe' to her face. Clearly hierarchy, however justified, does not concern her. "Little late f'r April Fool's. Early. Whatever. Maybe they jus' wanted t' put th' fear 'f God int' me, make sure I didn't get all lax? Ain't like I 'xactly 'm up t' my eyeballs in, like, qualifications."
Sable sips her cocoa hot toddy without proper stirring, so she gets incisors full of grainy crystals. Ew. The musician pulls a face and quickly acquires a spoon with which to properly stir the drink, before offering it up to Colette. "Anyhow, fuck 'er if she don't know what she's talkin' 'bout. All she said w's, like, 'reason t' suspect' 'r some other tactics 'n' logistics type doubletalk bullshit. You say we're safe, darlin', I believe y'."
Colette just snorts out a breath through her nose as she stirs her cocoa into her mug, shaking her head. "Never even heard of her," she says with a furrow of her brows as if trying to recall if that's the truth or not and largely failing. "We're fine here, and if someone from the network needs shelter here we're gonna' give it to 'em. But they're right about not just taking in any old goddamned stray that comes across." Her mismatched eyes peer down into the frothy top of her cocoa, then up to the bottle of whiskey.
"Don't think many people want to come out to Staten these days anyway…" Colette notes with a crease of her brows, forsaking the whiskey after some consideration, turning away from the mugs and pacing across the kitchen floor on mismatched socked feet. "Have either've you heard about the fallback location? If there's people coming and going from here, and messages coming from the council, than there's gotta' be travel going back and forth to wherever it is they were going to try and take us on the 8th…"
Cradling the mug of too-hot cocoa between her hands, Colette turns around, tapping the toes of one hunter-orange socked foot on the hardwood floor. "I wanna' get wherever that is, I've got some shit I need to tell the council and I'm not going to just fucking courier it along and wait a couple weeks for them t'get back t'me."
"Barbara — she's okay," Tasha says tentatively, as if afraid to disagree. "She was the one who we brought back with us from Canada."
She sips her cocoa and peers at Colette. "Fallback? You mean the island? Yeah, that's where my dad is," she says quieter yet, brows furrowing in their usual worried look. "I know where it is. I didn't know you didn't or I'd have told you." Her voice is small, her dark eyes apologetic as she looks at Colette, then Sable, then back.
A thumb pokes in Tasha's direction, corroborating. "Some big ol' castle type place on Pollepel Island is right," Sable says, adding on what she feels to be relevant specifics, "fair few folk made it over there. I headed back first chance I could, though. Didn't suit me none, bein' away from it all. 't least here, I'm king 'f th' keep. Felt like dead weight, what little there is 'f me, while I was over there. But that's where y'll find th' highups, if that's who yer lookin' f'r. I'd talk t' Ygraine 'bout makin' yer way, there. Haven't bothered tryin' t' make it back since I left."
"You both— " Colette's brows screw up and her face flushes red as she stares slack jawed at Sable and Tasha. "They let both of you know— " Realizing that sounds a little harsher than she intends. A scoff instead comes, eyes falling shut and shoulders rolling forward as she ruefully shakes her head. "Bunch've assholes, guess that's what I get for not being in the special club or whatever." Mismatched eyes slowly open, and not even Colette is sure on what she meant by that last comment. She's just bitter, frustrated and apparently the last to know things.
Walking away from her pacing circle, she steps over to one of the large bay windows in the kitchen, leaning her shoulder against a wood post support looking out over the snowy field behind the cabin. "I'm gonna' need to go there soon… I guess. I gotta' ask some questions, figure… figure some stuff out." Turning to look over her shoulder at Sable and Tasha, Colette's brows furrow thoughtfully.
"Probably stay here through New Year's, anyway…" There's a more hushed and softer tone to her voice now, and Colette looks away, staring down into her cocoa again. "Need one'f you t'show me where I can pick up a boat to get there afterward."
That Colette would have known if she had gone with Tasha from Grand Central when Quinn found them goes unspoken. Tasha merely moves toward Colette, wrapping an arm around her. "You always know more than me. I assumed you knew," she whispers, pressing a kiss to the other's temples.
"We can probably get a boat here on Staten somewhere, use your ability to keep us dark when we go that way. I'll go with you — I'd like to see him again anyway, but otherwise I think we can contact them through the radio at Grand Central, find out when the next supply run is?" she suggests.
"They didn't let me know shit. They took me there, b'fore tellin' me anythin'. Got 'told' when I asked 'where th' fuck are we'? That don't count as special knowledge, darlin'. Still, y'all wanna give 'em a piece 'f yer mind 'n' then some? Go on 'n' see 'em," Sable says, nearly slopping her cocoa over the edge of her cup as she jabs it in Colette's direction, "take those fuckers t' task. Shit's real mixed up, but after all y' done f'r 'em, they owe you. There ain't not doubt about that."
At least, no doubt in Sable's mind. In point of fact, she has no concrete idea of what Colette has done for the Ferry, how much a less flagrantly biased individual might weigh that organization's debt to Nichols the younger. But flagrantly biased is precisely what Sable is, and then some. Loyalty is personal, not abstract, and people will always be due greater credence than organizations.
"I'll man this here ship, keep it safe 'n' sound f'r you t' come back t'. 'cause no matter fuckin' what, y' got here t' come back to," Sable's tone has gotten weirdly serious, oathmaking, "both 'f y'. 's long as I got my boots planted here, it's here f'r y'. That I pledge, solemnly so."
Her intensity ebbs and her voice softens after this pronouncement. Yellow eyes slip down to the spiked cocoa, going cold, then back up to Colette and Tasha. "'course, don't be in no hurry t' go, f'r all that."
Leaning against Tasha without reluctance, Colette exhales a tired sigh and slouches into a more relaxed posture. "Yeah…" she quietly murmurs, turning her head towards the brunette's shoulder, still holding her cocoa fast in two hands. The comment is a non-comittal one, elicited purely by the tiredness that Colette has worked up from a long day of hauling across the city to the ass-crack of Staten Island.
Looking up and over from where her head rests against Tasha's shoulder, Colette's brows furrow and her mismatched stare levels squarely on Sable, followed by a steadily exhaled sigh and a slow close of her eyes. "I ain't in no hurry to run off…" she says in a hushed tone of voice, finally seeming to be a little less on edge than she's been since arriving.
"I know a good thing when I got it."