Participants:
| Scene Title | A Parting Of Ways |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Or a family-sized serving of 'fuck off kindly.' |
| Date | March 7, 2009 |
A Really Shitty-Looking Park
It's a cool night, but not cold. Not like it has been. The first signs of spring have appeared. Which is why Fel isn't shivering too much,really, as he sits half-huddled on the bench seat of a little picnic table in one of the smaller parks near the ruins of Midtown. He looks horrible. He's pale and drawn, clearly pained, and there's a white patch of bandage on the side of his head. He's in his overcoat, over t-shirt and jeans, since Deckard just ruined a very nice suit. The park's in that no man's land that is neither the true waste nor the easily habitable territories, and thus the signs of active humans are few and far between.
Long before Teo comes into view, satellites and insects are watching Felix with coldly inscrutable acuity. The younger man has a few patron saints, none of them wholly unsullied by the same stuff that an old grave-robber had just sent spattering down his recently disposed suit — and lucky for him. He'dve had a hard time finding the FBI agent, otherwise.
His approach is tolled out on the grinding sound of footfalls, heels into concrete, smaller chunks of stone and debris toppling out, scattering away from the edges of his shoes. He stops when he squares to a halt in front of Felix. Stares. "What the fuck happened to you?"
It's that lopsided, too-broad grin. The one that always promises trouble. "Deckard," he says, in his sweetest tones. "I suppose he figured he might as well be hanged for a ewe as for a lamb, and tried to beat me down in the NYPD HQ, when we were questioning him. He slammed a door on me. Very clever." He's eyeing Teo sidelong, which gives him a more jackalish air than usual.
There is a beat of thinking-pause. Then, in a tone that fails to be either fond or disapproving, "Old man isn't very smart.
"There's a lot of that going around, apparently." Teo's characteristically eyes march up and down the hue of the agent's skin, study the stiff lines that he is holding himself in, attempting to determine the extent and nature of the injuries. "I was going to kick your ass, but that seems a little less honorable than the image I'm trying to cultivate around here, so."
Squaring his shoulders, Teo bottoms out his voice somewhere between dead and freezing and he chooses words that feel about as neat as business, coincidentally, never is: "You stay away from me and the rest of my people or you get shot. Exceptions are Elisabeth 'cause you're friends, and Brian as long as he's housing Colette. I'm done helping you.
"Do you understand?" Teo tips his eyebrow around a line that passes for quizzical and, despite a visible effort at tact, fails entirely to look like anything other than furious.
"Hand to hand, you can't," Felix says, calmly. It's neither boast nor braggadocio, but a statement of fact. "But I understand." The grin has faded, like the moon slipping behind a cloud, and there's nothing left but that remote calm. Clearly, his injuries extend beyond the head wound, by the way he's sitting as if his joints don't currently fit together right. Apparently business is concluded, because he picks himself up stiffly, shrugs his coat more comfortably back into place, and walks past Teo for the sidewalk.
The younger man concedes that point with the trace of a scowl that simultaneously dismisses it. Teo doesn't turn his head to follow Felix's departure with visible interest. Merely listens to the balance of strides between the agent's feet, or lack thereof.
Whether out of petulant spite or some residual sense of obligation to justice and all other things lovely, he offers, finally, "I'll let Liz know who to ask about Tyler Case." There's the tacit understanding there, however small or reluctant, that she might well let the agent in on whatever that is. In turn, Teo picks up his feet and a direction almost at random, starts to walk.
That causes a fractional pause in Felix's stride, but he doesn't stop. There's no literal door to shut behind him, but the figurative one….well, taken care of. His shoulders are taut, but there's no reply.
 March 7th: Thank You |
 March 8th: A Very Frail Thread |