Participants:
| Scene Title | Don't Hold It So Hard |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Coming soon. |
| Date | October 19, 2010 |
Fat Cat Billiards is far more than just a bar. Equipped with a plethora of tables for pool, ping-pong, shuffleboard, chess, checkers, backgamon and scrabble sets to satisfy a mob, as they say, it's almost like an adult arcade. A barely noticeable layer of smoky haze hangs in the air, and smooth Jazz plays over the speakers as the boisterous crowd goes about their business of occupying their time in whatever way they choose.
The bar looks to be fully stocked with a wide array of beers on tap and bottles, and enough of the harder stuff to satisfy most palettes. The tenders are as friendly as one might expect (it keeps the tip jars filled, after all) and are usually pretty competent when it comes to filling orders, although there's little showmanship. Just a good drink served at a reasonable price here.
Brenda is closing up today. Abby's state of being not good enough to be around the place, the blonde had decided to indulge in a drink in a place she knows, and a taxi ride home after she parked the SUV at the verb. She'll fetch it tomorrow. Tonight though, tonight. Caliban wouldn't be home till late, Owain was or had taken care of the animals and she is hoarding a pool table all to herself and armed to the teeth with quarters, she is teaching herself to play pool this tuesday evening and nursing her second bottle of beer. Any guy who's gotten close has been told to bugger off, she light them on fire, she's married, go away. It seems so far to be working and no ones complaing at th denim clad woman and long sleeved shirt who's playing solo. It's not busy enough to complain.
Flint is drunk.
Flint is drunk and should not be drinking.
Still more accurately, Flint is drunk and should not be out of bed, but nobody's thought to tie him down into one and so far his stitches have held through expulsion from at least one other establishment.
Familiar brown leather worn and waterstained across a grey-blue t-shirt and darker jeans, he bumps in through the door alone, adjusting the sit of his holster at the small of his back as he goes. It's not a subtle move to make — better suited to the grubbier reaches of Staten than the felty green grounds of Fat Cat's. Abby's skeleton taken in at a drowsy side glance once he's at the bar, he settles himself into a stiff lean and orders whiskey past the bartender's dubious stare.
probably good that they haven't popped, you can't really rely on Abby's stitching skills at this point. Maybe in a few hours. That and she doesn't know where Griffin his her kit. She's oblivious to flint having settled at the bar for the moment, the tip of her tongue - By now, enough time has passed that yes, it is hers once more - sticking out of the corner of her mouth. She'll never be a champion pool player and in truth, it's a stretch to call her a pool player. There's more balls on her table, than probably total in the male population of the bar room.
His Whkiskey is delivered, a clunk on the counter as her cue smacks the white ball and it rolls off to wildly hit a four and an 11. Nothing sinks and she sighs. She runs a hand through her hair looking over towards the bar as if contemplating a drink of something non-alcohol or maybe another drink alcoholic. She spots Deckard though, his familiar slope against the bar and the pool cue comes to rest on the toe of her boot, head tilted a fraction as if a change of angle might eiher make him disappear or confirm that it's him.
It's him. Coarse around the narrow block of his jaw, wiry hair bristled grey and brown away from ink sketched grey-black into the scruff of his neck. He's wearing sunglasses too — ones she may recognize, for all that they are not an unusual or otherwise exceptional pair. Matte black, close-fitted to the hatchet-hewn angles of his long face.
Whiskey glass sunk into his grip as ordered, he produces a flimsy five out've the worn flap of his wallet, followed by half a fistful of musty change.
Hopefully this is the only drink he plans on ordering.
In any case, he's seen Abby and she's seen him, so he swallows down a shot and meanders into an indirect approach. Moth to light, mutt to fire hydrant.
Lift of her finger isn't to ward him away but to say that she wants another as Deckard starts to make his way over towards the table. Whatever is left in the bottle is finished, tipped back, and placed to the side out of the way before she circles back around the table, giving him her back so that she try and take another pass at a ball.
"He brought you back safe. Thank the lord for small favors that aren't from people I abhor. And since I haven't heard any panicked flurries, everything worked?" The institute, China.
Crack goes the pool cue again and the white ball spins out and sinks down into a pocket. On her left hand is a plain bank, around her left ankle, GPS strapped tight and hidden by clothing to all but deckard. Another ring settled around the necklace she's always wearing. "I think I'm going to jail" This corner of the room is warm. Not unseasonable so, but it's warm, warmer the closer to her that one gets. "What's jail like?"
Warmth is nice. It's cold outside. Enough that there's still cool air clinging to Flint's jacket when he sidles in comfortably closer. More at ease drunk than he is sober. Always.
The rest of his whiskey still in hand, he watches her shoot in murky silence, line of sight obscured by the calculated rest of his glasses black up the bridge of his nose. There for a reason. This reason.
"Guess so," muttered ignorantly of mission success and whether or not it exists in any capacity, he sips his whiskey and sets the glass down on the table's wooden edge. "You're doing it wrong," is a pretty lazy segue into, "Not as bad as prison."
"I didn't ever think that I was doing it right" She points out, palms holding the cue and looking him over. "Might be prison. Whatever they send you to when you commit a felony of the class D variety" Flat lips glance to the whiskey, as if somewhere in her mind that little hamster is trying to discern something while it stumbles around it's wheel inebriated and in withdrawal much like it's owner.
"Well I doubt it's going to be a party Flint. Or there'd be more people scrambling to get in and stay in than get out" The cue stick is held out, offered to him. "I need to try and relax. Teach me how to play. At least till my next drink is done and I need to waste money on a taxi home or go ask Cat to stay the night." Might be the latter.
"Prison's for felonies," conveyed with the brutally sincere honesty of the too-inebriated-to-tone-things-downed, Flint shakes his head for her to keep the stick in hand and steps closer still. So he can hook his right arm over her shoulders (so far) innocent in his efforts to adjust the sit of the cue in her hand. Fingers manually slackened in their grip and all that.
"First…is. Don't hold it so hard," is decent advice at least, for all that it's fumblingly enforced in a haze of whiskey stink. "Feet wider apart."
"Prison it is" Faux cheer, a wince for how loud she said it, like she might be fighting more than an impending hangover. Flint maneuvers in to adjust her grip and she looks, watching his hand rearrange hers. "You never complained about my grip being too hard" pointed out in all inebriated seriousness, her tongue loosened by the fermented grains.
The warmth is her, fever hot through her clothes, her perfume and the scent of the bakery worn away to nearly nothing and overridden by the scent of the smoke that creates a haze near the ceiling. She shifts side to side, scuffing her feet a few more inches apart knowing that he'll tell her if it needs to be wider further. "Will you write me in jail? Send me a file, tucked in a Martha Stewart Living magazine?I mean, if I get tossed there. What's the term for a class D, a year? Two?"
"Dunno. I'm a felon, not a…jury." Not the best at letter writing or magazines, Flint declines to make promises in that department even if he's simultaneously perceptive enough to bump a boot toe against the GPS wrap thick at her ankle. "I think they decide."
Cue ball fished out of a near pocket while she adjusts her stance, he settles maybe a little too comfortably (and closely) into the space between the her and the wall behind her before he leans to set it back on the table.
"Well then, there's hope for met yet if I keep to looking like innocent Abby who couldn't light anything on fire. " Abigail moves her foot more in response to the motion of foot to ankle, rolling her neck before settling in again to try and focus on the cue ball when Flint places it on the felt. No objection to how close Flint has settled, accepting it. It's Flint. He'll either behave himself, or he won't. Alcohol tended to make him do the former more than the latter when it came to her. Grip to hard, she attempts to loosen it, keep it loose as she bends her knee's and leans over, a glance behind her to make sure he's not in the path that might get him a face full of stick. Content that she's not going to give him a black eye, she's pulling back on the stick and then jerking it forward to tap the ball, let it ricochet off a seven that had been near a pocket, ripe for the picking if it had been anyone else but her.
The winkle of her nose is because she didn't do it. The tremor in her hand and arm, belongs to something else. "I'm not built for Pool. Christian girls don't play pool in dirty bars" Not that this place is dirty.
"Still too hard," assessed without censure, Flint looks down his fore to her aft with lazy appreciation for one or both. The light, careful trace of his index and middle fingers down the curve of her spine from behind is familiar. Unfortunately familiar, perhaps, given his blood alcohol level and general proclivity for distraction. Also given that the same hand is making indirect progress for her pantyline nearer the curve of her hip, warmth to warmth when the rest of him leans in after it, voice low and coarse at her ear.
"Relax."
"If I'm not relaxed after two beers Flint" Her free hand snakes behind her, intercepting the palm before it can actually make for the waist of her jeans and possibly give her matrimonial mate a solid reason to seek him out and kill him. One wouldn't put it past him. Abby wouldn't at least.
Which isn't to say that she doesn't remember what would come in the wake of the trace of finger along her back from times gone by.
"You need to behave yourself Flint. I'm not in my right mind and I can smell the whiskey on you that didn't come from that cup. I love you, but I love and respect him more. So show me, what I'm doing wrong some more and help me distract myself from what I'm going through since there won't be anyone when I get home but a doc, cat , bird and turle"
Flint sets his jaw against rapid interception, automatic force applied subtly in a twist of his wrist against resistance until it's (rapidly) clear that she is serious. Seriously not interested. Familiar frustration tightens in harsh around the corners of his eyes once he's settled back, muddled and aimless. Disoriented, even.
She loves him but loves ~someone else~ more.
He doesn't say anything. Still closer than he should be but no longer touchy, right hand suspended at a safe distance from her side while he recollects himself.
"If I'm not relaxed after two beers Flint" Her free hand snakes behind her, intercepting the palm before it can actually make for the waist of her jeans and possibly give her matrimonial mate a solid reason to seek him out and kill him. One wouldn't put it past him. Abby wouldn't at least.
Which isn't to say that she doesn't remember what would come in the wake of the trace of finger along her back from times gone by.
"You need to behave yourself Flint. I'm not in my right mind and I can smell the whiskey on you that didn't come from that cup. I love you, but I love and respect him more. So show me, what I'm doing wrong some more and help me distract myself from what I'm going through since there won't be anyone when I get home but a dog, cat , bird and turtle"
Flint sets his jaw against rapid interception, automatic force applied subtly in a twist of his wrist against resistance until it's (rapidly) clear that she is serious. Seriously not interested. Familiar frustration tightens in harsh around the corners of his eyes once he's settled back, muddled and aimless. Disoriented, even.
She loves him but loves ~someone else~ more.
He doesn't say anything. Still closer than he should be but no longer touchy, right hand suspended at a safe distance from her side while he recollects himself.
"I'm married Flint, and while I'm sure he'd be fine with you at m- our kitchen table, I have a feeling he'd object to you trying to do more" Actually, Abby's not so sure that Caliban would tolerate Flint at the kitchen table, or even sleeping in the spare room. It's something she'd need to talk with him about at some point.
The game seems to be derailed for now, as she turns around to face her former flame, leaning the pool stick against the table then settling both hands there so she can face him. Well, settles one hand, the other lifted to show the ring where he can't help but notice it unless he closes his eyes. Can he see with his x-ray through closed lids. "I take it that you haven't found someone Flint, even for all that you're someone with a badge now?" She doesn't know that he's the company. The drawl has a little more depth to it now, and face softened from the alcohol that courses along with her red blood cells and dulling the discomfort from all that she's going through physically.
She drops her hand down to the felt and wood once again, head tilted to the left, watching him for any hint of bolting. "I do love you. I can't not love you Flint even after everything" A soft little sigh that makes shoulders lift a fraction then back down. "Can we just.. can we just be friends, as horrid as that thought seems. Is there a chance?"
Even with sleek sunglasses screening out the spectral blue of Flint's eyes, the way tension slacks away from his jaw and lengthens his face is pretty hard to mistake for anything short of numb shock. The way he says, "What?" a beat later is earnestly quiet and confused, even once the ring is up and he's had an opportunity to turn his head dumbly down after it.
To who? seems like a relevant question to ask. Instead he stands awkwardly in place, salacious good humor drained from the hard carve of his profile along with whatever blood he had left in there.
Bristlebrush skull still angled down after the ring an uncomfortable accumulation of seconds later, he finally manages a restless fidget through the open curl of his left hand. An abortive attempt at a dismissive gesture. People get married. "Okay."
A shudder not to be attributed to any drugs that are loosening their hold on her system at that word. Okay. His favourite word. "Okay. Not that being friends is horrible, just.. maybe for you, or well, so others say but… You can come back over here and teach me how to play pool. I don't have the steadiest hands right now and my head hurts but… I got one more beer to finish" Somewhere along the way, it was brought over and the money taken.
"So I don't keep just hitting the balls around and feel like a complete… drunken idiot
Maybe for him. An uneven blink is visible through the lines etched in flat across Flint's forehead. Then he nods, not having heard, right hand lifted more distinctly across his chest after the bar to facilitate a sort've…I need another one so I'm going over there and then I'll be back, thing. Even though he still half of his original drink going lukewarm in the bottom of the glass he left behind on the pool table.
His real intention probably becomes more clear when he drifts past the bar proper and on out the door into the Greenwich night, hands pushed down deep into his jacket pockets as he goes.
She saw that coming, only stands and watches him go with a look on her face that is a mix of disappointment and something else. Possibly guilt, only Abby or a telepath would know. She licks her lower lip, debating whether to go after him or just go hang up the pool cue and ask for a taxi. Forget her own beer. Or the look that others are giving her as the one guy who didn't get evicted from her just walks away.
"Way to go Abby, letting him down gently" She doens't pat herself on the back, but she does dig out her phone, some drunken texting coming down the line for someone as she takes up a stool, watching the scarecrow that is Flint hightailing it.
