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| Scene Title | Worse Places To Be |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Is Caliban's opinion on Abigail's current situation in life and shows that some wisdom does come with age. |
| Date | June 2, 2010 |
Le Rivage - Abby's Apartment
The upside to having Peter at the place is that there's someone to eat dinner with. Though Peter isn't here right now, he's making the run for food, leaving Abigail with her dog, the quite place that she'll soon have to actually furnish with real furniture and stay living in till either the bar is rebuilt or she feels confidant enough that she won't burn down Francois's brownstone. It's been a long day of hauling dead people, living people, expiring people and all sorts of injured people back and forth from site to hospital.
Still in her navy slacks, white button down with it's badge and name tag stating who she is and who she works for open with a long sleeved white shirt beneath, she's kicked off shoes and puttering around the place. Dishes to wash, grocery list to make, there's a great many things. Occasionally her foot kicks at a ball that is promptly fetched by Rhett and dropped back at her feet as he thumps down onto his runty butt and waits for her to kick it again. Spots of slobber wet her sock and she'll peel those off soon enough.
"Oh come, come, come, come to the church in the wildwood, oh come to the church in the vale. For no spot is so dear to my chiiiildhood as the little white church in the vale" Crooning softly to the dog. Caliban is due to arrive soon and a note on the door stuck there by sticky note informs him that the door is unlocked and he's welcome to come right in. Mind you, she has the taser out in plain sight too, just in case someone other than Peter or Robert decides to come in. "How sweet on a clear Sabbath morning, To listen to the clear ringing bells. It's tones so sweetly are calling, Oh, come to the church in the vale"
Caliban is exploring the texture of the note between his fingers, ungloved for the first time in many weeks, when he shoulders open the front door of the apartment. "I could have knocked," he says instead of a hello as he tucks the note into his greatcoat pocket, loosens the scarf at his throat and closes the door behind him. "Two women were abducted from this complex a few years back. Right under the doorman's nose. Do you really think advertising yourself where everyone can see it is such a good idea?"
It's one part rhetorical question, one part sharply-spoken reprimand, but the Englishman's irritation fades at the sight of the dog on the floor and the ball at Abigail's feet. "Is he yours?"
She had expected that he still might knock, but a quick glance when the door opens shows Caliban instead of Peter or any of the aforementioned bad people. "That is why I have this very illegal taser on hand that you insisted I get when I had Russians leaving love notes and death … somethings. Robert, meet Rhett. He is very much mine. It seems that the roaming pack of feral dogs on Staten Island also had pups. They were trying to find homes for them and.."
She shrugs her shoulder, looking down to the dog who's cocked his head to the side and set his sights on Caliban. "Just don't touch his food and you should be good. He's a puppy, I figure I can train him to get along with Scarlett, but if they don't, well, I guess it's fate"
The ball is kicked away, paws and nails scrabbling at the floor in it's wake with nary a bark as he clumsily heads for the toy. Abigail's not far in his wake, coming around the counter that separates kitchen from living room so she can linger there with a hand on it's surface. No cast, no flame, little tired but that's to be expected coming off a twelve hour shift a few days in a row. Pink hair.
"You get everything done in Vegas that you needed to or will you be heading back again?" His lack of gloves get a faint raise of brows. Even a faint look of hope on her face.
"I've done what I can," is Caliban's neutral response. His expression tries to remain that way, too, even in the face of her bubblegum-coloured hair. He didn't come here, however, to talk about Las Vegas or what else might be waiting to be unearthed out in the Nevada desert. Although he maintains a comfortable distance between the two of them, his back rigid and broad shoulders squared, there's something about his posture that suggests he wishes the space was narrower. Gloves or no gloves, she probably doesn't want to get her hopes up.
"I take it you haven't gone to the Suresh Center for help," he says, which is as much a question as it is a statement.
"I am under the advisement that due to nature of how I came to have an ability, it is heavily cautioned against going there for help since I am unregistered and if certain factions caught wind of what I could do and so on, that I might never see the light of day. And this wasn't from members in the Ferry but from Homeland itself" Which speaks volumes.
"Cat has a supply of negation pills and I'm taking those while I work, Peter's staying here so that He can hose me down if I have a nightmare and ignite, and I have people helping me find out how it works so that I can go off the pills all the time, and not… out myself" Abigail's fingers grip the edge of the marble counter, watching him with the same sense of longing. But just because he doesn't have his gloves, or came, doesn't mean much. Or means a great deal to her.
"Dreyfus tricked us into going to the bar. He pinned us down in the hall and I manifested. He died in the fire, as did the other gunmen. Kozlow was there but apparently he was helping. Everyone survived. Part in thanks to him I'm told. I can control this. It's going to take time, but I have help, I have friends and… I'm not going to let my life be ruined by the fact that I'm a pyro, and not a healer anymore"
Her thumbs taps against the counter, the dog trotting back to drop the tennis ball back at her feet expectantly. "Will it ruin things between us?"
Caliban's response is to spread his hands, showing Abigail is palms, the universal gesture for: I don't know. "Pyrokinetic— is not the word I'd use for what you are. The term you're looking for is mimic." A slow breath seeps out through his nostrils and, joints cracking, he crouches down where he stands and drums the tips o his fingers against the floor in an attempt to get the puppy's attention. Apparently, this is easier to explain when he isn't looking directly at her.
"My gift allows me to discern things that other people can't," he says. "I haven't registered, and Linderman's advised me not to until we have a better sense of what's happening with the nation's political climate. When I touch you, I can feel what it is that you are. It burns."
"Which explains the gloves" The touch of his hand to his lips after kissing her cheek. She kicks the ball over towards Caliban , crouching down to put her own hands on the hindquarters of the run and push him over towards him. "Go Rhett, fetch the ball, go say hi to Robert"
The pup's reluctance is evident, not quivering, but eyeing the ball and the same desire in his eyes to be close to said ball mimicking what's between the woman and man who loom above him. He creeps forward though, little by little, head down and attempting to sneak towards it. "So you can't touch me" Stating the obvious as she sinks to the floor, scooting the dog forward and keeping a palm on his back. "Without being uncomfortable. That's just… cruel"
Judging by the rueful twitch at the corner of Caliban's scruffy mouth, uncomfortable is probably an understatement. He hooks his fingers around Rhett's midsection and hoists him off the ground, mindful to provide support to his back. "I don't think that the condition is likely to be permanent," he says, moving one hand to splay his fingers across the puppy's back and scratch him behind the ear with his thumb. Whether or not he considers himself a dog person, he seems to have experience with animals of some kind.
"Once you've asserted some control over what's happening to you, I'll be able to sense that, too. Touching you will hurt less, perhaps not at all."
"Do you really want to touch a woman and kiss her on the lips and hold her, if it doesn't go away Robert?" She takes her hand back when he's got his own on the puppy who's still reluctant at first, a lump of fur and dead weight in his hands till he starts scratching. Then the tail's going and lavish any part of him that he can reach with his tongue, with dog kisses.
Abigail slumps her back against the counter, letting legs splay out to regard the guy she's seeing and her dog getting along with one another. 'Till then it's.. gloves and… keeping distance and praying that what you say is true. That it won't hurt with better control" Her shoulders slump down, disappointment evident. She's not anticipating this. Maybe if she'd known that whatever might have come would hinder her ability to be near a man that she felt something for, she might not have taken it.
But there's more than her involved in this. "How are you Robert? Are you sleeping?"
"I went a long time without being able to touch you, Abigail," Caliban feels compelled to remind her, blue eyes squinted partway shut lest he get slobber in them. "A few weeks or even months— it's largely insignificant. I've faith things will resolve, and so should you."
Rhett's affection isn't a substitute for Abigail's, either. He's soon growing tired of having a puppy squirming in his hands and places him back on the floor before, with a quick flick of his wrist, he sends the ball skittering into the kitchen. "I have medication to help me sleep," he says. "Relax. It doesn't do much for the anxiety the rest of the time, but I'm in no position to complain. Have you considered approaching John?"
"I can't and I will not, won't go to him Robert. You know what he did to me, you read that report just like I'm sure it got passed around the precinct in an attempt to find someone who would do something about it. I don't rail against him and try to get him brought in for kidnapping because I know that it won't stick and because…" She'd get nowhere. Being who she is, what she's done.
"And your drugs to help you sleep don't seem to be helping" She shifts to her knee's to take a hold of the dog back from him, curl around the beast and croon into it's ear about what a good puppy he is, for playing nicely with someone else. 'Can you touch me if I'm on the negation pills?"
Caliban isn't surprised to find his suggestion hurled back in his face. If it took physical form, he'd be wiping it off with the palms of his hands in solemn silence — he's in no position to complain about that, either. "Theoretically," he says, "but I know for a fact that I would if I was the one being medicated. The problem doesn't stem from you."
In her mind, part of it does. This wasn't an issue until she'd taken the formula, all had been peachy. So much had happened and stemmed from this. Abigail burrows her face into the thick fur of Rhett, pink curls falling over his back as she's held tight - not too tight - burying frustration and disappointment into his fur.
"I'm really ready for the Lord to just.. to stop handing me these things on a platter and say take this Abigail, do this, go there, I need you to, it's going to hurt and your life will be changed and screwed up and bad things are going to happen. I'm not seeing a bright side to this" Muffled by the fur. "I try to see the silver lining Robert, I really do. But there doesn't seem to be a silver lining to this, hurts you to touch me, I have to sleep with a fire extinguisher, I burned down my bar and I can't get help from the government because the very thing that did this, is something they want, something that will blackhole me to who knows where and I just…" Probably a very good idea that she's on the haitian pill right now.
"You've a roof over your head, steady work, family and friends who care very deeply for you," even if, Caliban excepted, they aren't here right now, "and more importantly, you're young enough that you still have an opportunity to give yourself a fresh start." He reaches across to place one hand at Abigail's elbow, protected by the layer of fabric between his skin and hers, while the other reaches up and tucks a solitary strand of hair behind her ear. "You shouldn't assume that these things are happening to you because God wants them to. There aren't any supernatural forces at work here, and fate's got nothing to do with it. Ultimately, Abigail, you're the only one who's in control of your life. Moving from Louisiana to New York City, falling in with Helena Dean's phoenixes, agreeing to use your former gift on whoever needed it regardless of their allegiances — these are decisions you made, and they, not God, are why you are where you are. And trust me when I say there are worse places you could be."
"Like John Logan's basement" Rhett tucked under her chin, cheek pressed to his back, nodding as he lists off how good she has it compared to others. She's not going to argue about god, the two it seems have very different opinions on the issue of god's hands in the pot of her life and that of others.
"Like John Logan's basement," Caliban agrees. "Come on, then. Let's get up and fix you something to drink before Angela's boy gets back."
'I can't drink Robert. We might get called in, the both of us, to pull an extra shift. I can't show up with any alcohol on my breath or it's my job and I don't have the bar right now and I've already crashed the ambulance once. I'm surprised they haven't fired me yet" She really is. "Only reason I'm working is the drugs and because Peter healed me. I need to pay rent and the bar insurance needs to go to the bar being rebuilt." But Rhett is released, the animal wriggling free before clomping off on clumsy paws and skidding after his ball.
"Is there anything I can do for you Robert? Anything at all? The dead bodies, they're getting to me right now. I think they're getting to Peter too. Mrs. Petrelli needs to … keep an eye on peter, I don't think he's sleeping. I don't really need him to stay here with me, but he just broke up and… something wrong. He's like… a firecracker with a lit fuse"
"I was thinking more along the lines of coffee or tea," Caliban admits ad he rises to his feet, gently hauling Abigail up with him. "Peter's a grown man. Has been for the better part of ten years. He can take care of himself without coddling from his mother. Or you."
The hand at her elbow shifts to the small of her back as he guides her into the kitchen, close on Rhett's fuzzy heels. "But if it makes you feel better, I can keep an eye on him for you and Angela both. He doesn't even have to know I'm there."
'You know me. Coddling's in my genetics. I'm southern. It's like breathing" It would make her feel better, but would it upset Peter? Would he get upset if he found out? Maybe. Possibly. "Just for a bit. I think I'm going to slip something in his coffee tomorrow at the end of our shift. Make him sleep for a bit in the rig." But there is something though, he can see it on the tip of her tongue.
"Flint Deckard sent me a letter. Do you think that you could see if he's alive still?" Ask the current boyfriend to look in on the former lover. "He.. did some stuff, we parted badly and he's.. he wrote the letter a month ago and I just want to make sure that if he's dead, that… he's at least been laid to rest some place proper" He's dead, she thinks he is, but wants confirmation.
"I'll do all that I can," which is all that Caliban can really promise, "but you might want to start with the person who gave you the letter, or someone who knows him better than I do. Teodoro, Francois—" Only then does it occur to him to give her a disapproving look, brows low and mouth flat. "I wouldn't be slipping anything into Peter's coffee, either," he says, "unless you know it isn't going to react with whatever else he might already have in his system."
'After a twelve hour shift? You haven't sat with him side by side for twelve hours have you? Caffeine, donuts, Mc Donalds. If it's unhealthy, he's eating it." But he's right and she nods her head in contrition. No Robert, she won't be doping up his coffee. "No, I have never slipped anything into your food or drink. I've never done it to anyone else before"
There's the space aged coffee pot with fresh coffee in it, a kettle waiting to be filled with water to make tea. A small handful of mugs in the cupboard that don't match at all. this really was supposed to be temporary housing. "What if Robert… I can't get control enough for you to touch me. What will we do? It's not like we can… be with each other and not touch"
Caliban squeaks open the cupboard and selects the smallest, most feminine and diminutive he can find. Maybe this says something he won't articulate about what he thinks of the woman at his side, or maybe he chooses it because it's the easiest for him to handle as he picks up the coffee pot, tilts it at an angle and carefully pours the piping hot liquid into the bottom of the mug. He can't remember if she takes cream or sugar but finds himself gravitating towards the fridge anyway. In a pinch, milk will do.
"If, if, if. We can have that discussion in the highly unlikely event it ever becomes necessary. I've been at this longer than you have. Trust me, please."
"Then I will shush, bow to the wisdom of age and your understanding of your own ability and try to… do what I can on my part" It's the last he'll hear of that question, though there's a shake of her head when he goes for the fridge. Black, sometimes with sugar. This isn't tea. "We'll make this work. If we can get past what happened in the bar, we can… make this work"
Her own fingers curl around the thin handle, plain white with textured sides. "Peter will be back soon, I assume you won't want to stay. Things to do for Mister Linderman"
Caliban's hand hovers a few inches away from the fridge's handle, then falls away, fingers curling in on themselves at his side. He cants his head to look at her. "Nothing that can't wait until morning. Do you want me to stay?"
"Yes"
Easily spoken, quickly spoken. "He wants to watch The Fly. He's determined to make me watch the Fly and I don't like Horror movies. Not in the least, but I'll amuse him and it will give us stuff to bug each other about in the rig and I just… It's not like my bed isn't big enough that we will touch each other in the middle of the night or there's the last room and I think Al's still got some stuff here, I know he's got some stuff here, that you can wear and I could, I would like to… have you stay. We are seeing each other, would do to actually see each other, even if we can't touch right now. I'll make you breakfast even, if you are the kind of person to get up at like four in the morning"
"Six," Caliban corrects. "Seven if I'm sleeping in, which I intend to." And it does not particularly matter to him if he can't fit into Alexander's clothes. He's shedding his coat, the heavy garment draped over his arm, and loosening the topmost button of the crisp white dress shirt he wears beneath it, the outline of his wifebeater visible if Abigail cares to look. All he needs is a pair of sweatpants to trade for his dark gray slacks. Wool socks for his polished leather shoes. "Who are we watching? David Hedison or Jeff Goldblum?"
"Jeff Goldblum?" Damned if she knows. "We're on shift by six. I'll leave you a key to lock up, have someone drop it off at the hospital" Surely he has some lackey's somewhere to do that. She cares to look, smiling a bit. A guy who wants to stay over, wants to watch a movie, even if there's another person in the room and the way he treats her doesn't change just because they're not alone.
"I hope you like pizza"