Sort Of A Fugitive


joshua_icon.gif quinn3_icon.gif

Scene Title Sort of a Fugitive
Synopsis Out shopping, Quinn runs into a familiar face she hadn't expected to see.
Date March 31, 2011

Greenwich Village

By a newspaper stand

For a place that Robyn Quinn claims to call home now, Greenwich Village is not a place that she actually knows much about. Very rarely does she spend any time in the district, outside of the time spent on streets getting from home to work, or to someone's place of living, or any other number of mundane tasks that really don't require one to actually be aware of the larger surroundings of where they live.

That's why, today, Quinn has decided that this afternoon makes for a good walk. If nothing else, it's a good time to clear her head. She didn't have to actually by the studio today, and with as much as she has on her mind at the moment, it's a welcome reprieve from a growing list of burdens and problems seeming to slowly mount up around her.

That, and despite how cloudy and cold it is, it really is nice just to get some fresh air today. Though even the clouds kind of remind her of things she'd rather not thinking about, so her gaze is instead angled more towards the ground, red hoodie zipped tight, for once wearing sinple black Chucks instead of any of the other fancier footwear she had become increasingly accustomed to.

Grocceries. That's what the main plan on the agenda is. Shame the closest market - at least the one that Quinn likes - is a good mile or so away.

Having emerged from a garden warehouse some several moments ago, Joshua is taking a break before the hike back to Chelsea begins.

Standing on the sidewalk, he has a homerolled cigarette stuck out the corner of his mouth, dressed in casual, plain street clothes with his jeans hanging low on his hips and a sweater with the hood up, obscuring distinctive configuration of facial structure at some angles until he restlessly glances one way or another. He doesn't have a guitar with him this time, but he is burdened — a clear plastic bag, somewhat larger than a pillow and stuffed to the seams in glossy yellow hay pressed flat against the clear material that keeps it. At some point, he's drawn on it — a fangy smiley face, slightly smudged from handling with greasy palms.

This is the city. Hay comes in bags airlocked by machines. He seems rather pleased with himself for having it, and right now, he's perusing a newspaper stand, glancing over the headlines.

Though note hometolled, cigarettes are exactly what Quinn thinks sounds like a wonderful idea. Digging throughher shoulder bag while walking usually is not, but for once Quinn's oversized headphones sit silent and nestled around her neck, instead of blaring music from snugly around her ears. This enables her to actually manage to pull both a small back a Camel Turkish Silvers - not homerolled, but still damn nice by her standards - and a silver zippo lighter with a a tremble symbol engraved on one side and a bass symbol on the other out without much hassle, stumbling, or otherwise making an ass out of herself.

It's actually lighting the cigarette that proves to be her downfall. Pulled out and placed betwen her lips, the light unfortunately refuses to catch with teh first few tries, eliciting a mumered curse, and once it does, it' only just caught when - her foot bumps into something (a fire hydrant, smart move) and she jolts to a stop, the lighter slipping out of her hand and sliding against teh ground, just by the newspaper stand. Exhaling a plume of smoke, she lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Excuse me," she remarks, eyes fidning the modern bail of hay first, "Do you think you could-" eyes drift over, focusing off teh golden staw, and on the person carrying. "You!" is an exclamation made with a tone that is both pleased and mused, rather than accusatory.

Obliviously, Joshua doesn't seem to hear her at first — which is because of the white wires hidden in hood with earbuds plugged into his ears and emitting a racket of sound where only he can hear it. But her voice manages to filter in, or similar, because her silhouette filters enough into his consciousness for him to glance her way. Startlement is only expressed in a widening of his eyes and the rise of eyebrows, before a hand endeavors to tug headphones out from their perches.

"Hey," he says, pressing heavy on the casual even as hazel eyes are quick to scan the street for anything that might betray that this isn't a casual meeting. "I didn't think I'd be runnin' into you again." Which could mean either way. He didn't intend to seek her out. Or he didn't think she'd intend to run into him — and draw attention to herself. Plastic crinkles beneath his hand.

A half grin forms on Joshua's face as she approaches hime and the newspaper stand, her steps ahving slowed a bit. "Hey," is offered back in a casual manner,d espite her previous outburst. Smkoe blown out the coner of her mouth, she stops just short of him, her lighter resting still at her feet. "I could say teh same a' you, you know," she remarks with a smile, before bending down to get her lighter. "Wasn't sure what happened after the party, I was hoping things turned out okay. It was kind abullshit what happened," she remarks, her voice low. "He's kind of an asshole. Smoov, that is. I've seen him have people be needlessly rough with people sense then. It's stupid."

The light is slipped into her bag, and Quinn takes a long drag. "Kristen told me t' look for you, you know. Not for anything bad. She was asking what I thought about takni' a risk on you."

There's a mutely blank expression at Kristen. Names? People expect him to remember names? But it manages to click at a midpoint during that sentence, Joshua's chin tucking in at a dipped nod of recognition, adjusting his hold on straw. "The crazy hick that rescued me from the cops?" he asks. "Which, by the way, was how that turned out." Okay, in other words, just as she says. It was a while ago, and so any of the fleeting bruises he'd taken to the face are long faded into obscurity, and he earned himself no lasting scars.

This time.

"She said somethin' about a job offer or— something. But I've been busy, you know. What does she want anyway?"

There's an audible click of QUinn's tongue as she shakes her head, looking disappointed. "That's a goddamn shame. Glad she was able t' pull your ass outta the fire though." Because "that crazy chick" sound like it's probably a good enough description. A hand moves to her hip, Quinn raising an eyebrow a bit as she listens to Joshua. "Which I knew what she wanted. She wanted t' know what I thought a' you. I told her you weren't too bad playin[' guitar." Moving to lean against the somewhat unstable stand, the Irishwoman shrugs.

"Maybe she thinks you're good enough to Radio. Maybe TV, who the hell knows. Maybe she wants you for security, I would after that. I didn't really get the chance t' find out, that little conmversationwas interrupted by some kinda off kilter chick settin' off the fire alarm so she could meet me." THe cigarette is plucked out and ashed, moving to rest between two fingers instead of going immediately back to her mouth. "But I guess my big question's answered. I was kinda worried after what happened, an' then I didn't ehar anythin' else about it."


There's a note of relief in that one syllable that she— didn't hear anything else about it, Joshua glancing distractedly back at the newspaper stacks, some loose for easy purchase, others bound in twine. "I got a couple of friends in radio, but I don't think TV's gonna work out, you know? I don't have the face for it." Digging a hand into his pocket, he extracts a wallet and thumbs around for a few notes of cash that seem to give him a little pause, before awkwardly just handing the bills over to the guy at the stand. "I'll take that one."

He points. To one of the stacks.

"Newspapers don't— "

But explanation comes with Joshua crushing out his cigarette underfoot to free up a hand enough to heft up the twine wrapped stack of newspapers, apparently requiring about thirty of the things. "Keep the change." He looks back to Quinn. "I'm sort of a fugitive. But if you're not planning on calling the cops on me— " And his casual tone communicates reasonable certainty. "— then maybe I'll see what crazy hick wants so we're not in suspense. I still got your number."

The collection of newspapers earns a quirked eyebrow, the same curious look given to it that she had offered the hay earlier. How perplexing! Quirking her lips side to side, she regards him for a moment, before she lets out a sigh. "You seem like a nice enough guy, Joshua," she remarks in a low tone, moving to pat him on the shoulder. "Dunno what you did, t; warrent that… but if you're not hurtin' anyone I care about, I'd be a huge hypocrite if i turned you in. So, no, I'm not plannin' on it." WHich feels like a very weird stance to take. By all means, she should running off to teh cops. Funny how the last few months have changed her perspective. Over the summer, she would've called the cops in a heartbeat.

Turning on her heel to face away from him, she shrugs, holding her arms out a bit as she balancing in an off center stance. "An' I don't think my boss is. I can talk t' her again, though. Sot aht wheneve ryou do come in, I know what the deal is. So you can high tail it out if she wants you to model on Tahir Dunham's show or somethin'!" Flashing a smile back over her shoulder, she turns back, arms snapping back to her side. "You've nothin' t' worry about with me, though."

Curious eyebrows get nonplussed eyebrows. Joshua doesn't partake in eyebrow language.

He's still standing there by the time she glances back over, but this time a half-smile is written across otherwise hard features, probably at the comment about modeling and the implication he'd be asked even jokingly — or maybe at her reassurance that he hasn't anything to worry about from her. "Thanks for lookin' out for me. I better scoot and— " A glance down at newspapers, then at packed hay, and then a jostling shrug of his burly shoulders. Stuff. He's got stuff to do. It's probably important. "I'd ask how it makes you a hypocrite, but then you'd be fit to ask me.

"And that's just not good conversation." Slinging the newspapers so they rest against his back, fingers hooked into the twine, he starts off on his own pace. "I'll give you a call for real then sometime."

"Yeah, that's not a story worth telling." At least not in public. Quinn offers back another grin as she nods, hands slipping into the pockets of her hoodie. "And I have some groccery shopping t' do. " She looks over at the newspaper cart, considering picking one up of her own. But she never reads the paper anymore anyway. That's what the internet is for. And maybe twitter. Maybe a lot f twitter. "Don't be a stranger, she notes as she starts again on her way, only pausing to put out her own cigarette. "Careful with all a' that… crap. An' don't let anyone catch you, 'kay? Not until we know what the hell Kristen wants with you, exactly." A pause. "An' feel free t' call if you ever feel like a jam!"

Because really, Quinn doesn't get to do that enough. But with that, she lingers no longer. He's walked off a good bit by now, and she has shopping to do. Ah, well. Back to the mundane day we go.

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