Participants:
| Scene Title | Class |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The gala has hardly begun and Deckard and Gillian are both in need of a breather. |
| Date | April 9, 2019 |
Marriott - Isolated Balcony
Free champagne and an open bar are all well and good as means to stay relaxed in a seething sea of finely tailored tuxedos, flowing gowns and polite handshakes, but it's early yet and Deckard is trying to behave himself. A shot (or two) of goldshlager on the way over helped ease his nerves, freshened his breath and made his smile easier. Initially.
Half an hour in, it feels like he's been here for days and the stately sable cut of his tuxedo is stifling. A couple of days worth of stubble is about the only resistance he's managed to muster appearances-wise — the salt and pepper stuff too fine to accomplish real roguishness. He's getting a little old for that anyway, as the sooty grey and increasingly wind-ruffled state of his hair might attest.
Having managed to discover a more isolated alcove with the assistance of his particular way of seeing things, he's made his way out onto the elegant balcony it opens into, arms folded across the sturdy brace of wrought iron railing. His arms were folded, anyway. Currently he's attempting to pry paired fingers under the crisp white crease of his collar without actually disturbing it or the bow tie knotted neatly at his neck.
There's always reasons people seek the solace of an out of the way place. The polite smiles, the gentle laughs, the flash of pictures being taken. Some people just need a moment, and it seems the older man who feels out of place is about to find company. A shift of a curtain predates gliding black fabric as the woman steps inside. The black shoes she wears have only the slightest heel (her husband isn't a tall man, standing taller than him looks awkward in pictures), and the dress tightens at her waist, and thighs to show off her curves, and make moving just a little more difficult.
"The couldn't put any f— chairs out here, could they," the woman rasps as soon as she looks around the balcony, eyes settling on the man when she's about to curse, and correcting herself. The dimples have been working in overtime tonight, so the smile is light when she gives it. Gillian's dress has no sleeves, leaving her arms bare, a large fancy diamond necklace in multiple strings rests around her neck, drawing attention her her chest as much as her dress already is. The only other visible jewelry is on her left arm. Wrist covered with heavy black, silver and diamond bracelets, and her wedding and engagement rings. "You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"
On a night like tonight, while staring at everyone naked after they've spent hours on looking their best may have some value as a source of private and personal entertainment, there's something to be said for seeing the way an expensive dress fits on an attractive woman. Also, it's dark out here and it's no longer really a secret that he can see through things when his eyes glow. So it is that Deckard's eyes are dark when he turns sharply after the sound of the curtain being pushed aside and Gillian's displeasure with the chair situation. Jumpy. Both hands snap back down to his sides, leaving his tie turned an inch to the side and anyone who might be watching via security camera with the impression that he was up to something.
He wasn't. He'd probably be having more fun if he was.
"Seven thirty-five," dictated at a coarse mutter once he's glanced to the silver band of his watch, he smooths the cuff of his sleeve back down over it and clears his throat while he tries to place her. It only takes him like five or six seconds to realize that he might have an easier time of it if he tries looking at her face instead of her boobies.
The dress was made for boobie gazing. The necklace only makes matters worse. Gillian hisses air through her teeth at the revelation of the time. "These — things — always seem to take forever." The way she says things, the emphasis, hints to the desire to curse, without cursing. "Since you're off by yourself, I'm guessing I don't need to keep up proper etiquette." Dark hair is pulled up out of her face, simple combs keeping it in place. Though she's starting into her thirties, she still looks young and fit, and the clothes and posture also add to it. The fact that she once had tattoos and scars on many visible areas of her body wouldn't even come to someone's mind. Her skin appears nearly flawless, except for natural freckles and beautymarks.
At least until she reaches up to touch her hair and her bracelets knock around. A tribal tattoo is visible on the inside of her left wrist, shaped like a yin/yang.
Stepping further out, she approaches the iron and rests her arms on top of it, looking over and down, breathing in the air. "So which are you, a cop who doesn't want to be here or…?" She waits for him to fill in the or.
Deckard doesn't look a day over…fifty. Considering that he's around seven-hundred whole days over fifty, that's not too terrible. He's in decent shape, anyway. Having a love interest half his age has translated into a definite effort made towards personal upkeep and regular activity. Also, he still spends an inordinate amount of time running away from people who might want to kill him.
He knows her. Somehow. She's married to someone. Or something. Dubious recognition sits dumbly in the knit of his brow while he watches her make her way over to the the rail, only to find relief in the idea that she doesn't know who he is either. Whew. That would've been embarrassing.
The question of his badgehood is enough to get half a smile out of him while he looks her over again. Tattooed at the wrist. Scandalous! If he'd gone sleeveless, he wouldn't have been allowed in. For many reasons in addition to the whole tattoo thing, granted. "Not a cop. Just…some guy. I had to take a class on what forks to use in what order a few years back, so."
And the wrist had been just one of her tattoos. Not that there's any way to know that. Not like they'd kick out one of their biggest contributers just cause of one scandalous tattoo… "I had to take that class too, though about seven years ago now," Gillian says, a genuine smile tugging on the corner of her mouth. Her raspy voice gives a hint she might be sick, but it's just the way she talks. Or possibly gives the perception she'd been some kind of chain smoker in her youth…
"In that case, I'll peg you as either a husband or a boyfriend of one of the lovely ladies I have to smile at all the time." She leans forward on the railing even more, keeping her eyes away for a moment before they shift back. If the railing didn't look so sturdy, it might be dangerous what she's doing. "Why else would 'just a guy' suffer through the fake smiles and ass kissing." First swear she's let pass through tonight. This isn't public eye.
"Yeah. I guess…it's been more like a decade for me too." Christ that's a long time. And Christ, he's old. They're talking in decades. Decaaaades. Ten years since he spent the almost-apocalypse in the brig of the Invierno. Like going competely grey before his 45th birthday wasn't bad enough.
Stress lines its way across Deckard's jaw almost before his smile has faded, briefly turning the expression into more of a grimace while he shifts his attention back out onto the night sky. If there are still stars, none are currently bright enough to penetrate the haze of city light that smothers Manhattan. The moon is out there, though, white-blue light screened in pale around whatever shadow clings to the open balcony's frame.
"Boyfriend," is only specified after he's glanced sideways at her chest again. Just to see. "I've never been very good at ass kissing."
The left hand raises up to flash the ring, a diamond in white gold or platinum with more than enough of a karat to be expensive without being gaudy. "Wife," Gillian identities herself, though anyone who glanced at a magazine in the last seven years would likely recognize her, standing next to Petrelli's the power family. Even if she doesn't hold herself like a perfect socialite when she knows she's not in the presence of those whose opinions write stories and create gossip.
"Though I won't threaten you for looking. Don't wear this kind of dress if you don't want handsome older men to look down your top," she continues to rasp out, that smile bringing dimples to her cheeks, though it's likely one of the more genuine smiles she'll wear tonight, without flashing teeth, and even touching the corners of her eyes.
"Gillian Petrelli." Wife of the man who totally didn't blow up the city.
Oh god. She's a Petrelli and he was ogling her tits. He was ogling the tits of a Petrelli. Ogling them. Deckard closes his eyes, the way people do when they are wishing they could punch themselves without calling their sanity into greater question than it's already been called into. Ringless right hand curled too forcefully around the railing ahead of him, he leans back from it a little in time to tip his head down after the ring. It's a nice ring to go with nice boobies and a nice face, which he has indeed seen. Next time he's asking Abby to make flash cards.
"Sorry." An earnestly apologetic Deckard. Amazing the sorts of things ten years and many, many milligrams of fine antidepressants will do a person. "They're just…there." Not actually making it better. Teeth grit, he draws in a stiff breath and closes his eyes again. Briefly this time.
"Flint Deckard." Odds are he has his fair share of magazine appearances filed into a box under his bed as one of those guys who helped with the whole Phoenix/Vanguard thing. Hopefully not the same one he keeps his porn in.
"I like my boobs," Gillian says bluntly, though the smile continues to play on her face, amusement shining in eyes under the lights of the city and the hotel itself. The level of discomfort at having oggled a Petrelli is clear as day on his face, and it only seems to amuse her as she watches him. The only thing that lessens her amusement would be the name as she tilts her carefully put up head of hair to the side and examines him twice over again.
The name sounds familiar. Times like this she might wish for that stupid super memory that a few people she knows have access too. If it hadn't been for a name brought up at one of her comfortable moments in time, drinking with a friend, she might not have even figured out one of the places she heard it. Deckard. There might be fifty odd Deckards in the city, of course.
"You don't look like a ghoul to me," she says, without the proper clarification to explain why such a thing would be said. "I hope you oogle your girlfriend's boobs as much as you do mine, Flint."
"They're nice." Her boobs. They're nice boobs. Whatever he's taking, he hasn't taken enough to nullify the matter-of-fact tilt his brows adopt when he says so. He has seen a great many tatas in his day. As far as trying to somehow make this into something polite goes, though, it isn't really working, and he hesitates when she turns it back on him. Like it's his fault he sees boobies that are bouncing around out there begging people to look at them. Or some less exaggerated version of that scenario that has nonetheless done a number on his ability to concentrate and not sound like a moron.
Wait, what? "…Am I supposed to look like a ghoul?" Is that what the magazines are saying? Not that he would normally care just — surely he's not that bad. His left hand scuffs up automatically over his jaw as if to check, long fingers pushing at the fuzzy lines and loose skin around his mouth even as he tries not to think too hard on it. Anyway, he also has the sanctity of his actual relationship to be worried about, here. "I oogle them at every opportunity, within healthy parameters. Touching them is obviously preferable."
They are nice. Gillian doesn't seem at all insulted by his words, even shifting her arms a bit so they threaten to spill over the top of her dress even more. Not quite so bad, but she's making no effort to hide them. The posture change makes them even more visible crowed with diamonds and silvery shimming bits of her necklaces. "You certainly aren't sucking the life out of the room. The party in there was doing a fine job of it. Thanks to you I might actually be able to manage another hour before I need to stand in front of the bar sampling the best wines they got. I think plum wine will be on my menu tonight."
Her eyes shift away from him in the direction of the party, where his girlfriend and her possibly amazing breasts, and her husband are waiting, "You lucky girlfriend, Deckard. I sometimes wish my husband would oogle me as much as you have in the first five minutes of knowing you."
More bluntness, but a moment later her smile is back, flashing teeth, but not quite touching her eyes. "He's quite busy. I'm sure once things slow down, it'll get better." And he'll remember her boobs are there and his for the looking at. And touching.
The greater presentation of her cleavage to him is taken in with bafflement that manages to be appreciative while still holding off at a careful remove. Ten years ago Deckard would have something brilliant to say to this. Or he would shove his face down into them and hope for the best. Now he has a slightly worried look about him, like suddenly she wants him to look while telling him Petrelli love life secrets and any second now he's going to be blown apart by some kind of missile defense laser system from outer space. Or a guy with a camera is going to scale the wall next to them and take a photo, which — might actually be worse.
"I'm…she's…" an awkward exhalation, apparently. He breathes out in a rush, brows pressed low when his left hand finally drops back to his side. His tie is still crooked. "Great. I mean, I don't really deserve her." Here he is ogling someone else after all. Gosh this conversation just got really uncoordinated. He shuts up there, withholding psychoanalyzation of the dread Petrelli brood with another glance down at her bling.
"Most guys don't deserve the women they end up with," Gillian says with a raspy laugh, one that actually sounds genuine, even if she flashed the token smile that she probably wears through most of the party. Bling and boobs. Bling accented boobs. That'll be the last close up he'll get, apparently as she takes a step away from the railing, shifting her shoulders to get her posture back in the proper positioning for a foray back into the dragon's den of of the trust fund brigade and other socialites. Not to mention cops and medical professionals.
"I better go shake hands and get ready to buy things in the upcoming hours," she doesn't sound like she's going to be enjoying it, but a moment later the smile is back on her face, her posture is perfect and she starts to walk to leave the balcony. As she pushes the curtain aside to exit, she glances over bare shoulder back at him, "Good luck with your lady."
There ain't no gentlemen that's fit for any use,
And any girl will touch your privates for a deuce
And even kids'll kick your shins and give ya sass
Nobody's got no class.
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