Participants:
| Scene Title | Don't Need to Worry |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | In which amends are made mainly by not talking about any of the things they should make amends over. |
| Date | October 18, 2009 |
Old Lucy's: Upstairs
Whomever it was who was fighting, it's gone now, the bar returned to it's regularly scheduled decibel level. Abigail's drifted upstairs to kick off shoes, break out a pan of brownies, cold milk and park on the couch with her feet up on the coffee table. Leonard's out, gone somewhere, Scarlett is being a bitch on the windowsill out and Alicia is parked under Abby's legs in the vain hopes of getting one of the dog treats she has beside her. The television's turned on and set to the home shopping network where some gussied up aged blonde is hawking spanx. Who doesn't want to look slimmer!
Deckard's progress up the stairs is slow. After stopping long enough to put back another pair of shots downstairs, vertical movement is generally requiring more focus than the strictly horizontal. Eventually he makes it all the way up with the banister's hobbled support and fumbles his key into the lock to let himself in after spending some five or ten quiet minutes with the top of his scruffy head braced drowsily against the frame. Not enough time to sober him up, but enough that he's reasonably sturdy when he sidesteps in through the door and closes it with a neat click behind himself.
'Well. He didn't kill you. I'll be sure to thank him for that" Abigail looks over as the corner of her mouth turns up in a smile. "Spending the night or coming to… tell me what I did wrong and need to not do again in the future?" There's space beside her and an extra plate with chocolate goodness. Milk, they just might have to share it.
"Before you say anything, I wasn't expecting to run into him, but i'm glad I did. He's having a rough go of it too. Not that I expect you to go and be buddy buddy with him"
"Shouldn't he be the one worried about me killing him?" inquired without heat, Flint shrugs his way out of his coat with a slouchy dip of his shoulders, gloves stripped off and tucked into the near pocket one at a time. For the first time in a long time, the clothes underneath don't hang off his bones like cloth over a wooden frame. His grey suit is on the shabbier end of wearable, but (with the help of a belt) it fits.
He doesn't answer the question part, or the buddy buddy part save maybe with a slight frown, but drops the coat aside to weave his way for the unoccupied side of the couch.
"I don't think you'll do it unless he needs it to be done' Abigail oh so quietly points out. At least, she does after he's sat down. A piece of brownie is torn from her portion as she resettles herself with her shoulder against him. "You're looking better" She offers up the bite for him to take, looking up and over her shoulder at him.
"Go ahead, yell at me."
"Do you think I'm the type to hesitate, when it comes to killing people?"
It's an oddly honest question considering the context and how things went last time, flatly curious before he registers the offer of the brownie and reaches up to take it in cold-numbed fingers. His breath is boozy and his focus hazy at best — it drifts across the tv and then back to his bullet-ridden coat until he shrugs against her direction to go ahead and start yelling.
"I do flint. I think you don't like doing it, or that you've done it as much as you lead people on to think that you don't care that you have. When someones not actively, right that moment trying to kill you, I think you do" Blue eyes watch him, the way his fingers take the brownie piece, Flint's roving eyes as they go here, then there, then back again.
"I think a lot of things about you. Ninety nine percent of them good. The other percent, confused. Are you going to kill him? Or would you like to learn from him. Learn about what's in you and… maybe learn to help each other instead of carrying on this… legacy that you both have." She's resigning herself these days, coming little by begrudging little, to the fact that she's not going to get it back. She's mundane now, forever and ever.
"The way you feel about it after doesn't make the action itself less evil. In the end, someone's life is still over." Unless it's Felix. In which case his life is only over for a few days and then operation resumes as normal. The brownie is pushed into the side of his mouth and chewed on after a few seconds of dreary silence spent studying the wall. It's a good brownie.
"You shouldn't always assume the best of people, Abby." How many times has he said so in various forms? The last bit of brownie chewed and swallowed, he sinks deeper into the couch next to her, buzzy and relaxed. Distant. "I don't think he knows more than I do. Maybe he thinks he does."
"And you assume the worst, so between the two of us, I think we'll come out pretty even" Her slender fingers dig into the chocolate baked good to wrest a piece for herself. Maybe this time it's her spoiling for a fight? Spoiling for something? "You're always there to save me. You or Teo. I can't heal anymore, but I am still blonde and pretty and maybe not so innocent anymore. Someone will always save me yes?"
She mimics deckards modus operandi with the brownie, side of her mouth so that she can chew. "I'm not a New Yorker, Id don't do terrorist things, blow up buildings, save the world more than once. I like seeing the good in someone, assuming the best. If I don't then, they won't see the good in me." She cranes her head to lookeup towards him. "Do you not like, that I see good in you? That I assume the best of you? In Richard or Teo or Leonard. That there's some good in everyone no matter how deep it might be buried. In everyone Flint, there's something of worth in them. Even in you and in Peter. Peter who can't forgive himself for loosing control of an ability he had no control over"
"…Unless we're gone, or too slow, or dead. Or don't know where you are, or who's taken you, or why." Deckard's too laid back to spoil for much of anything at the moment. His breathing has slowed down even since he's been here and there's no animosity or irritation in the lines etched long around his face. He's leaned away enough to feel around in his abandoned coat long enough to come away with a beat up old flask, and that's about it.
"I accept that you find consolation in dwelling on the good in people." There's some metallic scraping while he unscrews the flask's cap and settles back against her. "But you're setting yourself up for disappointment in assuming that any of us are 99% altruistic."
"Well you don't need to worry, because no body wants me. We just have to worry about them kidnapping you these days" Another bite of brownie waits for him to be finished consuming alcohol so she can pop it into his mouth with a purse of her lips and a resettling her her head on his shoulder.
The hand not feeding Deckard is fishing for a dog treat to toss down to the silently suffering Alicia.
"Joseph broke my bathroom. Took Leo and yesterday and today to fix it. Says he's leaving, going to go stay at a safehouse and he'll be back for alicia real soon"
"Don't sell yourself short. You're young. Pretty. Blonde. You have an accent and blue eyes. I'm sure there are still loads of guys out there who'd be willing to lock you in a basement and poke you with hot irons." Too lazy for the gravelly rough of sarcasm to be more than mildly abrasive in the base of his throat, he tips off another swallow of Magnes's whiskey and screws the cap back on to accept the brownie instead. Then it's back to chewing.
In conspicuous silence, this time. Joseph broke my bathroom.
Remember, that's whisky with a Y, not an EY. The silence is noted, taken in, absorbed, run through the various wheels and cogs of her mind. Does she want to ask? Should she ask? Will she regret asking? Flint does have the access to this place, but it was Joseph who left the money and the apology.
"Why did you do it?"
"Do what?" Deft in the way of putting off this conversation for a few spare seconds longer, he flips the flask once in his hand, then back the other direction, looking at it rather than her.
"You know what, you're just avoiding. Did you beat him up? Is that why he left? Because I can't imagine him break the doorframe or my door, or having the strength to remove a shower rod from out of the wall" She points out. She's slowly stiffening, tensing up as the words spill out from between her lips.
"Yeah. I beat him up." The more tense she gets, the more resignation sucks the energy out of him next to her. The brunt of his shoulder offers little resistance and his posture leaves something to be desired. "I didn't know he left money."
"Oh flint" Disappointment. She didn't figure that he could have done it by himself. "Can we not beat up the guests in my home please? I'm sure.. that there was a really good reason, but can we limit the destruction of property to say, the city" She's no less tense that she was before, and she's not likely to get an answer out of Deckard no more than she'll get one out of joseph before he wants to tell her what happened.
"Spending the night, or are you gonna go?"
"Won't happen again," Flint mutters without a whole lot of promise in his voice that he'll keep to his word. With the way things have been going with everyone lately, who knows. He scratches at his head, and then his jaw, flask considered at a bleary blue-eyed remove until he tosses it sideways back onto the rumple of his discarded jacket.
"Spending the night."
That's good. She could use that. Could use him. She seems satisfied with the probably empty promise and settles back in against him, finding the 'groove' on his frame that she fits against. "Or at least break stuff in Leonards room. So you can blame it on his TK and I won't be any the wiser" She's done though, done with her half hearted berating, poking, prodding, trying to find a button. There's no comment about her hair either. He either doesn't notice, doens't care. There's already plans to change it to something else now.
silently, the remote is passed over to him, let Flint choose what to watch or turn it off. She demur's to him tonight.
The same is probably true in reverse, but in typical fashion, he says nothing, and turns the TV off with a punch of his thumb once the remote's in his hand, which ensures silence within the apartment to the second power. Save maybe for Alicia's whuffled snoring and the rustle of his suit when he leans into a whiskey-tainted effort to to scuff a bristly kiss into the curve of her neck.
She shouldn't have, but she misses that smell. And she doesn't. She welcomes the affection as she shifts and turns to bare the full of her neck to him while putting the plate down off to side lest at some point there be squished brownie on them, between them, on the couch or wherever else. Her cheek heat red though, not from the increased beating of her heart but the rememeberance that Francois or well, it see's all, knows all. Stop him? Hurt his feelings? Sorry, the sentient ability in you is creeping me out by letting me know that it's seen us doing what we do in the bedroom and I don't want to until it's gone.
But really, it might never be gone. So Abigail doesn't stop, and the customary time spent dancing around each other is shortened this time. "Francois can go to hell" Murmured under her breath as her own hand starts to travel across flint and his healthier body so she can undo buttons.