Who: Imogen and Jack
What: Reunions, as you do
Where: NY Loft Hostel, Brooklyn (Marvel)
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: I expect only good things
The night was the clearest it had been since she'd ended up in New York, and the lingering sound of things being reknitted only barely reached her ears. Vestiges and echos of workers going home, and it was rather peaceful, and surprisingly so. The hostel was a loud place, even in the wake of Reno and Las Vegas. It was a different kind of loudness. Voices raised in youth and laughter, where Reno and Las Vegas had been tourists escaping lives that had gone rather dull in the everyday.
The courtyard was nearly empty, and the blonde girl sat upon a bench, her guitar in her lap and strap lax at her shoulder. The guitar was more memorable than she was, red-glitter covered and sounding like angels lost in the strings, at least to the girl with the pale blonde hair and the jeans tucked into her boots. The jumper she wore was knit and purl, and it had gaps where the knitter had gone astray. Oft worn, and it was thin places, and the tee-shirt beneath was dulled grey, but there was hardly a lack of money in the once-fine fabric. A contradiction, as it were, and her hair was braided haphazardly in places, as if boredom had guided her fingertips.
She wore her crucifix on a long chain, and it moved against the fret in unintentional percussion,
swing and
swing. She strummed, and her voice was like bells, soft and clear and entirely without guile. The
song was all southern warmth, though a hint of Britannia slipped between the cracks in her voice when the words went slow as traffic at early morning.
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