02-04-2016, 07:26 PM
"I'm still trying to come to terms with the idea that you actually just used the phrase angel investor in a real conversation."
--
It is a chilly January not-quite-morning, this curdled gray light slanting through the sliding glass doors. The sharp curl of cigarette ash in the snow-tinged gust that scutters in as Sera slips back inside, hoodie wrapped so sharply around her spare frame as to seem an exercise in angles and equations. Sid slips in after, weaving between her bare (except for the fluffy-bunny slippers) legs and gamboling to pant a happy HULLO! to Dee and Rick, as if she had not seen them for an age instead of five minutes.
All eyes on her. All eyes are always on her when she walks into a room, though. She breathes in: a clean breath, warm and circles to her spot at the breakfast table in that warm, bright nook. Takes a seat, legs drawn up so her heels rest on the edge of the chair and reaches for the teapot to pour herself a cup. A proper cup with a proper saucer.
"Is this for real?" Dee is quite direct, and quite skeptical, and there is a steadiness about her gaze that most people who have seen her blush nape to navel would not think her capable of leveling, but there it is. Mouth still, eyes steady. Those perfectly arched brows constricted, but only just. Tacked rather than stitched into place: because you see, she is absolutely ready to release the thread.
Sera gives this narrow, deflecting little shrug. Too early in her morning, and she is too sober and there are things she likes to do and things she doesn't like to do and translating her instincts and hopes and dreams and fears into goddamned words is among them. Singular, that.
But Dee flattens her mouth and this complicated flicker of frustration crests her features as she cuts that look back at Dan. Who is looking at Sera, who is playing tug-of-war with Sid beneath the table, but also -
"Yeah, it's real. Months off, probably." You don't start a new business a helluva lot of background work. " - but real."
"So who the fuck is this," Dee smirks, gives Dan this challenging glance, cannot believe that he'd ever use all those ridiculous phrases that sound better suited to some mid-level manager's elevator constantly rehearsed, never-given elevator pitch than to a discussion around the kitchen table of the house at 719 Corona Street. " - angel investor he was on about? Is it Davie?"
Dan does not return the smirk. His expression is pretty still, and he's looking more at Sera, who has her chin on a bony knees and still has that frowny-thoughtful-mildly-uncomfortable look she always seems to have when she has asked to think, to reason, to pin something down. He exhales. Looks back at Dee. "Does it matter?"
"Yep. If you're asking us to buy-in, to commit and to plan and to dream, you bet your ass it does."
"It's not Davie. It's me."
--
It is a chilly January not-quite-morning, this curdled gray light slanting through the sliding glass doors. The sharp curl of cigarette ash in the snow-tinged gust that scutters in as Sera slips back inside, hoodie wrapped so sharply around her spare frame as to seem an exercise in angles and equations. Sid slips in after, weaving between her bare (except for the fluffy-bunny slippers) legs and gamboling to pant a happy HULLO! to Dee and Rick, as if she had not seen them for an age instead of five minutes.
All eyes on her. All eyes are always on her when she walks into a room, though. She breathes in: a clean breath, warm and circles to her spot at the breakfast table in that warm, bright nook. Takes a seat, legs drawn up so her heels rest on the edge of the chair and reaches for the teapot to pour herself a cup. A proper cup with a proper saucer.
"Is this for real?" Dee is quite direct, and quite skeptical, and there is a steadiness about her gaze that most people who have seen her blush nape to navel would not think her capable of leveling, but there it is. Mouth still, eyes steady. Those perfectly arched brows constricted, but only just. Tacked rather than stitched into place: because you see, she is absolutely ready to release the thread.
Sera gives this narrow, deflecting little shrug. Too early in her morning, and she is too sober and there are things she likes to do and things she doesn't like to do and translating her instincts and hopes and dreams and fears into goddamned words is among them. Singular, that.
But Dee flattens her mouth and this complicated flicker of frustration crests her features as she cuts that look back at Dan. Who is looking at Sera, who is playing tug-of-war with Sid beneath the table, but also -
"Yeah, it's real. Months off, probably." You don't start a new business a helluva lot of background work. " - but real."
"So who the fuck is this," Dee smirks, gives Dan this challenging glance, cannot believe that he'd ever use all those ridiculous phrases that sound better suited to some mid-level manager's elevator constantly rehearsed, never-given elevator pitch than to a discussion around the kitchen table of the house at 719 Corona Street. " - angel investor he was on about? Is it Davie?"
Dan does not return the smirk. His expression is pretty still, and he's looking more at Sera, who has her chin on a bony knees and still has that frowny-thoughtful-mildly-uncomfortable look she always seems to have when she has asked to think, to reason, to pin something down. He exhales. Looks back at Dee. "Does it matter?"
"Yep. If you're asking us to buy-in, to commit and to plan and to dream, you bet your ass it does."
"It's not Davie. It's me."
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