John Constantine. Pepper judged a lot by names, she found. That was a solid, tough kinda name. Told as much as his face did that he'd seen a lot.
So he'd been in a band? That was immediately exciting to her already-hyperactive-from-the-heat-and-jumping-about brain. No wonder he'd been judging their little impromtu act. But it looked like he wasn't too keen on her suggestion, which she'd expected. Shame. Until that thrashing-til-your-ears-bleed guitar solo sounded in the trademark screech that only one band could claim, and he took the shovel from her, striking a pose that was wonderfully remeniscent (as ridiculous poses could hardly bother a young woman who still liked to pretend she was a superhero) of old videos that she'd seen from the 70s. She tried to hide her surprise. He's a Sex Pistols fan?
Pepper shook her head back and forth in time to the music. "You know this band too?" she asked the Doc. Most people found the Pistols abrasive at best, and after his statement renouncing the wholesomeness of beer, she had to inquire.
When she checked back John Constantine was still looking at her moving through the song in a way that would have made Johnny Rotten proud. Pepper wasn't used to being the center of attention this way, especially with men, but she found that the weird fluttering in her stomach was a lot better than how she normally felt around boys (even around her boyfriend, truth be told. He never inspired anything fluttery or even interesting). And John had a rugged quality that she was appreciating more by the second, even as he lipsynched indecently for her random amusement. Anyone who had the guts to play was automatically 'good' in Pepper's book. She grinned at him and mouthed the next lyrics with him as the song continued:
Look at that cross the street Theres a car built just for me To own a car would be a luxury But right now I can't afford the gas A brand new convertible is out of my class
no subject
So he'd been in a band? That was immediately exciting to her already-hyperactive-from-the-heat-and-jumping-about brain. No wonder he'd been judging their little impromtu act. But it looked like he wasn't too keen on her suggestion, which she'd expected. Shame. Until that thrashing-til-your-ears-bleed guitar solo sounded in the trademark screech that only one band could claim, and he took the shovel from her, striking a pose that was wonderfully remeniscent (as ridiculous poses could hardly bother a young woman who still liked to pretend she was a superhero) of old videos that she'd seen from the 70s. She tried to hide her surprise. He's a Sex Pistols fan?
Pepper shook her head back and forth in time to the music. "You know this band too?" she asked the Doc. Most people found the Pistols abrasive at best, and after his statement renouncing the wholesomeness of beer, she had to inquire.
When she checked back John Constantine was still looking at her moving through the song in a way that would have made Johnny Rotten proud. Pepper wasn't used to being the center of attention this way, especially with men, but she found that the weird fluttering in her stomach was a lot better than how she normally felt around boys (even around her boyfriend, truth be told. He never inspired anything fluttery or even interesting). And John had a rugged quality that she was appreciating more by the second, even as he lipsynched indecently for her random amusement. Anyone who had the guts to play was automatically 'good' in Pepper's book. She grinned at him and mouthed the next lyrics with him as the song continued:
Look at that
cross the street
Theres a car built just for me
To own a car would be a luxury
But right now I can't afford the gas
A brand new convertible is out of my class