skeletonkeay

"Very specific," Gerry notes. "I can respect that."

He follows her out, hands in his pockets.

"Better than any of my birthdays. Well... there was one decent one, but. Kinda sour now."

"I like having a plan," She admits, pushing through the door and onto the cobbled street beside Gerry.

Then, stopping abruptly, Carolina turns an intense look on him. How could anyone disrespect the sanctity of birthdays?

"Sour how?"

Gerry shrugs awkwardly, regretting saying anything. There's very little that he doesn't want to talk about, so his hesitation is glaringly obvious now.

"I didn't really celebrate birthdays at all before. But I last year, I was seeing someone who... made it a really nice day. For the first time in as long as I could remember. It... yeah. It was good. But then he left the island right before my next birthday, so."

He shrugs again. "Easy come, easy go, I guess. This year I just closed the shop and slept all day. Nice in its own way, I guess."

Carolina searches between his words the way she might stalk an enemy's military base, apt feet carrying her to possible conclusions. None of them feel right. She's never been good at reading these kinds of situations and doesn't pretend to be. Ask her what the best method of approaching a Covenant dropship is and she'll tell you. Ask her to define interpersonal relationships and she's likely to throw herself through the nearest wall.

"You slept all day?" She asks in a tone not meant to be judgy but sounds that way. "Okay, change of plans then. It's our birthday. And because I'm feeling nice— and because you're now involved in the logistics— I'll let you pick something special to add to the agenda."

Gerry snorts his amusement, flashing that slanted smirk. "How generous," he teases. "And what if I like what you've come up with, mm?"

"That's fine. We'll do my stuff first, then we'll do yours. So start thinking. It better be good," She bumps Gerry's shoulder, the first time she's let herself touch him since their ballet fiasco. Remember, no hands.

Carolina strides a few steps ahead and whips a look over her shoulder.

"Come on, hurry up. And tell me what building I'm looking for."

"Mmm," Gerry hums thoughtfully. "You ever been to Empty Pockets? The music bar?"

Carolina shakes her head, lips pursed. "Nope. Sounds perfect, though." She gestures grandly ahead. "Lead the way, Gerry."

Gerry nods, and does exactly that, taking a sharp turn to the left. A few blocks away, there's a small, quaint-looking brick building. It's fairly non-descript and modest, its only identifying feature being the bricks of the steps being painted to look like piano keys. He leads her inside.

Within is a warm lounge with a small but well-cared-for bar and a handful of round tables positioned around a stage. Raucous folk music is being played on the stage by a quintet of satyrs. Gerry lights a cigarette and makes for the bar--- far enough from the stage that people can still talk.

"Happy birthday, by the way. Don't think I said."

Carolina blinks against the darkness, her senses overwhelmed.

Candles and mismatched sconces throw light against guests who smoke, drink and call words above the noise; bodhrán drums and timbre from stringed instruments she doesn't recognize. The air is charged. Thick with tobacco. Gerry starts for the bar with a cigarette between his teeth.

She, in awe of the place, takes a little longer to get there.

"Do those men have goat legs?"

And horns? (The beards are negligibly interesting.)

And as if in direct response to her (and keeping beat with the rest of his crew) a satyr beats his hoof wildly against the stage.

She takes her seat beside Gerry. Drinks are ordered. 'Whatever's strongest'.

"Thanks. Last year, I think I spent the day waist-deep in mud. We were scouting a trade outpost on what we sometimes call a wet planet. Arms dealers like them because nobody wants to be there for more than ten minutes." The bartender slides a glass of heavy-bodied whisky into her hands.

"My group and I were there for—" a scoff. "—Eighteen hours."

"Sure do," Gerry replies, jovial, nodding to the one on the fiddle. "One of 'em is a woman, even. You've never heard of a satyr?"

Gerry's heard the Deadwood Five play a few times now, enjoying their energy. A group of four brothers and a sister from the island's only satyr family.

Noting Carolina's choice of drink, Gerry sticks to beer. It's his preference anyway, and he figures he ought to stay somewhat more sober so that if the birthday girl needs anything, there's someone around in a fit state to help with it.

"Eighteen hours? Christ. That's worse than the time I took a wrong turn in the Distortion's hallways and he let me stay lost for an indiscernible amount of time just for fun. Mum said I was gone for two days, but I wasn't really perceiving time. I'd rather blank out for two days than actively live through eighteen hours of bullshit."

"Yeah, in stories," She marvels. "They're all old-world. From your time. Like... Woodstock or Benjamin Franklin. You know, myths? That's probably why no one remembers them."

She lets the horrifying hypothetical-reality settle, then pulls a face. Kidding.

"It wasn't so bad. We camped, mostly, and ate crappy canned food until it was time to blow things up." She remembers Agent Maine— the poor, massive thing— sinking further and further into the bog in his desperate attempt to outrun a water-spider. And Florida, spending the 8th to 10th hour in an epic battle with a two-jawed reptile.

"At the time it seemed like an alright birthday present. We made it out alive, for one. Not that I was worried about that. And anyway, I'll take it over wandering through the indiscriminate, evil hallway."

Carolina downs half her drink.

"Something tells me you aren't the camping type."

The look of abject horror on Gerry's face is indicative of the tirade he very nearly goes off on just before seeing that cheeky little expression and fizzling. "Christ, don't scare me like that. Haven't I been through enough?"

Frankly, even without the monstrous details, Gerry can't help but think it sounds a hell of a lot like one of his little expeditions. Wading through London's stinking underbelly in search of Journal of a Plague Year or taking long bus rides through the countryside trying to make contact with some Lonely avatar that didn't want to be found or trekking out into the woods after some Hunt relic his mum wanted.

"I typically don't unless I have to, but it's fine. There's worse things."

Seeing him suddenly horror-stricken makes her laugh the kind of unrestrained, nasal laugh which comes as a surprise even to herself. To doubt its sincerity would be to question the most fundamental laws of the universe; an easier thing to do here than she's comfortable with. Fundamental law states that men and women don't typically have horns and stand on animal legs. Yet here she is, having been proven wrong.

"Sorry, couldn't help myself."

Carolina stares over his shoulder, chin resting atop her palm, looking utterly fascinated. Good pick, Gerry. This particular birthday is already one for the books.

"Like spending two days in a hallway? I wonder if your tolerance for worse things is skewed." She tips her glass back. Waves over another. "Camping can be fun, if you do it with the right person. And if there's no obligation hanging over your head. Things just feel... different, at night. Like you pressed pause for a while. Nothing moves, no one bothers you."

She meets his eye. "You know what I mean?"

God, that laugh. For a woman so determined to be dangerous, she can damn sure be cute. The fact that it's so unnatural to her, that she'd usually resist it, honestly only makes it cuter.

And there's that fascinated look. The green of her eyes, trained on something that catches her. It's common for the eyes of Beholding avatars, his ilk, to turn that color when taking something in. The association makes her eye color give the impression of constantly absorbing everything. Drawing the world in like a vortex. This moment only deepens that impression.

She's beautiful.

Gerry can't remember the last time he thought to feel embarrassment at being caught staring.

"I'd be open to it," Gerry offers. "Marrow Isle isn't short on places to camp. Mind you, they're all full of monsters, but if anyone's equipped to handle that, it's us. I've got the spookies under control, and you've got a gun."

She could get used to a place like this. Drinks, music, an acquaintance on the odd weekend. The ecosystem they've walked into feels self-contained. Bawling enough to stave in her loudest thoughts and dark enough not to worry about being seen. An awful thing, then, that Gerry's so damn good at it.

She spots him in the blurred foreground of her vision staring fixedly ahead at her. A perfectly normal thing to do in conversation, however the trapped and slighted animal part of Carolina wants to turn away. Completely unseen.

The killer soldier in her traps this animal under its boot, then pursues him.

She wills Gerry back into focus. Golden nodules of light catch on his cheekbones and pitch his long, sharp nose in shadow. A human knife's edge.

Touching him in any way would mean imminent disaster.

For now, she's happy to consume him only with her eyes.

"I don't remember saying you were the right person," Carolina teases dryly. "But I can make do. I'll give you all the real important jobs like shaking the trees for sticks. You're tall enough." Very tall, actually. "I ran into something a couple weeks ago. This giant swarm of— I don't know, moths, butterflies— trying to attack this kid. It was a disaster."

"Oh, scuse me for inviting myself! I'd hate to impose and deprive you of the opportunity to shake trees for sticks," Gerry teases, giving her a slanted grin. "But yeah I think I read about that in the paper. Sounds like a fae thing. Assuming you're willing to believe in them yet."

Amusement flowers across her face, 'stupid' caught on the tail-end of a laugh. "You can reach higher than I can, and I hate climbing trees. It works out perfectly. Don't worry, Gerry, I'll make it worth your while. Cook you up something awful like canned soup and crappy coffee."

Carolina angles herself toward him.

"Fae... I didn't know the word for it. But, yeah. That sounds right. I don't know how I couldn't believe in them even if I wanted to. It's hard when the thing's right in front of your face, buzzing around and being a nuisance."

"Well, I guess I can't pass up an opportunity to eat shitty food, drink shitty coffee, sleep on the ground, and do manual labor with you, 'Lina," Gerry teases, smirking over the rim of his glass. "Can't think of anyone I'd rather be deliberately inconvenienced with."

The neat wires in her brain spark a little. She chases down the rest of her drink.

"You're an idiot."

To any unsuspecting on-lookers, Carolina looks muscles-primed to kill him. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Do you dance?"

And like all threats, there's a clear right answer here.

Gerry snorts a laugh of his own. Does he dance. What does she take him for, some boring, jocky cishet guy?

...Honestly, probably, now that he thinks about it. He wonders if she's ever known anything else, with her soldier crowd.

"Yeah, of course I dance." He offers a tattooed hand decked out in pewter rings.

The answer to that question, although he doesn't ask it, is no.

She'd needed to get York dead-drunk to dance with her. That, and toy with him enough to think she'd sleep with him. (Cruel, she knows, but she loves dancing). Even then, he only swayed. As most jocky, cishet men tend to do.

His admission comes as a pleasant surprise. Carolina's eyes say as much, igniting like green fire.

Gerry offers her his hand.

She grabs his wrists and starts toward the empty patch of floor by the stage.

Oh hell yeah.

Gerry's only had one beer, so his weird dance choices cannot be credited to drunkenness. No, the blame for his dance moves, which consist mainly of somewhat coordinated jumping and kicking, can be attributed to his growing up in the 80s and 90s, and his alternative taste in music. But he does so with enthusiasm, genuinely having fun and grinning surprisingly genuinely at Carolina as he tries to coordinate with her.

Gerry's dance choices are odd. He kicks his feet in beats of two like there's a very large, very angry rat nipping at his ankles, and he does so without a care. Confidence in every kick, twist and arm circle. His hair flies wildly— he hasn't even bothered tying it back.

She loves it.

Carolina jumps right in, every bit as confident as a dance like this requires. Where his movements are weighted and unrestrained, her's are loose and graceful. Limbs like ribbons. Years spent at the barre doing pliés and Rond de Jambes form the structure and now movement of solid muscle.

Her two glasses of straight whisky on an empty stomach make her face feel hot and her feet feel weightless.

"Not bad!" She calls over the thundering band.

Edited 2025-05-20 04:46 (UTC)

Gerry can't help but laugh with delight as she matches his energy. Nothing like dancing with someone who's willing to get weird with it. He kicks and twists in time with her, on the opposite foot from her so that they criss-cross almost dangerously sometimes. He adds a weird little spin for flare. He nearly trips over a chair at one point. Gerry flails about for several entire songs, seeming to barely tire before finally winding down after the third song.

"Phew!" Thoroughly tossed hair sticks to sweaty skin in a few places as he laughs breathlessly. An arm is thrown over Carolina's shoulder. "You picked that up quick! That was wicked."

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