maskormenacelogs

WHO: Robbie Reyes & Gwen Lots-o-Names-York
WHERE: Nonah!
WHEN: Late Feb
WHAT: Dog walking and god knows what else!
WARNINGS: None for now.

With Frank more or less covering the hunt for wayward convicts from January's breakout in De Chima, Robbie has been spending most of his off hours either working on his car and hitting the pavement in the other Porter cities to try and track down everyone he can.

That's what finds him in Nonah's busy streets, luckily still with all his skin on (mostly because the sun's still out and it's a little hard to be an inconspicuous skeleton on fire at midday.) He glances over his shoulder as he rounds a sidewalk corner, stopping—and taking an immediate step back—only when he looks forward again and realizes he's about two feet away from being run the hell over by the biggest, fluffiest dog he's ever seen in his life.

"Christ," he puffs out before he can stop himself. It's not like he's afraid of dogs (being afraid of things kinda loses its point when you can come back from death), but look at that thing. He hesitates a second to see if it's going to try and jump on him or anything, before glancing up behind it to see whoever is hopefully on the other side of a leash and-- oh. "Oh," yeah, he remembers her. Gwen. She made herself pretty hard to forget. "Uh, you." Maybe don't open with that, Robbie!!

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Wow, Robbie -

"Me," she says, dryly, as Putin takes the opportunity to investigate Robbie while he's hesitating. There is no jumping involved, just vigorous sniffing - he's a well-trained animal, if young and enthusiastic. He would clearly like to push Robbie around a bit more, possibly shove his face in his balls, but grimly determined examination of his thigh will have to do. "And this is Putin, who is going to stop that--"

Is he, mum. Is he.

(Yes, but reluctantly.)

It's generally not looking to be a good day when huge animals with (presumably) very sharp teeth stick their noses anywhere near his balls, but it might still be salvageable given that the big fluffy fella backed off. However reluctantly.

Robbie means to comment on it but he's waylaid by one small detail. "You named your dog Putin?" The look he gives Gwen is pure girl, why?

"Putin Onaritz," she says, breezily, as if she can't imagine what's even possibly wrong with that. A little too breezily. She knows exactly what the fuck is wrong with that, she is a terrible person - but he is a very good boy because other than thudding his tail violently against the ground when he recognises his name, Putin seems content once brought to heel to remain there, remaining not accidentally slightly between small mistress and strange man.

There are some teething issues in the matter of exactly who is in charge of walking, sometimes.

"He's Eastern European and Hollywood, I think it makes perfect sense."

Alright, he can't hold back a slightly-harsh exhale through his nose (which is really as close as he gets to laughing most days), shaking his head. Not that he didn't figure it from her drunk intro post, but this girl is Ridiculous.

"If you say so," he sounds dubious and amused at the same time. "You ever find the job you wanted?"

"Getting paid to drink wine, buy yourself shoes and look pretty is only a job when it comes with a new surname and some stepchildren older than you are," she sighs ('trophy wife' is not technically considered a job, but she's met that kind of man, and they're fucking work just to be in the same room with), "so I've had to settle for going freelance and figuring it out myself."

She arranges her features into her best impression of grown up professional and offers him her hand with just enough of a lip-quirk to betay the self-skewering nature of the joke;

"Gwen Wynne-York, independent project coordinator. Or whatever title I settle on slash makes the most sense with what I end up taking on."

Edited 2017-03-20 06:55 (UTC)

"Doesn't really have the same ring to it as Glitter Designer," because who could forget that? But he shakes her hand: he grew up in LA (granted, East LA, but there was no physical border keeping him out of the expensive parts of town), so the whole Irreverent Socialite flavoring isn't exactly alien to him.

Even if it does come with a fancy accent, here.

"Robbie Reyes." He shrugs a shoulder. Used to be a lot more bitter about it his own Porter assigned title, but after a month or two on the job, it's hard to be that mad. "School counselor. Which is, at least, an actual job."

"Does anyone actually ever come and talk to you? Like, on purpose?"

Which is not a slight to Robbie so much as his actual but actually terrible job - much more interesting than the fact that her hand is a lot smoother and cooler than it really should be. Though a moment later; "I talked to them at Marymount, I guess, but I was a prefect, the faculty are sort of necessarily unavoidable."

Someone actually thought it was a good idea for a teenaged Gwen to be in a position of authority over younger girls. That is a thing that happened. Someone who had met her.

What the hell is a prefect, Robbie wonders.

"You'd be surprised," he says instead of asking, because of course he does. "Might be the imPort thing, though." Unlike some people, he has absolutely not been using that to his advantage. He's deeply uncomfortable with the spotlight, partly because he's also a violent murderer who isn't eager to go to jail. Partly because he's just weird and very private. "Had to start confiscating phones at the door." He sounds mildly offended by the whole thing. "Kept finding myself on snapchat. Or, fake snapchat. Whatever parody name they gave it here." Teens were a mistake, Gwen.

She was Head Girl, too. Fun fact.

"Oooh, doesn't count if they just want to put you on their social media. That's not a job, that's giving adolescents plausible deniability." Always a mistake, because, yes, teenagers are the fucking worst. Gwen was one, not altogether very long ago, and she -

You know what, it's probably better not to closely examine what she got up to as an adolescent.

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oh my god i did not see the notif for this

are we in a race to see who can be the slowest, MAYBE

I'M PRETTY SURE I WIN gold star for me tbh

tapes it to your face

i'll treasure it forever

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