Breaking Entering And Dinner


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Scene Title Breaking, Entering, and Dinner
Synopsis Deckard and Meredith have a 'date' consisting of breaking into Dr. Sheridan's apartment office and eating dinner and drinking her booze.
Date March 12, 2010

Bella's Office


…Is the sound of Flint Deckard successfully turning a fine pair of picking tools in the lock of an apartment office he has seen several times before, if never quite like this. It's dark inside, quiet and cold enough the held breath he kicks out just beyond the door hangs still in air. A familiar window further in spills muffled city light across the floor in gloomy squares, with pieces of furniture and the leading edge of an attached kitchenette defined by moonlight reflected dull off their outlines.

For a beat he stands poised just within the entranceway, tall and lean with a knit cap pulled down low over his brow and shabby peacoat open to the cold, but listening hard reveals no surprises that his spectral eyes didn't pick out beforehand. Quick enough, he stoops back after the six-pack of green bottles he brought with him (clank tink) and tips his head for Meredith to follow. All clear.

Much like the last time Deckard and Meredith found themselves in each other's company, the blonde woman stands and keeps a lookout for him to pick the lock. Luckily, this time doesn't involve nosey cops and a success on Deckard's part. After the door is kicked open, she smirks and turns around again, her duties for now discharged. Having ditched her leather jacket for a warmer wool one, she keeps the collar turned up. Her easily identifiable blonde hair is tucked up underneath a warm dark hat. Grinning, she steps into the apartment as if it were Deckard's and this were a perfectly normal way to spend their time.

"You certainly know the places to take a girl," she says. Her own bag doesn't clink, but she did make a few promises when he helped her out with a gunshot to the shoulder. It may not be a home-cooked meal, but she certainly did bring some food with her to this break-in. Chinese take-out is probably better than Meredith's cooking anyway. "So, are we gonna do a bit of roughin' things up or should we just get right to dinner? I gotta say, I'm kinda hungry."

Good thing, too, given that Deckard's better equipped to see a bullet wound in intricate, three-dimensional detail than he is to repair one these days.

"Only the best for you, Muffin." As for the relationship between him and this apartment, he seems to know his way around well enough, thermostat adjusted first with a squint and tweak at the dial before he turns to continue on to the kitchen. And the refrigerator.

"Ooh, I don't know." Clank. He opens the freezer and tosses the beer in with little concern for the fact that it's all in glass, blue eyes ringed with cold, unbroken light amidst shadowy cabinets and a stainless steel sink. One drawer is opened, inspected, and closed. Then another. Whatever's in the second one makes him pause and furrow his brow before he closes it again, eyes cast briefly aside to an unremarkable span of wall. "I was thinking if we're going to have sex we should probably do that first." He sniffs, and his eyes zero back in on her, hard to miss until they get some lights turned on. "Normally I wouldn't be so forward, but I forgot to bring a toothbrush."

Dropping the bag of food onto the table, Meredith does her own surveillance of the apartment. "That's real sweet." The sarcasm is practically dripping from her tone, especially since he's looking particularly creepy with his glowing blue eyes in the dark. Though she certainly doesn't know this place well - or at all, really - she can find a light switch and flicks it on. A little belatedly, she adds, "Lights." Hopefully that X-Ray thing isn't with light sensitivity, too.

At least that way, Flint can see her eyebrow raised in full color and in person. "You, not being forward? Why, Flint, don't be all gentlemanly on my account." Putting a hand on her hip, she looks around now that there's the light to do so. It's not as thorough as Deckard's, of course, but she is working only with what she can see with her normal eyesight. She focuses on him again and actually smiles - not anything mocking. "It's only the first date, darlin'. I'm an old fashioned sort of girl. You've got two more dates till then."

On the contrary, Deckard doesn't so much as blink when she ticks up the switch and warm light floods the main living space well across the kitchen, exposing the sleepless shadows worn in purple around his eyes, with green and yellow bruising blotched uneven around the left. He doesn't have light sensitivity. As in, any.

At all.

There are a couple've chairs and a couch not far from the window, the likes of which look suspiciously therapudic without a television to offset them, and presumably a bedroom and bathroom somewhere beyond that. The decor is understated and comfortable, if too neat to look truly lived in.

Back behind the island counter, he opens a third drawer and pokes around unenthusiastically, but if there was weed in there at one point, there isn't any in there now. "You can't qualify breaking and entering as a first date and claim to be old fashioned. Besides," he's moved on to bump a side cabinet open, bottles of more expensive liquor than the crap he bought glittering cold within, "I've already seen you naked."

To say that Meredith is unsurprised that somehow Deckard got a black eye would be a bit of an understatement. As she has found out from being in his presence just a little, he can be an insufferable jerk. The not blinking thing is a little creepy, but who is she to judge? She can, after all, light things on fire and literally walk through flames.

She wanders about a bit to study the place that they're here breaking into, unsure of what they'd really be able to find here should they look for it. Mostly, it just looks too sterile for her. Somehow creepy for it's extreme tidiness. She moves back over to the island counter on the opposite side of Deckard. And while the naked comment may startle or unnerve a lot of women, it just causes Meredith to laugh. "Naked ain't the same as sex. I'll be sure to wear my lead underwear next time, so at least then there'll be some sort of surprises. And I very well can claim to be both. Just 'cause I like a little excitement on my dates doesn't mean I'm easy." With a glance toward the liquor cabinet, she inspects what's there for them to partake in. "Oh, she has the good gin. I hope she's got tonic stashed somewhere."

The x-ray vision switches off with a hard roll of Flint's eyes ceilingwards, mouth flattened into a faintly annoyed slant when he is further denied any kind of startled silence or tiny gasp of offense for his efforts. Instead she laughs, and he's forced to give it up and pass the gin on down with a markedly more human sideways glance. A compact bottle of Canada Dry follows it down with a more plastic thunk against the counter surface so that he can dither flatly between tequila and whiskey.

It takes him about four seconds to reach for the tequila.

"Nothing wrong with being easy. …I'm easy." A pair of shot glasses are dragged down in his knuckles next, both examined for dust before the more yellowish of them is returned. If he is at all worried about smudging fingerprints all over everything, he sure doesn't look it. "Marilyn Monroe was easy." And she's like. Famous! And dead. But mostly famous.

Aw, he's annoyed with her. Meredith can't help but be amused by the fact that her unwillingness to rise to his bait has somehow offended him. Of course, her being amused by that is probably annoying him all the more. Now, isn't that refreshing. Maybe she'd be more startled or offended if she didn't have a checkered past complete with illegitimate dead daughter who comes back to life and an ex-lover who is now a repressive President of the US. It's hard to startle the blonde now. "Now don't be all mad, sugar. Take a drink, relax a bit. S'not like we're doin' anything illegal here."

With the gin and Canada Dry now within easy reach she pours herself a drink - heavy on the gin. "Well, I'm no Marilyn Monroe." She waits for Flint to pour himself a shot before holding her glass up. "Cheers," and then takes a long drink. Yes, that certainly is the good gin. Better than she's had in quite awhile. "Never said there's anythin' wrong with it. Just that I ain't. Somehow the thought of you bein' easy isn't one that surprises me."

It is. Ruffling his feathers, at least — he knits his brows at her and focuses stubbornly down on pouring a shot for himself as broodily as it's possible to do so. He is out of practice. Not so much out of practice with being a creep (some things come more naturally than others) but with social interaction period in a capacity more complex than a few distracted exchanges of dialogue and the occasional grunt.

"I'm not mad. I'm sexually frustrated," hardly sounds like an official diagnoses despite some effort made towards earnest legitimacy, and he tips the stumpy shotglass against her gin with a lazy kind of carelessness that still doesn't manage to spill anything on its way back to his mouth. He is failing at failing.

Knit cap dragged off once he's swallowed tequila down and shut his eyes hard against the scorch of it down the back of his throat, he tosses it onto the counter with the bottles and scuffs his free hand up over the scrubby bristle of his buzz after an itch. Then, shock of shocks, he sets himself back to pouring round #2. "The psycho bitch who uses this place wouldn't sleep with me either."

Dragging a seat out, Meredith isn't as unpracticed as Deckard at social interactions. In her case, she's just naturally not all that caring how her words may affect someone else. If people have soft shells, well, that's their problem and they should get over it. She's not as quick to finish her drink as Deckard, but she's not being shy about it, either. Drinking isn't something she's really been out of practice of, either.

"Pretty much the same thing," she tells him with a raised eyebrow. Though, what was she expecting from the man? Just because they're out to dinner doesn't mean much. Especially when their date is to break into an apartment and then eat dinner and drink her liquor. It's a concept she actually still likes, but it doesn't do much for romantics. Really, that suits her fine. Romantics got her in trouble before, so what's the point of the fantasy? "So that's why you come back and drink her booze? I bet if you'd've called her a psycho bitch to her face, she'd have just tumbled right into the sheets with ya."

"I shot her."

The naked truth is occasionally worse when it's only vaguely naked. In this case, there's no way he can't be aware of as much with the crooked look he casts at her over the rim of his shotglass before he tips it back again. "I came back to steal her booze because I was bored and I like you and I knew it was here." Long fingers wrapped squarely aorund the tequila's neck, he hooks spare fingers through the sack bearing their Chinese and moves past her for a small table with enough space to eat on comfortably without him breathing tequila breath in her face.

When Deckard wasn't even trying, he managed to say something that does startle Meredith. Or, maybe was trying and now he has finally succeeded. Sexual comments don't affect the pyro, but something as simply violent as that does, actually, surprise her. While she doesn't give a gasp or the like to betray herself, it's evident in the widened eyes that she gives him. After a moment, her composure is back and she manages to even make a quip about it, though she clears her throat before she does it. "I'm guessing that didn't help with the whole sleeping with you thing."

Pouring more gin and tonic into her glass, she trails after him and settles into a chair opposite him. "I'm flattered," she tells him with a grin as she puts her drink down on the table with a clink of glass. She even sounds serious about that. "Pass the sesame chicken, would ya? I say after dinner we toss some of her furniture. Keep that up and you might find yourself a whole lot less frustrated."

"She may come around." Flat, unfeeling optimism that here seems eerily unnatural would fit in well in a discussion of pottery preferences. The fact that it's punctuated by the mechanical lightning flick of a switch blade open up out of his palm a beat later probably does not help, even if he only uses it to nose open the sesame chicken before he passes it over.

"My sister and I used to do shit like this, before we had superpowers. We don't talk much anymore." Back to a mutter, he nods once to the furniture flinging suggestion before he clips open a plastic dish of pepper stack and stumps out a carton of rice.

Meredith is starting to see why Deckard perhaps needed a psychologist. "Yeah, she just may." The sudden appearance of the switch blade is eyed by the blonde, but she lets him do things how he wants as long as she gets her food. Taking the dinner from him, she sets it down at the table in front of her before reaching out for one of those plastic forks that always put too many of in the bag. Even though she lived above a Vietnamese restaurant for years, that doesn't mean she ever learned how to properly use chopsticks.

"Break in and eat dinner?" It's not really quite so strange to think of. She and her brother would go about robbing stores once they found each other again. "Why not?"

Deckard takes a fork for himself in turn, plastic wrap popped (pop!) one-handed opposite his knife wielding fingers. He eyes her a moment there, eyes raking around as if in search of sarcasm, then he's focused comfortably down upon the process off tumping rice over into his dish lid and forking steak out after that. "Break in. Raid the liquor cabinet. Break the windows, steal the VCR."

The knife is sharp, levering down through little beef tips without resistence while he talks, only to pause for him to pour out another round for himself while he's thinking about it. "Things've changed since then. Thanks for the Chinese."

"VCRs." It's a bit of a nostalgia trip to remember that. "I remember those. What're the chances there's a DVD player here? I'm sure it'd make a nice souvenir." Meredith tilts her head at the tequila and the bottle of gin. "Think we should take these to go, too." Why leave such good liquor in the hands of a woman proven to be a psycho bitch? Certainly she doesn't deserve them.

At the non-committal answer, the blonde pyro just nods. "I don't talk to my brother, either." Less because things of changed and more because she has no idea where he is now. It's not the first time they've lost touch, but it is the first time she hasn't actively searched for him. Maybe she just thinks it's better that they stay apart for now. "You're welcome. Thanks for

"Slim to none. I'm not even sure there's one where she actually lives." The life and times of a psycho bitch. Do they watch TV? He doesn't.

Shot #3 downed in much the same manner as the first two, he pours yet again before pushing the first bite of his dinner up into his mouth and chewing. …For the most part politely. There's a little bit of open mouth action while he eyes her across the table but it is relatively contained and his teeth are all shiny and white. Wherever he was raised, despite what he liked to do in his free time, it wasn't a zoo.

"You can take whatever you want and I'll drag the rest out with me in the morning." This regarding the booze, he trails off there to focus on eating in a cloying kind of silence that's at least made better by the fact that the room's starting to warm up past the hum and drone of the heater.

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