Participants:
| Scene Title | Cops and Robbers |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Felix is Felix again. Deckard is still Deckard. |
| Date | January 14, 2008 |
It's late morning, with the sun shining brightly through the eastern windows, and there's almost nothing in the room - a bed, neatly made up. A suitcase, closed, at its foot. A little glasstopped nightstand with a cheap lamp on it. And Felix, disposed on the bed, patiently working his way through 'The Three Musketeers' again. He's in a plain gray t-shirt, jeans, and bare feet.
It's really fucking cold outside, and as that's where Deckard came from, he's fully dressed. His boots are still damp with melting snow when he makes his way down the hall outside of Felix's resting place, and he's opted to retain the black of his overcoat, currently open over jeans and a grey hoodie. Head stooped, he studies a few of the photographs left by Teo yesterday as he walks, never having really taken the time to look them over. Unfortunately, there are only so many paces from here to the rectangle of Felix's closed door.
He stops. And thinks. He could knock. That would be the polite thing to do.
Another photo is turned over while he considers it. Soon enough, his eyes lift to the wall, through the wall, all the way to Felix and his book. Nothing too embarrassing going on in there. He tries the handle. If it's unlocked, in he comes without further announcement. If it is, well. It sure sounds like somebody's trying to get in without asking permission first.
It isn't locked. The door turns, creaks open and inward - not oiled, that's for certain. Fel looks up, and then sits up, setting aside the worn paperback. "Deckard," he says, politely but without particular enthusiasm.
Deckard follows the door without a tremendous amount of enthusiasm for being here, eyes casting dull about the rest of the room before they zero back in on Felix. "Ivanov." The door is left partially open behind him, and he doesn't make it more than a few steps in before he sees fit to stop at the room's middle.
There's also no weaponry in the room, even in the overcoat hung on the back of the door. Fel just looks to him expectantly, like he's some clerk in some government office. No explanations or apologies.
There is weaponry in the room because Deckard is a paranoid old son of a bitch, such that any metal detectors passing his way would have plenty to say on the subject. So there's an added crease to his brow and its stitching when he checks Felix's coat last and finds nothing there. Given that the fed knows what he does and what he's doing isn't exactly subtle in a room without much to look at, he lets an awkward pause pool between his last look at the coat and the turn of his head back to Ivanov. "Any particular reason you decided to grow a pair and get your face back?"
"I blew my cover by cutting Volken's head off," Felix says, matter of factly. "So, the people I was attempting to hide from know I'm still alive, and what I looked like, as well as my cover identity. No point to the masquerade anymore."
That seems like a pretty good reason. Also one that's vaguely ludicrous to the discerning ear. Deckard's brow furrows, glare scanning quickly for some kind of indication that Felix is pulling his leg. Finding none, he tucks the photos under his arm so that he can set to tugging his gloves off. "You could just get another face."
"I didn't kill Volken. And you aren't the only one that changing a face doesn't fool. So, I don't think there's much point anymore," Fel says, serenely. The bullet remains gone. Is this actually Felix?
"Pshaw. Of course you didn't. He's the boss. Endgame. You can't ever just shoot them or lop off their heads. It's no fun if it's easy." Everyone knows that! Voice almost lofty in its cheerful cynicism, Deckard maneuvers close enough to toss his gloves and the photos down onto the glass nightstand before he reaches into his coat and tugs out his gun.
Fel's gaze goes to the weapon, and then back to Deckard's face. "Never point a gun at what you don't intend to kill," he says, flatly. "Never use them as a threat. That's how I ended up dying. Someone'd watched too many gangster movies, thought she was gonna kneecap me, ended up blowing a hole in my leg damn near big enough to stick a hand in. And I suppose you're right. Like I said, I make a crappy Van Helsing."
"Yeah. Thanks for the safety tip, Dad." Deckard points the gun. Sort of. It's as indirect as a pointed gun can be, tilted aside loose in his grip. So comfortably irresponsible that it'd almost be better if he was two-handing it all professional-like. "I'm just not really sure if there are any less deadly ways to put another piece of lead in you. Under penetration is apparently a common problem with these casings so, if I fire a few times the odds are pretty good at least one of them will stick."
Fuck that noise. Felix is not having any, even implied. There's that flicker of motion, like his magic power is making the film of reality skip, and then Felix is sitting back on the bed, and the gun is deconstructed. Not broken irreparably, but taken down to its component parts as if Fel intended to clean it for Deckard, the pieces spread neatly on the comforter. "I have been shot enough. Four times is more than enough for any man, Evolved or not. If you want something from me, say so. But never threaten me."
Damn it. Deckard's grip flexes against the sudden absence of composite and weight there. Too late. He's quick but not super, and the weirdness of Felix's bones jumbling into fast forward is enough to inspire the beginnings of a headache. The tendons along the back of his hand bleach bony white, then fall back to his side in a fist. Bitter cynicism and holiday cheer have vanished as one, leaving starker irritation to characterize the long planes of his face. "I don't want anything from you."
"Then why the gun," Fel says, quietly, tapping a fingernail against the barrel. "I know. The bullet's gone. But I'm me. I had it taken out."
Annoyance persists. Hard to tell how many parts skepticism and how many parts butthurt. "No sign of recent damage in the area."
Hugh smirks. "An Evolved healer took care of it. Trying to remove it via normal surgery'd've killed or crippled me, which is why I was wearing the damn thing so long in the first place."
"I'm flattered to hear that my depravity drove you to such an extensive solution." Definitely more parts butthurt. Deckard steps back, glances to the disassembled gun, and leans to pick his gloves back out of the photographs he left them with.
"I was trying to stem the leak. Not to mention that it hurt, and had for ages," Fel says, serenely. "You seem well enough."
"Never been better." This is a lie. His stitches are still doing their thing, bleak indications of Deckard's own action movie schooling, but he's shaken off most of the stiffness that originally went with them. Left glove goes on first, with the full of his attention on making sure he doesn't accidentally wind up with two fingers in one finger or anything else equally disastrous.
Felix just eyes the stitches. "What happened?" he wonders, more softly.
"I fell down a well. It was hours before Lassie could get anyone to listen." Brows tilted up in self-sympathy for this highly abridged and falsified tale, he has a hard time not rankling his nose in frustration when he fails at getting the right glove on in a timely manner.
Fel can't help but laugh at that, quietly. "Still making friends, huh?"
"I'm in the market now that you've turned out to be such a worthless douche." Warm fuzzy Flint Deckard finally succeeds in getting the second glove on, which leaves the buttons of his coat between him and having to ask for the gun back.
"Good luck with that. I still owe you, and ideally will be back in position with my previous job, soon," Felix says, reaching over to start reassembling the gun. He does it without looking, and with the same absentminded air one'd wear while brushing one's teeth.
"Who wouldn't want to get back to that." Not actually a question, because the answer is clearly 'a sane person.' The rest gets no reaction past some tightening about his jaw. Deckard just steps back into the puddle of meltwater he created earlier and gestures for the gun.
Fel obligingly proffers the gun, magazine in place, even, grip first. He shrugs. Well, his insanity is both documented and medicated.
Grip first so that Deckard can PULL THE TRIGGER AND SHOOT FELIX many times HA HA HA HA. Except that he doesn't. He pushes it down under the lapel of his coat and gracelessly back into its holster. Then he glances to the photos, opts to leave them behind, and turns for the door.
Which is half what he was expecting. It'd be a ridiculous and Tarantino sort of death, which is no doubt what will happen to Felix when the time comes. If Kazimir doesn't have him tortured to death slowly for the temerity of destroying that useful old body. "Vaya con dios," Felix says, irony in his tone.
"He doesn't care." Maybe when Kazimir dies of a lightning strike directly to the back of his head, Deckard'll change his tune. Until then, he claps a hand around the door frame and slings himself back out into the hall, bootfalls quiet in the path they cut for the exit.
 January 14th: Innocence Lost |
 January 14th: Breaking Point |