ataraxionlogs | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

CHARACTERS: Taylor "Tyke" Kee (

puppydogeyes) and OPEN
LOCATION: Holodeck 1
WARNINGS: Swearing.
SUMMARY: Tyke + bottle of space vodka + cello. Not as destructive a mix as you might think.

The cello's been in Taylor's locker for a month now, appearing with a load of her clothes from the Academy on the last jump. She'd pulled a face at it, first finding it – taken the clothes and shut the door. The rest of the month had been enough to put it out of her mind, though she hadn't entirely forgotten it. It was an unwelcome reminder, tied way too closely to Instructor Pinset and everything she liked to say (and Taylor hadn't been able to ignore just how good her mind had been at cooking up the woman's voice when she was under the influence of that toxin shit), but ignoring it didn't do anything. It was still there, a month on, when Taylor went back to check her locker for anything new – something she didn't get to on her initial move out after the jump, Tommy helping her back to her room to recover from how the jumps liked to fuck her up.

It's still there, and she's tempted to pull another face at it and shut the door again, but she ends up standing at staring for a good long while instead. Stitches still in her shoulder and back, she's benched from security, from 'strenuous activity', and stir crazy didn't quite go far enough to cover how she's been feeling. Finding outlets where she could, even if it involved pulling the stitches once (twice), but she's been doing better on that since she gave in and hit the ship's stock of space alcohol.

The cello offered something to do, and she holds onto that, shakes off any of her resentment for the instrument or what it represented. Hauls it out of the locker, opening the case to check it over, but there's no way she's going to try any tuning or playing in the medbay. Way too public.

Half an hour later and she's made it to holodeck 1. Snagged a bottle of something clear and engine fuel flavoured on the way, programmed herself up a chair and settled the cello into position against her body. The two dogs she's got with her are in a half-doze a few metres away, undisturbed by her tuning the instrument, broken snatches of songs as she slowly reminds herself how to play.

[[OOC: feel free to have characters hear the music and come investigate or whatever! Opener is prose but I prefer action tags, thanks.]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Libby was concerned about her crew. Her latest linked operating system, as she thought of it privately. A thing to optimize and tweak, build connections into without making any herself. But things weren't going right. Most of the components fit fine. But the main driver and the programmer were in conflict. Libby couldn't get a hold of Nikolai. The memory was fine, the auxliary drives were fine, she had them snug in the OS. But the power of the machine was twisting and out of her hands. She couldn't figure it out and that was stressful.

(She thought this way about machjnes too. It's not humanizing them; it's pointing out humans are machines too, they can be wired and programmed to work together. If she does it with other machines she can do it here.)

Her self upgrades weren't good enough and he seemed to think he was the programmer and she was junk tech. Completely wrong. Who was hacking the Loki system? She was. She was the one doing all the programming but he kept being a concern.

Like she always did when a program was a problem, she went for a walk. This wasn't helping her personal system crash; she was exhausted all the time, rationing her medicine. Sinc her fingers trembled in stillness sometimes she made a point to keep them moving. She couldn't remember the last time she ate--she'd gorged herself here, amazed, but now it didn't seem worth it.

The Loki problem was the reason for all of this. She had to extract the useful data and get out, as elegantly as possible. She should have been working on that and not her novel system, but she had to sustain both, and it was driving her up walls. She needed her system after Loki for survival. She needed his data for survival.

It was wicked fucking awful.

(No one ever sees Libby like this. Focused, not manic. Efficient and actually quiet for once in her fucking life. She doesn't let them see it because what a boring face it is--forgettable. Erasable. It doesn't demand attention.)

Tyke doesn't see that face. Instead she sees Libby, smirking and holding a bottle of rum, eyebrows raised. She had come out of curiosity because--a cello, here? When she was hissing her loathing at Edgeworth she left out the part of her life that had cellos in it. Not relevant to her now. But yeah, she remembered. She had a piano.

"A fucking violin," she lies, waving the half empty bottle, "Classy rad, bud. Fuck are you doing with a violin?"

Libby: blonde, short, slight. Currently not wearing her sleeves rolled up. A newsboy cap over messy hair. Not a very imposing figure.

[It isn't like Taylor thinks she's in a private space. The holodecks are communal, much like near everything else on the ship. But unless it's some sort of group gathering - like fight club - she'd think there'd be some unspoken thing of not interrupting someone else's shit. She could have something much bigger going on in here than a chair and a cello, right?

She doesn't recognise the girl, but there are things about her that are familiar anyway, because there's a part of Taylor that looks for the Academy in every girl she meets. It's more defence than looking for comfort in the familiar. The Academy was all fuck and fight, prove your worth every second of every day, and even with all her months on the Tranquility, Taylor still bristles to have someone looking like that and talking like that in her vicinity - spine straightening, chin lifting, eyes narrowed.]

It's a cello. [Mistaking one for a double-bass, she's dealt with that before, but what fucked up place did you have to be from to think a cello was a violin?] What do you think I'm doing with it? It's mine.

[Defensive, like she looks like someone that shouldn't be anywhere near a cello. She doesn't, really. Black hair badly cut with a razor blade, worn jeans with a knee missing, one shoulder ringed with a messy semi-circle of healing wounds (still struck through with black medical stitches), the other sporting a fresh tattoo, roses and skulls, self-done jailhouse style. She looks like a punk with an attitude problem and a temper, which she'd probably agree was a pretty accurate summation, if she knew what a punk was.]

Cello, violin. Whatev.

[Violins and fucking cellos, while a piano would never fit in her locker. Could she simulate something? And why did she fucking care? But if a girl as jagged as her can do it, why not Libby? It was like coding, precisely complex. She could join the damn musical revue. She swaggers into the room, taking a shot from her bottle.]

Sounds good, anyway. Where did you get the tat? [She jerked her head at it. It was about time she got her own, right? And building a tattoo gun would be no problem. A constellation. She'd decided on the ship. She just had to find one through the science lab scopes and name it. New stars, new life.]

'M Libby. And I'm not going to roll you for the cello, settle the fuck down.

I'm settled.

[Slightly riled, but not anything more - there was a huge lump of wood keeping her in the chair. If she was really expecting a fight, she'd need to be up and away from the cello. Not that the girl seemed like much of a threat, physically, but growing up surrounded by girls with pathoses had definitely left Taylor knowing not to underestimate someone based on appearance. Her hand tenses slightly around the neck of the cello.]

Did it myself. Needle and ink.

[Stolen from the medbay back when the demons had been on the ship and she'd needed to put Dean's anti-possession symbol on herself and Tommy. It had been luck she was used to doing jailhouse tats. There weren't any tattoo guns on board - though she'd sent that request through to Tony Stark a couple of days ago - and she probably wouldn't have known how to use one if there were.]

I need one. Or more. I kept putting it off at home, but--

[Libby shrugs. The girl seems like she's the type to understand, and so in boldness Libby sits down cross-legged and....chugs. She is actively, actually drunk, and it makes her warm and forgetful. Fuck all her problems. She was in such a mood that if Liam were here and wanted to shoot up--she'd be sticking out an arm. She did things like that sometimes. Not an uppers girl, she said, because she was already up all the fucking time and she wanted to come down.

She didn't know why she could never come down. Why still was never good enough. So maybe she'd ask this girl to plant ink under her skin and see if that would pin something down.]

Do you do commissions? I can pay. I'd do it myself but it would look wicked awful, I'm a terrible fucking artist.

But you--musician hands. Very delicate. [Libby waggles her fingers and laughs at herself.] I just need to find my constellation.

[Taylor's silent for a moment, wondering just what the fuck to do with all of that. It's been a long time since she's been talked at like that, just excitability and energy, words and subjects jumping around without any contribution from anyone else - and the fact Libby just sits herself down, no invitation, Taylor still bristling slightly only a foot away.

It's been a long time, but she knows exactly who it reminds her of - several someones - especially with the alcohol involved. She knows how to deal with it, in that she doesn't really need to. Libby's not looking like she's going anywhere, and maybe Taylor can do something more about that if she gets really annoying, but otherwise it was harmless.]

I copy. [Not an artist. She was shit at being creative, outside music, part of why she'd always been so insistent that she was shit at that too. Pinset had never listened, though.] You find me a picture, I can do it.

[The skulls and roses on her arm, Shoggoth had drawn them for her, a fuck and a favour. Taylor knew them by heart, had tattooed them on herself at least five times now. It had just always been healed away as soon as an instructor caught it. She looks back at the cello, starts strumming her thumb against the strings and adjusting the tuning pegs as she goes.]

Paying's pointless, there's no money here.

[Not that she'd know what to do with it if there was any. She hadn't handled any money since the last time her mom had sent her to the gas station 'round the corner from their house to pick up a packet of smokes.]

There's favours.

[Libby grins. She knows she's obnoxious and unwanted; that's normal, she invites it. It feels safer than all the people trying to be her fucking friend.

Larkspur had been more a violin girl. Libby knows stringed instruments, and some of that is betrayed by how avidly she watches Tyke's hands. Another slug of rum and she beams, heartless and bright.]

I'll get you a pic. You got a name, sullen and dark?

Yeah, it's 'fuck you and your adjectives'.

[The comment's lacking any real bite, Taylor well-aware of how she comes across, has been called far worse in the past. She'd prefer people acknowledge it and fuck off - or at least, that's how it used to be. Seven months on this ship and it wasn't about getting left alone so much, not anymore.]

I don't need any favours. [There were things Taylor missed from home, sure, but she wasn't going to go out of her way to get them - and she couldn't think of anything one skinny kid could do for her that she'd want for a trade. Taylor made do with what she had, dealt with what came at her when it came at her, always. She glances up from the cello, brief, but long enough to indicate what she says is her name:] Tyke.

[ She's got this feeling like Tyke's pissed at her and she doesn't like it. She doesn't like a lot of the emotions that advertisement with Crowley brought out in people, in her -- it wasn't fucking supposed to. People were supposed to respond like Edgeworth and Tate and Neal, not care about her past the fact that she's pretty, and it's put her on edge. She's paced the corridors more than usual as a result, sometimes human but typically as some sort of an animal. By chance it's a dog today, so it's a dog who noses into the holodeck at the sound of music.

At the sight of Tyke, she sort of wishes she were something smaller; a fox, maybe. Still noticeable, with her bright orange fur, but despite how much Jaye loves being in the light, right now she wants to hide in the shade. But instead she's a dog, some sort of mutt, her numbers hidden under her fur.

She should leave. She doesn't, though. Instead she takes a seat by the door, watches. Listens. ]

[Taylor isn't the only one on board the Tranquility with dogs. She knows that, has dealt with a couple of them already, but with so much time in between of only her three, it's still something of a surprise to sense another nearby. She doesn't stop what she's doing for the minute, trying various notes and adjusting the cello's strings as she goes, doesn't want to spook it - waiting to see if whoever it belongs to is close behind.

No one makes themselves apparent, though, and she finally looks up. Hearing dogs like she does, it's like tuning into a radio frequency, one she can't shut off but she doesn't need to concentrate on all the time. It takes very little focus at all to touch on this dog's mind - and even less time after that to realise it's not running like a dog's mind at all.]

You want to turn back into what you're meant to be?

[It was Catskin, therianthropath, at the Academy, always coming to hang out with Taylor and her dogs. Taylor didn't mind it so much, with her, but with no fucking clue who was hiding under this dog's fur, she wasn't interested in playing. Her words are accompanied with a strong sense of not dog, wrong in the animal's head, but she doesn't go so far as to make it a command.]

[ Does she want to? No, no she doesn't. But she can feel Tyke in her brain, doesn't want to see what else the woman can do with dogs while she's stuck as one-- and maybe she feels like she ought to, a little bit. Like Tyke deserves that much, for whatever reason, whether it's because she's given Jaye some pointers on the ship or because of her reaction to Crowley's advertisement.

The dog tilts its head and then it's Jaye tilting her head the other way, fur having been replaced by jeans and a Jack Daniels t-shirt. She glances away from Tyke over to her dogs, checking to see if they're going to react badly -- Chubbs has seen her shift, but the other one hasn't.

And it's easier to look at them than Tyke right now anyway. ]

[Maybe she should have expected it to be Jaye. She was the only shapeshifter Taylor knew of on board, but that didn't mean she was the only one, period. It's a different sort of transformation than what Catskin did, but the end results were the same. Taylor frowns at her for a moment, then goes back to tuning the cello.]

What do you want?

[The last time she'd seen Jaye had been on that sleazy network message, and just thinking about that had the bad taste coming back to Taylor's mouth, even with the lingering paint-stripper flavour of the alcohol she's been drinking. Doing whatever the fuck you wanted with your body, she was good with. Manipulating men, the same - shit, that one she'd even been trained in (not that she'd been any good at it). But she hadn't got the sense of either from that video, and Jaye's reaction had just made it worse.]

Nothing.

[ One hand rests over her knees and Jaye slides her nails together, still not looking at Tyke -- looking at the holodeck instead. It reminds her a little too much of illusions, and Jaye prefers things that are real, so she hasn't been here much. She might avoid it more in the future, if things don't work out here and now. ]

Was just walking by.

Just walking by. As a dog.

[It comes out flat and disbelieving, even as she doesn't turn any expression like that on Jaye. Just keeps fiddling with the tuning peg on the A string, getting it to a good point before moving onto the next.]

Tiger draws too much attention, wolf and bear are currently on the hot list for attracting unwanted attention. So dog.

[ She's defensive, skin prickling, and part of her is urging her to leave but she's too stubborn to do it just yet. She hadn't come looking for Tyke, she'd just happened across her. ]

I didn't mean to interrupt.

Cause human's too showy.

[She glances over, then, eyes hard and closed-off. She'd liked Jaye, before. Enough fight in her to remind Taylor of the Academy, but not as much of the crazy, the fucked up aggression and constant headgames. Now she had no idea what to do with her - so it was just nothing.

She leans over from the cello to pick up the bottle of liquor she'd swiped from the kitchen, twisting the cap off one-handed and taking a good mouthful.]

You didn't.

[It's not clear whether she means that there was nothing to interrupt, or that Jaye just wasn't important enough to interrupt anything. Maybe both.]

Too vulnerable.

[ There's more growl in it than she'd intended, but she doesn't bother to try and correct it. Tyke can be pissed at her for doing what she wants with her own body but for some reason, Tyke thinking that she was a dog just for her is really setting her on edge, teeth grinding together before Jaye unclenches her jaw. ]

It's just what I picked. Doesn't have shit to do with you.

[ There's that urge to turn and leave again but she ignores it, refuses to slink off with her tail between her legs. As far as she's concerned, she didn't do anything wrong. Does she want to know just why Tyke's pissed at her? Yes. But just like the form she'd picked, what she and Crowley are doing doesn't have anything to do with Tyke. It just is. ]

Yeah. Us poor vulnerable humans, wandering around with no way to defend ourselves.

[Flat, looking at Jaye straight on. There might be a cello between the two of them, but Taylor still knew how to keep her chin up, indifference and challenge both in the line of her spine. It's not even the dog part that's pissing her off, now. Just the whole thing, the whole of Jaye in her space. Maybe it should be worrying, how easy it was to settle back into that kind of thinking, but with the alcohol in her she isn't caring. Cartazonos students never left the Academy; the Academy never left them, either.]

Fuck, you ever listen to yourself? No, right, cause that'd involve thinking.

Have you seen some of the other passengers on this ship? Vampires. Werewolves. Shit that's not either but is still strong enough to take on a fucking grizzly bear and win. Yeah, we're fucking vulnerable -- not only that, but we're a food source.

[ She's visibly straightened, responding to challenge with challenge. Jaye doesn't do indifference well though, no matter how much she tries -- her temper flares too strong and too bright. ]

I'll do what I have to in order to stay alive, whether that's walking around the ship in whatever skin I want or playing the dumb blonde sex appeal card.

You don't know the shit I've seen.

[It's not a boast, and it's not trying to dismiss the threats on the ship. She's dealt with big and bad, things that should have and nearly did kill her. She hadn't said anything about humans not being vulnerable - just that they had their own ways to defend themselves. And if Jaye couldn't manage that as a human, that just made her weak.

Taylor looks away again, setting the bottle back where it was before shifting the cello slightly, as if it had fallen out of position against her body.]

You weren't playing a card. You didn't know what the fuck you were doing. That sleazeball's using you, but it's alright cause you're bored.

And you don't know the shit I've seen, either.

[ As far as she's concerned, why bring a knife to a gun fight? She has her gift, so why not use it? The senses are better, the speed, the strength -- and people don't bother her the way they do when she's human. ]

I knew what the fuck I was doing. What I don't know is why everyone's got themselves in a fucking mess over it.

[ The frustration at something she can't understand is clear even now, though it's far more directed at herself than at Tyke. She doesn't see why it's a big deal, but even more she doesn't see why other people see it that way, why they care enough to be upset. ]

You don't know. Can't play a card if you don't know how people are going to react.

[Basic rules of infiltration, of manipulation, and Taylor had never been good at it - she was recon, sabotage at the most subtle; temper and bad attitude made it impossible for her to pretend to be anything other than what she was for long enough - but she knew why, she knew how it worked. She shakes her head.]

Shit, you're an idiot.

Well, now if he fucks me over everyone's going to be way more willing to take my side. His fault for being overly friendly.

[ She really isn't good at manipulation past basic sex appeal but gods help her, she tries. She works for a trickster; she should be better at it, needs to be better at it on a ship like this where she's tangled up in demons and where politics are everywhere. ]

Says the one who ripped her stitches out in fight club.

[The last comment gets something more than the cold dismissal Taylor's been sticking to, looking up from the cello with a scowl, something more like actual anger in her eyes. She knew what she'd done was stupid, but impatience and frustration had gotten the better of her, inexperience with stitches and healing. It wasn't the same oblivious ignorance as Jaye had exhibited - was still exhibiting, saying things like overly friendly like that was all it was.]

You want me to come do it again? [An upward jerk of her chin, stiff and aggressive.] Get the fuck out of here.

You could try.

[ At least it's anger now. Anger and not just ice, but Jaye doesn't actually feel like fighting Tyke right now -- mostly because she doesn't feel like fighting Tyke's dogs. She rocks up onto her heels but doesn't stand, crouches and watches the other woman for a moment more. Retreat's not her favorite but what's the point in fighting over something this fucking stupid when Tyke's injured anyway? It's tempting to shift and leave but instead she stands, drags her hand against the wall as she turns and goes to the door, only to pause in the doorframe. ]

Hope your dog's doing okay. [ She means that, and then she's out the door and gone. ]

[ Feeling restless is something that Oxford can understand. This jump and its arrivals have left with a lot more pent up energy and emotion than he cares to deal with, and it translates into lack of sleep and excessive passing of the ship whenever he finds himself need something to do (but usually has nothing). He knows that he has too much on his mind, he knows that he ought to find someone to talk to, if he can't find a distraction, but the desire to spill his heart out about how much he still thinks about Hotspur's death, how much he worries about Aberdeen, how strange Durham's reaction to him was - it's not exactly one of the greatest, right now. Ideally, he'd like a drink and to get laid, but he has been a bit rusty with his charm lately. He's not sure how soon that would become a realistic option.

The sound of an instrument being tuned catches his attention. He stops for a brief moment to listen before he starts to follow it, until he reaches the entrance to the holodeck. His eyes briefly flit down to look at the dogs, and he keeps his distance, his eyebrows raised - with both surprise and some appreciation - as he sees who it is with the instrument. ]

I wouldn't have taken you for the musical type at first glance.

[The cello's out of shape. Almost like it's been neglected for months, and Taylor wonders if that's the truth of it. That life was carrying on back home without her, that her cello had been sitting untouched in the corner of Instructor Pinset's classroom since she first woke up on the Tranquility. It's not a thought she really likes lingering on, it makes her head hurt, and she's already paused in adjusting the strings to reach down and grab the bottle of space-alcohol when she hears him speak. Recognises his voice even as she glances over, half a frown.

She didn't want to be the musical type. It was Pinset that had insisted she was, insisted on dragging her to class every time she attempted to ditch, insisted there was talent there when Taylor picked up the cello - talent and skill in general. Taylor fought her every step of the way, and here she was, willingly playing the cello, as far away from the Academy and Pinset as she could get.]

There's some shit they say about first impressions, right?

[Grudging and defensive, though she couldn't say against what. She takes a short drink out of the bottle, swallowing the mouthful with barely any reaction to the foul taste, quiet for a moment after. But she'd just said about first impressions, and Oxford wasn't living up to his right at the moment.]

You lose your razor?

[ Her response does not surprise him, and with a faint smile, Oxford takes this as some amount of permission to come closer. He feels as though he has intruded upon a private moment, but natural curiosity beckons him to stay rather than do the necessarily polite thing and leave her be. Of course, he personally thinks that a strong drink mixed with instruments is always a good idea, but then again, he's the type that would enjoy the sensation of being drunkenly serenaded with somewhat sloppy Elgar at four in the morning. That, however, had been at university many years ago and conducted with a piano, not on a spaceship with a cello.

He resists a faint urge to touch his own jaw, with mild self-consciousness. If memory serves him correctly, over the years he has never looked like this; always clean shaven, neat and classically handsome, as a few had pointed out to him along the way. This is unnatural. Oxford's starting to get used to unnatural, and he doesn't like that very much. ]

No, I have not, I merely haven't felt much of an inclination to use it.

[ He maintains the smile, without the slightest hint of antagonism. ]

Edited 2012-08-03 01:08 (UTC)

[Taylor frowns at him, his smile and his lack of inclination to shave. Not living up to his first impression, and maybe there should be a part of her feeling vindicated - she'd told him, that shit didn't matter. They were in space, dealing with all sorts of fucked up. His shirts and his cuff-links and his classically neat jaw weren't going to help shit.

But Taylor's always been the sort to pick fights like that. It doesn't necessarily mean she knows what she's going to do when she wins. And seeing him like this doesn't sit right at all, seems sad more than anything. Like he's giving up on something that he really shouldn't be giving up on - maybe a bit like her, playing a cello she'd always maligned as a useless lump of wood.]

That's fucking weird.

[There's a decisive kind of edge to the way she says it, like she knows the rest of what's swimming in her head and doesn't want to touch it, too much of herself tangled up. But she holds out the open bottle to him. If they were going to be shucking first impressions like this, they might as well have a drink together over it.]

Mm, isn't it? I don't believe I've ever gone a day like this before, but then again, I never expected to be spending months after months in space, so I suppose it was time to move with changes rather than resist them all the time. [ A pause, and he continues with a remark that he feels might annoy Tyke vaguely. ] Besides, don't you think I look terribly dashing? I'm starting to rather like it.

[ If she thinks that there is some defeat behind his appearance, there is. He maintained his appearance as part of an image, as an outward facet of personality that gave you a glimpse of the man he was; meticulous, tidy and smart. Sometimes it was an impression that caused some to admire him, others to mock him, but that didn't matter, that was just him. In a way, he has started to accept that he's losing himself, to a certain extent. Who cares about cuff-links and expensive shirts in space, after all?

The offered bottle surprises him, a little, but it also causes him to maintain his smile. He doesn't remember the last time he had a drink, but even if this stuff is terrible, why not give it a go. It's been long enough, and there's nothing like a bit of alcohol to help you bond. He takes it, with a nod. ]

Thank you.

[Taylor's frown turns into a scowl at the dashing comment, but she at least lets him take the bottle still before she very definitely turns her attention back to the cello.]

Don't think much about how you look.

[She'd noticed the scruff, obviously, but she'd been trained into observation. About what appearance could mean for the person underneath, wearing it, their status socially or mentally. But what she thought about it - in terms of things like dashing and shit like that - didn't come up. Not much. Definitely hadn't with Oxford.]

No, I didn't think you would.

[ Taking a healthy swig from the bottle, Oxford immediately remembers why he gave up drinking anything outside gin, scotch and wine on a regular basis long ago. The burn in his throat is unpleasant, and he winces as it goes down, but there's something oddly cleansing about it in the midst of all the discomfort. Running his tongue over his teeth, he merely looks at the bottle in hand for a long moment before he speaks again, his eyes on the cello. ]

May I ask what prompted this?

[She's quietly tuning the instrument by the time he speaks again, fingers thrumming the strings carefully, adjusting the pins as she goes. It's an almost absentminded practice, long familiar; she doesn't look up, even as she answers him.]

Won't let me run patrols. [A shrug. Her arms and shoulders are bare except for the slim straps of the shirt she's wearing, white against the black stitching run through the healing bite circling one shoulder.] Been climbing the fucking walls.

[ He's been looking for somewhere quiet and out the way so he doesn't have to play nice with whoever comes to him asking for whatever the hell they're asking him for. He's still pretty set on avoiding most people so he can keep avoiding everything else he's working to bury, but sooner or later he knows something's gotta give. He's still waiting, his feet carry him a familiar way down towards the same venue they use for fight club. There's nothing scheduled for today as far as he knows and he's bored of sticking to the same damn hallways and abandoned kitchens. If he has to look at the same four walls of his room he might actually go officially crazy instead of how he is now. Like any of them have a snowball's chance of getting off of this ride sane...

It seems almost funny that the music filters into his conscious mind even as he marches down the hall, boots hard against the floor until he has to stop so he can hear better. It sounds... nice. Sounds like something so organic and natural and a million miles away from what he's gotten used to up here.

He hangs around the doorway for a second debating whether he really wants to get in a conversation with anybody no matter how nice they play, but in the end his decision is made for him when he realizes who is responsible for it. He stares openly at her with the instrument looking so at home against her body, the way she moves while she's playing it and the sound... a sound Dean can't help but feel as well as hear. ]

[There are plenty of light-hearted pieces written for the cello. Mostly with an orchestra to accompany, other instruments to offset the cello's more melancholy tones, but still completely possible as a solo. It just had never been what Taylor was comfortable playing, never felt right under her hands, and even if she'd learnt several of them over the course of her studies, they were not what she was going to try first in having the cello back with her again. Not that the piece she picks was even originally written for the cello, or should be played without accompaniment, and Pinset would chew her out for that, but Pinset wasn't there (so why was Taylor playing at all?)

She's about two-thirds of the way through when she hits a sour note, finger placement off, and with seven months lack of practice, things like that were to be expected. She stills swears under her breath, stops playing, tries repeating the movements down the neck again without the bow. Her hand's starting to ache in a way that could easily lead into cramp, and as she clenches and stretches it, Pinset's constant lectures about precision and control play through Taylor's mind way too easily. It makes her want to lean over and grab the bottle stood by the leg of the chair, a movement that pulls her out of her focus enough to finally notice she isn't alone anymore.

For a moment she just stares, half spooked over the fact Dean's got there without her noticing (her dogs usually giving her an extended sense of her surroundings, but both Chubbs and Windsor were dozing), half caught in the fact it was the first time she'd actually seen him since the stasis sickness. And he's walked in on her doing something that she wasn't sure she wanted him - anyone - knowing about, a point of tension starting to gather between her shoulder blades from the vulnerability of it.]

How long have you been there?

[It comes out quieter than usual, no aggression, even if that's what the situation would usually bring to the surface in her. But it's the first time she's seen him since he was ill, and he hasn't said anything, and she can't help wondering why.]

I just got here.

[ There's something about the quietness in her voice that provokes a different reaction to usual - an honest answer without any hint of sarcasm or smart-assed retorts. He saw and heard enough of her with the cello to know that she can play; even his musically untrained ears know that much. But the flash of vulnerability is what prompts the next statement. ]

Not exactly my usual taste but I guess there's a lot of things around here that ain't exactly my usual anythin'. [ He hasn't moved from the doorway because he won't just turn around and walk away now that the music has stopped, but he's similarly aware he hasn't been invited in, either. ]

Looks like you got the good stuff there. You forgot to mention you were havin' a party. [ He nods at the bottle that doesn't look anything like the good stuff, but he can understand when something's just there to serve a purpose. Getting wasted while playing a classical instrument is a new one on him but he's not going to judge. ]

[Not his usual taste, and Taylor's tempted to agree with him. Tell him the same shit she gave Pinset as often as possible - that she hated the cello, didn't see the point of playing it, fought most lessons teeth and claw. Pinset had always broken her down, evident enough from the fact she can play the damn thing, but Taylor had never made it easy for her. That she's doing it voluntarily, now, it doesn't sit right. Definitely not in getting caught at it. If Pinset or one of the Academy girls caught her like this, it would be a lose. She'd never hear the end of it.

But that isn't what she can see in Dean's face, in the lack of his usual smart mouth. It makes her frown slightly, like she isn't sure how to deal with it - if he was here to piss her off, she'd know what to do, knew how to be angry, knew how to be defensive. This wasn't calling for either of those (but when had that stopped her?), so Taylor doesn't say anything about the cello at all, looks down at the bottle in her hand instead.]

If you like varnish-stripper flavour. [She shifts it in her hand, turning it over - it doesn't even have a label - before looking up at Dean again. She hadn't been planning a party, had come up here looking to be alone, more than anything. But there are a few people she can be alone with, and it's been near a month since she's seen him (longer than that, conscious and talking and not blue). He isn't being a dick about the cello, and she doesn't really want him to go.

She holds the bottle out.]

You want to join? Not going to finish the whole thing on my own. [A glance around the holodeck, empty besides them, the dogs curled up together over to one side, and she shrugs slightly with one shoulder (the left, the healing bite ringing it clearly visible beneath the strap of her shirt, stitches still in place).] You'll have to make your own chair.

Edited 2012-07-23 18:31 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(no subject)

liquor and music yes

sorry for the lateness!

jahsg likewise!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject