A Proper Husband


f_abby_icon.gif f_deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title A Proper Husband
Synopsis …Deckard isn't one. Fortunately Abigail has a few loose screws of her own.
Date April 3, 2019

Abby's Place

The apartment is quiet, no blaring sirens, or uniformed men waiting to spot the errant Flint Deckard. There's no smells of cooking food seeing as She ate out before coming home to tuck the children in to sleep. Natalie in her crib, Joseph in his bunk bed, two little skeletons with hearts in their ribcage thumping away. The only light is in the kitchen, Abigail's there in her teddy bear scrubs, bare feet, blonde hair down as she's doing the dishes from the day. The old black cat curled at her feet cleaning itself. All seems calm in the House of Baker.

The plastic husk of his Milky Way crumpled in his fist to better vanish into the pocket he tucks it into while he draws himself up outside the door, Deckard glances to his watch one last time. It's late. Three minutes later than the last time he looked. Annoyance muffled out in a private sigh, he maneuvers keys out from around the candy wrapper and prods the appropriate one into the lock. It clicks over without a struggle and in he steps to close the door again behind him, quiet save for the rustle of the grocery bag he still has in tow.

"Have you had dinner yet?" Floats through the lower floor of the brownstone when the door is opened, closed, Child gates are folded in, letting adults walk through unimpeded, toys have been put away. She's been busy cleaning. "How was classes?" Clinks goes a plate onto the dishrack, another one grabbed from the soapy watering hole of the sink. She has a dishwasher, but frankly, only when she has a party or a large amount of people for dinner does it get used. Or by the babysitter. She still does them all by hand.

"I picked up a sandwich on campus. Lettuce was soggy." Detail tacked on to stave off any thoughts along the lines of him lying about it, Flint slings his keys over into their usual rest near the door and sets to unbuttoning his collar as he makes his way through the unobstructed entrance for the kitchen. The suit's an ashy, light shade of dove grey; the shirt beneath it a clean shade of blue. Somebody else probably picked both for him, but he looks comfortable enough when he pushes bread and chips out of their bag and onto the counter. "Class was fine. Fridays…" he trails off into a shrug. Fridays are Fridays. Nothing too crazy. "Everything okay here?"

'Everyones antsy on Fridays. End of the workweek" There's no kiss to the cheek or brush of lips across his. Just the clink of another plate. "How many times did you kill Felix Ivanov?" Right there, out of left field. She's not unhappy per se, she's annoyed. Whether it's him or someone else, who knows. It's not like he can read her mind, just her body. A fork is the unwitting victim next. scrubbed with the 3m pad, then rinsed under water and put out to drain and dry. "And don't lie. You know I hate it when you lie. I don't deserve to be lied to."

In the absence of familiar affection, Deckard lingers near the kitchen entrance with his bread and his Doritos, an automatic step forward to make the effort himself staved off halfway through when it occurs to him to like. Actually look at the way she's standing there and washing dishes. Then there's the question, followed by a warning that hollows at his jaw beneath its ten o'clock shadow and hardens his eyes. "If he's still alive enough to fuck with me, the answer would seem to be zero." Also, not enough times.

"Staten Island. Chest and his spine. I remember healing him some time after, when he was shot again by someone. He was a sinkhole like he couldn't get enough, that there was some really mortal wound to him Flint. Two other people I know have that, had that. You and your eye, and me and my tongue" Not anymore, both appendages have long since converted to their hosts cells and the like, but she remembers. There's a bottle brush dug out from under the sink as she kneels to fetch it, deal with the horrid sippy cup silicone valves. "Did you try to kill him, on Staten Island?" She needs to know. It won't change a thing, but she needs to know.

Silence stretches on Deckard's side of the kitchen while he watches her work. He's impossible to read, breathing kept slow, measured and regular beneath the stiff set of his shoulders and the stark slate of his expression. Well-beyond the time that an answer would probably be prudent one way or another, he takes a step back, quiet enough to be near inaudible on his way back for the door.

"Good lord Flint. if I can forgive Gabriel gray for trying to crack my skull open how many times, I can forgive you a crack or two at speedy Gonzales." The last plate put into the drainer and the plug pulled on the sink, she's drying her hands on a dishtowel. "I'm not upset with you. I upset with him. I know you've done things in the past, that your not proud of. You know that I've done things that I wish I hadn't but I had to. I just wanted to know the answer" Her bare feet make very little sound as she heads towards him, hopefully to keep him from taking off. "My dinner table Flint, is filled on a regular basis with sinners of all types who have made peace with what they did and Agent Ivanov is not so innocent himself so please don't go. I have the kids down and it's Friday night. But if you need to go, then, I'll be fine with that." No hands on her hips to denote she's angry, none of her usual positions. Just her, drying her hands. "He's a fucker for telling me that." Ohh, she swore.

"I've never asked for forgiveness, and I've never tried to pretend I'm something I'm not. Which is fine only for as long as nobody cares to ask questions." Blandly matter-of-fact, Deckard does stop and turn part of the way back at her approach, the rough of his voice kept carefully quiet enough to keep from gaining access to little bedrooms and little ears that really don't need to hear this conversation. "I shot Felix Ivanov like a dog and didn't feel a thing. He's not the only person I've murdered, either. Look me in the eye and tell me that doesn't bother you."

"You come home with bullet wounds Flint, once a month, or broken bones. I get messages left on my phone for when I'm off work to come to your place so I can keep you from leaving this earthly coil. And I come, and I don't ask, but I know. I know you have a gun, I know your still out there every now and then, when it gets too much for you, living with me and another man's children, playing at house" Her blue eyes settled on his evolved ones.

"What you do, doesn't bother me. You'll never settle down and you'll never be .. a proper husband. You'll still go out and get in trouble and I will still be there, despite any Felix Ivanov telling me you've shot a thousand men. But I still love your mangy ass anyways, and I still show up at your door and iron your shirts because I damn well love you. No lousy federal agent who has a grudge will stop that. Now are you staying or are you going?" She's not lying, nothing in her body says she's lying. She's just tired from a day of work and likely giving the children on the ward some boosts to their health. "I love you Flint Deckard. Whether you've killed people in the past or not. Have you not figured that out?"

There's still more silence while Deckard listens, clear blue eyes and black pupils dilated in what dull light filters in from the kitchen. Too mechanically observant, even without the tell-tale glow of inhuman evolution stirring to life behind them. Somewhere in the downward twitch of one brow there's a creeping line of defensive disagreement — he could be a proper husband if he wanted to be, surely — but it doesn't stick. That's not really what they're talking about, anyway. They're talking about how she doesn't care that he just confessed to multiple counts of stone cold murder. They're talking about how they are both probably clinically insane in different ways and for different reasons.

"Okay," is all he can think to say after it's all had plenty of time to sink through the thick of his skull, voice still quiet. Okay. Distraction overlaps with unease to create a weird kind of detachment and he exhales, not having registered that he was holding his breath. "I…"

"Don't say it if you can't, if you don't mean it. Or if you don't want to Flint. I still wear Johan's ring on my finger and I still have pictures of him everywhere. You live in his shadow when your here" and when Johan was alive, he lived in Deckard's shadow which in an of itself is funny enough and sad. "Just, I want to take a shower, and I want you to join me and then we can just relax the rest of the night and forget about everything okay? Today.. today has been a long day and.." There's something there, but she doesn't say it, and from the way she moves away from him towards the stairs, peeling out of the teddy bear littered scrubs, she may or may not say it. She does though, on the third step,scrubs dropped to the floor and working her way out of the cotton long sleeve beneath. "Some days I'm jealous of you, and your bulletwound and your broken bones Flint."

These facts are true. The automatic trace of Deckard's eyes to the nearest framed photograph in question is evidence of his awareness of as much. Never mind the ring. And the kids. Which. Yeah. Them.

"Okay," repeated at a quieter croak, he scrubs a hand up over the side of his jaw, sandpapery stubble's grey shadow already making itself a nuisance. On some level it's almost like he's biologically incapable of looking completely clean cut and well-groomed for more than a few hours at a time. "I'll…be there in a minute. After I make sure they're still asleep." A glance after the fall of her scrubs later he thins out his mouth and turns his head sideways to look thataway. No comment on her desire to join him in getting beaten up all the time.

"I'll get the water running then." He's stalling. Maybe. Maybe he'll join her, maybe he won't. She's not going to prod or pull, slap him or otherwise. "Joseph went down an hour ago. Natalie's been down before I came home" She's down to just her bra and pants as she disappears around the bend of the stairs. No further comments from her. About as close to a fight as the two of them get, if at all.

For a while Deckard remains where he is, loitering in the entrance way with his keys in hand and his thoughts elsewhere. After a time he meanders into the kitchen, where the light is flicked off and the bread is poked. Still fresh. Water's already been running through the pipes overhead for a good ten minutes by the time he actually discards his keys and checks on the kids, neither of which seems to be stirring or playing possum. Okay.

Suit coat shrugged down off his shoulders, he tosses it carelessly over the banister and heads on up, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes — apparently operating under the assumption that some kind of clothing fairy is going to come take care of it all for him later.

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