[Log: Dahlia/Sid]
So, problem number one: no power.
After shoving the door open and sweeping the pile of mail on the stoop—most mushy wet and stamped with threatening red—into a corner of the frigid gym downstairs, Dahlia was quietly thankful for no sign of burst pipes. The water was likely shut off, too, anyway. Yeah, so, second problem: no heat. But there was an old iron stove she'd left in the loft upstairs, 'cause it was too fucking heavy to haul away. So she cleaned it out, sneezed soot a bunch, and set it up with fresh firewood. After a couple hours now, fire had chased away the cold and burned away the dusty smell in the place, replacing it with woodsmoke and cedar. Kinda cozy now, really. Not enough that she wanted to shed layers, but still. Third: no light. With the firewood, though, she had picked up a bunch of pillar candles, the plain unscented kind from the general store for five bucks a half dozen. Bought a box, and set the flat up with candlelight. Unintentionally moody, but she was working with what she had, alright? And this place was a helluva lot more impressive than her shitty trailer. Fucking sue her.
It was snowing, like white noise through the tall windows of the loft. Nearby, Hiro dozed on a pillow, next to the warmth of the stove. She hated keeping him cooped up in the tiny trailer, and watching him run laps 'round the flat with reckless doggy abandonment after they got in only made that guilt kneejerk harder. Dahlia herself was dressed in her usual suspects, ink and scarring spread 'cross her collarbones. The scarring was new, obviously—but lotta things 'bout her were new, after a decade or so. Most of the inkwork was, for starters. Gone was the scrawny, scrappy twentysomething body, hungry and violently lean. She was broader now, heavier, dense with muscle. Weathered face scarred, nose crooked, a touch of cauliflower on one ear. She looked every bit her age, and then some.
Then again, some shit stayed exactly the same.
Familiar, the way Dahlia lazied 'bout with the air of a predator at rest. Boots kicked up on a coffee table and arms draped over the back of the couch, she was already drinking, between drags from a cigarette. Like she'd always been attached to that glass. In times past, she was always drinking. Always a little fucked up. She rolled smoke 'round in her mouth, relishing the taste of tobacco. Felt just enough to feel fuzzy 'round the edges, pleasantly warm-numb, and utterly at ease.
She needed the help. It was mere days from the new year and—more specifically—that time of month. Even still and slow and ever-so slightly shitfaced, there was something violent and violate coalescing 'round her, like a thunderstorm brewing. In the low light, her pupils were wide and dark, like new moons.
As promised, the heavy back door downstairs was cracked open with a brick shoved in the door jam. Music drifted from the door at the top of the firehouse stairs, which was left unlocked. And Dahlia was fucking comfortable, damnit. Girl was gonna have to make her own way up.