CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

[dondarrion]

prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog.

 

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[erotomaniac]

[ (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.

[preoccupation]

[ 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.

[erotomaniac]

[ 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.