Participants:
| Scene Title | Abandon |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The boys continue being boys. But at least it wasn't in Antarctica. |
| Date | January 14, 2011 |
Mongolia
Purple clouds roll off flat-topped mountains and across misty depressions in the gray earth filled with brackish water from which scattered specks of dirt brown — Bactrian camels — drink, congregate and nose through the snow in search of dry tufts of spear grass, sagebrush and what other nourishment they can find in the middle of the Gobi Desert's unforgiving winter.
Kincaid can no longer say that he's never been to Mongolia. His back hits loose gravel and ice, and Walter is on top of him in an instant, one hand grasping the front of the other man's coat, the other striking a sideways blow across his face with enough force to split his lip and spatter the snow with blood. The wind whipping across the steppe tangles in both the men's hair and sends ripples snaking through their clothes. Walter would have to shout above the roar to be heard, but only if he has something to say to Kincaid.
He doesn't, or if he does, then it can be communicated with his fists.
Very likely, Kincaid won't know if he's in Mongolia or France, because all he knows is he's no longer in New York, and there's fists flying at his face. There's barely time to think beyond that. A blow glances his forehead, splitting one of his eyebrows where it bleeds more than the cut on the lip. Forehead wounds often do. The ability he has may not grant much offensive use, but it keeps the pain from getting to him, to much.
Those already dark eyes darken even more, as his power fights back the feeling of cold, the pain that wants to make him stop, and gives him what little edge he can have.
It's not much. Digging a hand in the gritty gravel and ice, he flings some at the other man's face, as he attempts to get the other man off him, kicking instead of punching due to the positioning. Whatever he's yelling, it's not loud enough over the wind, but it's probably not friendly.
Walter blinks, but sand and grit tangles in his lashes, and he can taste it in his mouth too. He drools out stone onto his sleeve, using an arm to brace himself when Kincaid throws him off, and hastily wipes off his mouth on his shoulder, head twisted around to keep one blurry eye on Kincaid in case there's another attack coming.
"You fucking Melissa too?" he asks in a snarl, bloodied lip curled around pink-tinged teeth. "Heard you won her at a date night."
That accusation makes Kincaid flinch visibly, as he steps back to put some extra space between them. He'd been dressed warmly for a date night in Central Park, but even then it doesn't quite stop the cutting wind and the icy chill of the air. "You're an asshole," he growls, raising his voice enough to break through the wind. And that seems to cover everything in that question, as he reaches his left hand up to touch the wound at his eye, coming away with darker blood on his fingers.
"Where are we?" It's not New York, he knows that much. "When are we?" Also a valid question— though as he blinks through the wind to see some of the animals, he doesn't think they'd be in New York of any time. Those dark eyes focus on Walter again, and his voice is more forceful, demanding, "Take me back."
Walter slaps a hand down onto his knee, straightens his arm, and climbs to his feet. Gravel makes a wet sound under his boots. That he doesn't answer Kincaid's questions about where or when they are might mean that he doesn't know — his power has always been a little temperamental that way — or it may just mean that he takes pleasure in watching him squirm with uncertainty.
"I don't know what she was thinking, bringing you." He flicks the blood from the tips of his fingers. "But Ben seems to be under the impression you're worth something, and he's all we got. You're lucky he's got such a high opinion of everybody, 'Caidy, or I'd leave you out here on the fucking curb."
"Leave her out of this— leave both of them out of this. And don't call me that," Kincaid spits blood out of his mouth finally, stopping to test his teeth with a finger. None are falling out, so that will have to do, but he probably wishes it weren't the same for a certain asshole who tackled him.
"You had no right getting involved in this. You left. You know nothing about us. You weren't there for anything."
Even if Walter's his only chance of getting out of this place, he still spits out the next words, spitefully, "Do you know what her first words were?"
The muscles in Walter's legs tense and coil. It's the energy the jump took out of him rather than any restraint that has him holding back, hands balled into fists with white knuckles. "I didn't have a choice," he thunders, and to Kincaid's ears his voice is very loud, though not so loud that the camels at the water's edge more than a mile away are startled by it. An ear swivels around the buzzing of some insect resistant to the bitter cold, and that is all.
"You think I'd abandon my own kid? My own mother?"
The volume causes him to take a solid step backwards, and try to pull his coat closer. Kincaid wishes he would have worn a hat, or earmuffs, now, because despite the fact he can stand the cold better than most, thanks to his ability to trick his nerves into thinking it's not cold, that doesn't keep his skin from turning colors. Ears and nose in particular, as what heat is in his body escapes no matter how he feels.
"Well you did," is the most he can add on, the hurting comment having served it's purpose. Verbal payback. "If you're not going to leave me on the curb than get us out of here before we freeze to death." And even as he says that, he doesn't make the first move closer.
Walter is silent. Kincaid won't even be able to hear the haggard sound of his breathing, only read the mask of rage his face has transformed into. His tongue runs across his front teeth, and he lobs a wad of spit onto the snow before he takes several halting steps forward to close the distance between them.
"Well then," he says, and he's close enough now that he can make out his words with help from the shapes his mouth makes when he speaks them, "By that logic, I guess your daddy and momma abandoned you, too."
A hand claps down on Kincaid's shoulder.
"Yeah, I guess they did," Kincaid says with a rough voice, closing his eyes as if that'll make the transition easier. Under the wind, he whispers something else, too soft to be carry, blown away so the last words die as the wind itself vanishes. The bite in the air doesn't completely disappear, but the interior of a parking garage at night is definitely a different location.
Those grazing animals are replaced by many silent cars when Kincaid's eyes open again.
And he shrugs his shoulder away from the grasp. "You're still an asshole," he says more clearly now that it's quieter and softer, as he turns and walks away.