Participants:
| Scene Title | His Plan |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Abby checks in on Flint, and does not find everything where she left it. |
| Date | October 6, 2009 |
A room within Cathedral of St. John the Divine
There's no telling the time of day within the small, secure room where Flint Deckard has been residing for the past couple of days. What light does filter through the room is ambiguous and drowned out by the lamp which casts a timeless, warm glow about the room. There is order maintained here by someone else's hands, everything where Abigail left it when she came here last.
Save for the man in the bed.
Where Deckard lay reclined and crumpled, rail-thin and reduced to semi-conscious mutterings interspersing his coma is only the indentation in the mattress where he lay. He sits, now, on the edge of the cot, redressed in jeans and a white undershirt, his sock-clad feet set against the ground next to a waiting pair of alligator boots. Semi-shaven hair has been flattened and combed through with fingers, and for now, he sits settled.
A binder lies open in his hands, with its photocopied pages and written translations. Angled towards the light, the narrow faced healer turns pages slowly, half-reading and half-looking, his expression hard to completely discern. Still thin, still weak, but upright.
Coffee run, fresh clothes for herself, toiletries. Some swamp sludge for flint to drink whenever she can coax it into him. Only, when the redhead comes into the room after giving the requisite hello's to other ferryfolks in this corner of the church, it's to the greeting of Flint, awake, upright and looking still too thin for Abigails liking.
"When did you wake up Flint?" Messenger bag is dropped by the door and the coffee is kept while the green smoothie is held out. "Drink. Once your done it, you can have the coffee, but not until you drink all of the smoothie. I don't care if you don't like the color. It's good for you" She's expecting a fight by the planting of her feet before him and the grip on the coffee, that side of her body just slightly tilted away.
"I see you found Francois's journal too. I was gonna have a copy of this copy made for you. I keep forgetting"
Raising his head, pale blue eyes focus on Abby without much in the way of comprehension, at least at first. Dazed, in some ways, with one hand settled on the page he'd been observing and the other loose in his lap, before, tentatively, he sets aside the copy of the journal. "Oui. I've read it," he notes, holding out his hands for the smoothie, no fight, no protest made. "Many times."
There is probably no accounting for the change in his voice. English words lilt with American sounds, but stilted sharply with something that came before, ambiguously European. The smile isn't quite Deckard's either, but on his face, shaped appropriately. "S'il vou plait. I don't mind the colour. What is it?"
Deckard's been talking a bit more french these days, yes. One aborted night of something because of french. But she's more aware these days of things inhabiting the body of friends thanks to Teo's ordeal and some others. So while her hand stretches out to proffer up the ordered smoothie, it's yanked back not long after.
Then it's a few steps taken back as wide blue eyes suddenly narrow. "You have five seconds to tell me who you are and why you're in his body or I will scream so bloody loud that Jesus himself come and smack you around"
Hands poised to accept the drink hover in the air for a few seconds, before they resettle in his lap. That smile doesn't quite go away, although the spark of focus and interest in his eyes dull some as ruefulness lines the angles in his face. Taking a breath, Flint's hands are moved, then, to pick up the copy of the journal and settle it in his lap. "Please don't scream. There is…" His gaze drags back up to look at her, consternation making tautness in his jaw before he settles on. "Nothing to fear.
"I am Flint Deckard."
The paper rustles as he sifts a few back an entry, a hand moving to where the copy of a signature scrawls along the bottom of the page. "I was once Francois Allègre. Before that is…" A hand raises, makes a gesture of vagueness. "Memories. They fade."
"You are not Flint Decakrd. Flint Deckard grumps and resists anything good for him and has to be lead to water like a dog afraid of the bath at times. I know Flint and you are not Fli-" She's angry. God, FLint will be pissed. Someones taken over his body. Bad enough that her ability is in him and doing something to him, but now there's someone els-.
Verbal and non verbal barrage cease when he's offering up his name. He is flint, but he is, he was Francois Allerge. Her hand tightens further around the styrofoam 'juice it up' cup.
"That is not funny. That is not funny at all. Get the fuck out of his body now. Take mine over if you have to but leave his alone. You just got that name out of that binder."
Fwip. The binder closes and is set aside. Flint, Francois, whatever combination or lie this is, diverts his attention downwards, his hands reach towards the boots at his feet to yank them on in brisk movements, some strength shown in his wrists. Thinness means that it shows all the way up his arms beneath the shirt sleeves that probably fit him on better days. "Fortunately, I don't believe it is my purpose to convince you. Would that I could switch from form to form, but that is not truly how it is meant to work."
One boot done, he switches to the other side. "I could tell you about the evening I was torn from your vessel to his, but you would recall it. It was not how God intended. It is meant to be choice, release, a journey ended. We had much more to do together, you and I. Destroying Volken would not and cannot be our one and only fate. I learned that, eventually."
His back straightens, and he taps a finger against the closed binder. "Not during this time. However, times change. The man I once was did not have the pleasure of knowing if he made the right decision, when he took your hand so many years ago, but I do." The smile sliced Abby's way is warm, wistful. "He did."
How does one respond to that?
Some might possibly, certainly, run screaming from the room despite his caution not to. Others might launch into a fury and call him a liar, possibly Dial Teo and scream about body snatchers. Not an uncommon phone call actually. But Francois's words have rings of truth to them, and some of it, not what Flint could have known, things that even she frankly didn't remember until her father had told her.
"You're real" She whispers, never taking eyes off him, blonde brows fringing the surprised and even scared blue.
"You're why he's speaking french? Why.. why he's stopped drinking? Where's flint, what's wrong with him, how come.. how come you're… oh god in heaven, you're just like Kazimir. You can't do this Francois, this is his body, he's.. this is his body, you can't take it over"
For the first time, the serenity that matches Deckard like a Hawaiian shirt might falters. A flinch, minor, writes across his face at the comparison as if it caused a physical twinge. A placating hand goes out. "Non. No. Understand." There's a shift through his body, as if he'd like to stand, but instead thinks against it. "I do not wish to take anything over. It is not like Volken. Volken was a ghost, a dead thing. I am— "
He pauses, indecisive, before a small chuckle breaks some of his own tension. His hand lowers. "Perhaps I am less than that still. Flint Deckard is not lost. He is not scared or in pain or even awake. I want to look after him, Abigail. I am going to help him. I think— this has only happened because in some way, he wanted it to."
"He has me to take care of him Francois. If he'll let me, he has plenty others who will. He's just stubborn and.. strong willed and head strong and .. he's a man and men don't like to admit it when they need help because it's like a kick to the nuts of their ego. Makes them less of a man to accept help"
This is so surreal, and strange and five time creepy. Far more creepy since it's flint taken over by a … memory? Reluctantly and only because really, Flint - the body - needs the nutrition and the protein powder that is mixed in with the various fruits and veggies in the smoothier - Abigail passes over the tall cup. "Was prescribed for me, when I came off staten and was worse than him. Everything his body needs to cope with… you."
It's just downright creepy. Seriously. "Please tell me your not aware when we're.. you know…"
He's slow to take the drink, but does with a nod of thanks, peering into it before taking a measuring sip. Mouth wrapped around the straw, its only his brow used to express some surprise at that question, rolling his gaze back up to her. Slurp. When he lowers the smoothie, swallowing down the sludgey substance without that much in the way reluctance, he rolls it between his hands. "This gift makes demands. You know them. The help of others is helpful but it cannot be relied upon. I have existed long enough to know."
The paper cup is set aside, and he holds out a hand towards her, fingers lax and palm turned towards the ceiling. His expression is patient and expectant.
"It was never meant to go to him. He wasn't ready for it. I was helping someone else learn about the demands, there was someone else who was going to get my gift" That still doesn't answer her last question and maybe, frankly, she really doesn't want to know the answer to that. Some things are better left unknown and can't be un-learned once you learn them.
There's hesitation, distrust, fear at the thought of taking the outstretched hand. "Why?"
Flint's head tips a little to the side, creases at the corners of his mouth deepening at the suggestion of a smile, gaze dipping down than back up to her own blue eyes. His hand remains where it is a moment later, before he responds with, "I wish to compare."
"Compare what" Murmurs the redhead before finally, although lacking the usual surety that she has in her grip when her own thin hand with slender fingers settles into flints worn, rough and equally skinny ones. Her eyes are hidden behind lids that are scrunched tight, worried about what exactly is going to happen and frankly, not at all at ease with what is occurring. It's wrong, on many levels, even if it's being done for the good of his health or so Francois claims.
He watches her, mainly, when his hand takes her's, then both. They cup cool around it, her hand sharing the warmth rather than his own. There is possibly something disconcerting in the familiarity of his thin fingers tangling gentle with hers, his thumb brushing along the dip of her palm, turning her hand over in his.
"Some would say, that at your age, you were not ready for the gift either. But you had time to learn. Flint also. More time than either of you could fathom."
His attention remains on their hands, now, even as he speaks to her. "You did not have the opportunity to let it go like I did, like the man before Francois, the one who came before him. But it has not broken you. Francois was not a broken man when I left him. A dying man, but not a broken man. You may not have the choice that is traditionally made, but you can make that choice now, in your heart. You can let me go. Flint is going to be okay, oui?"
"Then teach him to give it back" It's simply spoken, stated, blue on blue. Flints these days holding the vibrancy that hers did before that night in the alleyway. "It's mine. you gave it to me. It was what made me special. Without it I'm just.. Abigail." If he could pass it to her then surely, flint could pass it back to her if he knew how yes? "Besides, you're killing him. He keeps saying there's something wrong with him. He doesn't understand. He was supposed to go along life with the ability to see through things, not.. not.. heal people and do god's work. I don't even know why he healed Felix"
Abigail's hands tighten in Flint's, twist this way and that, then both hands cover the other man's. "I don't want to let go. I want it back, so that flint can be Flint.. and I can go back to being Abigail the healer, not Abigail the EMT. And how come you're doing this to him, but.. but this never happened to me"
For a moment, Flint's fingers are a little rigid around and through Abby's hands when she grips back. An expression settles on his face that better suits long, thin features - a sharpness that's quick to fade, become overtaken with regret and sympathy once more. "It is not yours. It is not Flint's. It was not Francois'. It simply is."
He gently but firmly shakes her grip loose, and settles back further on the bed, reaching to take back the smoothie from where he'd set it. "You desired him to heal the one-footed man, and now that he has, and cost him so, you do not know why? I think you know why.
"And I am not killing him." There is a shimmer of offense taken to intangible pride, punctuated by a sip of smoothie. "He does himself harm. But like I said, it is not my duty to convince you, not of my honesty and not of my purpose. I desired to leave here, to walk and gain strength, but if you wish I sleep here for the evening, I shall."
She doesn't like the answer. It's plain enough to see on her face. The expression of a petulant child who's been told she can't have ice cream after dinner, or that she's not going to get that doll. She could throw a fit but what good would that do. Would do none. Pursed lips that press hard enough against each other to leave a rime of white around her lips when he pulls Flints hand from hers to leave her own clasped together in her lap.
"You can't walk around alone. He doesn't own a car. I suspect he steals one when he needs to use one" The young redhead stands up, gathering the duffel bag with the hands that held his not long before. Backpack slung over shoulder after books are stuffed into them, leaving behind only what she'll come back for in a second trip. "I'll get you a hotel room, so you can sleep on something more comfortable. I can't bring you home, Leonard and Joseph will know somethings wrong and I don't want to explain to them some a benevolent gift is on autopilot with Flints body. It'll get to Teo and Teo will likely flip as will a bunch of others. I can't take you home to Flint's place because I don't know where he lives, and I don't know if Teo's there and Teo will… likely flip"
He opens his mouth to reply, then, seems to think against it - a small, silent smile taking the place of words. Something is let go, and he sits back enough for his back to rest against the wall his cot is shuffled up against, smoothie cup held in loose hands. "Thank you," he says, as he draws the binder closer once more, flipping it open, "for not screaming."
"I've grown out of screaming. Now I just run. And dial. Is he going to know what you've done with his body when he takes over proper? And how long are you planning on this? What's your plan. Surely, you have a plan. The great healing ability must surely have a plan"
He's taken the journal and she frowns at that. "While your in charge, you can help me find the others. The other journals that your host previous to me wrote. And you can tell me what happened 15 years ago in the woods while your at it too" Abigail scowls a bit and then gives up being angry and dejected. It takes too much energy.
"Only God has a plan," he states, not looking up from copyprinted spindly hand writing. "I have already told you my intentions. That will have to be enough. I told you, I am here for Flint. How long I stay is up to him - I am at his mercy." At her words, he shifts a look to her - despite her giving up on being angry and dejected, they seem to strike a chord with whatever host this is. The look is blank, before dismissing her again in favour of reviewing the record in his lap. "You are interested in these journals but not the lessons they have to tell? I'll tell you what I choose to."
I'll tell you what I choose to.
Famous last words. Maybe. Possibly. Hackles are raised, that is for sure if the set of her jaw and how tight it is, is any revelation. "Right" Satisfied with what she has in hand, backpack over shoulder, duffel bag up and hoisted over the same Abigail is palming her cellphone out to hit speed dial to the bar. "Hey, Brenda. Tell Leo that i'm gonna hang out at a hotel with Flint for a few days, if he needs me, I have my cell. Can you send Natalie up too for my school duffel and have it down by the door. I can't stay long I gotta do some stuff. You're in charge till I get back if it's something that can't wait"
A myriad of other direction are given by the red head as she heads out teh door. Flint/Francois will either follow this time around, or he'll follow when she comes back for the rest. For now though, her plan is the same as Francois's. Get flint better and as quick as possible so it's Flint at the steering wheel.
Though he remains impassive for the time it takes for Abigail to head on out, it is when she has her back to him with no chance of glancing back when he leans forward, over journal and knees to peer on after her with something like assessment. Once she's out of view, it's the ground that gains scrutiny, before he settles back once more. Oscar Wilde once said something along the lines of always carrying your journal with you, for you might be in need for something interesting to read to wile away the hours.