Re: [Log: Dahlia/Sid]
Heard the girl coming. Dahlia heard the boots on the stairs, the unevenness of the gait. Just like she heard the steady breathing of Hiro, the hiss-and-pop of fire, the crispness of the snow falling faintly against the windows if she went real still and listened hard. Got so damn quiet in this town, really, that she could hear the heartbeat of every fucking thing in a mile radius 'round her trailer at night. It was different from the wall of white noise in the city. Where she could blow out her senses with the sounds and smells of a hundred thousand bodies, all melting into a comfortable anonymity.
Here? Shit was impossible to filter, not without help. It was, Dahlia told herself, why she didn't sleep without at least a nightcap now. It was part why she was drinking now, this close to the moon. Not like she'd get caught dead without tonight, anyway. This old friend oughta remember a girl always a few fingers into her liquor at any given point. Her old friend oughta remember a girl like a gunshot, bright and violent and burning down everything 'round her. A girl who turned heads with all the charm of an impending car crash. A girl people referred to fun, only 'cause she was always down. Usually at her own expense.
But in the shadow of hearth and candlelight, this wildfire better resembled cinders. Dahlia carried a lifetime of violence, pain, failure—all of it etched into the hard lines collecting on her face. But, at least she looked like she had lived a life, even if it felt like she threw hers away a long, long time ago. Sid saw this as her settling, and well—she weren't wrong. After this life, this was all she had left: a dog, a place she couldn't afford to keep the lights on, a criminal record, all these scars—and precious fucking else to show for it.
Anyway.
As Sid shook off the cold she brought in through her front door, Dahlia just gave her a look, dry. "Power's out," she said, like this happened every week. Didn't elaborate on the why. Just sipped whiskey, before stubbing out the last dredges of cigarette in an ashtray. "Figured it was better'n sittin' here in the dark an' freezin', girl." Voice thick and dark and slurred like molasses: years of whiskey, years of blows to the head, a lotta chill.
Not that she even needed the candles, personally. This was just enough light for others to see, and just enough heaviness in her eyelids to keep her pupils from catching it all weird, like a mirror in the dark. It was part habit, and part for appearances, and part 'cause hanging 'round in the dark with her probably made normal people nervous.
The dog didn't move from his cozy spot, but he did lift his head for the newcomer, tongue lolling and stub of a tail wagging. Dahlia leaned forward, shaking out a packet and picking up a battered zippo. Flik, flik flik— "S'Hiro," she mumbled 'round a fresh smoke, glancing at the dog. Hiro snuffled at the outstretched hand, then lapped at fingers and gave the stranger his most charming doggy grin. We're best friends now, the gesture said. Not that it meant much—despite gnarled ears and pitbull mug, the dog made friends real easy. Easier than his owner, for fucking sure. Even Sid was—well, calling her easy was fucking mean. But Dahlia certainly remembered the girl as easygoing, if very green. Not hard to please, back then. Looking at the girl now, basking in little more than a warm room and its thrifted comforts, didn't seem like too much had changed there.
There was a second, empty glass on the coffee table. Still leaning over her knees, Dahlia set her own glass down next to it and poured generously into both. The whiskey weren't fancy, but it weren't bad, either—a change from the cheap shit she poured out for herself most nights. Gaze downturned as she poured, her cropped hair fell forward slight, smoke rolled off her lips, and the firelight caught the red-and-black of ink splattered 'cross her collarbones, trickling downward—hinting at the violence living 'neath her skin, barely buttoned under a layer of whiskey and henley and fuck-knows-what-else.