Participants:
| Scene Title | ERRAND |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Flint Deckard has one to run before. You know. Leaving forever. |
| Date | December 5, 2009 |
It's a cold, cloudy night in New York. The kind that stiffens knuckles and clings to coats — there's still a chill lingering close in the air around Deckard once he's made his way down into the bowels of Grand Central, overcoat as black as the knit cap pulled down low over his brow.
He has a Look about him. It is the look of a lean, sober man who does not intend to stick around for long. It is the look of a man who is here on an Errand. Which is probably pretty common around here, what with the half-sorted supplies and the partially finished mural and cardboard boxes. Flint glances over the lot with a helpless brand of built in curiosity that can no longer be satisfied with a simple look, long face already turning to better focus on the nearest of them.
Only here ten seconds and already he is veering off course from his Errand. To be addressed in all caps hereafter as his ERRAND as if doing so will make him pay better attention.
Maybe it works, because rather than sidestep over to shuffle through the contents, he raises his voice to ricochet wildly off the walls and ceilings level and inquires, "Is there a bell I can ring for service?"
The curving walls and ceilings probably make for good acoustics too, Deckard's voice traveling merry throughout the basement of the Grand Central Terminal, ringing past empty concourses, not quite making it as far as food courts. Apparently, it's not all hip and happening down here at this hour — most people have homes and careers. And so Joseph emerges through the arc entry way of one hallway, with its tiled floor dipping down into a subway. He looks a bit like he's going out rather than staying in, with a jacket pulled over a sweater, jeans, boots, gloves peaking from one wool-lined pocket.
"Don't got one of those yet," he responds as he moves on over, feet ringing against the cement. The church had these kind of acoustics too, but muffled with fluffy carpet that terrorists tend to bleed into. "Or many doors for knockin'."
"Oh," says Flint at a (marginally) more respectable volume, some of the wind evidently taken out of his sails by the fact that being obnoxious actually worked, "hey."
Cap dragged off to leave static-drawn furrows in the grizzled bristle of his buzz, he falls back into a meander meant to meet the former pastor halfway. The same hand is scuffed carelessly up to get rid of static cling once it has exchanged knit black for crisp, papery white out've the musty depths of a coat pocket. There's a ringed water stain along one edge. Also, Abigail's name in dark pen scratched out across the middle.
"I figured I should just leave this with you so you wouldn't have to struggle with yourself about opening it when you found it in her place."
"Oh," is said right back at him, Joseph coming to a halt and eyeing the paper in Flint's hand, and making no move to grab it. He can see the name, and a kind of dejection has his shoulders weighing down and his brow furrowing. "That's— so kind of you," is deflecting sarcasm, mild and uncertain as most of his verbal jabs can be. Better than perhaps scrabbling for a defense about having, well, read Abigail's letter. Clearly she wanted him to.
Clearly. "You do realise you'll probably see her sooner than I do when she comes back?"
"You're operating under the assumption that she's going to come back. …And that I am." Am what? The addendum is tacked on after a short delay necessary to check his own words before they can clip on out past his teeth. They're still kind of confusing once they have, but he lacks the energy or investment to second guess for more than a second or two. He straightens his arm out instead, flagging the envelope out at chest level so that it starts to bend sad and limp at the middle under its own dreary weight.
"Don't worry. We're underground. God can't see us."
The envelope hangs limp and sad and ignored as Joseph narrows a look past it to try and meet Deckard's ever elusive gaze. No hand up to take the prop, because that's more or less what he sees it as, although later he'll give it more dignity. For now, he stands silent. Not only because if Abby isn't coming back, then what use is a letter in Joseph's protection anyhow, and not only because a facetious comment about what God can't see is entirely too familiar.
His arms fold. It's an accusing and defensive gesture. It lasts for two seconds before it undoes, and his hands settle on his hips. His voice is mild inquiry. "You gonna tell me where you're going?" Is everyone off finding nuclear weapons? Was there a memo.
"Mexico."
Big place down south under Texas. Lots of cacti and iguanas. Shaped somewhat like a chili pepper if you squint, and/or have never seen a chili pepper.
Flint flops the envelope up and down, still holding it out, eye contact brief, clear blue and sincere. He's really going to Mexico, where nuclear explosions are generally limited to those that involve dog tacos or drinking the local water.
"I'm going to drop it."
A shuffle of leather and denim herald Joseph finally moving forward to take the envelope and pluck it from Deckard's hand, giving it no more acknowledgment than that as he maintains a concerned look across at the other man. Absently, he fans the envelope against his other hand in a lazy fidget. Above them, electic lights buzz in a constant drone as unpleasant as the light they cast. He isn't pretending to not be alarmed at this news, judging its honesty as sound. "You shouldn't."
Paired fingers left extended well after the tatty envelope has been plucked from between them, Deckard straightens out his spine a shade before he lets them fall back to his side. Kind of like an unconscious weight's been lifted off his shoulders, easier to detect from without than it is from within. "Duly noted," batted off to deflect dumb dissenting opinions in the meanwhile, his next reach into his pocket is for his cell phone. He holds it out too, as stubbornly expectant as before, if not more.
There is a little more tolerant resentment, now, as Joseph takes this too without any particular heckling or resistance, as much as such a gesture is a little more confusing than playing mailman. The letter is folded, slid into a pocket, and the cellphone turned around in his palm with great uncertainty.
"Why? When?"
— aren't needy sounding questions. There's no cling in Joseph's voice. Instead, they come across brittle and prompting, sharp verbal jabs to get the other man talking more than simple facts and gestures.
"Because I need to. And tonight." It seemed like there was something else he was going to donate. Flint has to think a second before he switches pockets and extracts a sizeable yellow box of something. A vague 'something' because the bony splay of his hand is artfully distributed such that it masks the label.
"In case you're too embarrassed to buy them for yourself," is explained on a helpful(?) delay, just in case it looks like Joseph might deny the offer on principle.
"Well, y'can't," is more facetious than any of those prior flickers of emotions displayed so far. "I'm meant to be buyin' you a Christmas present on behalf o' Abigail. Why do I have your phone?" On the topic of presents: nnnot something Joseph has gotten around to, apparently, and this is probably going to bother him way more than it should, derailed momentarily when there is yet another thing before offered his way.
He's close to denying on principle before sliding a step forward to take the box, brow knit as he goes to look at whatever the heck Deckard was covering with his hand.
"Tell her…you bought me a trip to Mexico," makes things sound a lot less complicated than they are. With his left hand freed up again, Deckard scuffs it around over his face, displacing the grain of his perpetually unshaven jaw and pushing loose skin in slanted arond his eyes. A knit at his brow and the slightest of sideways glances is all it takes for the blue in his eyes to freeze over into ice once both hands are back in his pockets and his shoulders have stiffened.
The box contains condoms.
"The hell do you care? I've never gotten either of you anything." No answer on the subject of phones. He's too annoyed now to register that the question was asked or just too annoyed to answer. "I'm going."
Eyes roll ceilingwards and he manages not to toss the box aside, just lets his arm go lank at his side as he levels a the hell am I gonna do with these? look across at Deckard. Dissolves a moment later in the face of irritation, Joseph looking at Deckard like the shepherd eyes the coming storm with knowledge he's not really gonna be able to do much about it. Abby's gonna be mad. Among other things.
But whatever last impression of graciousness Joseph could hold onto is let go of. He knows he's annoying Deckard. "What about the Ferrymen?" That lasts for half a second, before he presses on with; "You should wait 'til she gets back, Flint. How long're you going for, anyhow?"
"They'll have you to keep them in line." Having given himself something of an advantage in anticipating directions this conversation would likely go ahead of time, Deckard meets exasperation over the Yellow Box without sympathy. Pretty much in line with how he is treating this entire interaction.
When pressed, he takes a literal step back away from questioning and starts to turn. He had an ERRAND and he has taken care of it, which technically means he's free to move onto the next thing. And the next thing is south of the Rio Grande
There seems to be about a million things Joseph could do or say to at least try to prevent the Bad Thing From Happening. Disappointment in the fact he's not, and that it probably wouldn't work anyway, and that any efforts to maybe impart wisdom or sentiments would be brushed aside, is enough to stand him still and let Deckard move freely from the starkly lit confines of the underground railroad. So he offers; "Thanks," in the hopes that it communicates enough in general, before Joseph is pushing off from whence he came.
The sound of his foot steps are swiftly joined with the greedy rustling of paper when the envelope is extracted and fingered through.