Chancing It
| Chancing It | |
|---|---|
| Players | Auburn Gresham This is a story about a girl. |
Stage Floor - Satin It's easy to see Satin as someone's interpretation of a pleasant afterlife, given all the gold, brass, red leather, and velvet. It lines the walls, accents the bar, highlights the stage, and even marks the ceiling in places, providing a uniform theme of Art Deco sophistication throughout the club, highlighted and accentuated by purples so dark they look black, pinks, whites, and dark blues scattered around. The main floor is dominated by a circular bar that claims the center of the room and is stocked to the brim with expensive liquor and booze of all origins and styles. Atop it is a large, tiered cage complete with a pole to accommodate dancers, reachable only by a bridging platform that extends from one of the raised side stages over the seating area. All around the central bar are an arrangement of tables that are spaced well enough apart that one can expect some level of conversational privacy when the music is playing and pumping through the speakers hidden throughout the room. The tables eventually congregate at the far end of the room, where a slightly curving main stage dominates an entire wall. Two poles are installed on either wing, and a long catwalk extends partway onto the floor with a third pole mounted at the end. All around this main stage floor, tiered seating areas exist for more influential visitors, while curtained booths allow customers a modicum of privacy when enjoying private dances. Jutting out from the upper levels and overlooking the entire area is a private VIP room lined with tinted windows that allow only rough silhouettes of those inside to be seen by anyone on the main stage floor. Tucked away into a corner near the main stage is a locked door watched by a bouncer that leads to a staff area. Sphere: None Tuesday nights aren't exactly full-blooded in any city, and Chicago is no exception. The twin clubs of Satin & Savagery have a few patrons, but it's what could charitably be called a 'quiet night' - especially downstairs, what with the working types not wanting to wake up covered in blood, and the reckless daredevils mostly recovering from their weekends of debauchery. There's always the occasional wannabe psycho, but otherwise Savagery is positively slumber-y, the sound of laidback blues-rock emitting from the door as Andreia slips out, wiping her hands on a bar rag. Clad in a white tank top and denim shorts, the Black Wolf's long legs are marked with the coppery stain of blood, and red smatters are visible on the shirt - proof that it's not been a completely quiet /day/, at least. She looks tired, shoulders slumping against bare brick as she leans against the wall beside Savagery's entranceway, reaching into her back pocket for a battered, dishevelled tobacco pouch containing a couple of ready-rolled, filterless roll-ups. It's strong, dank tobacco, the kind usually smoked by leathery old bastards with a hellish cough. Sliding one of the cigarettes between her dour lips, Andi blazes up using a disposable lighter - pink, because she always refuses to pick a color - and takes a long, slow drag, exhaling a cloud of foul-smelling smoke into the night air. Dark eyes drift above the row of buildings opposite the club, scanning across the stewing clouds until she finds the moon, and there she lingers. Beyond her, the gilded doors of Satin beckon, just slightly ajar, the sound of lively jazz piping through from within.
There's a reason her hair smells, well, fruitier than usual. Or at least, there was this morning, before she allowed habit to guide her path. "Not my fault they weren't interested..." She mumbles to herself. "Shut the fuck up." A small giggle, "you're trying to be...to...umm..." She smiles sheepishly to a passerby, realizing she spoke aloud. Whoops. There's a hint of pink tinge to her cheeks at the realization. Ok, just this last one and then she'll sleep off the high until tomorrow. Promise. She even wore her better clothes! A red shirt - admittedly torn at one shoulder - and a black skater skirt, paired with her trusty old greenish-red colorblock skechers. She pats herself down, making sure there's no crumbs or whatever on her person, all while completely unaware of her dangerously close approach to a 5'10" wall of smouldering tabacco-scented muscle.
Dark eyes drag their attention from the skies, and alight on the form of Imoen. A placid blink, and a single brow arches, pulling one side of Andi's mouth up along with it, a wry half-smirk she can't keep down as she quietly chooses mischief. "Hope you're lookin' for your ID," the Brazilian states, casual yet /firm/, shifting her shoulders from the wall to assume her full height. Lips curling around the cigarette, she takes another pull and slowly exhales. "Take your time." Because nothing's more assuring than being told to 'take your time' when you're caught off-guard and anxious.
"Two bars. Two clubs. All the decadent entertainment your little heart could desire," is the composed murmur in turn, Andi's mirthful expression turning slowly into something halfway between pity and derision - and with those eyes, and that naturally-resting scowl, it's much easier to assume the latter - as Imoen's possessions escape her. "Hey--" She starts to say something that might even be reassuring, but nobody gets a chance to find out exactly what, as panic has shifted to relief, and relief takes a dive off the nearest cliff. A hand comes out, and the wrist is simply /caught/. It would be alarming, if there were time for it to be, but the Black Wolf pulls the falling arm past her, slipping around Imoen's flank to capture her with one of her own arms around the shoulders. It is, in fact, like falling comfortably against a wall - albeit one that has the aroma of stale sweat, old iron, and strong tobacco. The remains of Andreia's cigarette are abandoned in the commotion, the roll-up smoldering away on the ground as she starts to steer Imoen toward the doors to Satin. "You," she exudes, in a firm growl, "Are gonna be just fine. We're gonna take a seat, and talk to a very nice man who is going to make you feel a whole hell of a lot better about your life." Rolling her eyes, Andi lifts her knee to one side of Imoen and boots open one of the doors into the upstairs bar. "Oy! Bash! Little help!"
The longer he walks, the more he awakens. The already bright smile for anyone present reaching its full radiant potential. It doesn't take long for him to turn everything back on, his designer jeans and unadorned, snug fitting, black v neck tee somehow wrinkle free. Relieving his replacement with a playful salute, he's just about at his place of comfort behind the bar when Andi bursts in and begins shouting. A momentary assessment is all he needs, springing into action with the careful urgency of his profession. Obviously he forgoes the usual alcohol and begins crafting some sort of elaborate latte instead. A few empathetic glances are directed over his shoulder but he seems to be primarily concentrating on his creation. Without turning, he asks Andi in a calm tone, "do you want to put her down at the bar or take her back to the dressing room?" No mention of how or why this situation came about. It either being something not outside the realm of possibility in this place or unimportant when compared to helping someone. Perhaps, a mix of the two.
Entering the bar, she instantly hears the sounds of booming music and customer chatter. One hand lifts to shade her eyes from the lighting after becoming accustomed to the darkening evening outside. Slurring her words slightly, she asks aloud to nobody in particular, "hey, so like, is this place hiring?" She groans again, "actually, hold that thought. I think something's...coming..."
Every step she takes is with purpose and she walks towards the bar area, looking towards the sound of voices and seeing Andi and Bash with someone new. As she gets closer, just in time to hear Imoen ask her question, "I suppose that depends on what you can do?" she asks and then looks to the other two and grins at them both in greeting. Popping a foot up so that it shoes one of her heeled shoes, "Trying to get these broken in before opening night."
"He has everything a growing girl could need," she brusquely soothes, half-guiding, half-simply carrying Imoen to said stool. "Here's fine," she grunts out to the calm and composed bartender, essentially draping her ward to a seated position against her own mass, keeping her arm in place as the other extends and snaps insistently. "Bucket. Bash, meet... Growing Girl." Luna's intercession is regarded with a taut little smirk, Andi wearing every bit the expression of a woman who's just had her one moment of relaxation today interrupted by a weird crisis, and really isn't in the mood to be particularly kind about anything. "Nice shoes," she remarks anyway, because it's Luna. She likes Luna. "Give her a minute though, yeah?"
With everything going on, he still flashes a more than pleased smile at Luna, nodding in agreement with Andi while grabbing the now finished latte and just keeping it in his hands until the situation looks stable enough to hand it over. "They are absolutely perfect for the outfit."
Eventually, she says a very drawn out, "uuhgghhh..." Then she glances around for a napkin. If nothing can be found, she just sort of uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. In the meantime, her search brings her to lock eyes with the guy, and she attemps an uneasy if still somewhat intoxicated smile. With a heavy breath, she murmurs, "...umm, sorry." She recounts the last bit of conversation, and belatedly offers to Luna, "I guess I can do whatever someone does while working at a bar?" A glance around, "oh...oh right. This is that bar. With the poles and..." Her voice trails off, before stating, "I don't twerk. But I'm sure I can hand someone a drink?" Speaking of which, she eyes the beverage in Bash' hands, but holds back from asking after it. Thankfully, while her hands might be shaking a little, she seems marginally more in control of her capacity to act like a sober person might. A blink down at her bucket, "oh...uh...huh..."
Walking away from them all she moves with quick long strides back to the dressing room, she's gone for a couple of minutes and when she returns, the heels she was wearing are now off and they've been replaced by some ankle boots, ones that she's use to wearing. Coming back up she sets the aspirin bottle on the bar top, careful to be gentle when placing it down. "You might want to put this cool rag on the back of your neck. It can help." Offering it over to her to take if she wants it.
"She's, uh, throwing up," is the so-helpful explanation offered to Luna, "Think she just got a little too loose." A couple of more-or-less 'gentle' pats to the back follow, as if to encourage a second round if needed. Then Imoen is talking, so Andreia concludes that she's probably done for now, and she places the bucket onto the edge of the bar, keeping it just within snatching distance but shooting a warning glance at Bash; he probably doesn't want to deal with that. Her resting scowl shifts as the girl gets her flow back on, after a fashion. "You /don't/ twerk?" She fires back, eyes widening in faux-astonishment. "But that was a perfect audition." A soft snort, her nostrils flaring her amusement. "We can talk about the rest. This is Bash, he's heading up the bar here in Satin." Her hands shift to Imoen's neck, and gently attempt to crane her attention to each person in turn. "You should probably drink what he's offering you. And this--" Right on time, as the graceful manageress makes her return, "Is Luna, she'd be your manager if you worked here. That's the lady you want to impress." She doesn't introduce herself. Instead, she bites on her lip, glancing between Bash and Luna, reaching out to take the rag offered by the latter - and making the decision for Imoen, draping it across her neck. It's obvious she's got a fair amount to say about the girl, but for once in her life she's not unhesitantly spitting out exactly what she thinks. Sebastian might get to crow later about the wash of empathy he gets to see in dark eyes as Andreia fights with herself, and either wins or loses - depending on your unique perspective. All the emotions coalesce into a simple confession: "Reckon we should at least give her a chance."
On the surface, there isn't anything spectacular about what Imoen is about to ingest. It is well made, ingredients balanced to near perfection, but visually it is utterly mundane. Tasting it, offers another experience. The sweetness hits first, liquid joy that, in this brief moment of time, makes it possible to believe in happiness. Hints of bitterness and the jolt of caffeine don't banish that sensation but enhance it, offering the energy to put those positive feelings into action. The warmth as the fluid goes down acts as the vehicle to carry these effects throughout her being. As she grapples with everything that his brew is making her feel, Sebastian looks to Andi with his brows furrowed playfully, "I just assumed that was already decided." There isn't any of that crowing she might be dreading. Not even a knowing glance. Just a trace of some very soft, very subtle pride in his smile. (pemit) Andi being the only one able to sense it, Bash always smells to some degree like different night blooming flowers. As Imoen drinks, she gets the more specific scent of gardenias.
Upon consuming the latte concoction, her eyes widen more and more with every sip. It's as though - or perhaps quite literally - she were initially slapped into disorientation, and then everything gradually syncs up, locking into place. The world rights itself, the sensitivity of her stomach fades to memory, and her hands halt their shaking. Even the burning rawness from expelling her breakfast fizzles away. More shockingly still, every slurp and gulp brings a rush of caffeinated energy, walking back the hours spent awake, and the pressure around her temples from intoxication fades. Clarity blossoms, and remains longer than the exertion of focus during a high, firmly staying put. "Shit. This is..." Then Luna arrives, just in time to serenade her with a cool wet towel. This is bliss. Like she were taking a day at the spa. She breathes out a sigh and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, her eyes widen and she darts a look at Luna. With a sheepish smile, cheeks darkening in embarrassment, she asks, "you're the...boss?" She winces, anxiety overruling the delightful efforts of the masseuse behind her. Abruptly, she slinks out of the stool and stoops her shoulders self-conciously, lifting a hand to rub at her arm. "I..." She bites her lower lip, then frowns and glances aside. "sorry. I'm...I should probably just..." She dips her head apologetically at Luna, then begins to turn to go. Her eyes begin to burn, and not because of the weed she took earlier.
Slumping into the bar stool on the opposite side of the hangover woman. Leaning back, she looks around her back to catch Andi's eye and mouths without sound "Do you know her?" Waiting only briefly to see if she will respond wordlessly, and then she looks back. "Twerking is overrated anyway." She notes, shakes her head at the whole needs to impress her thing. "If you can do your job, I'll be impressed. Don't need to worry about that too much." Especially not right now Nodding in agreement with the other two that she at least deserved a chance. Watching with pleasure as Imoen starts to drink the latte and actually can see the change in the woman soon after. A grin is shot over to Bash with a wink and then she looks back to watch the transformation. And then she laughs, "No.. I'm not "THE" boss, but I would be your manager here in the Satin when you come to work for us." She clarifies the confusion. Imoen starts to get up to leave and Luna frowns. "What the fuck are you doing? Sit back down." There is a growl in her tone, "Now." Pointing at the stool, "You aren't going anywhere. You just threw up and you need to just sit a minute, alright? No one's mad at you."
'It's an improvement,' she mouths silently, over the back of Imoen's head, before responding to Luna's own silent query with a quick shake of her head, messy tangles bouncing to and fro. 'Not yet.' She's done a lot of the heavy lifting thus far - figuratively and otherwise - but Andi's relieved as Luna picks up the slack, both clarifying the point and then absolutely BARKING at the poor thing as she attempts to wriggle away. A grin smears its way onto the Black Wolf's lips, and she relaxes /visibly/, already half-turned and tensing to tackle Imoen back into their care if she attempted to pick up the pace and become a little runaway. "I'll /be/ mad," the Brazilian growls, as she reaches out, offering a hand up onto the stool for the shorter woman. "If you walk out of those doors in the next ten minutes. Sit. Talk. Hell, listen, if you want. I can tell you why I reckon you're here, and you can tell me how right I am while Bash..." Glare. "Starts threatening to hug me again."
One last smile and then he starts to sober, elbows replacing his hands on the bar while he bends at the waist. The bartop is still between him and Imoen but he is tall enough that he is able to get much closer through the shift in position. It all seems to be so he can try different a approach than the women. Smoothing his deep voice even more than usual, it carries the same hopeful notes as the drink she just consumed, "this was probably a helluva comedown. Can't imagine what all might be starting to rush back into your head now that you can think clearly. But I can promise that whatever it is, somebody here has felt some variation of it." Looking back to Andi, "the person who brought you in doesn't do that sort of thing lightly. So, while you listen to her, just consider that you might have found a place you need."
Sebastian's comment causing her to look aside at him with a tilt of her head, a curve to her lips like she's trying to understand a different language - or the secret to a magic trick. Her brow furrows and her mouth opens as if to ask him something, but the words get caught in her throat. Maybe later. Instead, she turns to peek at Luna, waiting for her response with baited breath. Currently, she's sitting in a stool at the bar, Andi acting as - at least formerly - her backrest, Luna in a seat before her, and Sebastian behind the bar on a deepening Tuesday night.
Lune looks at Bash and listens to his words, nodding gently, agreeing with everything he said, though she never would have put it as poetically as he did just now. When Imoen listens she smiles down at her, "Good girl." She purrs instead of growls. "Worse things will happen in the club, You throwing up is of no relevance." Dashing that thought away with a flick of her fingers. Luna's voice and domineer change when she establishes dominance and it might be new to both Andi and Bash to hear it come from her. Its not something she does often, only when needed.
The cluster at the bar draws her attention, one brow raising slightly, perhaps with concern--and it's with an unhurried but confident stride she makes her way over. She glances at each face--lingering at the one who seems a little more worse for wear. But she doesn't interfere, instead offering a softly-spoken, "Hey." And then an aside to Bash, "You need me to go get anything from the back room?"
"Fuck customers." The other hand settles on the smaller woman's shoulder, not weightlessly - but more to test her newfound stability than intimidate or cajole her. Those rough digits do squeeze briefly, an uncharacteristic gesture that would shock at least several people who know her a little better than this /absolute stranger/, and then Andi slides to pull herself into the adjacent barstool, doing so with a lithe ease of purpose, her lithe, bare legs pulsing with wiry muscle as they enable the motion. "I--" She starts to address Imoen, but is instantly distracted by Fiametta, dark eyes flashing toward the copper-haired dancer. Her mouth hangs open briefly, but she recovers the composure with a sardonic twist of her lips, a self-effacing down-glance and a relaxed smirk carrying her back into the moment. "I think, what we're doing here is a lot more important than serving a few drinks to a couple of losers hanging around an almost-empty burlesque club on a Tuesday night." Leaning forward, she bares a crooked half-grin, briefly flashing a canine at the dishevelled girl. "I also think, you're here 'cuz your life's a pile of shit, you're desperate, alone. Lost." She puts extra weight on that word, glancing meaningfully at Bash. "And you figure, a place blending sex and violence would be just the kinda place that could overlook a few personal problems. Maybe, just maybe, it's a chance? Yeah?" She looks at the bartender again, and with an upflick of her chin raps her knuckles on the bar, asking for a drink. "Got news for you, kid. You're right. Maybe the best chance you ever had. Maybe the last chance you have. I'dunno." Her shoulders roll in a loose shrug, and she cranes her neck to one side, stretching sinuously. "Sure feels like it for me. Good news is, your instincts were right. Bringing you here. You made a /good/ choice. Bad news is..." Now the grin flares up, positively feral, all Big Bad Wolf as she leans in toward Imoen. It should be threatening - and maybe it is - but there's a gleam of unbridled, friendly mirth in those near-black eyes. Her voice softens, as she says, "We still don't know your name."
Instead of heading straight to the exit, he stops in front of the combination of her and Andi. Nodding along with everything she says, he remains quiet and any look from the target of the speech is met with nothing but steady, hopeful reassurance. Waiting until he can cut in at the end, "don't want to presume to much but not my first rodeo dealing with someone potentially crashing after one of my drinks. So, just stick around and I'll be back with everything you might need, alright?" An uncharacteristic rush to his long strides, he gives a quick wave behind him with a long arm and heads out the door.
Andi's supportive shoulder squeeze brings out a grateful peek from Imoen, noticing as the Brazilian sits down on the stool. A single peek becomes a full-blown stare however, upon hearing the following words. She nods her head, with particular reluctance at the word 'desperate', then another nod at the personal problems bit. The Big Baf Wolf grin causes her to lean back a smidge, but she's too invested in the speech to shy away completely. At last, with a small squeak, she admits, "I-Imoen?" All things considered, she bears a distinctly bemused expression on her face, once again full of questions at Sebastian's implications. She looks around, before at last settling on Andi and asking, "family? But I..." A blink, "did I pass the interview?"
"Sure thing," she murmurs quiety to Bash as he lays out how she can help. She's never bartended in her life BUT it's possible any of the customers might forgive that a bit, at least if she leans over enough. She waves to him as he heads out. Straightening and organizing? This she can do, as if she's very practiced at it, and so that's how she occupies her hands and space for the moment, keeping an eye on what's going on, as well as the room at large. "It's a different kind of interview, here," She pipes in, hiding a smile.
"Imoen." The Brazilian shifts her attention right on back with an echo that's actually pleasant, finding the softness she typically lacks, "Pretty name." She nods her head at Fiametta's interjection, and lets her gaze lower to the bartop for a moment. "My name's Andi. And do you wanna know who you can blame for your shitty day?" Her eyes lift, and she slams a fist against her own breast. "I /fucked/ with you. So now I know, right?" Dark brows raise next, her lips twitching in gentle mirth. "Who I don't tease when she's anxious. You didn't fuck up. Andi fucked up." Pausing, she lets loose a sigh, and reaches into the back pocket of her Daisy Dukes, yanking out the tattered tobacco packet and its one remaining roll-up, which she palms and offers out to the stammering girl. "You asked for a smoke, too. Didn't give you one. Also my bad." Whether it's taken or not, she leans back in her stool, crossing her legs at the knees and hooking an arm lazily around the nape of her own neck, toying with a few tangles of dark hair. "So, here's the interview. Tell us about you. /Practical/ shit. What do you wanna do? Who do you wanna do it with? You got a place to live? You eat, get looked after? You gonna ask for a job then secretly sleep in the dressing room?" She reels off the questions like they really don't specifically matter, waving her hand dismissively. "See, thing is, what we're building here ain't about money. We're trying to make better lives. Look out for each other. Build a place people come so they can be /themselves/, whoever the fuck they are. And those of us that provide that service, we do everything we can for each other. We've /all/ been through some shit. We're all lost. We've all got /problems/. What most of us don't have," her gaze strays toward Fiametta, a frown passing over her brow, slipping away with a shake of her head. "Or didn't have, is a family. We're all of us fixin' to change that, and we're doin' pretty good." Smiling, she palms the lighter from her pocket and slaps it down on the bar, closer to Imoen than herself. "How's that dream sound to you?"
Starting slowly, she ventures, "I...wasn't lying when I said I don't twirk." She idly rolls the roll-up, "not unless I'm drunk or some shit. Maybe if I learned it. But I don't know the first thing about putting on a show with a pole. I can serve drinks, whatever. Food? Sure. But I need the money, because if I don't get it, I'll be kicked out of my room, and I'll be back out on the street. Not something I want ever again." She scratches an arm, "...a-and I can go sober. If it's important to getting the job, I can get clean." She looks up, then looks away. Did she convince anyone? Another scratch at her arm. Happily, she falls silent to listen to Andi, only to jump slightly at the bar slap. With a crooked grin, she moves to take the lighter, looking over at Andi cautiously, "that...dream sounds great. Just the sort of thing I need..."
However, for the most part she's in a glowingly good mood, and well suited to hovering nearby. Andi's frown is met with a tilt of her head, as well as a gently puzzled look--though it fades back into something more understanding after a few hearbeats, as she goes about polishing the bartop. When she does move close enough to speak, her voice remains soft. "Do you want to learn the pole? Not everyone has to. Once you're here, you aren't going to have to worry about being in the street. I'd start with what it is you /want/ to do first, yeah? What you're comfortable with. Keep an open mind for what you might wanna do next."
"Me neither," she mutters, idly scratching at the tip of her nose with her thumb, "Even drunk. Don't fuck with that shit. But you don't have to, either. If you want to..." She trails off at Fiametta's approach, instinctively shifting minutely closer to the dancer, a sinuous twist of the hips and neck carrying them a few inches more into proximity. She punctuates the gleaming woman's words with a single finger, tapping against her own temple. "You know who you are, what you want, what you're capable of. Even if it's hard to see through..." Thoughtfully, she chews on her lower lip, "Everything, right now." Andreia draws and releases a breath, shaking her head at Imoen. "You can't just 'get clean'. I heard that shit in prison a longass time ago, and now I know it better than anyone. Once you've got a taste, you /want/ it. You'll always want it. But you can try; to resist, to be better, maybe one day you find something that replaces it." Her shoulders lift, and fall in what's half a shrug, half an empathetic expression of defeat - only somewhat at odds with her words. But she's confessed it, she's struggling too. "'Til then, how 'bout we start with, you turn up tomorrow at six, a little better than you turned up today." There's no admonishment in that. Her voice is flat, steely, determined. As if she'd carry this burden herself if she could. "Get through one day, and we talk about the next. You can work with Bash. Bash ain't like me. He's... nice. Good. He won't shout you down like Luna, but he'll tell you if you fuck up, and he'll /help/ you. Treat him like your brother, 'cuz if you get onto day two, that's what he'll be, yeah?" She leans in on that, her features more angular as she angles deeply toward the other woman, further intensifying that dark-eyed stare - and the promise that comes with it. "This is your chance. Don't blow it."
But of the perils of the type of addiction they're speaking of, she remains silent, respectfully listening, until Andi gives Imoen a time, and then there's a smile that truly lights the embers in her deep blue eyes. "I'm Fiametta, by the way. But here I go by Sunstone," she introduces herself quietly to Imoen. "Bash will help get you settled real quick. He's amazing. And if after a time you wanna start learning some more dance and Luna and Andi say it's okay, I'd be happy to help, if you want. No one's too good to help someone else here." She shakes her head, as if the mere thought of it being any other way is distasteful. "I'm glad you're here. It's hard to be alone, or lonely. Especially when you've got a lot of shit hunting you down."
Playfully, she bares her teeth, immediately bursting out in a short bark of a laugh - another rare gesture, from the Wolf. "Get outta here," she encourages, following the hastily-departing girl with dark eyes, that then sweep swiftly back to Fiametta. She's half out of her seat in an instant, lithely-muscled arms bracing against the surface of the bar as she leans forward, her tone growing more intimate, though still marked by her typical air of aggression. "Hey," she exudes, that frown cutting back into her brow, and not departing this time, her stare smoldering but marked by a concern she wears more easily, after the speeches to Imoen. So, too, the softening of voice. "Never mentioned you had family in town. Feel kinda weird about that, but... it's my problem, right?" There's no uncertainty there; she's been /thinking/. "We should... talk more. Properly."
The bartop rag is snatched up, and boy are there lots of places to polish.
"I /do/ have to trust you," she asserts, her volume rising before she bites down on it, literally, teeth about piercing her lip as she shakes her head, watching the stunning dancer begin to frantically clean. Maybe they're /both/ manatees. "I mean, I do. I more than trust you, that's the problem. Maybe." Ugh. Her eyes roll heavenward, her cheeks puff out, and she barely stops herself snatching for the rag, fingers twitching impatiently against the bar. "Yeah, let's do the whatever thing. Tomorrow sometime? When we don't gotta be here, behaving. We can go fucking skydiving or some shit." Is that what mortals do for fun? She honestly doesn't remember. "Anything but eating," she adds hastily, glancing askance, "That'd be a bad idea."
But eventually she puts the rag down, runs a hand through her flaming tresses, as if trying to calm that light as well. If she needs to press the heel of her hand to her eyes, who cares. "If you have questions for me, I'll answer them the best I can." she says softly. "But I'm not ashamed of him. Or /you/. Or /them./" She lifts a shoulder, slightly. "There's nothing I've done that deserves any of you." But at the mention of eating, she frowns. "Why not? I don't care if you eat a lot. I'd like to taste--" but then she stops herself. "If we're not eating we can figure something else out, I'm sure."
She forces patience, in spite of it, not stopping Fiametta - letting her stop herself. Her teeth are clenched, her stare swimming with about a thousand things she wants to spit out all at once. It's just too much /energy/ right now. "But we can figure it out tomorrow, yeah?" She shoots back at the end of it all, frustration winding through the words, her hands leaving the bar surface, palms up, her dark eyes wide and insistent. She reels off a few of her thoughts, little more than a list of responses, because she can't hold it /all/ in. "Nobody should have to fight this hard to take something they want. What you 'deserve' ain't up to you. And knowing you're not ashamed of me..." She trails off, and that feral grin blazes to life, boiling her eyes to fervent embers, wild and free. Her mien, hulking over the bar, retreats a step with the rest of her, the ripple of fur echoing the shifting of tangled locks as she half-turns, keeping her gaze riveted on the emotionally-dishevelled dancer. Her expression eases, as she roots into a center. A feeling. True warmth; not the sizzle and spit of a greedy flame. "Sweetest thing I ever heard. Take a breath, Sunstone. I'll call you." | |