abby2_icon.gif deckard3_icon.gif joseph_icon.gif

Scene Title Fractured
Synopsis Abby and Deckard stop in to bring Joseph a fresh change of clothes, reassurance and awkward conversation before he checks out of the hospital.
Date September 27, 2009

St. Luke's Hospital

There's a mostly curtained window spilled in an angle of sunlight, hazy from an early overhang of cloud that gives it a quality more grey than golden. It's still early, comparatively, but also a Sunday. A month ago, Joseph would have been awake much earlier.

He'd woken up anxious, unfamiliarity as jarring as the walls and bedsheets were white. Mask cast aside so that— rather ironically— he could breathe better, the morning has consisted of a breakfast he'd barely tasted in physical need to get it down, a too-quick cup of coffee that didn't really achieve what Joseph had intended it to do, and then doctors and nurses from which he'd wrung one confirmation he'd cared about: he got to go home today.

All that's left to do is wait, which incidentally, Joseph is now really good at. The note left on his bedside table in Abby's penmanship is currently still held by him, absent mindedly fidgeted with with ever restlessly fingers. Curled, folded, torn at the corner, the ink becoming smudged with fingerprints. He sits up in bed, much like how Abby had found him the first time, elbows against raised knees beneath the covers, hospital clothing loose on his frame.

Deckard didn't sleep much. Not that he usually does, but there's a definite groggyness about him while he stands round-shouldered outside of Joseph's hospital room and tries not to make eye contact with the uniformed officer stationed out there. Abby works out the details, and a couple of exchanged ID cards (and pat downs) later, Deckard's knocking twice at the frame and turning the handle to let himself in.

He's rumpled, short hair flatter on one side than the other and brown jacket uneven in its set across his shoulders. Wallet still in the process of being tucked back into his jeans, he's wielding a paper grocery bag in his left hand, door shouldered open the rest of the way to allow Abby clearer entry on his tail. "Hey."

Five bucks, he was making sure Abby got some sleep instead of sleeping himself. The redhead who slips in after is minus the scrapes and the cuts around her mouth, courtesy of Flint when she met up with him. Bearing coffee - even some for the cops at the door and a thanks for watching over Joseph - while Flint bears fresh clothes. The smell of smoke lingers just barely beneath the smell of lavender that lingers in her wake.

"He made me go and sleep, wouldn't hear otherwise" She looks frankly better for it as opposed to how she might look if she had slept the night in the orange vinyl padded seat and stool. "But I got him to eat, so I think we're even. I rented a car to get us back to the bar and Brenda went up and fixed your room up" She offers a smile to the pastor on the bed as she hands over a coffee.

An inattentive look is switched out for concentration, Joseph's black eyed gaze moving from the corner of the room towards the door as it opens, his back straightening from its round shouldered slouch. "Hey," is breathed out with a vague kind of surprise, faces becoming installed back into his life as if maybe the past month hadn't really happened. Some parts of it, at least, he can certainly dismiss as a dream. Shifting to sit further upright, Joseph spares a smile towards Abigail, hands out for the coffee as its passed over. There's a raw quality to his arms from sheer heat of the fire last night, left untouched to heal on its own, a vague pink in contrast to the ring of greenish-yellow bruises that mark other places; his wrists, mainly.

"Good," is stated, voice still easing rough from his throat, at the news that Abby slept and Deckard ate, respectively. "Thanks. I'll be good to pick up a few things from my place later tonight. Tomorrow." Hands clasped warm about the coffee, Joseph switches a glance from Abby to Deckard. It's more for the other man that he asks, "How's everythin'?"

Quiet while Abby fills in the blank that constitutes the last few hours, Deckard crinkle adjusts his grip on the bag and fails to keep his eyes from tracing cool after raw pink and and blotched green. It takes him a few seconds to tune back in, eyes a chilly blank when they flick back up to Joseph's face to register that he's been asked a question. He looks alright, comparably. Thin, unkempt. Casual without being particularly slobbish. The stink of alcohol about him is about as intrusive as the stink of smoke about Abigail — worn down into a ghost that clings in his clothes but not to his skin once he's reached back to close the door and paced further in.

One of the cops bumps it open again, just a crack, but he doesn't notice or pretends not to, paper bag tossed soft up onto the foot of Jo's bed. "Things've been okay. We brought clothes."

"And, this is my clue to go and take myself back out the door so that you can change outta the hospital gowns. Heavens, they're very uncomfortable. They leave your butt to flap unto the world" Flint's okay. Surprise! Abigail's not. That's the vocabulary that constitutes 75 percent of their own conversation. "I'll be out front, making nice with the policemen. Knock when you're decent again" And with that, Abigail's about facing, making for the door.

Joseph's gaze dips away at Deckard's response, lists towards the paperbag, and then— eyebrows go up, and he watches Abby depart. "Uh huh." That they do, Abigail. He takes a pull, first, of still steaming bitter coffee, thumb scuffing against the curving edge of the paper cup before its set aside. The rumpled note that had been left for him to wake up to is left to fall where it may, drifting neglectfully to the floor as Joseph shifts forward to snag the paperbag between his fingers, drags it into his lap.

"Thank you." Voice is gruff, quiet. He glances towards where a plastic bag is bundled in a chair towards the corner, his shoes tucked beneath, as the paper crinkles along with Joseph's hands pawing through it. "I was gonna have to trash the stuff I came in with."

Deckard watches Abby make her way out without comment or interruption. Which is to simultaneously say that he makes no move to leave himself, and remains standing where he is near the foot of the bed like a gargoyle too gaunt to be all that impressive. Unless the aim is to keep small children out and not, say. Birds. Or gophers. Or evil spirits.

The clothing in the bag is freshly laundered and still stinks like Flint under detergent and fabric softener, some two or three washings away from losing the boozy haze worn deep into cotton and blue jeans. The shirt is green; the jeans are blue. The socks are white. The underwear is in a package that hasn't been opened yet. Thank God for small miracles.

"The cops will probably take it from you. S'evidence," muttered without much feeling, he touches idly at metal railing at the bed's foot and glances back to the door again.

"Oh." That gets hesitation and a glance upwards, before Joseph finishes taking out the clothing, though doesn't make a move to get changed into it. Unfolds cotton and denim, turns it contemplatively over in his hands. The vague impression of alcohol is not particularly bad, to his nose, not compared anyway to the smoke-stink and the cling of someone else's rotting remains to navy worsted wool and pale blue cotton.

It's not so much the clothing he's furrowing his brow over, though, when he lifts his attention back up towards the older man at the end of his bed. "Then I guess that means they'll want to talk to me too, huh?" Reluctance is plainly spoken and shown, interrupted by dry, chest-deep coughs that Joseph drops the shirt into his lap in favour of lifting his fist to shield it, then smooth his palm down his chest.


There's a beat, then: "You haven't done anything wrong. You should be fine." Just in case there was any doubt. Who knows when it comes to the po-lice. Not Deckard. Maybe especially not Deckard with the way he's avoiding looking up from stainless steel while they're on the subject.

Coughing is endured with one brow pushed down into a faint wince for the cruddy catch of crap against haggard lungs. Bony fingers twitch, fall back to his side, twitch again and retake their place at the railing within half a breath. "If your lungs are fucked up — "

Abby's out at the door, making nice with the cops, inquiring as to Liz and how Felix is holding. Holding not well. Amputated one foot already and he's fallen into a coma. Not much hope being held out. Kitty might be on his literal last life. Abigail keeps her gaze away from the mostly closed door and the whispers of sound from inside.

Joseph briskly shakes his head before he can get around to forming words after the fit, throat cleared and eased with another sip of coffee. "It's— they said it'll heal on its own just fine. They did— " A vague hand wave, trying to communicate in a vague loose-fingered gesture as to the wonders and inexplicable nature of hospital procedures. He doesn't know. "An x-ray and things. I'll be alright." Burns and bruises all heal too, nothing that will stop him walking out the door. "You'll need to save your strength for Ivanov, I think."

Silence, there. Flint lifts his glare enough to settle it somewhere in the region of Joseph's middle, healing warmth buzzing static through his fingertips against steel that is neither interested or responsive. Brush, scuff, touch and he looks back down at wrinkled sheets.

All things considered, Joseph should probably expect silence as a legitimate response from Flint. All the same, he looks back at the man quizzically, mind going back over his own words and finding nothing particularly amiss that would justify the quiet falling leaden between them. His own silence is more anxious, and finally adds, a little helplessly; "Unless you— wanted to?" Beat, then a shrug, gaze dropping away. "Otherwise— if you don't mind— " Joseph gestures a little with the clothing, shifting to untangle himself from sheets.

"Sure." Voice rough, somewhere along the lines of a towel so overused and ancient that there are holes worn through threads bleached colorless, Deckard scuffs that same hand over the top of his head after a restless itch and paces a little too quickly to let himself out into the hall beyond. Both cops stop talking and stare at him. He stares back (What?) and looks (a little) less flatly to Abigail as he drags the door shut behind him.

Abigail just rolls her eyes and looks to the two cops "Prayer chain. Everyone from the parish is worried and so He's just gonna start the prayer chain with the pastor. From there, we'll call everyone up on the phone and down the line it'll go. prayers to thank god for Pastor Sumter's safe return, prayers for Ivanov" Lie lie lie Abby.

As the door shuts, Joseph brings up both hands to cover and then rub his face for a moment, no particular discrimination or care given for a fading mark high up on his cheek. The clicking quality of the door close brings both relief and a spike to that rising anxiety, but only for something approximating a few seconds. Swallowing dryly, veering sharply from it, Joseph moves to set his feet down on the cold floor, and hastily begins to get changed. The sooner he's out of here—

Well. The sooner he's out of here. He's willing to leave it at that, for the time being.

Brows at a hard level, greyed out hair on the scruffy side of what was a pretty tidy buzz until recently and jaw bristled, Deckard looks back between all three of them one at a time. He's starting to resemble an escaped convict again — definitely more than he resembles the kind of person who knows what a prayer circle is where it's being proposed that he's an active participant. NONETHELESS. He utters a low, "Bless you," before he starts to turn away to flee. Disengage disengage.

Deckard can run. Not like she needs him to get Joseph out of the hospital, out to the SUV and home. "Call me" Assuming that he's taking off. That Deckard left means Joseph is getting dressed and there will just be paperwork needed to be signed, the passing over of contact information and a stop for groceries and pit stop to the pastor's place to get what he needs. Though, she's got one more thing to let him know when he's dressed.

He doesn't take very long, predictably. Joseph doesn't even wait for them to check on him again, a gentle knock of knuckles against the door— as if the wider hospital were the room rather the other way around— before Joseph twists the handle, opens it enough that Abby knows to come inside. Deckard, too, but the man is already making strides on out, something the pastor can sympathise with.

"I might've chased him away. Don't ask me how," he says, raw voice apologetic, looking no different than he did a couple of minutes ago, save for upright and walking, and better dressed.

"He's been touchy lately. Don't worry. He'll come back. He never stays away long" Abby slips in with a nod of thanks to the cops before she's setting about to gathering things. "So. We'll get you settled, we'll let Raquelle know, when you want to let him know. The cops say, apparently, some Homeland Security woman has Alicia and been taking care of her. So you can fetch her. Might want to buzz the nurses for your paperwork, if you haven't already so that we can get you on the way"

"I'll call Raquelle soon," Joseph dismisses, or at best, confirms. Owns. Something. There are a lot of fractured pieces to put back together, and he folds his arms and stands aimless by the door as Abby sets about— doing things. Like fractured pieces. Then, through the cloud of weariness, hurt and general unhappiness— pure befuddlement and a trace of general uplift breaks through like a sun ray in cloud. "My puppy?"

Big puppy, maybe, but a puppy, as all dogs are. "They found my dog?" This is possibly more likely than BJ being saved, considering what he had seen, but— "I'll— I'll get the nurse." He starts to turn to the door, then back towards Abby. "She can stay at the apartment?"

The dog, not the nurse. Just to check, slightly at a loss at what to do with unlikely news.

'She stayed there before Joseph, she can stay there again. I wouldn't keep a man from his dog, that's just-" Cruel and unusual punishment. "Get the nurse, i'll go get the SUV around. You cna come car shopping with me tomorrow and give me advice. Lazarus met an untimely end it seems, and I am going to be in need of transportation. It can help you keep your mind on things" Abigail smiles towards the pastor. "It'll take time, to feel normal Joseph, if at all. But you have friends and we'll get you there"

"Yeah." And he smiles back, before his hand is going back seeking out the door handle once more. "Sure. Alright, I'll see you outside." Joseph shoulders out the door in the next moment, a skittering glance given to the police stationed outside before he's veering sharply in a guessed direction as to where to go, running fingers through his hair. They come away a little ashy. Well, that's at least one thing to take care of later. The rest'll follow.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License