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The Devil's Nest, Wednesday Evening

There was a Christmas tree at the club. Octavia was eyeing it with mild confusion.

"Isn't there a whole different holiday left between now and Candlenights?"

No, she didn't remember what Thanksgiving was called, and yes, that was what she was sticking with for the holiday in late December.

Also no, Tiny wasn't really answering her. Maybe he was just hoping she would let it go and he'd be able to get away with it for a little bit?

[ooc: Annnnnd open.]

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Quinn had absolutely forgotten which day of the week she'd already tried this bar during. She'd mostly forgotten the woman working the bar here tonight, too, though it wouldn't take much to remind her.

She'd barely made it back out of hibernation from Halloween, in fact, and wasn't really thinking about much of anything, certainly not memories of previous visits, when she sat down at the bar and ordered a screwdriver.

So, yes, you can add "this bar asks for ID" to the list of things she'd managed to forget about.

Octavia had thought about her more than anyone knew, at the beginning of the summer, in LA. But then there'd been Rory, and all those thoughts had faded away.

Until now.

Here.

She didn't stare, this time. But there was a certain... softness, to her face. (The girl looked younger, now. Compared to Octavia's fresh memory of Rory.) "I can't sell you that," she said. "I don't think you're old enough."

The only outward sign of Quinn's frustration was a brief widening of her nostrils. She watched Octavia for a long moment then gave her a belligerent shrug.

"Orange juice, then."

See, imaginary Cole in her head? This was why she didn't get out more.

"The other bar in town isn't as strict," Octavia said, mild but still kind of soft, as she went to get the orange juice.

“The other bar has dead things,” Quinn muttered.

It wasn’t that she had a problem with zombies per se, but they did bring back some not great memories.

"That's fair," Octavia replied. She poured the orange juice, then set the glass down in front of Quinn. "We're all alive here."

And, then a glance towards Tiny, and a little more dry in tone:

"For now."

Quinn followed her glance, sized up Tiny, then sized up Octavia.

"If you're planning violence, I'd like to be elsewhere."

Octavia's voice managed to hit a more genuinely dry tone.

"I'm not the coworker he needs to worry about."

Sidenote, 'coworker' definitely felt like a weird word in her mouth. But she'd spent enough time with the staff at Lux over the summer that it came out relatively smooth all the same.

Quinn sipped her orange juice.

"If anyone is planning violence, I'd like to be elsewhere."

Octavia looked directly at her.

"No one is planning violence."

"Uh huh," Quinn said. Clearly unconvinced. "Well. If it starts, don't get mad if I finish it."

She was pretty sure Octavia could take her -- she was certainly better fed than Quinn was currently -- but still felt it worth noting.

Octavia had been training as a warrior since she'd been younger than Quinn was now.

And on that note --

"That's not your job."

As was often the case with Octavia, her tone was mild, factual. Not trying to patronize, not showing the thoughts she'd just had about how Quinn's past had likely shaped her towards saying that.

"It is if no one else is going to do it," Quinn said matter-of-factly.

She was very used to no one else getting up to do it. Or the people who did getting killed, while somehow Quinn herself kept going.

"It's not your job here," Octavia replied (halfway repeated), just as matter-of-factly.

“Sure.” Quinn clearly didn’t believe it. “So who wants the big guy dead?”

"He's got a tree up before it's time," Octavia rasped, mildly, with a brief glance towards Tiny, and then towards the tree in question. "Odds are that will annoy someone. Possibly Eric."

Quinn hadn’t even really processed the tree.

Or what time of year it was, other than “no longer Halloween.”

“That’s a stupid reason for someone to die.”

But not actually the stupidest she’d heard!

"If you can believe it," Octavia replied, in perfect deadpan, "I wasn't entirely serious."

(She would also not be sharing how genuinely dangerous Eric could be, right this moment.)

"Which also means you weren't entirely joking," Quinn pointed out flatly.

To that, Octavia shrugged one shoulder. Just barely.

"I never meant violence was imminent tonight, anyway."

They didn't even get bar fights here.

"I guess I'll finish my orange juice without fear, then," Quinn said dryly.

(She was actually glad to hear that, though.)

"It's a club," Octavia added, after a pause. (Watching her, trying not to be obvious about it.) "And a quiet one. I don't know if I've ever actually seen violence here."

A beat.

"Except towards pianos."

And the one they currently had looked untouched.

Quinn looked at the piano. Then back at Octavia.

". . . Okay."

It looked fine to her. Not that she knew much about pianos.

"It's been replaced since then."

Octavia thought, anyway. She didn't always pay a ton of attention to Lucifer and Eric's feuding, she just knew it had been a good long while since the last bout.

“Suppose it would have to be.”

Quinn sipped her orange juice.

Octavia had nothing as pithy to offer.

Instead, she watched the girl quietly for a moment. Thought about Rory. Tried not to think about Rory.

Asked, eventually, in an even tone, "Has the island been okay to you?"

Quinn shrugged, then nodded.

“It’s been quiet.”

She’d needed a fair amount of quiet.

"And that's good?"

Well, Quinn wasn't exactly very forthcoming with information.

(Octavia could relate, of course.)

"Loud tends to involve death," Quinn said mildly. "So . . . yeah."

Jesus.

"That... hasn't been my experience here."

Quinn glanced around the bar (as though she weren't subtly doing that pretty constantly, anyway).

"Don't know, this place seems pretty quiet to me."

But Octavia had 'joked' about threats to the other guy's life.

"I meant I haven't seen that much death on the island."

Well, actually.

"Or any."

"Neither have I," Quinn said. "Because it's been quiet."

"And I have lived here when it's been loud," Octavia replied. "And still no death."

That wasn't... strictly speaking true.

Just not human death.

"Lucky you." Quinn sighed. "Most people live that way, apparently. I'm just --"

Memorable enough and determined enough to end up in multiple massacres after stumbling into the first one.

"-- Unlucky."

"And I didn't mean I haven't seen enough death elsewhere."

She had been specific about 'here' for a reason, after all.

"Yeah?" Quinn asked, finally finding actual interest in the conversation. "You responsible for any of it?"

She was not over the killing she had done. She didn't regret it, necessarily, but that didn't mean she could get past the fact that she'd done it.

It was a question with a very simple answer.

"Yes."

Simple of in terms of 'yes/no', of course. Not in any other way. But Octavia's tone was matter-of-fact, unflinching.

Mild.

"A lot of it. Directly and indirectly."

Quinn accepted that answer with a blink and the smallest of frowns (only a faint deepening of her natural expression, really).

"Did you have a good reason for them?"

"At the time, yes."

Context mattered. Quinn was free to read between the lines, however.

"You mean you thought they were, at the time," Quinn guessed.

She couldn't decide if she could judge Octavia on that. Maybe someday she wouldn't think shooting the sheriff in the first massacre was for a good reason. She didn't think so, but who knew? It'd only been a few years for her so far.

"I made the decisions I could at the time," said Octavia, who had put a lot of work into thinking about all of this over the years, "based on what the situations were at the time."

She rested her hands along the edge of the bar. Stilled them, that way.

"They're not all decisions I would advise anyone else to make," she added. "Some of them are decisions I would take back if I could. But at the time, I thought all my reasons were correct, yeah."

Quinn thought about that for a long moment. She thought she could maybe see where Octavia was coming from — but wondered if, say, Arthur Hill would say the same.

You know, if he wasn’t also dead.

“Did you try to save more people than you hurt?” she asked finally.

Arthur Hill might have thought he was doing that too. At least during the first massacre. But she was pretty sure he’d been more concerned with what he was saving rather than whom.

Oh, Quinn, you had no idea what a weighty question that was.

The expression on Octavia's face looked particularly bland.

"Most of my hurting was done to save people," she said, a low rasp. "A lot more people."

Quinn nodded, deciding to be satisfied with that. “Okay then.”

"'Okay then'," Octavia echoed, flatly.

It still managed to be kind of a question.

Which Quinn ignored, sipping her orange juice.

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The Devil's Nest, Wednesday Evening

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