Best Laid Plans Of Mice And Martyrs


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Scene Title Best Laid Plans Of Mice And Martyrs
Synopsis Flint Deckard throws a wrench in the cogs of Abigails plans and invites himself on her trip.
Date August 13, 2009

Old Lucy's - Back Room

Maybe cardinal tipped him off that she might be heading for Old Lucy's, or maybe it's just the logical thing. But the backroom is filled with southern baptist fury and tears as she's unlocking the petty cash and counting out 20's. Taking an advance on what he portion of the proceeds - what little she's counting on needing - from out of the cash box and writing it down. Outside the doors, the bar is loud and the bartenders are wondering what the hell is up with the boss lady. There's even a bouncer outside looking around in case there's someone who needs a little physical love with their fists. But the stomping around, thumping down of stuff is easily heard up the stairs into Issy's old place.

Easily heard, sure enough. Deckard's still in the process of putting himself together after giving up on trying to figure out how to send an 'ASSHOLE' text back to Cardinal's phone. He's made it as far as dark jeans and undershirt before the ruckus starts underfoot and he hesitates. Listening. A few beats later he's hustling his way into a dress shirt lifted up off the floor, not bothering to button down the front or stamp into boots on his way out the door. Down the stairs in socked feet, relative stealth is facilitated by all the noise she's making by the time he reaches the bottom and can squint after what she's doing.

The lid of the petty cash is slammed down, locked, then put back into the hidy hole that it resides in during the day before it gets put back into the safe at closing time. The couple hundred is taken, folded in half, elastic'd and put into her purse before she's over at her locker, pulling out the spare change of clothes that she keeps there in a drawstring gym bag. The cellphone out and already on the line and holding with a car rental group.

"Hello. I need to rent a car…" The locker closed and the bag shoved beside her purse. Out come the boots that she wears with the work outfit. "Mid size. I need to be delivered to Old Lucy's in Greenwich"

Deckard watches in silence for the few seconds it takes him to recognize that sticking his hand in here is going to have things in common with shit like sticking his hand down into a garbage disposal or a hole with an anger badger living in it. Still a little dumb with sleep, he glances back to the stairs while she barks directions out on the phone, keenly aware that he still has time to slip back up them out of sight. He doesn't take advantage of it. Rather, he goes back to peering at her blearily across the office and moves in on a delay to push at the bag she's just hefted out of her locker. "Going somewhere?"

Blond ponytail goes whipping around as yet again, someones gotten the jump on her. "Yes" Abigail turns her face away, trying to stealthily wipe her sleeve across her cheeks. "Yes, immediately. You have my credit card on file. Just use that please" Someone talks on the other end and there's a curt "thank you" before she hangs up. "Let me guess, he fucking called you"

"Looks like it." Lines etch out across Deckard's forehead above a cynical twist at his brows even as he does her the favor of glancing away when she wipes at her face. He pokes at her bag again, idly unsure of what else to do while she is furious and bustling and saying the f word.

"Of course he would, after what I said. Because it's Richard" Her bag is swiped away from him, slung over her shoulder as her locker door is slammed shut. "Do whatever you have to do. Tell him you tried to stop me, that I beat you up, whatever. I'm getting a car and leaving here. Maybe if no one actually knows where I'm going, trouble can find my ass and kill more people around me and give me one big middle finger" Her purse is snatched up next and she tries to head for the door out to the bar proper.

Deckard's too quick; his fingers wind and twist fast into his end of the bag before she can yank it away entirely, holding her within a couple've feet for as long as she sees fit to keep the strap on her shoulder. "I just woke up. I'm not really sure I have enough energy for a full on brawl."

Again. Fucking again. "Take the fucking bag. I'll just buy new clothes wherever I go. Not like they won't have my size" And the gym bag is released, the pull from her end is dropped and her hand yanks the door open. Now there's witness's to everything and anything that might happen. "I'm going out to wait for my car, go back to sleep, tell cardinal to stuff it"

Great. Brows hooded, mouth set into a flat line, bag still in hand, Deckard takes one look at the expanse of bar open on the opposite side of the door. Some of them are already staring, what with him only haphazardly dressed and her with red eyes and angry urgency. Left with the option of following her out in his socks or making more time for himself the hard way, he…swings with option number two. The bag is dropped and he picks her up instead, right arm buckled firm around her waist so that he can force a grimace of a smile at the bar in large as he lifts her off her feet, steps back and closes the door after them both to start for the stairs.

"What. The. FUCK. FLINT?!" Over his shoulder she goes, purse going around with her and hitting him in that back while her hand grasp at his upper arms and back to try and get off him, away from him, off his shoulder "Put me fucking down RIGHT NOW! I'll HIT YOU!"

"Sorry? I can't hear you over how awesome and manly I am right now." Carting a girl up a set of stairs over his shoulder, hoHO.

If she hits him they will probably fall and break their necks, but until then…! He's making pretty good progress, free hand braced against the banister to help as he powers his way up for the unlocked flat of the apartment door. It's swung open and in they go, purse flailing or no.

This is mortifying, embarrassing. God only knows what the women down in the bar saw. There's a smack to his lower back. "You put me down you god damned …" she's not that great at swearing. She's not that great really at hitting. Open faced slapping, suuuuure. But she's far more angry than she was at her own place, and one they're inside, she switches tactics. Go limp.

Deckard thuds the door shut behind him with a nudge of his foot. His boots aren't far, so. He heads for them first, tipping the felled one over with his toes and bracing a hand against the front wall to keep from falling over himself while he tries to shove one foot in, then the other. Could be a while without spare hands to bring in with the assist. It takes him a minute to realize that she's gone limp over his shoulder, meanwhile. Once he does, his entire torso twists around with the scrub-brush bristle of his head to try to get a look at her, presumably to make sure she hasn't passed out or anything.

Closed eyes, her purse strap wrapped around her wrist. Abigail for all visual intent purpose is out cold. Possibly. She could be playing possum. All that blood rushing to the head and all, maybe not.

Uuuhhhh. "…Abigail?" Brow furrowed, Deckard gives her a little bounce against his shoulder once his first foot jams home and he starts on the second. Turns out it's even harder to do when you're busy trying to peer at the limp person on your shoulder than it is when you're looking down.

No answer. It takes all she's got to not bitch at him when he jostles her, or move her hands, keep it up, he'll put you down and you can make for the fire escape. She knows the layout of the place.

Shit. His usual scowl returned in force amidst grizzled stubble, Deckard searches the far wall for answers, only to come up empty with one and a half boots on. He stinks. It's more noticeable when there isn't flailing and dialogue to break it up; whiskey over beer over whatever deodorant has found its way up into his medicine cabinet, with no trace at all of the haze of smoke he has a tendency to coat himself in.

First things first, he finishes with the second boot before continuing on into his bedroom, where she's dumped on the unmade bed like a sack of corn. A delicate sack of corn.

Thump she goes, arms out, hair in a golden rope to the side. features schooled to be slack. opossum, opossum, opossum. he'll leave her be at some point and she can bolt. Dropped in him… that room, okay, there's a fire escape there. She can get out of there, get down, hopefully the car will be there. Fucking Cardinal, why the hell did he call fucking Flint. The only one who has no qualms about punching her in the face if he needs to.

Unfortunately, Flint doesn't have far to go. A bland tan duffel bag is tossed up off the floor onto the bed with Abigail, followed by a spare pair of jeans hanging out of a dresser and a few assorted other pieces of clothes. There's no real rhyme or reason to it and the bathroom's connected, so. He doesn't have to do much more than lean in after a tooth brush before he's back again and zipping it all up while he eyes her.

"You fucker. Your supposed to leave the room" All the anger she can manage, eyes opening and staring at the ceiling. "So I can go out the fucking window"

"The best laid plans of mice and martyrs," says Deckard without sympathy or surprise while he makes the final zip and drags the bag up onto the shoulder opposite of the one she so recently occupied. His jaw hollows out a shade or two for her having played opossum, but it's already a distinction that's difficult to make where the bones of his face have started to jut again post Hadley's repairs. "Can I put on a better shirt or are you going to crawl out through the air conditioning vent?"

"Depends, what are you planning? On locking me up until someone can 'talk' some sense into me, or are you going to let me go? Cause the guy with the car is going to be here and if I'm not down there to take the car, I'm going to punch you, and that's not just an empty threat"

"I'm going with you." Brow furrowed and chilly eyes bugged in lazy mockery of how readily obvious his intentions should be with the bag there and everything, Deckard apparently takes the threat as permission to do whatever. He steps into an open closet, shrugging off his rumpled shirt as he goes to drag a fresh one off a hanger instead.

'Then i'll be downstairs." Fuck. Great. One of the pressures in her life is going to be sitting in the seat right fucking next to her. She rolls off the bed, feet smacking onto the floor then levers herself up with her hands. "waiting by the car" She keeps her promises, there's small comfort in that. "Don't bring your fucking cellphone. No cellphones allowed"

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