We Hold Each Other Close

[Molly Quincannon] [[Just to kick us off ... how Aware is Molly today?]]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Molly Quincannon] There's a fine line to walk between 'being supportive and there for someone' and 'driving people crazy by not giving them enough time to themselves'. Molly is trying to walk that line today, which means shopping. There's stuff to plan, in point of fact - a sanctuary to stock and furnish ... or at least, to think about stocking and furnishing, given that they don't even have the building yet. So there's a lot of window-shopping from a certain generally familiar nerdbomb.

It's been some months, in point of fact, since a certain 'touch-know' saw this particular individual. There had been flirtation over a disused auto repair shop (now crawling with Technocrats, woe) and some idle conversation, but time changes all things. Molly's still the mid-height, lanky chick, but her hair's not jet-black anymore; it's now a shade of off-brown, and a fair bit longer than it should be even with months to grow out. It'd take a second look. Still, there are identifying markers, at closer range - the glasses, the bits of tattoo that can be seen around neckline and shirt-sleeves ... and another feeling, if one's observant.

Also, possibly, the fact that she ends up hovering around a coffee shop called Joe's like a bumblebee hovers around flowers (Frantic, always, even when standing still). Little caffeine fiend.

[Quentin Doyle] He's a big guy. Dress him in jeans, loafers and a jacket over a buttoned shirt to try and he still doesn't blend in with the crowd of much smaller shoppers. Like a quarterback he makes his own room, only he borders on being more refined. That jacket, at least, is tailored to fit the shoulders and a trim waist. His hair is longer, too, curling around the collar, kinking and threatening loops in other places, still in his natural shades of brown.

It's a busy weekend at the Pub because it's a holiday weekend and they're still open. But he's not there and it's not his problem until his phone goes off and he's called in, hopefully that won't happen and he can continue to enjoy his day out through the shops, where he plans to grab something for dinner later on. Now though, he's after a coffee, wanting a break from eager sales assistants and to unwind so he can catch a second wind.

Then there's Molly. He doesn't recognize her immediately, but she gets a glance as he's walking for the door to the coffee shop she's buzzing around. A small nod is polite, and the way his brows draw faintly inward tells her he's working on where he's seen her, while he reaches for the door.

[Molly Quincannon] Quentin might be wondering - Molly isn't. Molly has a Memory. She also has a smile that is generally remembered (she's not beautiful, classically, but her smile definitely makes an impression - open and honest). And she's heard things about this guy since she last saw him; life had just got away from her. She has confirmation of some of those things, essentially. "Quentin! Molly; we met ... oh great Google, July last year. The auto-shop thing. How're you doing?"

[Quentin Doyle] Molly isn't a name he'd usually forget. It's the sort of name his relatives would have. Paused, his hand falls away from the door and he steps aside so he's not blocking the doorway.

"Molly," he repeats her name, filtering through the many people he's met. The auto-shop helps, he'd only checked out the one that had the girl out front. She looks different but he can't quite place it. Normal wouldn't be the right word. Mage's don't have the same vibe as the mundane, even to his unawakened self.

Smiling then, lines crease by his eyes - he's older. "It's good ta see ya again Molly," he tells her, extending out a hand, offering to shake hers. They don't know each other well enough for a kiss on the cheek. "I'm doin' well. How 'bout yaself? S'been awhile." His hand, should she take it, is warm and engulfing, and the shake brief and light.

[Molly Quincannon] Molly accepts the offered hand, shakes it (firm, but not too much so - hands are calloused and scarred and bearing a few nicks and bruises - she's been working hard lately) and her smile turns wry as she says, "Yes. Yes, it has. It's been a busy old while on my end of the world. Were you going to grab a coffee? I could use one and this is the only place in town that'll serve me a quintuple-shot mocha. Everyone else actually pays attention to the FDA. It's sad." Then she adds, "Oh! In the last few months, I've heard that we have friends in common. Small world, right?"

[Quentin Doyle] "Yes. I was." Since she seems agreeable to the indoors, he steps over to push open the door and hold it open for her, gesturing with his free hand for her to go in first.

He can't help his own wry smile at the mention of sharing friends. It makes him give a small shake of his head, and she can tell he just wants to sigh, holding it back. "Sometimes smaller'n than I'd like it te be," he admits. That was the truth.

Waiting for her to head inside, he soon follows, making sure the door shuts behind him to keep out the cold. Scanning across the coffee shop, he spies a few empty tables so there's no rush to go and grab one. He can order first. "Quintuple-shot mocha, wasn't it?" He'll get her order, too.

[Molly Quincannon] "Yes, but I'm buying." No, she's not taking no for an answer here. "They know me here. I'm a good customer. Plus, I have this thing about letting people buy me things that most sane people tend to think will make my heart explode. So what are you having?" It's cheerful, but adamant. "Besides, we talked about dinner and never got around to it. This'll have to do."

Assuming lack of argument about who's treating whom (Molly is a liberated sort of woman who would argue the point all damn day, it must be said), there's drinks and a sympathetic sort of look. "That bad, huh? If it helps, I'm not pushy people. I'm just curious. I didn't even notice first time we met, but Emily and Ashley mentioned you, is all. I hear your pub's doing well. Ashley in particular likes it, and she's hard to please."

[Quentin Doyle] There is a brief back and forth because Quentin really doesn't like the idea of a woman buying him anything, he's a chauvinist that way, but he relents because he knows that look and that tone in a woman, and would rather just have a damn coffee than to have a scene. So it's a simple coffee for him, nothing fancy, just taken with cream and a single sugar.

"Ashley likes it?" This seems to surprise him. Pushy was definitely one way he would describe Ashley and he hoped that Molly fit closer to the Emily category than the other aforementioned Mage. "I must be doin' somethin' right than," he jests. He really couldn't care for the approval of others, but he's trying not to be an ass about it. The previous encounters he's had with Mage's in Chicago haven't left the best impression.

Over by a table, he waits for her to sit while he sheds his jacket and lays it over the back of his chair. The shirt doesn't strain across his shoulders or chest, but it fits more snug across his upper torso then it does his back. The white is crisp making his features seem more rough around them, even though his stubble is groomed. He sits with a creak on the chair. "Dare I ask wha' it is you've heard?"

[Molly Quincannon] "Ashley takes most things seriously," Molly says - she's being kind. It's obvious that she's being kind. But she's also being honest. "That includes her beer and her whiskey. Therefore, yes, you must be doing something right. It's not just her that takes her beer and whiskey seriously, after all. Call it a compliment to your stock and taste." Her own jacket comes off (her T-shirt is white, a little close-fitting and reads "Team Anders". The N in Anders is a calico cat, on inspection) and she draws her coffee towards her, giving it an appreciative sniff. Not that she needs to be sitting that close to it to do so - people two tables over can smell the coffee in that thing.

Then he asks what else she's heard, and she looks up at him, hazel eyes flickering across his face for a moment. "That you're not like ... us, but you're not the average either," she says. "That you're not really interested in getting involved in the ... hoopla, for lack of a better word ... that my bunch get into. Particularly, I imagine, the politics and social groupings and one-upmanship bullshit that some of my bunch tend to pull on each other. That you've got talents, and you go your own way." Her tone, it should be noted, contains nothing but respect and 'just the facts' - she's certainly not judging him. "Also that you're a nice guy. Which I pretty much knew anyway. So beyond that ... not much, really."

Sip of coffee to let him consider that, then says, "Put it to you this way. I'm info-dump girl, nothing more. I'm not into politics, my ... branch of the family, let's say ... doesn't actually get into any of that, and we've got a real hands-off policy. So don't worry that you're going to get a recruitment spiel. I just like to know stuff, and pass along what I know, if I think it's important. Beyond that, you're not going to get anything pushy-looking from me. So you can relax now." Teasing little grin.

[Quentin Doyle] The moment that she had mentioned knowing the same friends, and he instantly knew to which of those she was referring, he had been on guard. He'd not admit this, it's not something he sees in himself, but by the time Molly has explained her part in things and spills the beans on the gossip pertaining to him, he's sitting cautiously back in his chair with his coffee held in hand, looking a little more at ease. Not so tense around the eyes or in the tendons of his neck.

"That's refreshing ta know." It is, too. The coffee is too hot to sip yet, and he realizes this when he brings it to his mouth and the steam warns him to wait. Setting his coffee on the edge of the table, he draws his hand away and rests it on his thigh instead.

"First time I met Ashley," he begins, "she comes te warn me about a so called enemy. Now I don' doubt that thare's such a thing, but I'm sure plenty of those like meself an' the likes 'ave lived long an' fulfilling lives without being kidnapped by some men in black."

He pauses long enough to look from her coffee cup back up to her face, adding, with the same sort of honesty: "Wasn't a way to make me endeared to her. Frankly, sounded like crazy talk. Not tha' idea that there's some sort of prosecution goin' on, that's been happenin' long before yours an' my great-grandma's were born, but that I should join the cause or at least throw my lot in with, to save myself from the same fates."

Shaking his head, he suddenly smiles, humoured. "Can't say tha' to a lad like me, love. Man like me prides himself on being able te take care. I'm already an' old man as it is." So the idea of Ashley, this small thing, telling him he wasn't safe and that he needed her protection was almost insulting.

[Molly Quincannon] Molly listens to that ... and then she facepalms, knocking her glasses askew. "Oh, Kibo's shaven balls, Ashley..." Then she shakes her head and sighs. "Well, put it to you this way. Yes, there are MIBs. Yes, they can be problematic. No, it's probably not a good idea to go advertising what you can do - what can you do, anyway? Unless that's rude to ask. Sorry. Curiosity problem. Anyway, fact is that those things are real, and there's a whole lot more out there. One of ... I think yours; I'm not really sure about the differentiations or any of that; we're all just people, y'know? Talents or--" she does exaggerated 'spooky hands' "--'great cosmic power' or whatever else, we're just people ... anyway, someone who they referred to in the same terms as you got sucked into some of these problems awhile ago. So it can happen. I mean, you probably heard things about the tornado that hit Chicago, among other things. That was ... hoodoo shit." She sighs. "Thing is, you don't necessarily need us to protect you from any of it. Sometimes just being on the same block as one of us when the shit goes down gets you into more trouble than ... 'joining forces with'-- great Google, Ashley, I never pegged you for overdramatics... Anyway, than hanging with us gets you out of. I'm up-front about that. So I'll lay it out for you - I'm not going to badger you to 'join our cause'. You know where we are, if shit goes down. That's enough for me. Beyond that, you seem awesome to have coffee with. You're people who're awesome to have coffee with. The rest can bore it and stroke it and cram it as far as it'll go, as far as I'm concerned, unless you want it otherwise. I'm open to questions, but I'm not going to..." She actually pushes her coffee aside and drops her head on the table with a *thud*. Clearly, there's some exasperation there. "...To do what Ashley did, anyway."

[Quentin Doyle] She's a character, he thinks, while he's watching her talk a mile a minute and finishes it with thudding her head to the table. His chuckle is low, deep and buried somewhere in his chest. "I help the authorities. I'm one o' those clairvoyant types." Sort of. Mostly. But it doesn't seem to sit with his very masculine and broad back stature, or the fact that she first met him outside an auto-shop on a bike, and that he runs an Irish pub and looks rough around the edges despite trying to groom himself to fit a higher class part - which he will never quite fit into. He will always be that man that has that bad boy edge.

Lifting his cup from the table he blows across the surface and takes a quick sip to test the heat on his lip. Deciding it's fine enough to drink, he takes a larger sip of it, watching Molly where she lays on the table, and swallows down the coffee to burn the insides of his stomach.

[Molly Quincannon] Molly looks up. Clearly, now that that's out of the way, conversation can move on. "That's cool. What ... missing persons, that kind of thing? Good talent to have, speaking as someone who can do that kind of thing but has to really work at it. Pre-cog, post-cog or ... y'know, just 'now'? I can do all three, but pre-cog's a bitch, even when playing the odds, if you want to go further ahead than, like, three minutes."

She's speaking low enough not to be randomly overheard, so clearly she's a veteran at this kind of thing. She's also talking to him like an equal. Like she said - just people. With talents. Or whatever.

Then she squints at him, thinking back on the image, and then asks, "You're not, like, the goddamn Batman or something, are you? Mild-mannered well-off pub owner Quentin Doyle by day, masked avenger by night? 'Cos you could rock the body armour."

[Quentin Doyle] Listening to her, he nods now and again while nursing his coffee close to his mouth. It's not particularly cold in Chicago, and while it rains a lot, this is nothing compared to Boston. Still, the warmth of the coffee is a welcomed thing. He almost spits it out as he laughs at the masked avenger. "Thanks a lot, love. But nae, I don't." So he's preening a little under her compliment. This sort of body doesn't just grow itself after all. Quentin has some vanity.

Then, once he actually thinks on her question and has finished half his coffee in a few large gulps, he sets the cup on the table again and considers her. "Psychometry. Works with impressions an' objects. The clairvoyance is a little 'arder te explain. I don't think it be much like the one you're talkin' about." He has to think about this, and settles back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach with his elbows resting out to the side. "It's like seein' somewhere other than where yer sittin' in the current time."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly nods. "I could do psychometry on a person - sort of - but not an object. Not yet. Haven't dealt with that part of things yet. Keep meaning to, but other stuff comes up." She takes a definitive swig of her coffee, then goes on. "But yeah, your gift covers the 'now' - it's got a lot of names but that ... I just stick with 'farsight'. I can do it to a point - I can track a mind, or an electrical signature, and see that place ... or anyplace I know well or can find a map reference for. So I get where you're coming from. One of my favourite bits of the package, and the most useful. The authorities are lucky to have you on side. I think." She gives a little sideways smile. "To hear and look at you, even if you're not Mr Body-Armour Batman type in cape and mask and all that, I figure you're at least on the 'making the world a better place for people' team. Respect for that, by the way."

[Quentin Doyle] "Tell me something." Leaning forward in his chair, he rested his arms lightly on the edge of the table, pushing his cup out of the way. "Wha' is it you all do te make the world a better place?" Since they are on the topic this was something that he wanted to ask. He was actively doing something with his so called gifts to aid humanity in whatever way that he could, because she's right, Quentin is all about that. Sometimes this involved beating in the face of some wife-beater, hauling out someone by the scruff from a pub when they became insulting, or, the one he is less inclined to talk about - sit pawing through evidence of murdered persons, including (too often) children.

He doesn't sleep easy but he still does it.

[Molly Quincannon] "Me personally?" Molly doesn't seem taken aback by this at all. "Well, on a large scale ... I helped bottle up the thing that was, among other things, dropping tornados and rains of fire and all manner of other shit on Chicago. That would have spread, if the thing responsible had gained power. Um ... there was the infestation of demon-twisted magic-users, which I helped get rid of. Got tortured by the bastards, too. But that's the big-scale stuff ... or the stuff that's seen as more important than the other stuff by other people. I think it's just as important that I comforted a boy who was forced to see too much, and his scared mother - and, as an aside and totally mundane, made sure that the woman's abusive ex-husband went to jail for the beatings he'd given his wife, his child and every woman he's been involved with since his first year in college. I helped rescue a little girl from something powerful and alien and wrong, and comforted her with cupcakes and lip gloss and reminding her how to be a kid again - letting her be a kid again. I've pulled people out of burning buildings, gone after supernatural horrors in the tunnels under the city, rescued people from murderers a few times, outed the dirty laundry of multinational corporations that would have killed millions out of greed and negligence, and just ... been there for people who needed a friend after bad things that shouldn't have happened to them ... did."

Another sip of coffee. "That's my contribution. So far, anyway. It's nearly got me killed a few times, but ... I think it's worth it."

[Quentin Doyle] Some of it sounds far fetching, it really does, but he has the better sense than to just blow it off. Instead he sits there, looking at her, studying her features as she prattles off one horror after the other and what she's done and who she's helped and defended. Right now she could very well be defending herself, justifying, or simply answering his question. Many would take offense, not because he meant it that way, but because of the vibe that he gives off, which is less composed then his outward demeanor.

"Who is lookin' after you?" Is what he asks after a pregnant pause.

[Molly Quincannon] "My friends," she says, without hesitation. For the record, she'd recited what she's done so far without much in the way of pride or ire or even much fire (though she'd shuddered, once, at the mention of being tortured; that is still with her. She still wears the scars). It's not justification or defensiveness; it's just what's happened. Take it or leave it. "I have a few good ones. They've stood with me through some very dark times. Saved my life more than once, at great risk to their own. Like I'd do for them. Sometimes," she adds, with a soft smile, "it's not politics and one-upmanship. Sometimes it's respect amongst peers. The ones who can do that ... we hold each other close."

Then she tilts her head to the side and looks at him, curious. "Is it hard for you? Seeing what you do? I know the things I see ... because sometimes it's more than seeing; it's feeling, too ... it's hard, sometimes. But I have someone to talk to about it. When it's messy or ugly." She stops short of asking who he has to talk to, but ... it's there, between the lines.

[Quentin Doyle] "Yes," he tells her. It is hard.

Easing back in his chair, he picks up his coffee cup again. There's not much he's willing to say on that subject. Again, she's a woman. She's seen horrors she shouldn't have, been through things that he's still rolling over in his mind and trying not to get in an uproar about. She's that sort of woman that demands to buy a man a coffee, after all, but this is hard for him to swallow.

"Humanity inflicts tha' worse on each other." They don't need monsters or demons for that, humans are depraved all by themselves.

He swigs back some coffee, watching her with his calm blue-green eyes. "It's good tha' you 'ave friends, Molly. I'd be worried if you had nobody te talk to about that. Have you thought about takin' a back seat fer awhile?"

[Molly Quincannon] Surprisingly, that gets a laugh, that last - it's kind, and self-deprecating, but she clearly takes the horrors she's seen in stride, somehow. "I thought about it for maybe five whole minutes, once," she tells him, and yes, she's still inwardly laughing at herself. "Then self-awareness kicked in. You can feel it all around me, can't you? Why I can't take a backseat?" And he probably can, if he concentrates - the Frantic; the feel of commuters at rush hour, last-minute shoppers the day before Christmas, nurses and doctors in MASH units. The sense of constant motion, even when sitting still. The need to do something. "It's not in my nature. I'd bash my head against the self-imposed bars. I ... have the ability and the will and the desire to make a difference. That doesn't come along in conjunction very often ... at least not to this degree. I'd implode in a burst of self-loathing and pent-up frustration if I just ... took a backseat and went to Bermuda. I take breaks between apocalypses, if that helps." Sheepish little grin there.

Another curious tilt of the head, then, and she looks at him. "I'm sorry it's hard for you. But ... I guess I'm also not, in a weird way. If it was easy to see all that, I think I'd be worried about you. As it is ... thank you." She means it, it's clear. "Thank you for putting yourself through that to help people. It's ... I see it, but rarely, even with my bunch. And I always admire it when I do. So ... thank you. Know that what you do is appreciated." She clearly hopes it helps; clearly wishes she could do more. But, just as clearly, she won't press an issue that he doesn't wish to discuss further than she already has.

[Quentin Doyle] "You could do somethin' else," he points out, but the tone is light and the volume quiet. This isn't something he's going to press on her either. He is well aware that he should take his own advice for these things. Sometimes he takes a break, but after a couple of week's he's back at it. He can't help it either. It's his nature. The way way he was raised was to help those in need and when someone comes knocking at the door with a case file of some missing person or brutal murder, he can't very well sit in his pub and pretend that the offender isn't still out there. And there's always the What If. What If that girl is still alive? What If it's that man sitting right over there, drinking a beer and plotting out his next victim?

Quentin knows what it's like, so whens he says her thank you's he nods and offers a brief smile. "Ya 'ave no need to thank me Miss Molly. It's wha' we do." People like us. His coffee is finished, right down to the strong dregs at the bottom, and the cup is set near the middle of the table.

He leans back again, creates distance and breathing room without him hovering in close like that, and while one hand rests the wrist on the edge of the table, his other is on his thigh, knee cut wide towards the wall and leaving her feet plenty of room under the table for two. "On te brighter topics. Was good seein' you again. Almost didn't recognize ya," he says, while looking over her features and studying them again.

[Molly Quincannon] She watches him, and smiles. They understand each other. That's enough. Though she does add, as a closer, "Maybe I don't have need to thank you, but I wanted to. I believe in making sure that the people I appreciate know about it." And that clinches that.

With another swig of her coffee (hers is nearly empty now too, and how she's not vibrating where she sits, one would never know), she grins at the bit about almost not recognising her. "Yeah, thought I'd change the look up a bit. Does a body good, y'know? But it's still the same old me under all the hair ... if a little more toned. I took up belly dancing and bojutsu a few months back. Which leads me to asking, do you go to a gym, or your own free weights, or ... I mean, are you lucky enough to have that physique naturally?" It's appreciative, but not lecherous or anything - just stating the facts.

So it's conversation of a lighter, more mundane sort, and perhaps another cup of coffee (which she lets him buy this time - it's his turn, or so she sees it), and eventually, they go on their respective ways - perhaps after an exchange of phone numbers and a request (at least from Molly's side) to keep in touch. After all, it's nice to have someone to talk to...