#wishwheel

at attention and thoroughly shocked, dylan's on her feet while receiving the single harshest words she's ever had from tally — excuse the commercial break, her monologue is starting up, surrounded by radio static: is this freak from long island? what the hell? did i not know that? — and locking her fingers behind her head, nose scrunched and eyebrows pinched. "... 'kay," she supplies during the intermission, eyes tracking tally as she moves, body turning as though a revolving door and not pressing forward just yet. she'd never admit it, but the down a friend threat? scary, very scary, not willing to compromise that part, despite the insistence on secrecy. "look at you," she argues nonetheless, hand thrown out, gesturing to the neon green attire that tally's in; not without a less than subtle up and down, mind you, but gesturing nonetheless. "you know i love playing gasoline and arson with you, babe, but i saw you earlier from my tree... from two parking lots away." her other perch. where she was taking pictures of people she thinks are vampires. her stalking tree. tally will understand. "you would've needed a wardrobe change, and i was working on a time-table. but, hey, i have more fuel in the scooby van. we can torch this place, too."