Participants:
| Scene Title | A La Votre |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The morning after a quasi-successful mission, Francois and Abby toast to their health with breakfast and painkillers. |
| Date | April 17, 2010 |
West Village: Maison d'Allegre
The third floor has been the haunt of Abigail the last few days here. Hog the shower to keep clean, come down for meals and conversation, curl up and read or just rest on the couch and float on a sea of painkillers or when the feel of having been under the sun too long is hitting her. So far, she's restrained herself from baking and staying out of the kitchen mostly because a lot of that involves bending over and lifting stuff.
Last night was the most active she'd been in a long while, helping patch people up, taking direction from Francois in digging a bullet out of Kozlow and when folks went their proper and chosen ways, back to the house in the West Village she went. She's down on the couch, cool cloth on forehead, feet on coffee table and singing to herself, forefinger moving up and down, side to side as if she were orchestrating along to some opera while doing so.
"By God's Word at last my sin I learned. Then I trembled at the law I'd spurned, till my guilty soul imploring turned, to Calvary. Mercy there was great, and grace was free. Pardon there was multiplied to me. There my burdened soul found liberty, at Calvary." It's hushed, leveled so as not to disturb anyone or cause a flare up in pain.
By the time Abby might notice that she's no longer alone within the living space of the main floor, it's because the floorboards are slightly noisier near the kitchen space. Rather than bothering with a bonjour and interrupting her song, Francois is headed for the open kitchen, bare feet navigating the stretch of floor at a rolling and sleepy stride, dressed in ash-grey sweatpants and not much more if you're not counting his new sling, navy blue and white straps cradling his right arm with his left arm left to dangle.
The clink, squeak and rustling sounds of a glass of water getting awkwardly procured nag at the edges of Abby's hearing, though he goes about his ritual quietly and more or less sleepily. Pills, too, not quite over-the-counter but tylenol tends not to cut it when you're digging bullets out of young terrorists. There's a skittering sound as one of the tablets slips from foil, Francois' left hand darting out to capture it beneath his palm before it can bounce over the other side of the counter.
Church hymns cut are off when the water turn on and the the young blonde remains right where she is with only her eyes cutting a glance towards the kitchen of the brownstone so she can catch a glimpse of Francois. The steps didn't sound like Teo's and she's long since been able to pick those out. Which leaves - by process of elimination and time spent with the Frenchman - Francois as the shuffler.
"Bonjour, bon journee" in her very limited french and tossing out the two greeting she knows. "Bon petit déjeuner" Much like with her Italian, her southern inflection interfere's. "How bad is it?" Her palms rest on her lap, fingernails devoid of any polish which is unusual but understandable.
Francois can only hope that this will be a good breakfast, collecting back the tablet of percocet and pushing out its twin from the foils, right hand doing what his left hand can't for reasons not to do with slings and fresh injuries, twisted knuckles working. "I had Melissa here a few days ago," he tells her, voice rasping sleepily and not directly answering the question. "She had been shot in the shoulder and she had wanted to know if she could get out of her sling, so eager, and I had not really appreciated why, even when I said she could.
"The pain is manageable. I just do not wish to try. A la votre." And with that, the tablets are placed on his tongue, and washed down with a generous gulp of water before either one of them might protest it.
"Mel was here?" Belatedly, his successful attempt at getting percocet out of the tabs draws her out of the couch, that and the need to refresh her washcloth. "A la Votre?" Abigail inquires even as she does her own shuffle towards the kitchen and to come up behind him. Ordinarily she'd drop a chin on his shoulder and puppy dog look at him. But it's injured and to do so would only invoke yelps of pain and Ire. "I can make you some toast if you want Francois" She already knew about Mel being shot from the Queens fire. "Guess I'll be getting Teo to wrap my ribs huh. Our turn to take care of you" A goofy smile slinks onto her face, sneaking in from the side before there's a chaste and gentle kiss laid on the highest point of his cheek. "Buildings falling on you. Heavens. Thank the lord for Raith and the triangle of life"
He only nods in confirmation about Melissa, taking a second sip of water to clear away the awkward feeling of swallowed tablets. "It roughly means, 'to your health'. 'Cheers'. Usually said with a glass of wine raised and with greater sincerity and spirit, but we make do."
As Abby sidles up to sneak a kiss to his cheek, Francois only ducks his head to allow it at the last moment, a minute smile unstoppably crawling at the corners of his mouth. His left arm goes to loop companiably around her waist in a gentle hold in return, with respect to her ribs — an embrace without the squeezing. "The building was a variable, oui," he agrees. There are still bruises from where he'd hit his head, less than artful marks of blue, yellow and the shades in between them, a cluster at his temple ringing around where one of those employed, qualified doctors that work in hospitals had stapled in stitches that travel along the crescent shape of the mark.
And it's nothing compared to the broken doll form of Raith they'd almost been forced to take to a hospital too, until the danger of being disappeared outweighed his injuries. No fumbling for percocet will help. "I think we may all have to take care of ourselves a little longer. I should be out of this thing before the week is gone."
Her own painkillers have rendered her touchy feely for the moment, not shying away from the hand at her waist. A gentle nod of her head while looking silently over the bruises, lacerations and other harm done to the Frenchman. Takes a second to resist raising her hand to trace the stitches and pray, as if she might manifest healing right then and there.
She pulls away instead, heading for where bread is kept so that she can make something for Francois to take with his percocet that is actual food. She can handle eggs and toast. "One down, how many more to capture? Dreyfus, this Asian man. I think we all have enough limbs left to do it. Or well, enough sense left in me to patch you all up"
She kneels down for a pan for the eggs, looking over her shoulder at Francois. "I'm sorry I haven't been more help to you all except coming in and patching you all up afterward"
Though Francois' gaze follows her reluctantly, he's not going to protest eating, as much as his appetite is a small and pathetic thing in the pit of his stomach. Nourishment and rest are the only natural forms of healing that either of them have, and so, he simply moves to sitdown at the breakfast bar that divides kitchen from dining area, levering himself to sit and letting out a sigh when he can almost start to feel the painkillers kick in.
Left hand clasping his shoulder absently, he shakes his head. "That is where we need you. Oui, Dreyfus. And two Asian men. Dreyfus is the important one. Ah, I was so close to having him. Merde. But he shot up the fucking roof and Raith had to pull me away as it collapsed. Not in time, of course, non."
"Next time Francois. Next time" She assures him with a nod. "You will get him and do what it is that you all plan to do with him" If it were here, it would be put a bow around Dreyfus and hand him over to Parkman. Her movement are slow in the business side of the kitchen to get butter into the pan after it's been heated, a drinking glass used to cut holes out of the bread that has been buttered and soon enough, like the ghost of Francois that lived in Deckard once did for her, Abby's making birds in a nest for the real Frenchman. One at least, so that he'll have something in his stomach.
"sometimes, you just need a second chance, there must have been a reason for it to have not fully succeeded" They got Sasha, which meant that it wasn't all for nothing. One down, three more to go.
"It's a beautiful home. Three floors is a lot in this city. You could rent the third floor and not lack for money I bet. Strange to not hear the music from the bar or Scarlett scratching at the window to be let in."
Apparently content to watch her work, Francois' focus stays on what he can see of her hands when it becomes clear what she is making. Familiarity manifests in a slight furrow to his brow, a passing amusement that he doesn't bother commenting on. Still, he watches, as if the sight of someone going through these motions is a kind of comfort as opposed to the food it produces. "Not fully," he absently agrees, without the prior bitterness.
He breaks his attention from her actions by rolling a glance up at the ceiling, as if to spy the two floors above them. "I could. But then I would not have a place for you," he notes, with a quick smile. "There is a lot of space, however. I was not sure what to do with it all, but I am growing into it I think. If I pretend the third floor is not mine."
"I have the place above the bar Francois, whenever Teo lets me move back into it" There's a sigh once more at that. She loves her place above the bar and the space it has. "Not that having a floor to myself is bad. It's like.. living alone again" She gestures up to the ceiling with the spatular before back to the pan to flip the egg and bread combination before it could think to get beyond the proper consitency. The yellow must be still liquid and hot, but the white firm. "But go down one floor and I have roommates and a really really gorgeous kitchen" She gesture now to around her.
"Not that the Rivage is bad but…" She looks over to the Frenchman. "I miss living alone, I did before I met Teo and Phoenix and the Vanguard bugged me and staked out my place. I had to move and I took up a place with Teo and Alexander"
Slow movements, as if under water as she reaches for a plate to transfer egg to place just so. "Teo doens't want Alexander to be alone. So.." She keeps the other southern man around. "I don't think Alexander would notice except when I crawl into bed after a nightmare and need to sleep beside him" In front of him the plate is placed with a fork and a knife at the ready. "You made this for me once. Not you but.. the other you."
Not being one for navigating with experience around a sling, Francois looks down at his food and the utensils before taking the excuse to unburden himself of the trap, setting it down on the counter and only a faint wince crossing his features before he goes to pick up fork and knife in more or less able hands. A glance up at her face communicates that yes, that's still weird to hear about, with bridled curiousity contained their to boot before he thanks her quietly and sets knife and fork to breakfast.
He gets down two mouthfuls before talking again. "I would still want a place for you, even if you had ten brownstone houses all to yourself," he points out. "So you will have to endure the sentiment for now, until there is anyone who needs the space more."
Picking up a nearby salt shaker, Francois taps a little more over fried bread and egg, gentle amusement in the corners of his eyes before he goes to spill yellow with a slice of his knife. "I had someone I made these for, and after, I would make it for myself if I could think of nothing better," he adds, in a sort of half-explanation, hesitantly spoken.
She doesn't make one for herself, she ate already and took her own pills which might account for the singing. "Fair enough. Till someone else needs it more than a woman with broken ribs" It's her turn to sit down, take up a seat beside him when she comes around the island and ease up. Lean forward, arms folded on the counter so that she can rest her head down and look sideways at him.
"They are fancy, simple, impress anyone and easy to make and eggs and bread can be found anywhere. I bet she enjoyed you making them for her" There were likely many her's in his many years roaming the world.
"I loved my Momma making it for me. I could go home tomorrow, and she'd be making it for me. Well, no, not really, because the house isn't finished being built yet. Dah thinks another month if they keep working as fast as they do and the weather doesn't get too wet. Momma's hands are doing better too, you'd almost not know she's been burned"
"If I ever have kids, i'll make them soft boiled eggs with strips of toast. Soldiers to dip in the yolk" The way she says it though, she's not going to bet that she will have children. "So what, is the plan for today other than lazing about in a percocet haze? Cause I'm only going to have so much medical leave and… Well, I only have so much medical leave"
"Pardon," Francois says, almost done by the time she's finished talking, and he glances at her sideways, "but I think lazing in a Percocet haze is a fine plan for the day. You are welcome to join me." The last of the toast is slid through the last of the yolk at the end of the silver fork, collecting up these final traces before swallowing the last bite, and pushing the plate aside. His hand smooths up his face, fingers rubbing around his eye socket before he pushes hair back from his forehead.
Stalling, before he picks up his sling and loops the white strap up around his bare neck. He might have to think about fussing with a shirt. Eventually. "How is the weather in Louisiana, anyway? I am willing to bet it is not close to what New York is doing to us. I miss the south. Even deeper south. Chile, Argentina."
"It is nice, there are flowers and no trace of snow. That is how Louisiana is" The farthest south she's been in Mexico, to the ghost town and Flint. By rote and automatically, her fingers help to adjust the sling across his neck and shoulder, all twenty kinds of gentle and oblivious to the lack of shirt that in the past, sends her fleeing to get people shirts. "Who's to say, that you would not be joining me. I took my percocet a looong time ago. Might be time for a new one soon"
Teo will laugh his butt off to see the two of them side by side in a percocet haze. "Allegre's House of Highs" There's a crossover of mouth to mind, ruminating outloud with a grin. "Maybe I'll go home. Once.. whatever is making me warm finally rears it's head. Tell them what I did" and why. "Go to the couch, I'll get us some tea and we can find a movie on TV or something. Oh. We could rent Twilight on TV!"
"Or we could also not do that." Delicate suggestion. Francois turns his back to the breakfast bar and goes to stand, the tattoo at his back shifting along with the play of muscle beneath the skin on his back. "But I have other films we should watch. For when Teo was sick, I got them, and perhaps you will appreciate it more." Especially on Percocet.