aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

[ He doesn't seem particularly inclined, one way or the other, to furnishing a response, keeping his gaze fixed on one of his shirt cuffs instead. ]

—'S no' going t' happen.

[ People talk to themselves, they use their cell phones, carry on halfbaked conversations with Waverly all the time. This guy (something Quinn, if she remembers his debit card right) seems to do it more often than most but she doesn't really mind; he seems nice enough.

Somewhere between the arhythmic beep beep of the check-out machine he mumbles something to himself and she stops. ]

—pardon?

[ The general truth is that Dubhlainn Quinn is a nice man. But general does not mean complete and it is in that distinction that things start to fall apart. (She loves me, is the faulty murmur of his heart, is the root from which obsession has grown through his every nerve, an ugly, suffocating creature that causes him equal parts pain and joy. Joy each time she looks at him, each time she sends him a sign, and pain every time that little candle flame flickers out.)

He glances up upon being addressed, a sort of brightness flashing once across his countenance before his expression schools itself into something more neutral. ]

'S nothing. [ (Everything.) ] Sorry. Didn't mean t' t'row you off.

[ Waverly doesn't mind her job; doesn't like it, but doesn't dislike it either — which, she knows from all of her friends, is a lot better than most people her age manage. Better than flipping burgers or waiting tables, playing check-out might put Wavery on her feet all shift long, but there's no heavy lifting, no needing to sing for her supper and no greasy-fryolater smell in her hair after a long day. All in all, a win-win situation, even when you take the occasional weirdo she meets into consideration.

Mr. Quinn, as far as she can tell, isn't a weirdo. But, truth be told, she hasn't really given him much thought save the occasional conversation as she scans his groceries or runs into him in the car park. Sometimes she plays a little game which involves fantasizing the lies of her customers just based on the things that they buy. If pressed, Waverly would say that Mr. Quinn's unmarried, with no kids and maybe not even a girlfriend. (It's sort of a shame; he's nice and he's Irish and maybe even a little cute, despite being hold enough to be her dad.)

She smiles at his apology, waving a carton of yogurt through the air before she scans it. ] No, it's cool. Don't worry about it, I mean— [ Waverly crinkles her nose and ducks her chin. ] —I could totally do this in my sleep. [ Glancing up again she offers a small smile. ] No big.

[ She's right, to that extent. No wife, no kids, no girlfriend. (It's hard to keep up a relationship if your heart's not in it. Harder still if it's a girl you haven't spoken more than a few sentences to at a time that fills up your mind's eye. And hardest of all if every move she makes seems to say I love you, take me away from here. He keeps the receipts she tears for him and pores over each torn corner, mind dreaming up signal after signal from the basis of nothing at all. She fantasizes about the lives of her customers and he fantasizes about her. It makes him sick to his stomach but it has to be love if it burns like this.)

She smiles and he manages a tentative one in return, shaking his head slightly as he pulls his wallet from his pocket.

(You're pretty when you smile, d'you know t'at?) ]

Get distracted too easy, me, [ he says, by way of an extended apology.

A beat, and then, cautiously: ] Y' ever get tired o' the routine?

[ Not a lot of people pay attention to her and she doesn't blame them. Waverly's not like a shopgirl, isn't paid to be pretty or smell nice or wear the company perfume for minmum wage plus commission. She's just a set of hands, a smile with no lipgloss, a hello of paper or plastic and a goodbye of come again. She wears the same ugly green smock as all the rest of the employees here, a nametag pinned to the left strap and her hair pulled back in a low ponytail that unworks itself slowly during her shift.

Sometimes, if she's lucky, a cute boy will smile at her, a little kid at the front of his mother's cart will babble nonsense at her and wave his toy in her direction. (Dylan works three aisles over and sometimes he pays attention to her, but it's never anything more than hey, Waverly and later.)

She can't recall if this is the first time Mr. Quinn's tried to start conversation with her but, at the end of the day it's neither here nor there. Her smile is awkward but genuine. The bar of her retainer shows over her teeth as she shrugs bashfully. ]

I mean— a job's a job, right? It was either this or flip burgers, and— [ Waverly laughs and bites the bottom of her lip to stop the sound, her gaze darting from side to side to make sure the floor manager isn't in sight. Luckily for both of them the dinner crowd's come and gone so there's little to nobody looking for check-out. The bridge of her nose crinkles. ] —I mean. I hope you don't flip burgers for a living. It'd be cool if you did, though.

[ [ (I hate it here. Everything's so boring and dull. I'm just waiting, waiting, for you to come whisk me away. She bites her lip, she blushes, she laughs. Do not wanna? What's the wait?) ]

[ He's quick to smile, and — and god she's fucking gorgeous — though his gaze doesn't follow hers when she checks for the floor manager, he's looking away almost as soon as she looks back at him. (It's too much, sometimes, being so close but also being able to do so little. He wonders, more often than not, how she's so in control of her emotions, how easily it seems to come to her to be normal despite how much he knows she loves him, and how much he loves her, too.) It's not a bashful gesture, at least not entirely, the flush to his cheeks there and gone as he tries to count through what bills he has.

He remembers each time they've spoken and each time they've interacted in any way at all. (Memories of their relationship thus far, things to look back on.) He'll remember this, later, too. ]

Not'ing tha' thrilling, [ comes the mild response. ] I develop photos. Slow going compared t' flipping burgers, I'm sure.

Oh yeah? [ And now he's truly got her attention, not only in his mind but in her mind as well. Slow going as the job may seem, developing pictures seems like a thrill and a half compared to checking-out groceries. Which is why — floor manager be damned — Waverly leans forward to brace a hand against the lip of the counter, delicate fingers (fingertips stained from ripping receipts and counting bills) coming to curl over the little platform where she asks customers to sign their checks.

(Don't be afraid, touch me. I know that you wanna. We can do it real secret and no one'll know. Just you and me, baby. That's how it's supposed to be.)

Waverly ducks her head, spying around a second time before confessing: ] That seems, like, totally cool, I'd kill for a job like that. Sitting around getting to see what kind of crazy stuff people take pictures of in their spare time? [ She giggles, like maybe she's taken some pictures of her own.

(Y'wanna see? I can give you something to remember me by. But you first.) ] Y'ever see something super kooky?

[ He can't help the fact that she gets him hard. The implications borne by each of her actions, by every syllable that passes her lips or every bat of her eyelashes — every moment that he can't touch her is one more where he's strung along (she's cruel — cruel but kind) and just a little bit more pleasure, he's sure, when there's nothing in the way of them being together. (That's how it's supposed to be.) He doesn't let his gaze linger on her and, to her credit, doesn't seem particularly off one way or another when he smiles and shifts his weight. ]

Not so much anymore, y' know, what with digital an' all tha', but yeah, I t'ink I've seen my fair share.

[ He pauses, the line of his mouth twisting for an instant before he offers: ] Y' ever get tired of checkin' groceries, I could pro'ly set y'up wit' a little work. Not a lot, mind, but y' might see somethin' for y'self.

[ The noise Waverly makes can only be described as something along the lines of a 'squeak'. It's high-pitched and pinched and when she does so she gives a little hop, her fingers tensing along the edge of the counter like it's the only thing she can do to keep from reaching out and grabbing him by the wrist. ] Oh my god, could you? [ The cheeks that had entertained a light blush now fluster properly, the color spreading up to her forehead and down to her collarbones (barely visible at the neck of her uniform). She has freckles, hidden most of the time; but now they stand out just as bright has her blush, making her look young for age, a giddy smile stretching wide across her face. ] You would seriously do that for me, I mean—

[ Her gaze cants to someone behind the man's shoulder and she presses her lips together quickly and drops her gaze. Quickly she fumbles for the next item of the line and almost drops it in the processes. Another glance, then another, interspersed with the beep, beep, beep of the conveyor as Waverly's boss walks slowly down the line, peering over the occasional customer's shoulder to make sure everything's still in order. She doesn't talk again until he disappears down the far aisle, no doubt off to oversee how things are going in the produce department. Even then, Waverly ducks her head, lifting her shoulders defensively as she leans forward, over the credit card swipe to leverage bright blue eyes in Mr. Quinn's direction. ] —I mean, is it creepy that I would totally say yes? Like in an actual heartbeat? [ A giggle catches in her throat.

(Kiss me, Dubhlainn.) ]

[ (Of course I would — I would do anything for you, you know that.)

For the space of an instant, his gaze lingers. There, on the freckles across the bridge of her nose; on the smile on her lips; on the dip of her collarbones. A line down as he looks back into his wallet, counting out bills as she continues scanning what he's put onto the belt. His expression is half-sheepish when he glances back up. (Kiss me, says her posture, says her expression, but no, not here, not now, not like this. Not for their first time.) ]

No worse than my offer, [ he says, with a slight shrug, managing a quick laugh in accompaniment. ]

Just— if you're interested.

[ Waverly scans the rest of the groceries blind, her attention now clearly held by the man about to purchase them. The rhythmn at which the machine beeps bogs down but remains unbroken, save for an instance or two when the barcode proves elusive and she's left to waggle the package around aimlessly until something catches. Absently she kneads the swell of her bottom lip between her front teeth as she watches him count. She thinks he's being generous (if the tables were turned, she'd probably think he was a creeper) but that estimation just buoys Waverly forward — out of caution and into god-knows-what.

The last thing left on the conveyor is a bunch of bananas. Instead of putting it on the scanner scale, she holds it in her hand like a hostage, then waits until he looks up again in question to say: ] My friends call me Wisp.

[ Wisp. As in: HELLO, MY NAME IS, right there on her nametag. It's a childhood nickname, the kind with a really embarrassing anecdote behind it. Not even her supervisor, the one who signs all her checks, calls her Waverly. ] I think I kinda am. Like— y'know. Interested?

Edited 2012-08-14 23:54 (UTC)

Wisp?

[ He resists the temptation to say anything else. (You think I don't know that already? Or a pretty name for a pretty girl. Fucking smooth, that one.) The smile on his features wavers, like he's not sure he ought to be pleased that she's introduced herself or that she's interested in the prospect of some other work (of spending time with him — I knew it, you do want this, don't you).

God-knows-what is a sickness. An obsession, prompted by nothing in particular, really, that has hooked upon her as a subject and sees everything in nothing, sees forbidden love in the way she laughs but still shies away. Love where it has no right to be, destructive instead of good, and ultimately a curse upon the both of them. A single maddening, blossoming sickness in a man otherwise in his right mind. ]

Good. I mean— great. I was hoping—

[ He ducks his head again, this time searching for a spare piece of paper. In the end, he fishes up a torn receipt (another one kept from her), jotting a set of digits down before offering it to her. ]

We can set up a meet, yeah?

Yeah, Wisp, it's kinda— [ Waverly shakes her head and shrugs, feeling a little lightheaded in the process. Was she actually doing this? Letting some guy give her his number on the pretense of getting her some extra work? ] —it's a dumb name, I know. People think it's completely weird, but— [ As an afterthought she remembers to drop the bananas onto the scale but then promptly forgets about them when the stranger offers her his number on the back of some receipt. Waverly chews on her lip some more before reaching for it, the thin slip of paper pinched between her fingers but not drawn free from the man's grasp. ] —a name's a name, right?

[ Her eyes dart down to memorize whatever numbers she can get at. ] You, uh— [ Waverly begins to give the receipt an experimental tug but then stops, relinquishing it instead. ] —you forgot to write down your name.

But it's— it's Mister Quinn, right?

[ (Of course I know. Just like you know me. Soon, baby, soon. Soon we'll be together.) ]

[ (It's as Wisp that she introduces herself, and it's Wisp that he'll call her later on, when they've gone too far done an ugly road to turn back, his frame covering hers, salt tracks on her cheeks. Just tell me y' love me, I know you do, you did everything but say it out loud. Just fuckin' say it— oh, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it'll be alright, it'll be just like y' wanted, please don't cry. I love you.)

Clicking his tongue once in self reproach, he takes the slip back, scribbling down his name just over the numbers. ]

Name's a name, [ he agrees, as he checks what he's written. (Dubhlainn Quinn in neat letters, the n of his first name leading into the Q.) ]

An'— yeah, Quinn's t'e name.

[ It's an ugly path that they've been set upon, although Waverly is none-the-wiser. In the end she will wonder, spend hour upon hour, retracing these first moments together, trying to find the initial misstep, the very instant where they began to veer so terribly out of orbit. She will tear herself apart wondering as she tugs at her bonds, asking after her crime but to no answer. What exactly had she done wrong? Where precisely did they go astray? There will be clues, of course, vague evidence towards guilt: too friendly, too trusting, a turn of phrase here, some body language there. Dots that, in anyone else's hands, would have stayed unconnected, being naturally scattered too far apart. But for Mr. Quinn — Dubhlainn — it is nearly the total picture, almost a complete whole. All that's missing from the equation is her (she'll learn that soon enough, but not yet).

The number and name finally retrieved, Waverly squints at it and tries to sound out the name. ] Dub— Dube— is it Dube-lane? [ Her smile is apologetic as she clutches the small scrap of paper between her fingers. ] Dube-lane Quinn? It's Irish, right? You look— [ (I've been watching you.) ] —you kinda look Irish. And, y'know. Your voice and stuff.

[ Nervously, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ] It's cool.

[ The truth is that they'd been out of orbit from the very start. The truth is that there's nothing she could have done to prevent it from happening, save putting a bullet through his heart or irons around his wrists. The obsession that blooms in him is one triggered by nothing, a thing grown from simple chance rather than cause and effect. She'd committed no crime, made no misstep. She'd just been unlucky.

But there's nothing of that, now. Just an unremarkable, gentle sort of awkwardness as he glances down to put his wallet back in its place. ]

Dove-lane. Kind of like t'e city name, y' know, Dublin —just more of a 'V' sound. [ Straightening up, he offers up a half-shrug, the kind that meets the apologetic note in her smile with something like haplessness. It's not the kind of name that's exactly common, nor the kind of name that reads the same way it looks on paper.

It's her last few words, though, that catch his attention. His smile, once tentative, seems a little more certain. ]

'M flattered. Erm— yeah, 's Irish. Accent's flattened out a bit, since, but — guess y' can still tell.

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

DUBHLAINN QUINN | she loves me (not)

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