. (euphie) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-12-23 08:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | euphemia corte-real, ✕ charlie chance |
Who: Charlie Chance & Euphemia Corte-Real
What: Dinner between friends.
Where: Ganymede; some nice restaurant
When: After this
Warnings: none!
Dinner implies a certain level of comfort. Euphemia is not always sure on whether to accept invitations or not — eating seems to be something to be reserved for friends and not just mere acquaintances. Within her ship, she takes her meal times alone or with some of the crew she has known longer. Others, she sits with and sips water while watching the polite normals that are imperative in maintaining a good working relationship. Her hands like trapped birds on her lap— twitching impatiently for the trigger of a gun. In this restaurant she is not sitting with crew but with a friend(Euphie supposes they have known each other long enough to be considered such though she has never said: my friend Charlie, or my buddy/pal/what have you). She sits in the velvety chair of a rather nice place and there is a comfortable silence as they eat - companionable(her eyes drawn to the way Charlie moves, so precise). A spoonful of soup and then she stops, an abruptness to her movement that betrays (thing some thing something she does not know this something). "How are your crewmates?" “Just fine,” Charlie says, no pause nor tear in that well-worn facade. “Tucked away safely by now.” A gesture with her fork, precise, as if there is no room for doubt that it must be so -- no reason to question her feelings on the matter; further concerns are filed away by the captain. Silver cuts the air between them but there’s no sharpness in her voice. She leans back in her chair, self-assured, comfortable here in this particular restaurant as she seems to be anywhere else. Tucked away in a low-lit table or lounging in an ISSP holding cell. Wherever. She’s come with an appetite tonight, predictably carnivorous, the meal she’s ordered picked over cleanly. She sets her fork aside. Reaches for the wine again, considers the woman at the opposite end of the table -- as much a friend as anyone. A curiosity, an interest. Charlie considers ordering another bottle (there’s no real need for discretion). “I’m sure they enjoyed their little outing earlier,” she says, wine glass poised at her lips, that feral grin hidden. “As you did, I imagine.” An opening offered in her own fashion, an allowance to discuss the event. (Underneath the wine she can still recall the taste of blood.)(How to discuss this thing? All aggression, the sharp alarms piercing her eardrums — she had wanted to scream inside: frustration, rage and madness). The answer would have been no; Euphemia had been passive and placid and polite. High-strung at times, an open perfectionist and keen pilot. What reached out from the hollows of her eyes was not that: the Singapore Sling captain had a trail, filaments that wrapped around her limbs and held her down. "Perhaps, if I were a licensed Killjoy, I would've enjoyed it more." Charlie’s eyes gleamed for a moment. “Would you?” (That delicate nod in reply, her neck frail, traces of shadows like knife wounds). A hint of something, briefly, before it disappeared as completely as smoke. She smiled privately to herself, swirling the contents of her glass. There was something in the air tonight, music lilting in the air from the other room, subtle and unobtrusive. Sweet notes, palatable on the tongue — certainly more so than this conversation, delicate topic as it was. (Hardly polite to linger on it.) “I don’t think it would have suited you,” she continued, casually. Some would have been insulted but Euphemia was not, inclining her head slightly. So was her understanding of the universe, and her place in it: she was dirtied, sullied and wild. As a Killjoy, there was hardly anything for her to lose, let alone something precarious as a moral footing, and Euphemia had dismissed Killjoys at first but now she could see how necessary they were. How important. They had been wrong. "It never used to interest me." Charlie's assessment was correct; Euphemia would not be suited for Killjoy, there was something too brittle inside her(all transparent glass, under pressure it cuts but it never regains its former shape). "Now I wish it did suit." That I was more like you. Frailty was only part of the question, control another. "Maybe I should speak to Ren about that." Words, not actions: she wouldn't speak with Ren, not unless there was no choice. “Maybe not,” Charlie countered, leaning forward. With her free hand she reached for Euphemia’s own, fingertips brushing lightly against her skin. “What’s the purpose of dirtying these pretty hands of yours?” The fingers twitch, reach out a little towards what is solid, grounding, comforting. (There was no come on -- there was only and always that inevitable loping around a person’s boundaries, an unspoken challenge placed. Euphie was always good with touching. That made sense.) “You’re better suited to something more important, aren’t you, Captain?” Charlie leans back again, feigns contemplation of her wine glass. Everyone had their role to play. "Captains are known to be Killjoys as well." But that was not the point; "Am I." It trails almost like a question, weighed down by self-doubt. She hadn't been able to catch that Person yet, once she did perhaps she could agree that she merited the title of captain. Leaned across the table to press her fingers against Charlie's wrist, and thinks of a large cat, it's mouth snapping shut over a mouse. Crunch, crack. "Would you be better suited to something else?" “I am who I am,” Charlie replied, the distance in her voice becoming palatable. “This life of mine suits me just fine, of course.” She leans back further, stretches out her limbs -- suddenly the night catches hold, dark and yawning. Restless now, she finishes off her glass of wine. Miles and miles to go. Before they could put their weapons down and rest. Euphemia is withdrawing herself, close enough tonight to have brushed but not held; wild things could not be kept without damaging yourself. Her hands folded over her dress, all jewel tones as Winston had suggested before. "I like who you are." Wide eyes and breathless eagerness, "But I like it more when you hunt." Charlie smiled again, harmlessly (tonight held no need for prey). “It’s still early,” she offered. Time enough to linger in a friend’s company there was, and time enough to forget their respective concerns. “We’ll take the long route back.” "As you like, dear one." |