[Sybille St. Honore] (open scene?)
to Danny Jones
[Danny Jones] (OH! a people. *L*)
[Sybille St. Honore] (Yes! A real people! I’m not even a fake people, like one of those people made of SPAM you see on the food network. *grin*)
[Danny Jones] (and yes – otherwise Id be pretty silly sitting in a room alone, hm? *g* )
[Danny Jones] (hurray! guess i should post something then, eh? *L*)
[Sybille St. Honore] (Indeed, or else we’ll just be two people sitting in an open room, watching the gray chat wallpaper peel. He he he.)
[Danny Jones] Cabrini Green is not a nice place to live at any point in time. At night it is even worse. There is no police response time to speak of, and the streets are filled with gangs and drive-bys and crackheads and whores turning tricks at twenty a head. Pun intended, of course.
And also, one little Gnawer who’s as at home here as she is anywhere. Just inside the mouth of ‘her’ alley, she’s perched atop a dumpster, sitting crisscross applesauce. (That’d be Indian Style to those not in the know) A battered and well loved backpack is sitting between her and the brick wall behind her, cushioning her back as she leans there. And in her hands is a tupperware container that (hopefully) contains a fresh meal. Befriending the Durante’s was the best move EVER for this Gnawer’s belly…
She’s idly watching the street from her perch there, largely left alone as she digs through tamale’s like they might run away if she ain’t eat em up fast enough. Due to the lingering heat of the day, she’s stripped down to cargo shorts o’many pockets, and a tank top. At the bottom – boots on her feet, and at the top – her hair of the two-toned fabulousness, red and tenacious teal, of course.
[Sybille St. Honore] It makes Vegas look like New York, but since she’s never been to either of those places, she can’t really make a judgment call either way. It’s 1:00 in the morning, and that’s fine because there isn’t anything inherently wrong with that time of the morning (night for decent folk), except to say most people are sleeping, and so it’s hard to form a solid opinion one way or the other. It’s like trying to decide if you really hate fuchsia or if you’re just going with the flow: most people have never actually seen it, but they’ll go their whole lives making fun of it, belittling it, and that’s just about the most telling thing about human nature.
She doesn’t live in Cabrini Green, but that doesn’t stop her from being there all the same. It’s not a nice place to visit, but the nature of the business here means that she’s found steady work (a second job) performing her personal trade (best not to ask) and that when the little door to the repair shop opens and closes (squeaky hinges, sounding like rusty bolts and screaming babies being stabbed with sporks) it’s somewhat surprising to see the fairly-attractive-but-who’s-to-say-by-moonlight-girl who may or may not be in her mid to late teens step out of it. Working hard or hardly working? She pulls the door closed tightly, standing on the cracked sidewalk, reaching into her pocket only to…
…pull back an empty hand. Her shoulders stiffen and then sag, and she rests her forehead against the hard metal of the door, appearing defeated by something so simple.
Whatever could it be?
The scene is…well, it’s weird Jim. It’s just weird, like a squirrel humping a dead salmon.
[Danny Jones] The squeaky wheel gets the grease. Or the squeaky door gets the attention of the little Gnawer that could. (Could what? well, that’d take a while…) Now, when it’s said that she is little, one should realize that she’s not like baby or little kid little. Just little compared to most her friends (and to herself, at certain times in certain situations, ya? Ya.) If she stood, she’d be a good 5’4″ or so. But skinny – skinny enough that she looks like she ain’t eat a week, for all the fact that she’s eating a ton right now, and practically licking the tupperware as she empties it. Lord knows where she puts it all. And she’ll probably work it all off by something strenous like.. breathing. Or something.
Back to that squeaky door. She watches Sybille exit, and arches a brow at the dramatic sag and sigh. “Lose somethin?” Nothin ventured, nothin gained.
[Sybille St. Honore] It’s not often that 1:00 in the morning (what is it with this city and people hanging out in alleys anyway?) finds her with that many visitors, even here. She had a good way of sticking out of sight and flying low under the radar when she wanted to, but nobody’s perfect, and nobody’s ever really invisible. The curious voice from (Due south? As if you even know which way south is.) somewhere nearby causes her to jump, and she turns to look over her shoulder. It takes her a few long, ponderous seconds to decipher the origin of the voice: She of Crazy Hair and Tamales. Well, tamales she recognizes, but the girl is a mystery to her.
She smiles just a little and it softens her in that way lips have of making or breaking the difference between tired and lonely.
“Yeah, but I was kind of hoping if I just left my head here I’d pull it through the door through osmosis. What do you think the chances are?”
First Weird Alley Guy, and now Weird Alley Girl. Do they travel in packs, these alley people? (Har. har. har.)
[Danny Jones] Hey now, she’s not weird. Ok, so she is, but it comes with the territory and she has a perfectly comfortable box back there in that there alleyway that she sleeps in and most folks hanging out in alleys round here they just loitering. She at least lives the dream.
or something.
She rolls her shoulders into a shrug though, and shoves another bite into her mouth all civilized like with a fork and everything. Course, she then talks with her mouth full. “Slim t’none if my grades back in the day was any evidence. Studying by osmosis ain’t never worked neither.” She ain’t look old enough to not be in school. or up loitering at 1am either. Looks, they are a deceiving thing…
[Sybille St. Honore] Sybille doesn’t look old enough to have any business in a repair shop, either, but she has a strictly don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy when it comes to people’s private lives. Now, what they do to other people, with other people, or in public in general is another matter entirely. She can’t seem to keep her nose out of that anymore than a dog can keep itself out of the toilet.
It’s just nature.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m screwed.”
Whatever’s in there can’t be that important since she doesn’t seem terribly upset about it. If the girl’s age or her being on the trash can that way eating out of a tupperware dish that may or may not even belong to her is upsetting to Sybille, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she takes a few steps forward, her hands in her pockets and chestnut hair back in a strict pony tail. Standing, she’s not much taller than the other girl would be, although if she sneezed really hard it might knock her up to 5’5″. Her jeans are clean, but not expensive and her shirt bears no name brands.
“Mind if I come in?”
She asks, politely, gesturing towards the ‘other’s’ alley.
[Danny Jones] She chuckles and shrugs. “Well, wouldn’t got so far as to say that. But yeah – probably.” She has a friendly grin, Danny. It’s easy and slides across her lips as if it belongs there. She gestures with her fork after the question and nods. “Entrez-vous! An don’t ask me any more french cuz I ain’t know. Ain’t know no spanish neither, though rafi says I gotsta learn so’s I can thank Mama for the tamales. Oh – want some?”
She offers the tupperware easily enough, and there’s one corner that still has some left in it, even. She licks a bit of sauce off her finger as she watches the other girl, then looks back at the repair shop. “So, whatcha forget in there sides ya keys?” Curiosity killed the cat an’ all that.
[Sybille St. Honore] Permission granted (the hull’s been breached, cap’n!) she steps into the alley, unconcerned for whatever puddles or piles of whateverwedon’ttalkabout her tennis shoes might find (that’s why they’re not white, you know) as she moves to lean back against the dumpster which the other girl has turned into her own personal throne. The easy conversation between them, although they’re strangers, has relaxed her noticeably, visibly. Her hands slide out of her pockets, slim shoulders not so hunched, and there’s a certain pleasant shine to her smile that says ‘I like people’ just as surely as if she’d gotten drunk and tattooed it across her forehead in neon pink letters.
“Thanks.”
The offered food is accepted, a thing perhaps unheard of (isn’t taking food from strangers the first thing mom always says never to do?) and she’s nice enough not to eat the whole thing. In the world where she comes from, hungry isn’t a state of being, it’s the little bridge between observation and transcendence. But she does love a good tamale, does Sybille, and that’s home calling her name with a whistle out of the edges of perception. She munches on the tamale with eyes half-closed, weariness painting a mosaic across her features.
“Oh, you know, just everything a girl needs to get by. Purse, cell phone, my immortal soul . . . pads.”
She chuckles grimly, dropping her head for a brief moment. (Sometimes it’s too heavy for her thin neck.)
[Danny Jones] She watches the relaxation and the way Sybille leans against the dumpster and listens to her list of things desperately needed to get by for the day and night and she peers over at that door again and with that same lazy grin. “Ah. An’ if I told ya I could pick that lock before ya blinked, what’d it be worth to ya?”
There’s the feelin she ain’t askin for money, though, cuz well – danny don’t do that. She’s just makin conversation an’ shit. “Oh, an’ I’m Danny, by the way.”
[Sybille St. Honore] “My undying friendship?” She offers, the tiniest spark of hope flaring up inside of her. Maybe now would be the time to crush it, to stamp it out lest she get it into her head that something good might happen to sweep down like Batman and rescue her terrible day from becoming truly ominous.
“My name’s Sybille, and thank you, you know…for the tamales. I haven’t had a good tamale in, jeez, half a year, at least? If you can really get that door open I’ll work something out for you, whatever you want, within reason.”
It doesn’t even cross her mind that Danny might be joking about that. After all, this is the real world, and especially in this part of town, there’s no such thing as a free favor. Her smile doesn’t waver, though. If anything, it seems to deepen, taking on an aura of appreciation which makes her seem every bit as young as she really, actually, is. No deception there.
[Danny Jones]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 7 (Success x 1 at target 7) [WP]
to Danny Jones
[Danny Jones]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 5, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5) [WP]
[Danny Jones]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP]
to Danny Jones
[Danny Jones] She dimples into another grin and nods. “Undyin friendship it is. Or maybe just a favor later on down the way of equal livesavin value. I’m easy like that.”
She unfolds her legs, and slides her backpack on, cuz she aint never leave no where without it, and she hops down off her dumpster throne with a flurish. “Mama Durante – she’s the one what gave me the tamale’s. I’m friends with her boys, ya know? An she is an amazing cook. ain’t ate so good since I was back home. She always makes a lil extra for me now.”
She winks and waggles a finger. “Now, Ms. Sybille. Ya stay right here, an I’ll see about ya door. Trade secrets n shit.” She shoves her hands in her pockets and saunters over toward the door in question, and then makes sure that Sybille stays where she is. Then, with a little grin, she pulls something out of her pocket, makes sure to hide what she’s doin real good an then….
… she pushes the door open. With a grin she waves Sybille over then, a foot wedged in the door to make sure it don’t close one them again.
(That shoulda been diff 6. *L* but still, that’s 3 suxx)
[Sybille St. Honore] (That’s good enough for me, and for a rusty, tired old door, too!)
[Sybille St. Honore] Maybe her youth makes her a little naive, or maybe she’s just one of those genuinely pleasant, happy all of the time people that sitcoms are written about. She should have her own television mini-series starring a sock puppet version of herself with little black buttons for eyes and a big, red yarn mouth.
“I can do that, sure. Mama Durante sounds like a wonderful lady.”
She’s absorbing all of Danny’s fast words, her slight accent, the way she seems to horde that back as if it contained the meaning of life itself, and her curiosity is only spurred to greater heights, but she manages to prevent herself (somehow) from reaching out to pull open the zipper and take a peek inside. (What you don’t know and all that, right?)
She stays put as instructed, almost growing roots on the spot, and it isn’t until Danny waves her over that she jogs to where the other girl(?) holds open the door, squeezing through it and propping it open with the little piece of wood they used for such things during normal business hours. The interior of the shop is dim, emergency generator lighting casting a metallic sheen across the floorboards. She closes her eyes, flicking on the fluorescent overhead strip which flickers pathetically, buzzing, before shedding light over the work tables and sad excuses for electronics which call them home. Her purse, nothing fancy, just a little bit of brown cloth with a shoulder strap, sits next to what looks like a surprisingly complex machine. Its exact purpose isn’t easily ascertained at first glance, or even third, but the number of wires and data chips peeking out of its guts makes it look like a new species of insect freshly dissected for scientific advancement.
“Thanks so much. I’ll just grab my stuff and be right back.”
[Sybille St. Honore] (horde that back pack, rather.)
[Danny Jones] She grins and nods. “She is. Keeps Rafi in line and man she makes beautiful babies cuz Santi? is HOT with a capital HAWT. An’ he kisses like a fuckin DREAM.” Well then. She blushes and shrugs an watches as the other girl goes into the little shop.
Her pack is about as hard to break into and peek as… well. something. and it could be argued that what’s on the outside is far more interesting. The sturdy canvas is covered with patches – indy bands, old and new, and little decorations and even various sayings in sharpie marker. one of them is hidden around once side, between a couple of snarky sayings, is one that would be cause for ridicule no matter what the situation. “BeeGees kick ass.” Take it as ya will.
As Sybille grabs her stuff, dark eyes slip around and look at the insectoid thingy on the bench. Weird.
[Sybille St. Honore] “I wish I had time to think about cute boys and kissing. I guess I’ll just have to live vicariously through you. The only boy I’ve even talked to in about a week wasn’t all that kissable. Come to think of it, he was hanging out in an alley, too.”
Now isn’t that more than just a little bizarre? She grabs her purse and drags a cloth over the machines on the table, something else she forgot to do before she left last time. As she rummages around for her tool kit beneath the desk, her voice becomes more muffled, but still audible.
“Damn, what was his name? Kep…Kemp. Something like that. Anyway, he was kind of strange, but nice enough, but definitely not kissing material. Is Santi your boyfriend, then?”
Emerging from beneath the desk, she hefts a heavy metal case in one hand, grunting softly beneath the weight. Inside, what must be tools (or little animals made of steel) clank around as she shifts the handle in her palm, slinging her purse over one shoulder and making her way back to the door where Danny waits.
[Danny Jones] She snorts. Cuz Danny, she’s ladylike an shit. “Hell, chica, Santi was my first in like two fuckin years, serious as shit. Course I was all hung up on my Capt’n before that, but that was a stupid lil crush and well, Santi, he helped me forget for a while an’ shit and whatever. Ain’t say he’s my boyfriend or maybe I would but I dunno. I gots so much other shit to think bout that I ain’t pushin anyways.”
Then she mentions Kemp. and Danny grins bigger. “Kemp’s a great guy – he ain’t that strange, unless ya count moonin half the fuckin city but being scared to peek at my tattoo an shit… but yeah, I wouldn’t kissim, cuz he’s more like a big brother or something.”
She takes a breath and grins, as she nods to the shop. “so ya work here n shit?”
[Sybille St. Honore] “Oh? You know Kemp?” Danny’s rambling brings a smile to Sybille’s lips, and while she’s not, herself, quite so talkative, she has a great love of people who aren’t afraid to express themselves. It shows in the way her expression remains placid: by now, it’s likely that most people would be twitching at the edges to be rid of Danny, having used her to achieve their goals, or be searching for a way to turn the conversations to themselves. She pulls out the wedge beneath the door, tossing it aside with a flick of her wrist, and flicks off the light, bathing them in darkness once more.
“Wow, that’s kind of funny. What a weird conicidence. I don’t know, we’re not buddies or anything, he saw me working at another shop down south.”
The question brings a nod, and she shifts the weight of the tool box to her other hand, pulling the door closed and locking it this time from the outside with her set of (thankGodyou’reherewithmemyentirelifeisonthislittlechain) keys.
“Yeah, here, a couple of other shops in the city. I used to go to school here, but then, you know, life happened and I had to pull out. I realized it just wasn’t working out. What about you, do you live around here?”
[Danny Jones] Lots of folks have tried to use her, but well, she ain’t so useable most days. Unless it fits her own scheme. But anyway, even more folks start to twitch cuz she’s a little bit verbose on a good day. Gaia help everyone on a bad. But anyway, back to Kemp. “Yeah, me’n’him go way back. He ain’t even mind when I get all fuckin’ moody and yell at him. He just waits till I pull my head out my ass and apologize and then we’s all like buds again. He’s one of my oldest friends since I came here.”
She chuckles and shrugs. “Ain’t had no formal schoolin since I was like 12 or somethin. As for livin round here – you could say that.” She points to the alley way where her dumpster throne still sits. “Got me a rockin box back in there. S’home.” She don’t seem bummed bout it – accepting and easy even.
[Sybille St. Honore] (You live in a box?) Perhaps she’s simply sheltered, or maybe she thinks that living in boxes is something that only happens to people in books or movies, but when Danny points towards the dumpster, she seems (understandably?) surprised. Her brows go up, fingers loose around the tool box and purse she carries, and she darts a glance at the (yes, it’s smelly, all alleys are smelly) little box peeking out around the corner of the dumpster. Or maybe that’s just a shadow, and she’s imagining that it’s box-shaped.
“Oh…”
Is this a huge faux pas? She seems embarrassed, not for Danny, but for herself, and the rudeness of the question, although in actually it wasn’t all that odd. Her free hand comes up to rub at her shoulder, and she offers a small smile. “Hey, um, I know you don’t really know me, but I’ve some room at my place. It’s not, you know, Beverly Hills or anything, but it’s mine and, well, you helped me.” She trails off, laughing quietly at herself. Maybe it’s the late hour; it’s turned her brain to lukewarm pudding.
She doesn’t think people should live in boxes. So sue her.
[Danny Jones] She blinks at the reaction, and then laughs. “Aw shit, babe – ain’t no big thing. Me, I like to be outside. I’m a child of the concrete, I am. Specially in the summer ain’t bad, it’s the winter where it gets all fuckin cold n shit. But thanks for the offer. I’m good.”
She is, too. Nice and easy and simple, that. However… “Course, I’ll keep the offer in mind for anytime it gets too fuckin cold even for me. Deal? Now relax, cuz I ain’t offended or anything, so ya ain’t gotta be either, dig?”
It certainly explains why she’s so possessive over her backpack though, ain’t it? Her whole life is there, carried on her back, everywhere she goes.
[Sybille St. Honore] That’s not a life Sybille can even begin to understand. She’s never had to live out of a back pack or suit case. Her life, until recently, had never been the lap of luxury, but it was always comfortable, always safe. (Funny what happens when you grow fur one day and start wondering how to get blood stains out of your clothes without taking them to the dry cleaner.) Her tension relaxes slowly at Danny’s reassurance, head dropping a little, a soft blush creeping over her face which she waves away with a soft laugh. The tool kit is getting heavy; she’s no HeMan, and she can feel a cramp starting in her arm, her elbow beginning to lock up as the joint groans from the abuse.
“Fair enough. Here, let me give you my number and my address, before I forget. You just come by whenever. I’m not home all the time, I work, but you can call me and I’ll leave a key out for you.”
Do people this trusting really exist? Is she daft? She seems smart enough, but maybe she’s just real kuntry. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a pen and a receipt from the local fast food joint, settling the receipt against the stone wall of the shop to neatly pen out the information.
[Danny Jones] She grins and digs into her pocket for her little phone – a krazer, even, with a hello kitty pink phone cover. Yes. pink. Hello Kitty. 15 kinds of awesome, that! and she watches the number and keys it in right away on her little phone. “Deal. My buddy at the Digital Eye, he gived me this, so’s he can find me when he has a hankerin to share a pizza. Even pays cuz he gets sick of tryin to figure what Alley i’m crashin in. He’s such a wuss for a big ole boy.” She finishes hitting the little buttons, and then tucks the phone away into her pocket again.
Funny things happen when ya pop furry, and all. For Danny it meant she wound up here and in all all kinds a’scrapes and adventures an’ she ain’t have it any other way. Alleys are alleys, and Gnawers is just at home there as anywhere else.
Then. “So, ya gots any family or anything round here? or is it just you?” Curious. “an’ hey, why ain’t I help ya carry that shit an’ all. Looks heavy. I’m scrawny, but tough.” And still grinning.
[Sybille St. Honore] “Seems like you’ve got a lot of friends.” Does she sound maybe even the least bit lonely, just a twinge? Must be a byproduct of the exhausted hour. Folding the receipt up as best she can with one hand, she offers it up to Danny with a flash of a smile (straight teeth, clean lines, very sweet, so what’s her story?) and bends the arm attached to the hand which is starting to become attached to the handle of the tool kit to ease some of the pain in the muscle and tendon. This requires some fumbling, between handing the scrap of paper, balancing her keys, and not dropping the pen. She finally gives up and sticks the pen between her teeth, dropping her keys into her open purse, and the pen is quick to follow (slobber and all?).
“Family, no, well, I mean I have a cousin who lives outside the city limits, but most of my family is back in Texas. I’m from San Antonio, but I came up here for college; there’s a great engineering department here at the university.”
She seems to waffle, then, at Danny’s offer, not because she doesn’t trust the other with her (precious) tools, but because it seems rude to make someone else carry them. After a moment of deliberation, she offers them up with a grateful smile, motioning for the other girl to walk with her as she makes her way down the alley, her feet quiet on the cracked (and bleeding) pavement.
“Thanks. You’ve been a real life saver tonight. I haven’t worked here too long, but they warned me not to park here if I wanted to have a car when I got off shift.”
[Danny Jones] “I’ma friendly soul. An I ain’t so dumb as to not take some offer when folks wanna take care of me with lil things. Cept the sleepin inside. I like the open smog, an all that” Grinned, easily as she tucks the paper away, and then grabs the tool box.
Girl is stronger then she looks, eh?
She lifts a hand to scritch blunt nails along the line of her jaw before sliding fingers back through her hair to be sure her hair is spiked appropriately in two-toned greatness before tucking the hand in her pocket. “Ain’t never been to texas. Ran messages tween here n’florida but somehow missed the big ass state o’texas in my wanderings. Then I just met some folks and kind hung round here for the past year or so.”
She blinks though. “College? Sheeet. That’s awesome. Me, I ain’t never made it past gradeschool. Course, ya ain’t able to tell that by my stunning vocab, huh?” Laughter, then, soft and easy and free. “They’s right bout parkin here, though. Most folks get jacked straight away.”
[Sybille St. Honore] “I never thought I’d be timid about mentioning it, but it seems like most places you go these days, if you tell them you’re from Texas they think you should be wearing a cowboy hat and spurs. The people who do that in Texas get made fun of by everyone else who lives in Texas, because they’re mostly tourists. Well, actually, some of them are foreign and they just moved to the state, but they learn better quickly.”
Her own hair, and appearance in general, is given little attention. It’s clearly not high on her list of priorities, although she’d be quite lovely if she paid more attention to her clothing, and maybe wore something that fit her better than the frumpy shirt and loose, lazy jeans. The night is mostly empty except for the late night street walkers, and one or two clusters of people huddled in the alleys or in doorways. The bars have closed by now, and the only light which bathes the street comes from neon signs not yet snuffed out, and the occasional cracked but still functional street lamp.
“You sound fine to me. It’s funny. My father always said that an education doesn’t make you smart, it just gives you more respect. I guess I never really thought about it until recently.”
[Danny Jones] She snorts. “Hell, ya meet Kemp’s friend Skadi yet? Now there’s a fuckin Redneck.” It’s said with affection though, really. Sorta. “Even gots cowboy boots she loves more’n’anything I think. Course, when folks hear I’m from Miami an’ ain’t know no Spanish? I gets laughed at. Though Santi, he’s teachin me to cuss out Rafi – not entirely useful, but fun as hell.”
She ain’t no beauty herself, Danny. Nope. Well, she might be, when she’s all cleaned up. But she’s had a shower recently. Least within the last week. or two. But then she shrugs. “Ya pa sounds smart. Ain’t know who my Pa is. Mama Anne raised me with my boys back home in Florida.” You know how some words sound like they just mean more? Mama is like that when Danny says it. Mama Durante. Mama Anne. It’s said with a deep respect. Ain’t no one ever mess with a Gnawer Mama, Kin or Otherwise. “She ain’t my Ma, either. Ain’t never met my folks, but gots enough extended adopted family I ain’t really notice, an all.”
[Sybille St. Honore] “What’s the saying? Family are the people who are actually there, instead of the people that don’t ever call during the holidays? My family’s pretty close. San Antonio isn’t small by any means, but I grew up in the suburbs, and with the same people. I’ve known them my whole life, so I guess…I kind of understand what you mean. Some of their parents are like my parents, too. I feel just as comfortable with them. They spent just as much time raising me, in some cases more, than my mom and dad.”
She speaks quietly, her words thoughtful and carefully chosen from the recesses of her mind where the steady machinery of thought digests Danny’s intonations, rolling each syllable over the little rock tumbler behind her eyes until what went in (slightly tarnished silver) is ejected with little resemblance to its original shape and form (shimmering platinum). She glances over at Danny, undisturbed by the other’s demeanor.
“No, I haven’t met any of Kemp’s friends. It sounds like you’re all a pretty close group, though. He called me Sybil, like the girl with all the voices in her head.”
She smiles faintly at the memory, glancing down at the sidewalk.
[Danny Jones] She grins at the talk of family, and then when it comes back to Kemp… She snorts. We’ve covered the lady like thing – right? Right. Anyway, she snorts, again and chuckles. “Well, kinda close. I’d piss on him if he was on fire, if that’s what ya mean. Might even give his ass a drink if he was dyin of thirst. Sometimes even share dinner.” There’s that grin again, completely unrepentant.
“Sounds like him though – he gives me all sorts of shit for havin a boys name when he met me. ALmost had to flash the dude and prove I was a girl – I mean sure, they’s small, but they’s FABULOUS, ya know? But once he’s ya friend, he ain’t never turn his back on ya. He’s a good guy, one of the best.” Nods. Simple, that.
((hate to do this – but it’s getting late, I’m going to have to go soon… want to close us out? Danny’d walk her home and head back to her alley))
[Sybille St. Honore] ((That’s fine. It’s pretty late here, too. I’ll toss up a last post.))
[Danny Jones] (Fabulous. *Grin*))
[Sybille St. Honore] “That’s good to know. He said he’d put in a good word for me, with some people I’m looking for.”
She leaves it at that, nothing more, nothing less, but the words are certainly curious, aren’t they? Their conversation continues, the words rising and falling in the comfortable tones of those who are not familiar with one another, but have the makings of something close to friendship. She laughs easily, and when they reach her car (Seafoam green 2004 Honda Civic? How girly.) she thanks Danny for her help, tossing the tool kit into the back seat and exiting the parking lot for home. Considering the late hour, it’s really about time.
[Danny Jones] ((Thanks for the scene! Catcha again soon. *s*))
[Sybille St. Honore] ((Thank you! Good night.))