Repose

[Just after this, and while he waits at the bar.]

[Locked to Dane B]
You--Michael's back? Nono

Michael said he contacted you.

[Locked to Clementine M]
[After talking to Dane.]

Hi.

[public]

Who thinks it'd be a good idea to have a costume party at the arcade?

(Because I think I'm totally going to have one, and I need to not sit and drink spiked eggnog alone.)

With every archaic damn law that exists in this country, there's got to be one against excessive merriment.

I'm not even talking about HOA stuff that regulates Christmas display wattage -- which I think is very big of me, for the record.

[Harper was rather entirely uncertain about the prospect of this homecoming. She felt as if she'd left Repose ages ago, though she knew it had only been a month in the tiny town that now seemed quite small and fragile. If not for Ceil, she would stay away entirely. If she remained away, there'd be no need to explain what she was, what she was not. There would be no need to be the girl she'd been. The girl who mum and town expected her to be, that girl could go quiet into that good night, and none would be the wiser. But there was Ceil, and it was for Ceil that Harper returned.

She looked little altered. Her black sweater hung lose on her body, and her sweats were gray and careless, tucked into duck boots and slouched over socks. She wore no smile, despite looking forward to seeing her sister bounce down the music store steps, as if the world was a thing made of candyfloss. Harper liked to think that, for Ceil, perhaps the world was was a menagerie of color and brightness. Hopefully, Daniel Webster had kept Ceil good company, and Harper felt slightly better about having left her sister in the companionship of that strange relation from nowhere. Oliver and Jude, too, could be trusted, and perhaps this was all Harper's way of making herself feel better for desertion. For Harper had outgrown her skin and her life, and she was now trying to fit herself back into it.

The door to the music store jangled, and Harper entered, bag hoisted onto one shoulder.] Babygirl? I'm home.

Sam?

Who: Sasha J, Jude C, Oliver K
What: Party like you're totally not here to make off with the art!
Where: Ritzy Mansion (TM)
When: Reeecently

There was, Jude knew, a certain cachet a man had, when there was a beautiful woman at his side. It was classic, like black and white movies and panama hats, like cigars and smoky voices, like blues and whiskey. Classic. Jude had read too many broken-spine books folded into inner coat pockets to think that classic read so well in the modern day, but black-tie was as close this world got to that one. He wore borrowed black and white, the fit of the coat over his shoulders slightly off (given that it was thrifted and fitted to the man it had been made for, this could be forgiven) and the wild thatch of curls had been dampened and a comb dragged hastily through it.

Of course, the party wasn't a party even if Jude had asked a pretty girl to come along. Sasha was the eye-candy. The distraction, because Oliver and Jude were noticeable by themselves, even if they were both trying hard not to be. And when Oliver had to be charming, he could, but Oliver charming with someone who knew how to be charming in an ordinary sort of way was a lot easier.

Particularly when you were here to lift the priceless Zandberg picture that you'd read in the paper had been bought at auction for a cool two mill, and knew a collector wouldn't bat an eyelash over getting it a little hot off the presses.

Jude held out an arm, always the gentleman, to Sasha, and the other to Oliver. "Lady. Oliver." And then they swung into a party that was cool jazz and champagne flutes and seriously heavy money.