Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons.
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@quinweisz
Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons.
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Dee laughed and shook her head clearly amused by the curly haired beauty, but offered no words as she stood up to follow her outside. Her steps were calculated perfectly to ensure she didn’t make a fool of herself before stepping outside of the place. It would be far too embarrassing ending on her ass in front of all these people before the night even came to an end. Not that it’s happened to her before, Dee tended to be more cautious then not whenever she went out, but the thought alone was mortifying enough to ensure she kept her wits about her. Stepping out into the cool night air, Dee closed her eyes and tilted her head towards the sky. Feeling the breeze lighten her head. “Dilara.” she said, after her giggles settled and a puff of smoke traveled through the air around them. They had never been one to smoke, all the years of medical school put her right off those things, but she didn’t scrunch her face at the odor. She was far too familiar with its potent smell. Her smile grew wider at the full name disclosure and she extended her hand to shake, adding in her own last name, “Kaplan. It’s a pleasure to meet you - again - Quintana. Would you happen to follow in your namesake and be one of five? That’d be really impressive. Chaotic, but impressive.”
Quintana was a lot of things, but shameful wasn't one of them. As she drew her cigarette to her lips, Quin watched the redhead almost unfurl in the moonlight. Tilting her head back, shutting her eyes-- like a cat when it found the perfect sunny spot to stretch out in. She smiled, content to stand there silent, watching the moths playin' chicken around the streetlights.
"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?"
Terry had not expected Quin’s shrug, at her nonchalance in keeping her sobriety. “Don’t sell yourself short like that,” they began, their hazel eyes recast with steel, “Whether or not the five years count for you, you’ve made that choice every day since. That’s what matters.” Their visits to the facility were often marked with carefully neutral glimpses—kitchen jobs, smuggled onions, erratic payphone calls—but it was hard not to picture what came after it, the troubles that came behind its doors.
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?”
There was always something just beneath the surface with Terry. They were beautiful and shy and religiously into birdwatching; If one were left to fill in the blanks based on a first impression, they might assume Terry was soft and meek. Mild, even. But Quin had clocked that gleam in their eye upon their first meeting-- the steely gaze that offered a glimpse of a hard interior. Quintana knew that Terry was unequivocally not someone to fuck with.
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?"
It was reasonable that Quintana didn’t know much about Elijah’s life anymore, despite the fact that he’d still consider her one of his closest friends. She was locked up for half a damn decade, after all, and he wouldn’t have exactly expected her first thought upon release to involve him in the slightest. Checking her feed on Instagram to find out in an alternative way was also probably the least of her worries. Blissfully unaware of her inner turmoil, he thought that it was okay that she didn’t know before; what mattered was that she knew now, his heart swelling in his chest a little as he nodded.
“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?”
"Yeah, yeah, you always liked your old man music," she confirmed with a quick nod, eyes shining with the evidence of her guilt. "Rhiannon. I hope she's every bit as difficult as her name," Quin said, smiling like being difficult was the best thing in the world. Because to her, it was. A girl had to be difficult to make it out of this life honest. Unscathed.
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.
THE END.

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FRIENDS (1994-2004) → 1.04 'The One with George Stephanopoulos'
Raising an eyebrow, Rory tilts his head to the side curiously. “Flip one over?” he asks. He’d never heard of anything of the sort — then again, the superstitious one had always been Eliza, and she’d never been a smoker. “Didn’t know that was a thing, really. Has it been very lucky for you, then?” He grins slightly, expecting the answer to be in the negative. Mostly because the stranger had just witnessed the death of a giant cicada, and is clearly unhappy about it. Doesn’t think it takes much of a psychic to know that it feels a little unlucky.
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.”
"Yeah, you know," Quin said, like it was obvious, then pulled her pack back out and pointed to the one cigarette without the butt sticking up. "Then when you get to it later, it's like a whole... thing! Like, hell yeah, I made another pack last almost a week!" Quin said, mostly from her own experience. His question about luck stumped her for a minute, and she furrowed her brow, chewing on her bottom lip. "Oh.... uh. Well, not yet, but you know what they say, luck's always turnin'," Quin said with a grin, bumping up against his shoulder, "That, and luck be a lady, not a bitch."
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."
We don’t have to tell each other everything today, you know?
Damian supposes they have opposing views on the thought that counts matter, but that may be because he grew up dirt poor and learning it had to be the thought that counts, otherwise nothing really did. Not something he wants to get into with Quin, though — not when she’s so passionate about the donut situation. And he guesses there’s a difference between his philosophy and bringing stale donuts to AA because you can’t be bothered to get any better ones. “Wasn’t Mother Teresa like, actually a terrible person or something?” He frowns. Maybe he’s been reading too many conspiracy threads on Reddit. “Maybe she did feed orphans rats, who’s to say?”
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?”
"Was she?" Quin guffawed, genuinely shocked for a moment. What was there to do when, like, the person most famous for being a good guy was actually a bad guy? Star Wars didn't prepare her for this amount of moral quandry. "Shit.... guess I missed that memo," she shook her head, clicking her tongue, "Never meet your heroes, kid, I can tell ya that." Not that Mother Teresa was one of Quin's heroes, really, and not that she was even Catholic.
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."
One question rang through Roman's head as he stood and observed the red-head in front of him. What was the point of Quintana Weisz? Her purpose in life was genuinely confounding to Roman. She appeared as some tragic caricature of a court jester, except at least a fool in a jingle-bell hat would elicit a few laughs from the court. He wondered if Elijah ever kept her in his life out of pity, which led to further questions about why she got the oh-so grand privilege of having that place by his side as the keyboardist pushed out the rest of the band. The fucking family that formed together over their bond of music...
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?"
High school was mostly a scam. Middle school, even worse. Who had the idea to take every hormone-crazy kid and shove them in a homeroom at 8am every day? What ever happened to no cruel and unusual treatment? But, if Quin had learned one thing in all her wasted years in Illinois public schools, it was how to make an insult into a joke. Quin threaded her free hand into her hair, tugging it out to the side to make it even bigger, "You never know... I could be like that one freaky ass dude in Harry Potter hiding a whole other person in here. You know, that's not a bad Halloween costume idea..."
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."

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Foster wasn't really the type to just strike up a casual conversation with a stranger, and he usually viewed the people who were with an air of suspicion. The idea of sharing a cigarette with this lady, locking himself in for at least 5-10 minutes of small talk, should have immediately turned him off, but the fact she clearly had no problem shitting on his father made it too tempting to resist...
"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?"
Amused by his comment, Quin shrugged, "You know, it's about a fifty-fifty shot somebody'll actually agree with me, and I'm not so useful in a fight. Usually resort to biting way too early. So, basically, I had to learn to run real early." She took another drag, slipping the lighter back into her jacket pocket and taking a long look at the kid. Jesus, he really did have his old man's nose. Not that she'd be the one to tell him that. Quin was trying to be more sensitive these days, turning over a new leaf or whatever.
"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."
who: Quintana & @clementinebriar where: O'Shea's
At first, Quintana had figured that the stick up Leon's ass was a birthday thing, like a delayed release existential crisis... thing. Out of everybody in town, Quintana knew a little bit about staying up all night and contemplating the meaning of existence. Shit, that was practically her nighttime routine. But as his birthday came and went and her old friend was... almost assuredly avoiding her at every turn, Quin decided to take matters into her own hands.
Bursting through the doors like she had no better place to be at 1 p.m. on a Sunday, Quintana marched up to the bar. "'Scuse me, Leon in today?" she asked, taking a seat and planting both elbows on the bar. "Or is he gonna be coming in? I can wait, got nothing but time. Loooots of time," she drawled, resting her face on one hand as if she was already bored. "You got Fanta back there?" Quin asked, quirking a brow at the soda gun behind the bar. "Really cravin' something orange. But not like, citrus. Like fake orange, you know?"
THIS WAS NOT THE FIRST strange interaction that he'd been pulled into since getting back to bh. for some reason it seemed as if liam was a magnet to crazy. "i haven't been here in nearly a decade," liam replied wryly. "so, no, i think those are wildly outdated by now. unless you're interested in teenage hookup spots i don't have anything of value." liam couldn't help but scrunch his nose in distaste at the comparison. "hopefully prettier ?" he asked in a slight attempt to smooth it over. "i don't think milk got spilled. did you spill some ? and do you always sound like a magician trying to reveal their tricks ?"
Quintana couldn't help but frown at the man's news. "A decade? Well, looks like you almost got free of the tendrils of Blue Harbor," she rasped, making herself laugh with the image of a blue lady with impossibly long fingers. Could be almost hot, in a Frankenstein kinda way. Quin shook her head, lips puckered in disgust, "I'm decidedly not interested in anything like... that." She shrugged, tapping her cigarette against the table casually, "Wouldn't know. Wasn't ever into the swoopy hair thing, not even on Ellen." For the life of her, Quintana couldn't figure out what the phrase actually was, but it didn't seem like her new friend had any idea, either, so she let it go. "First of all, ouch, I'm not pulling a rabbit out of my hat like a freak. Second of all... what the hell?"
no situation existed where jasper would have said no. despite their apprehension, their fear, their worries of whether they should alert the authorities, their primary job was a librarian—and so that was what they would be. his nose scrunched at the joke; there was a fine line in their mind between truth and sarcasm, and quintana was more than toeing the edge between it. “it would be very difficult to chop anything up in a backyard you don’t own,” he moved hurriedly, yet expertly, through the aisles, a ratway of towering shelves and technicolor book spines. they glanced over one shoulder, keeping their gazes separate, navigating almost blindly. “what kind of skeleton? what was it like? i might know.” there was another pause, before he added, “ . . . i read a lot.”
"Right!" Quin said, like she was boasting. "Ispo facto ergo... er, hithertofore, I couldn't be Bundyin' much of anything. Though, now that I think about it... didn't he have an apartment?" she crinkled her brow, wondering if her penchant for rambling had just gotten her put on a list or something. Ah, well, let the feds have fun with it. Quintana had to step quickly to trail the librarian through the labyrinth of wooden shelves, and she was immediately impressed with their dexterity. Quin could study the layout of her own pantry for a year straight and still forget which shelf was rice and which shelf was expired ramen packets. "Holy shit, you really are like a megamind or somethin', huh," she marveled, and was halfway through workshopping a joke about how she would lose her head if it wasn't attached at her neck when Quin snapped back into focus on the task at hand. "Oh, uh.... kinda like... snakey, from what I can gather? Like...." she made a slithering motion with her hands. "It seemed like a lot of little pieces of, like, a spine maybe?" She laughed, clicking her tongue, "Yeah, no shit, you read about skeletons too?"
FLEABAG "1.06"

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who: Quin & @moshebehar where: Latte Love
Quintana was starting to think she was going crazy. Sure, it wasn't the first time the word had been used in conjunction with her. God, it probably wasn't even the tenth. But this was different than her usual over-exaggeration of the circumstances to benefit the narrative. Telling a good story was an art, you know! No, this... this was something else entirely. Potentially something extraterrestrial. In the family, for sure. Quin had been up all night racking her brain and scrolling Reddit for any kind of explanation, and the results were... less than helpful. So now, nursing her triple shot latte, Quin's eyes fell on the perfect stranger. Perfect as in academic-looking, not attractive-- to her, anyway.
"'Scuse me, you a man of science?" Quin asked, sliding into the chair opposite the man and trying to get a closer look at the papers he was scribbling on. "I only ask because I'm in a particular predicament and I'm no scientist myself so I really need to bend the ear of somebody who knows a little somethin'," she rambled, catching herself before she devolved into absolute nonsense. "Basically, I think I'm being haunted. Or... hunted? Um. There's all this unexplainable shit happening in my apartment. Magnets falling off the fridge in the middle of the night-- like, all of them-- decorations gettin' turned upside-down. Real spooky shit. And I don't have a roommate. Or a cat." She looked at him with big, questioning eyes, "Can you help?"
#job interviews be like NEW GIRL | 1.04 Naked