22 Jan 2009

broadsword_babe: (Miranda (annoyed))
Quinn hit the heavy bag, once, twice, again. It was good therapy for when she was in a bad mood. Unfortunately, living in a city like New York often put her in a bad mood. She missed the peace and quiet of Orkney, or Colorado even. She missed the days when people genuinely cared about each other and they weren't just some faceless screenname on the other side of a computer.

Ever since she'd put the word out that she was an independent antiquities appraiser, her phone hadn't stopped ringing. The economy was a mess, and people had started unloading all the useless junk they'd been hoarding for years. It had gotten to the point where Sotheby's wanted her on permanent retainer.

She had done some appraisal work for their London office and they knew her if not by name, then at least by reputation for having a good eye for genuine artifacts versus replicas and reproductions. When she moved to New York, they were the first people she contacted about working. Not that she needed the money, mind, but she needed something other than Adam to occupy her time. Otherwise, they'd end up doing one of two things and more often than not, one sometimes led to the other.

Jab... Jab... Punch...

Port Royal, Jamaica it wasn't. No tropical breezes, no white sandy beaches. New York had been freezing cold all day, and it had taken her five tries to hail a cab. It would have been quicker just to walk to the nearest station and hop a train. Of course, that meant she was late for her appointment, which she hated.

Just trying to drive anywhere in the Five Boroughs, as they were called, was a nightmare in and of itself. Most of the time, unless she was handling something important, Quinn used either taxis or subways. Like today. She really should have taken the train.

What aggravated her more than that was the client. Time and again, they tried to tell her some bit of something was authentic. Which, naturally, it wasn't. She had tried more than once not to laugh in their face as she showed them the "made in China" label. She finally told them that if they wanted to auction off their "valuables," they'd have better luck on eBay.

So, back it was, out into the freezing cold, which by rights shouldn't have irritated a Norsewoman, but did just on general principles. When she got back to Adam's flat, after trying three times to hail a cab, she found Sam at the security desk. Needless to say, they hadn't been on speaking terms since that tree incident.

Punch... Punch... Kick...

Of course, going against the heavy bag reminded her of her training with Cassandra, and the conversations about Methos. He continued to be a sore spot between the two of them. Just because she could, to a point, understand why he'd kept Cass as a slave, didn't mean she condoned it. Sure moving to New York might've been a bit hasty, but it was her mistake to make. It wasn't that she didn't think Cass's advice was worthwhile, but after seeing friend after friend die, she felt she deserved just a tiny bit of happiness in her life. For once.

Jab... Jab... Backhand...

She was tired of living for everyone else but herself. It'd been Wade's idea to start the ranch. She had promised Meg she'd look after Charles, even when it meant dragging him away from his beloved France. Of course, folks could argue that she was living on Methos' terms now. That she had, in effect, become his slave.

Hook... Hook... Cross...

She wanted to argue that moving to New York had been her choice. She wanted to believe that he loved her. She wanted to prove that it wasn't all about the absolutely mind-blowing sex. She wanted to hope this hadn't been some manipulation two thousand years in the making. She wanted to say this had nothing to do with Cassandra.

Right... Right... Left...

She tried to tell herself that it was sweat, not tears, that clouded her vision. She tried to remind herself that she was still the same warrior she had always been. That she was tougher now, stronger, and could take his head if needs be. She didn't want it to come to that.

Left... Left... Right...

Why?

Fist... Fist... Knee...

She loved him.

Right-hook... left-hook... upper-cut...

Why?

Cross... Cross... Kick...

He understood her. He stood up to her. She needed that.

Punch... Punch... Jab...

She didn't need anyone. She didn't need anything. She could survive on her own. She could live without him. She just didn't want to.

Jab... Jab... Punch...

"Dammit!"




Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
796 Words
Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel & [livejournal.com profile] voiceofthewoods

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June 2009

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