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Post by Spitball on Dec 29, 2011 22:07:45 GMT -5
It was apt that she had arrived amidst a great storm. In her head, she had burst through the doors looking like quite the wild woman, blue eyes gleaming, catching a spark of lightning within them, her hair billowing in the wind. All would eye her with suspicion and intrigue - who was this lass swooping in upon our humble lodgings?
Instead, she looked more like a cute, wet puppy in a dress, panting a little from running through the storm, a suitcase in hand.
And she'd tried to open her mouth to speak, honest, but there was little no air in her lungs, and she merely (delicately) coughed to alert anyone around of her presence. So much for dramatics.
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Post by Racetrack on Dec 29, 2011 23:04:13 GMT -5
Race was sitting on the couch, playing Solitaire and brooding. Of course, he'd been brooding since Sapphy left, but now that there was all this drama going down in Brooklyn, he alternated between sad, lonely brooding and furious, I-want-to-kill-everything brooding. Neither of which was remotely natural or typical for Racetrack Higgins.
Anyway, he was brooding and shuffling cards around on this particular night, listening to the rain and thunder and the howling wind, thinking how they matched his mood, when a girl he'd never set eyes on before burst through the door, drenched and panting and carrying a suitcase.
Race yelped in surprise, dropped his cards, looked her up and down, and finally stood up and managed a smile. "Hey there. Just moving in?"
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Post by Spitball on Dec 29, 2011 23:14:09 GMT -5
The residents had known that the lodging house was losing funding and was generally falling apart. But Spitball had clung to it, almost literally, until the roof started caving in - not literally. But the storm was the final straw on a very tired camel, and they quickly dispersed, Spitball being the last one to leave.
She was overly sentimental, it was true. The old place wasn't much to begin with, but everything was rose-tinted in her eyes. Stolen from her thoughts, she turned to the fellow seated on the couch, and a smile spread across her flushed face.
"Looks like it," said the properly English Spitball, setting her suitcase down. "If there's room. Last one I'd tried was completely full."
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Post by Racetrack on Dec 29, 2011 23:18:47 GMT -5
"There's always room," Race assured her, holding out his hand and grinning a little more brightly at her accent. "And I'm sure you can borrow some dry clothes from one of the girls. You really oughta meet Tag--she's English, too. I'm Racetrack Higgins, by the way."
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Post by Spitball on Dec 29, 2011 23:25:44 GMT -5
Spitball eagerly shook his hand, her shake firm. "I got some - wait, perhaps they're not so dry."
She laughed to herself, squeezing the water from her curls. "No, nothing I own is dry. Absolutely perfect. Perhaps I ought to just roll around in a blanket to keep myself warm." The girl paused a moment, blinking, realizing she was still shaking his hand.
"Oh! I'm Fiona - ah, Spitball. Tis a pleasure, Racetrack Higgins."
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Post by Racetrack on Dec 29, 2011 23:31:13 GMT -5
He gave her a bemused look and laughed, shaken out of his gloomy stupor. There was something quite refreshing about this new girl. "Spitball, huh? Do I have to watch my back when you're around? You can at least warn me first, if I happen to be wearing a real nice vest or something."
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Post by Spitball on Dec 29, 2011 23:35:39 GMT -5
"Nonsense, I only target people I don't like, and as far as I know, I like you," Spitball prattled on, flashing a wider grin, mostly unphased by her water logged state.
"Right. Are you the welcoming committee? I told them not to send me one, honestly." She rolled her eyes in a playful manner.
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Post by Racetrack on Dec 29, 2011 23:40:01 GMT -5
He chuckled again, still not sure what to make of her. But he was already fairly certain they'd get along. "Well, they must've made a mistake, 'cause here I am, right on time. If you really don't wanna be welcomed, though, I can just go back to my cards and pretend you never walked in," he offered, echoing her playful tone. "Or I can show you to the parlor and you can dry off by the fire."
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Post by Spitball on Dec 29, 2011 23:43:06 GMT -5
She tended to be an easy read, no dark mysterious past, quite unlike most of the people she would typically meet in the city.
"Oh, I'm very difficult to forget," Spitball insisted, matter of factly, "I would like to see the place, if you don't mind terribly much."
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Post by Racetrack on Dec 29, 2011 23:55:17 GMT -5
"It would be a pleasure," he said solemnly, and meant it--anything to take his mind off things. He led the way to the parlor and made a flourishing gesture at the fire. "And is there anything else I can get you, miss? Might be some snacks in the kitchen...Script ain't done any baking in a while, though..."
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Post by Spitball on Dec 29, 2011 23:59:46 GMT -5
"Oh, good!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in delight, "Someone who bakes. I'm terrible at cooking anything."
Spitbell, then, turned to him with a lifted brow. "No need to call me 'miss,' though! Unless you want me to call you 'sir.'"
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Post by Racetrack on Dec 30, 2011 0:02:41 GMT -5
"Sorry," Race said, "that's what they put in the welcoming scripts. I'll stick with Spitball, unless you prefer Fiona." He made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs and raised an eyebrow at her. "You didn't, uh...come all the way from England tonight, right?"
((I'm off to bed, love! See you soon!! <3))
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Post by Spitball on Dec 30, 2011 0:05:37 GMT -5
[ooc: Night night! <33]
"Either one, I'll respond to either," she insisted, perching herself on the arm of a chair, not wanting to get the cushion wet for the next sitter. "I came from Chelsea, actually, not quite by the Hudson, though. The old house was in such a state, we were all sent away. Very dreadful. Terribly emotional, I am."
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Post by Racetrack on Dec 30, 2011 22:48:50 GMT -5
"I can understand that," Race said seriously. And surprisingly bitterly. "It hurts a lot, when some place is your home for years and years, and then you just gotta watch it fall to pieces."
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Post by Spitball on Dec 31, 2011 1:37:37 GMT -5
"Literally," Spitball had to chuckle there, then shrugging her shoulders almost apologetically.
"A missing piece. Small, but still missing. That's what it feels like, just a bit."
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