changes

"Dilara," Quin repeated, smile only growing. "Yeah, yeah. I remember your name. Hard not to," she chuckled, holding the cigarette out as an offering, tilting her head inquisitively. With a raspy laugh, Quin shook the woman's hand, "Oh, nah. I don't really know where they got the name, to be honest. Only child, but my Grandma used to say I was more than enough." She took another drag, glancing at Dilara, "What about you? Your family in town still?"

From the opposite end of the glass divider, Quin’s back towards them, they’d recalled watching her retreat and knowing there was little else they could do but force her lawyer to do his job and do his job well. They’d called their erratic calls to Jimmy’s cellphone, all harsh sighs and low rumbles, and his eventual surrender to Terry’s demands. A year was par for the course for Quin’s case, but the time stretched mercilessly on, and they’d found themselves counting the days when she would be free and then her world would be free to restart itself, far from New York and everything it held.  

New York was behind them now. Even Jimmy was behind them. There was only Blue Harbor and whatever this town entailed, from the litany of ghosts to the vastness of the forest. 

“I thought his crush on you was cute. Even if it was, er, possibly illegal.” A smile tugged at the corners of their lips, trying their best to find the humor in the situation, before taking another long drag of their cigarette. And of course, Quin had to remind them now that she was a lesbian. “Perhaps you just attract a type. Lawyers and lawyers-to-be. I’m not sure why that is.” Whatever Jimmy would’ve tried, and, good God, whatever their son would’ve tried—loathe as they were to invoke him now—was doomed to fail. But theirs… 

Terry pressed forward towards the cabin, the glare of the sun becoming slightly overpowering, no longer softened by the forest canopy, but beaten down against the far more residential space. The sun was harsh on their skin, to be sure. But Quin’s touch, as with her hair, her presence, was kissed by fire. Their instinct was to jerk away from the contact, but they let her hand linger there, two fingers brushing against a hammering pulse point. 

“I think we’ve done enough talking,” they began, ears going flush at the insinuation, but continued to explain. “What I meant—” They dropped their cigarette stick, tendrils of smoke still burning underfoot, and exhaled. “I don’t know what else to say to you. You’ll find, now that you’re back and surrounded by more people, that the life I lead isn’t particularly interesting.” 

Their house was so close. Yet they’d elected to stop at a nearby white oak tree, leaning against it, feeling the bark beneath their skin. “I don’t think you’re just a pretty face. But it does help.” they smiled. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking about now?”

So Quin nodded, even if she was internally agreeing to disagree. "Yeah, okay, I-- you're right. Thanks, Terry." She knew better than to tempt fate, had seen the way Terry's eyes flashed at Jimmy with every tiny misstep, like they'd just as soon disembowel him than let him smudge the lines of Quin's case. It was a grace Quin never could've earned, to have someone so fastidious and certain rooting for her. She still woke up craving the conviction housed in those hazel eyes. To be so sure about anything-- about herself.

"I'm glad it entertained you," Quin said, laughing and shaking her head teasingly, "But it was horrible for my personal brand." Any reminder of those early days with Micah, the way he'd stare at her with eyes as big as the moon, left her feeling... uneasy. She had no trouble ribbing him about it, but it was markedly different with Terry, especially because they... well. It was Terry.

"At least your son had the excuse of youth," Quin drawled, raising a brow as if to say, what's Jimmy's excuse?

If Quin felt like she was going to dissolve into ash at just Terry's touch, their unintentional innuendo was a kick in the gut. The swirling feeling was quickly overpowered by Quin's desire to extinguish Terry's fear, if it was fear that she heard in between the other's lines. "Well, I don't believe you for a second... but don't ya' think I've had my share of interesting?" she locked eyes with Terry, tilting her head and lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrugging motion. "I'm lookin' to slow down."

Quintana didn't know exactly what she meant by it, only that if Terry's pace was slower, if they wanted to spend the rest of their days birdwatching or counting fucking leaves or making daisy chains, Quin would happily oblige to stay in their presence.

She stopped when Terry did, admiring the shock of dark hair against the pale bark, a few rebellious strands licking their face. "It helps?" she asked, eyebrow lifting upwards curiously. Quintana took a cautious step forward, leaves crunching underfoot and hiding the sound of Quin's heart thumping. "What are you thinking about now, Ter?"

“Yeah, Rhia. Well, Rhiannon, actually — it's Welsh, and you know how much I love Fleetwood Mac.” It came out as a statement, his lips twitching into a soft smile. “When you come ‘round and knock, you ought to meet her. I don’t know if it’s a byproduct of the whole —” his hands teasingly waved around her face, her hair that was double the size of her, “— bird’s nest thing you both seem to have going on, but she reminds me a lot of you most days. Very … what’s the word? Eccentric? Wild?” Definitely my kid, he thought.

Perhaps joking about it was a meak attempt at lifting her spirits, beginning to notice the droplets of tears that lined the edges of her eyes. He wouldn’t stand for that. “It’s alright, Q,” he reassured. “How 'bout I, uh — text you this weekend, we can set something up? Or whenever you have some time?”

As if he was reading her mind, Eli confirmed that she was something wild. Quintana didn't feel worthy to be compared to her. "Yeah, I'd really like ta' meet her... if the old lady's okay with it." Quintana couldn't imagine that she'd come up at all, and she was sure the whole host of baggage that was Quintana Weisz didn't exactly make for good dinnertime conversation. "Listen, don't you ever let her straighten her hair, it's horrible, the damage, and it's-- she's beautiful just like she is, alright? Tell her that every chance you get."

She didn't know where the flurry of advice came from, if not a still, small voice in the back of Quintana's head that promised Eli was just being nice, that he didn't want to let a junkie around his only kid. Still, she nodded and reached her arms up around his neck for a hug. There was an air of finality in it, but she offered, "Yeah, okay. Text me. I got nothin' but time, E." Quin smiled, ducking her head and turning around so she could swipe at her eyes. "Stay outta trouble, okay?" she called, pausing and glancing at him over her shoulder like it was a goodbye.

Rory eyes the drink suspiciously. Cherry Coke doesn’t sound particularly appealing to him, and neither does taking a sip from a stranger’s straw, but then again — he can hear Eliza’s voice teasing him about not being adventurous enough, despite all the shit they’d get up to per her request. Maybe it’s the part of him that still longs for his partner that takes control, then, and — with a raise of his eyebrow at the woman — leans in and sucks on the straw. The taste is just as terrible as he’d thought it’d be, and he immediately pulls back, making a face as he swallows it down forcibly.

“Christ,” he coughs once. “That’s awful.” He thinks smoking isn’t helping, either. Somehow makes the whole thing taste of ash. “People like this?” He eyes the offending beverage suspiciously, like it’s got some sort of spell only Rory’s immune to. “I’m starting to believe you don’t know what a winning combo means,” he jokes, taking another drag of his cigarette in an attempt to mask the taste. Unsurprisingly, it only makes it worse. “These two things definitely don’t mix.” 

Laughing at the man's less-than-pleased face, Quin took the slushee back and took a long drink, as if proving that it was very much a him problem. "Yeah, man, it's like... the All-American treat!" She furrowed her brow, looking at him curiously, "But, then again, you don't sound very American. No offense, I'm not like, gonna call ICE or somethin'. The more the merrier, and all that," she rambled, holding up her hands as if to prove she wasn't one of those Americans.

Eyes crinkling at the sides with a hint of laughter, Quin placed her hand on her hip, "Where do you get off going and saying I got bad taste?" She waved her cigarette around before taking a long drag, as if she was here as the bastion for high society, in her ratty red cowboy boots and rattier Harley Davidson t-shirt, sucking down a quickly-melting Cherry Coke slushee, and chasing it with a cigarette. She was a goddamn American icon in the making! Quintana clicked her tongue against her teeth, challenging him, "Name me one combination that's better."

He likes Quin’s laugh. It’s got this earthy sort of tone to it, like it’s seen years of suffering but is no less genuine for it. His grin widens, almost flattered at the thought his teeth look like veneers. “You should start a rumor they are veneers,” he tells her honestly. “I’d like a headcount on how many people believe it. Maybe then I’ll be more inclined to scar these people for life with blood out of my mouth,” he jokes.

Listening to her recount her journey with sponsors, Damian hums a little at the idea that someone who may have helped Quin in the beginning of her journey is still somehow stuck behind bars. He’s unsure he’s fit to judge anyone, let alone absolve them of guilt or fault, but he thinks the world’s a little unfair to the people who most need understanding.

“Half a century?” He raises an eyebrow. “I woulda pegged her for sixty, at least.” He pauses. “Please don’t tell her I said that,” he adds, a little worried she might show up to his house in the middle of the night with a knife. The mention of Uriel softens him some. “Since I started,” he says, nodding. “The first thing he ever said to me was look around kid,” he mimics Uriel’s deep voice. “This is as good as it’s ever gonna get.” He snorts. “Seven years later, he’s not entirely wrong. You never really leave AA, do you?”

Quin raised her brow at Damian, letting an incredulous laugh loose from her lips. "You... want people to think you have veneers?" she attempted to clarify, shaking her head. "Is this like a class thing, like you just want people to think you have the money to get veneers?" She shook her head, unable to come up with another plausible explanation, but... not really even believing the class option.

Clicking her teeth, Quin raised a brow at Damian, as if he'd taken some grave misstep. "Well, I can't help you out there," she replied, mournfully. "Unfortunately she is omniscient, so she already knows you said that. Probably knew you were going to say it before you ever even thought it." She shrugged, as if there was nothing she could do. "Gotta strengthen your mind from intruders if you want to beat her at her own game. I'm talkin' mental blocks, maybe throw in a little foil hat to block her third eye." Quin was mostly just saying shit, throwing things at the wall to see what would stick.

She couldn't help but smile at the obvious trope-- sponsor dispensing vague wisdom to sponsee. It was nice to have constants in the world. "He wasn't wrong, but damn, I woulda been pissed off if my sponsor said that to me day one. You mean I'm gonna be eating shit donuts my whole life?" Quin joked, though she nodded seriously at Damian's question. "I don't really know who I'd be outside of it."

His eyes narrowed at her quasi-philosophical question. He didn't want to engage, especially not in a fucking gas station. But his mouth seemed detached from his mind at the moment. "Cerberus," He answered to her first query, "I wouldn't be surprised if you were hiding two other heads under all that," He gestured to her wild curls. "And no. I believe once you're dead, you're dead. No soul, no heaven, no hell. Why sit in eternity recounting life as a spirit when it's more useful being worm food?" He countered. It was a belief he always had. The Daniels' weren't raised extremely religious, though he and Ophelia had been Christened for appearance's sake. And stories about goblins and ghouls never frightened him.

All the ghosts in Roman's life all had beating hearts and the terrifying ability to get on his last nerve.

"Can I get to the fucking counter so I can pay and leave? And we'll never have to interact again?"

With a smirk, she dropped her hand and tried not to let her jaw go slack at Roman's nihilism. Hell, no wonder the dude was so miserable to be around. The thought, in an ideal world, would've lived and died inside Quintana's head... but her survival instincts hadn't kicked in yet. "That why you're so hell-bent on making everybody else suffer with you? I'd almost rather you go all American Psycho and try to kill me with a chainsaw, man, it'd be more original."

She shrugged, stepping to the side and pointedly gesturing to the counter, "Don't let little old me monopolize your lovely company."

"Yeah, well, I can't imagine going around calling people's dad's pieces of shit works out too well usually, but you're lucky I'm a good audience," he said, accepting the cigarette and the lighter. That, and he couldn't fault her when all she was saying was the truth. "First time, huh?" His brow quirked at the insinuation that there were others. "How long ago was that?"

"Never ask a lady her age," Quin said, faux-scandalized with her hand pressed to her chest. "There's a joke there about bein' raised in a barn... by a pig..." she waved her hand, dismissing the idea in between their clouds of smoke. "I was thirteen. He nabbed me a couple more times for other shit. Huffing spray paint, underage drinking. Can't a girl have fun anymore?" Quin asked the night sky. "You know the backseat of his cruiser always smelled like piss. It was almost impressive."