Participants:
| Scene Title | Friends In The Strangest Places |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Liz has dinner with an old friend and his best friends. |
| Date | December 26, 2008 |
Today is boxing day. Something to do with gift-wrapping. Bolivar knew what, once, but he hasn't thought about it recetly enough to remember. The holidays are extraordinarily unextraordinary to him. Though the increasing noise of the rest of the world proportional to the blackness of his temper, his mood tends toward rather dark anyway so the differences between the holiday season and apple season could well be subtleties of flavor than changes in degree.
He had walked his dogs past a fifty-story Christmas tree made up of green and red lightbulbs on the facade of a skyscraper half an hour ago. It was as aggravating as a July midday sun in your eye. For a sniper, the aggravation of a July midday sun was considerable.
Nevertheless, the scarred man reached the appointed diner without incident. He sits on a bench with a massive shepherd — Nina Lou — leaning on his right leg, a tiny curly-tressed girl of a Welsh spaniel — Logan Rose — leaning against Lou's right leg. He has ordered himself some soup and bread, and it's the latter that he breaks apart in his hands now, the wheat stuff showing in fluffy white relief to both his good hand and the keloid ruin of his bad.
The blond woman in the jeans and heavy sweater slides onto the bench near him and his dogs with a faint grin. She offers her hand, palm down, to the girls and waits for him to give permission and for them to get her scent before reaching to scritch their ears. "Hey, Bo," she greets the ex-sniper. "How's things?" Her tone is quiet, not intrusive. He can tell her as much or as little as he feels like.
"My cousin was hospitalized for frostbite on the job. Taking a leaf-skimmer out to the mistress's heated pool during the blizzard. I told her to go back to selling oranges, and she didn't mail me cookies this Christmas," Bolivar answers. He'd shifted his eyes without turning his head at first, as if unsure that this lady all gold and cashmere was the one he was supposed to be meeting and unwilling to embarrass himself. The right corner of his mouth goes up.
A word, or a combination of two— 'G'wan' — and spaniel and shepherd both promptly scuttle to put their faces in Elisabeth's hands. The smaller dog is small enough to manage standing between her cohort's legs. "Things are good. Yours?" He'd point out she was back, but. They'd heard each other yelling across the wire long ago enough that that isn't news enough.
Raising an eyebrow, Liz says mildly, "She must be the best piece of ass this side of the Rockies. *I* wouldn't go risking frostbite for some woman." She pets the dogs with both hands, leaning down to give them full access to her face, too. She clearly has no issues with the dogs. Chuckling, she replies easily, "Well, Dad's got a new girlfriend. My boyfriend dumped me a week before Christmas, and my new captain thinks I'm a complete imbecile and I think he's a complete dick. Doing good all in all, I guess." She looks at Bo and grins.
The other man's eyes look darker when he thins them in something like good humor, a trick of ordinary light and oddly medium-hued irises: the smile finally reaching his eyes. "The mistress isn't hers. She's being slave to the Spick legacy of working minimum wage for menial shit." He lets his shoulders fall against the back of his bench, watches the dogs swarm Liz's face with pork chop breath and, after a few tentative pecks to verify that Miz Harrison hasn't changed her policy since their last conversation, open-mouthed kisses.
"I didn't know you were dating," he says in a tone of voice that indicates he isn't sure why anybody would do such a thing. Her Captain, he knows more about: "William Harvard? He fucked up pretty decent the other week by anybody's standards. I'd offer him my congratulations for dodging the press so good, but I figure that's just him being creative with his fucking superpowers. Not to judge." Though he's almost always judging. Raises an eyebrow, now, articulating another pointed question.
Letting the dogs nuzzle and lick her face, Liz laughs at them. A good loving-on later, she sits back up and wipes her face good-naturedly. Dog spit. She shrugs at him and grins, "Well, not like I run about advertising when I'm dating and when I'm not, you know." At the comment on congratulations, she rolls her eyes. "The only reason he's getting off that lucky is because nobody wants anyone to know we fucked up so bad. He's generally a decent cop, but…. he's got the social skills of a rock, I swear it. Scared a friend of mine to death, sticking to the letter of the law about registration — he asks everyone he meets for their damn cards. And then went and tried to blackmail her into giving him information in return for him not running her in when she didn't have one." She grimaces. "I know what the law is, but I'm not gonna run around enforcing that one. Sorry."
"Maybe you're in the wrong department," Bolivar says. Given he's never been the model of letter-perfect protocol and that he tends toward biases, sometimes facetious and sometimes not, it's likely that he doesn't volunteer that statement, flatly, because he would prefer tidy adherence with everything the man says.
He hasn't made up his mind about the Evolved yet, but he doesn't mind taking exception to them when there's no visible reason not to. He daubs bread in his soup, eats it in a few expedient bites, methodical the way a man gets when he no longer particularly enjoys food. Throwing up that many times will do that to you. "Are they expecting a lot of hostage situations, or are you in for your gun arm? I mean, imbecile or whatever, I'm going to assume Harvard isn't penis enough to keep you around for the view."
"Yeah, maybe," Elisabeth replies mildly to his being in the wrong department comment. "But given what I've seen out here lately? Thinking they could use all the good cops they can get." She shrugs mildly, and when the waitress comes back around to take an order, she asks for a bowl of chili and some bread along with a cup of coffee. The idea that Will'd keep her around for the view? That shocks a laugh out of her. "You're kidding, right? The guy's….." She trails off, as if something occurs to her, and her eyebrows rise. But she moves on before it becomes a weird moment. "I'm not sure why they offered the job — Harvard talked to me about an opening before he even knew my status." She shrugs. "So I guess I'm in it for my gun arm, among other things. Came back in because of the school. Fuckers damn near killed me that day. And they killed some of my kids. I'm not letting that slide."
By now, most of the NYPD is aware that those actually responsible for Washington Irving's untimely demise were not captured during the PARIAH raid, and wouldn't have been even if SCOUT's operation had gone off smoother. Bolivar shows no confusion at the continued war that his friend is implying, though the masses like to believe they're that much safer. Like the odorous density of the dish she ordered, Elisabeth's status is something that he doesn't ask about. 'Marital status' is a kind of status.
She's single now. He'll go with that. "'The guy' is young. And a guy." An only slightly cynical shrug of one shoulder. Of all his biases, sexism has always been one of the most facetious; if he had female wiles, he'd probably have used them at some point, himself. He doesn't mind, even if he cares, though he cares more about her perspective on rejoining the force than he does William Harvard's, evidently. "How is the hunt for those assholes, anyway?"
With a grin at Bolivar, Elisabeth picks up her spoon. "Whatever," she tells him. "As if I'm all that and a bag of chips that he'd keep me around just for that." She rolls her eyes. And then she shakes her head. "Goddamn near nonexistant, honestly. We had some information, but it's not enough to move on or even mount a good investigation on." At least…. the COP part of her doesn't have enough. The other part of her knows far too much, but she can't say that to anyone. "If you want my opinion, they're probably the same ones who moved on the president-elect," she says in a low voice that doesn't carry. Because the explanation on that was a 'gas main', the assassination attempt was kept VERY in-house. "We've got some names and no way to locate them, and some descriptions with no names. Nothing's panning out, though."
Not a single name? Bolivar's brow knits. Bread shreds in his hands, accumulates red soup like stains of things better left without thinking about. "You know, I really hope this is your polite way of saying 'classified, Bo. Sorry.' 'Cause — what the fuck. Word had it they might also have been the ones who took out the old Russian, too. Ivanov? Kids, cops, hippie president-elect. These terrorists need at least three fucking funerals apiece.
"I really want to think your guys have something on them." He might even be genuinely discomfitted about this, judging from the way Nina Lou rises to her paws, her long, angular head swiveling to look at him with dark eyes and dark nose, both. Logan Rose is busy trying to seat herself on Elisabeth's foot.
Elisabeth says quietly, "SCOUT doens't have much of anything, honestly. But I have some hope. We have a source who funneled some information our way just as I came back on board. I'm *hoping* he may have some additional information to hand us pretty soon here. We all are, I guess." She shrugs a little, and then looks sad at the mention of Felix's name. "Yeah…. Felix may have been a casualty too." She shakes her head. "It's insane." And she can't tell him much of what she's learned recently because well…. she's not supposed to know anything. She sneaks the dogs pieces of her bread while she eats too, because they're both sweet. "Gotta tell you, I was really glad to see you on the backup team that night, by the way." She smiles. "It's been a long time since we got the chance to work together — such as it was."
Yes. "Our finest hour," Bolivar confirms with a nod, his voice unmistakably dry. "Pulling at gigantic tin-plated Negroes, and being led through the front doors of an Evolved terrorist cell by men who can wall-climb and fucking fly. Awesome." Doubtless, he isn't making criticism that the SCOUT captain and review sessions haven't gone over before. Or he hopes not, anyway.
His head turns fractionally back toward the window when a lanky woman in a bright red coat lopes by, then glances back. "It was good working with you too. Such as it was." Different. Extraordinarily so, from the day when negotiator and sniper took hostage scenes from their opposite ends. "So." He pops bread into his jaws and appears quizzical. "You gonna tell me about the sucker who left you, or is that actually more sensitive than Washington Irving?" He isn't nosey. He's nice.
Laughing softly, Elisabeth merely shrugs. "Just a guy… he's a good friend. We sort of fell into dating one another, and it's been kind of…. odd. And I think he figured out that his move from best friend to more was really fast for me and kinda freakin me out. So …. he said he wnated to gimme some space." She glances at him, taking a bite of her chili. "I'm trying to decide if I want it." She waves it off. "As if you wanna hear all this drama, c'mon. Tell me what you've been up to since the last time I saw you. I know it's been a while…." She trails off and looks at him apologetically.
The scarred man's expression lurks halfway between quizzical and amused. "Trust me. I don't ask to be polite, senorita." He isn't nice; he's nosey. Or possibly too bemused by recollections of the locker room talk Liz had been insistently defiant of, back in the day. All of those men she had ignored. The mathematics of confidence interval interest him, the percentile she chose to accept into her life in some capacity. Even if it didn't last. "I guess it isn't really a continuum. Between friendship and romance.
"Not that I'd know." He hates everybody, of course. Ignore the scarred ruin of a smile he offers her in saying it, though it fades as he says, "My dog is still missing. Rosie," he nods down at the curly spaniel, who's currently mopping bread crumbs off her nose, "just passed her testing battery with flying colors, and we're looking for bongs, E tabs, and other Christmas goodies at Fiorello High next week." Dogs. Work. His life hasn't changd much.
She laughs softly. "Well… it's a continuum, but instead of taking a few steps on it and getting horizontal and then taking a few more steps into something serious, we sort of went from zero to a hundred and twenty in about two steps. It was kinda fast," Elisabeth replies. She doesn't seem to have issues answering his questions. The ones she wants to, anyway. "I'm sorry your dog is still missing." She knows that breaks his heart. She looks down, though, and tells Rosie, "Good girl!" as she rubs the dog's ears. "Nice job."
Naturally, Bolivar makes the executive decision to blame the ugly speed of that transition entirely on the faceless man thing that Elisabeth had so recently rid herself of. Not that that'll stop him from mocking eventually, of course, but there's no real grain of truth in that. "It sounds like he did something right. If you're saying it worked to a point. Good luck with…" it takes visible effort for him not to judge, but he expends it this time. "Choosing right, bonita."
The little girl Rose raises her dainty head and lolls at the praise and gestures of affection. Lou watches the door. Bolivar's jaw shifts audibly as he thinks about his third companion — wherever she is now, a ghost of a scowl that flees from light. Almost self-consciously, he looks at his soup. "You'll let me know if you hear or see anything?"
Naturally, Bolivar makes the executive decision to blame the ugly speed of that transition entirely on the faceless man thing that Elisabeth had so recently rid herself of. Not that that'll stop him from mocking eventually, of course, but there's no real grain of truth in that. "It sounds like he did something right. If you're saying it worked to a point. Good luck with…" it takes visible effort for him not to judge, but he expends it this time. "Choosing right, bonita."
The little girl Rose raises her dainty head and lolls at the praise and gestures of affection. Lou watches the door. Bolivar's jaw shifts audibly as he thinks about his third companion — wherever she is now, a ghost of a scowl that flees from light. Almost self-consciously, he looks at his soup. "You'll let me know if you hear or see anything?"
Elisabeth looks up at him and says quietly, "Of course I will, Bo. I'll keep my eyes and ears peeled for her. She needs to come home. I hope she's all right." She's never, ever mocked or in any way given any indication that she thinks his attachment to his animals is odd. She treats them as if they are valued personages. She moves to pick up her bread and finish the last bite, then leaves some money on the table. "I need to get back. I'll see you soon, though." She moves to stand, dropping a hand on his shoulder as she walks by him. Because yeah, he'll give her crap later, but … he keeps checking in. And he seems to appreciate that she checks in on him too, in his own crotchety way. "Thanks for dinner, Bo." Not for buying… just for the company.
 December 26th: Neither Friend nor Foe |
 December 26th: Frauds, All |