Bitch Is A Noun


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Scene Title Bitch Is A Noun
Synopsis Minea comes to carry through with a promise to Bolivar about Kayla. He doesn't like the answer and she couldn't care less if he did. Another promise is made and Bolivar extends the snickers bar of friendship to the flame breathing dragon.
Date May 3, 2009

Bolivar Rodriguez's Home.

The apartment is, frankly, a lot neater than it was last week. Last week, Bolivar didn't know he'd be having guests.

That being said, Minea doubtless is under no illusions that the immaculately swept floor and deodorized clutter of mismatched furniture is for her, and though she's never been here before, there's something about the airy quality of sweet, dark harborfront air through the windows, the absurd bouquet sitting on the counter, and the fact that both of Bolivar's dogs are cowering underneath the furniture and out of vacuum radius that indicates that at least some of this is recent. The girls have reason to believe that their master has been possessed.

When he answers the door, the burned man is wearing a T-shirt and jeans and nothing else. His scarring seems to greet this exposure with ill humor underscored by the halcyon freshness of the room inside, keloids showing rough, stark, aggressively twisted and grainy brown against the tawny hue of his permanent tan. He has a gun in his hand, though the safety's on. Apparently, Minea had caught in the middle of looking for somewhere to stash it.

He stares at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable the way a man gets when he is desperately aware that everything else on and around him betrays the uncomfortable truth of his current situation. Then, "I'm not in the phone book."

"I asked at the station. They directed me here. With a badge to flash, they tend to speak up. Though I think it's more out of fear that I'll turn green, grow scales and breathe fire and stick my nose in their cases and take them away" Minea's in non agent gear. Jeans, black turtleneck, leather jacket, hair loose. 'Can I come in? Or I can stay out here, but I've done a lot of walking today and I could use a few minutes sitting down"

After a moment's quizzical regard, Bolivar acquiesces to do this thing. Steps back, easing ingress wide with a squeak of hinges. He shuts the door behind her, and shuffles in with the Glock swinging from his hand in something bizarrely from a fidget.

The black gunmetal coruscates dimly, swiveling a circle around the finger he has tucked in against the trigger hold. "Right. More out of a fear you'll magically get prettier than… what?" Angling his arm into the gap between television and wall, he finds a spot to lay the weapon down. It would be less woefully indiscreet if Minea weren't right here.

"Than Felix Ivanov?" Minea eases in, looking for the least intrusive spot to sit, a glance to the dogs cowering beneath the table. "Your girls are afraid." A gesture to the dogs.

'Afraid' is one word for it. Bolivar articulates his skepticism about her diction by glancing over there, his mouth flattening waspishly at the implicit censure. His eye then flicks up the next moment, meeting the beady black ones of the fluffy puppy that the flower bouquet is molded into.

She just haaaad to come over today. "You came over here to talk about my bitches?" he asks, turning away. She picked the flat metal bench to sit on; the one that Colette and her dislocated arm had adorned, once. It's surprisingly comfortable for a metal bench.

"I came Because I had an answer to your question. Unless you'd rather I didn't tell you and just walked off back to whatever cave it is that I inhabit so that I can sit on my pile of baubles and snort fire at anyone who dares come near me" There's a look thrown Bolivar's way, deliberately not looking around. She knows why dogs cower. Either they're afraid of the master and have been abused, the vacuum, or children. The dogs are treated like gold by their master, and she suspects that they're not afraid of children since they are pretty friendly dogs. So. Vacuum. Single men don't tend to clean unless their company coming and she was not a pre-cleared visitor.

There's an elaborate motion of Bolivar's arm that doesn't look exactly rude. It is a gesture of acknowledgment. "So you came here to talk about my bitches," he repeats, drolly, though this time there's a fractional shift, away from simple aggravation and toward its repression, for the sake of tolerance, in the interest of practical necessity.

He drops himself onto the overstuffed armchair across from the woman, his bare toes splaying on the conspicuous sparkle of the floor. The vacuum cleaner leans near his elbow like a claymore in repose by a throne. "I don't remember my question," he admits, after a moment.

"Ms. Reid, I'm sure would not like being called your bitch"

A shrug lifts Bolivar's scarred shoulder. "She can yell at my face if you give her my address. I wouldn't fucking mind."

"Obviously, cause you came to a hospital room to ask" Minea rubs at her thigh before she shakes her head. "She's not waking up. She's well on her road to recovery, but they say she's not woke up yet and they don't know why. They're still running more tests" Best she can give him.

There isn't enough green in Bolivar's eyes that they can ever qualify for hazel, but they look almost as flat and featureless and colorless as stone as he studies the Special Agent now, a scowl weighing his brow down. "There are other healers who could try something. Registered ones.

"You wouldn't even have to fucking kidnap and dissect them for study afterward." He's joking, probably. He doesn't really think Homeland Security does that kind of shit. Probably. His mouth finds a thinner line, a scarred hand lifting up to the ravaged edge of his jaw. He scratches, and it sounds like meat rubbing itself raw on stucco. Bolivar's face steels faintly. "Did you see her yourself?"

"They know a few too and from what I understood, healing is not the issue. Sometimes Officer Rodriguez-Smith, the body is willing but the mind isn't ready. They're not ruling out that something is physically wrong, I was able to see her myself, They're taking good care of her. Your message is waiting for when she wakes up and I asked to be notified when she does." Brown eyes keep an eye on Bolivar but not for long as she rises. "You have company coming I would assume, I only stopped by to tell you, so that you didn't think I was stringing you along"

He appreciates that. Isn't sure how to express it, self-evidently, but despite the lingering suspicion he decides to make amends. Rising too, Bolivar offers her a handful of candy bars, snatched out of a separate basket that he had stashed away in some unimaginable place during the strenuous process of cleaning. "I have too many of these," he says, handing them over. "And you look almost as fucking anorexic as I do getting out of radiation sickness.

"They aren't poisoned," he adds, also, after a moment.

Then, "Will you let me know if they're letting their vegetables take visitors?" Bolivar tracks the progress of a dust mote through the air a few feet from his face. Scowls slightly. Candywrapping crinkles plasticky and insistent in his fingers.

"I took three bullets to my leg, abdomen and chest. They got me up enough to get back to work. No rest for the wicked" But the milky way bar is taken, if only because you don't turn down a peace offering. She also didn't think she looked that bad. "I'll see what I can do but.. don't get your hopes up Rodriguez. The moment she's awake and I find out, i'll be on her like white on rice to get her released. But i'll try and get her back to you as soon as humanely possible" The homeland agent turns, heading for the door before she pauses. "I can give you the name of someone who can help, with the radiation poisoning. She's a registered healer too"

Just one candy bar. That leaves Bolivar with far too many besides, and he's already made himself close to ill with the chocolate strawberries before ill-temperedly throwing them at his neighbors. He ill-temperedly retracts them now.

"I'm over the radiation poisoning," he tells the woman, bluntly. "Kind of the reason and premise for this continuous little shit-fit I keep throwing in your direction.

"Reid helped me." His feet drub the way back to the door, bare toes slapping the floor with careless force that he wouldn't have been able to afford mere months ago, at the risk of jarring jolt pain with every pace. There's nothing wrong with him now, except for the hideous scars, the sweat glands mutilated down that side and whatever minute sensory inconsistencies hold sway down that region of his body. He yanks the handle, steers the doorjamb wide again, and looks back at the unlikely visitor in his obnoxiously clean and bright apartment.

"Hope isn't really my problem," he says. "Worry about yourself, Special Agent."

"I'll get back to you in a week then, give you an update regardless if anything changes" Because some information is better then no information right? "Take care Rodriguez" and with that, and one half unwrapped chocolate bar later, the brunette is heading out towards her car, chewing a bit of the chocolate.

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