07-06-2013, 10:15 AM
Sera is spaced out rather longer than Justin. She's high, just enough, humming with it, her muscles feel like taffy when she thinks about them. Not taffy no but stretchy and fibrous and the porous boundaries of her body are opening up. Her skin full of light. This is an ordinary room and the X-box and the blare from the game as Dick takes it up again and starts ranting but she misses that, humming the way she is so thoughtlessly, her spine sliding from upright to something not quite sidelong. Not quite sidewinder.
And Serafíne slips her hands into Dick fucking Fairchild's hair without realizing or thinking about it and boundaries, Sera, boundaries. The strands slip through her fingers but it helps her find the proper channel, her head cocked, tuning through static, all the cross-hatched signal-noise, all the ordinary days, all the deals, all the dead hookers on that fucking game. Like navigating a raft by feel through some river delta, sensing where the current runs and where it eddies and where it sucks you in and -
- she's smiling a bit at poor Dick, whom she likes only so far as his utility. And perhaps the texture of his hair, but not the glassine stare at the game on the screen. Christ if she actually sold drugs the way three-fifths of her acquaintances assume she does to fund her lifestyle she would find a better way to spend her time between deals than playing that fucking game, but if she sold drugs she would be, yeah. The Pacino of drugs too. But see her: smiling, far away, notes vibrant in the back of her throat, some humming awareness that tunes into the frequency of the universe because that is how it works, and there's something a little off about that smile beyond the way she's elected for the moment to drop out of this particular point in the timestream and find some other one to study but you'd have to know her and the way she smiles to see it.
Then she comes back to the present, all at once. It's like rising from some great depth, bubbles rushing up and bursting all around you, erupting to the surface and breathing again and hey, she's here. Her fucking hand in Dick fucking Fairchild's fucking hair.
So that part stops.
Pretty much immediately.
But then she slides from the back of the couch onto the half-displaced cushions planting her ass right next to him and bumping him with her left arm to get his attention, all companionable now.
"How about this." A lift of her gaze past the screen to Justin. Then a cutting glance back to Dick Fairchild. "I'll pay you what Byron fucking owes you. His debt, right? Then you two'll be all square.
"But in exchange, you'll give me his number. And that fucking first aid kit he was carrying the shit in, and you'll text me the minute his ass turns up, if he turns up.
"Oh, and. Throw in the names of the people you sold that shit to, and I'll give you a finder's fee on top of that. Because maybe they got paranoid about the smurfs, and maybe they're still holding. Because I wanna try that shit." A precise, fucked up little pause. "Dick." And a lazy sideswipe of a grin. "You know me. I'll try anything twice."
Which is probably true.
And Serafíne slips her hands into Dick fucking Fairchild's hair without realizing or thinking about it and boundaries, Sera, boundaries. The strands slip through her fingers but it helps her find the proper channel, her head cocked, tuning through static, all the cross-hatched signal-noise, all the ordinary days, all the deals, all the dead hookers on that fucking game. Like navigating a raft by feel through some river delta, sensing where the current runs and where it eddies and where it sucks you in and -
- she's smiling a bit at poor Dick, whom she likes only so far as his utility. And perhaps the texture of his hair, but not the glassine stare at the game on the screen. Christ if she actually sold drugs the way three-fifths of her acquaintances assume she does to fund her lifestyle she would find a better way to spend her time between deals than playing that fucking game, but if she sold drugs she would be, yeah. The Pacino of drugs too. But see her: smiling, far away, notes vibrant in the back of her throat, some humming awareness that tunes into the frequency of the universe because that is how it works, and there's something a little off about that smile beyond the way she's elected for the moment to drop out of this particular point in the timestream and find some other one to study but you'd have to know her and the way she smiles to see it.
Then she comes back to the present, all at once. It's like rising from some great depth, bubbles rushing up and bursting all around you, erupting to the surface and breathing again and hey, she's here. Her fucking hand in Dick fucking Fairchild's fucking hair.
So that part stops.
Pretty much immediately.
But then she slides from the back of the couch onto the half-displaced cushions planting her ass right next to him and bumping him with her left arm to get his attention, all companionable now.
"How about this." A lift of her gaze past the screen to Justin. Then a cutting glance back to Dick Fairchild. "I'll pay you what Byron fucking owes you. His debt, right? Then you two'll be all square.
"But in exchange, you'll give me his number. And that fucking first aid kit he was carrying the shit in, and you'll text me the minute his ass turns up, if he turns up.
"Oh, and. Throw in the names of the people you sold that shit to, and I'll give you a finder's fee on top of that. Because maybe they got paranoid about the smurfs, and maybe they're still holding. Because I wanna try that shit." A precise, fucked up little pause. "Dick." And a lazy sideswipe of a grin. "You know me. I'll try anything twice."
Which is probably true.
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula