Participants:
| Scene Title | Hangover For a Cure |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Melissa and Francois return to Mel's house, where she tries to comfort with movies. A hangover seems like a better solution. |
| Date | July 20, 2010 |
When Abby offered up her car to Melissa and Francois, Mel didn't argue except to say that Francois was driving. Probably a wise move given the headache and nosebleed, though the latter stops not long after they leave the others and she's not pressing her ability quite so much.
She directs Francois to her house, then climbs out and starts walking up to the front door. "There are others staying here with me, so don't be surprised. They're rarely all home at once though, so we'll have some privacy," she says, opening the door and slipping inside. Quiet. Nice and quiet.
She moves straight through towards the kitchen, motioning for Francois to follow, and a bottle of water is grabbed from the fridge, pills from a cabinet, and the latter is downed with the former. Ahh…pain meds. That done, she looks towards Francois. "We'll get him back. I promise."
He doesn't tell her that that sounds contrite if still sweetly sincere, and keeps his gaze levelled down so it doesn't show there either as Francois shrugs off his jacket and moves to find a place to fold it double and set it down. He'd had cars, growing up — no horse and carriage preferences that might make driving a risky thing for the seventy-something man to be doing. He's done a lot of driving, in the last few decades, and much like those instances, Francois drove in relative silence save for polite and gentle queries about direction, possibly a blessing with consideration to Melissa's headache.
"He was actually looking to be away for a few weeks," he says, after an awkward, stilted pause transpires, cellphone currently forgotten in his jacket pocket in contrast to his obsessive checking just a few hours ago. "He could have asked me, for what might be a better vacation than this, don't you think?"
Melissa's head tilts and her brow furrows. "I'm not sure what you mean. Being taken is hardly a vacation. Though when we get him back, you two should totally go somewhere for a week or two. Hit the Caribbean and spend a week on a beach, nearly naked and drinking fruity alcoholic beverages or something," she says, grabbing a paper towel, wetting it, and wiping her face off.
She gives him a long look, then moves over towards him, offering him a hug. "I know how it feels to worry about someone you care about Francois. But I swear, we'll get him back." She'll make sure of that, even if she has to torture the whole of the Institute to do it. "You helped me when I needed it. Well, it's my turn now."
"I was being sarcastic," Francois explains, hands splaying a little in something like? apology. Except he's not really apologetic — too tired, for that, and slightly disconnected from the situation enough to not appear very distraught over the fact that the man he's been living with for the better part of a year has vanished. Teo goes out a lot. Francois saw no Institute soldiers. But it'll sink in, just like France circa early 40s. People disappear, and not necessarily right before your eyes.
He accepts the hug, though, of course — arms loop around her shoulders and he lets his chin brush against the top of her blonde head. Cologne that hasn't been retouched since— actually it probably just clings to his shirt as opposed to being applied in any recent hour. No smoke, no booze. Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee.
The hug squeezes in as he says, "I'd be scared of you, if I were them. But you should not promise things you have no control over. I can't promise it won't rain."
"They should be scared of me. There are very few things that I'll let loose with my ability for, but for this? This I will. I will hurt every person who has touched him since he was taken, and I will make sure that they never want to come near you or yours again. You deserve better than this," Melissa murmurs in a voice gone slightly sharper with purpose, arms tightening gently around him, giving him what comfort she can.
"Once we find out where he is, I'll take the people who want to help, I'll prepare, and we'll go in armed to the teeth if need be. I will tear that place down brick by brick with my bare hands if that's what it takes." Her head shakes slightly. "I'm not letting them take away someone you love. It's too damn precious, and they have no right."
"He has good friends," Francois notes, a hand drifting up to card fingers through her hair in an affectionate gesture, one also meant to express an iota of gratitude, before loosening his embrace to glance down enough, meet her eyes. "Ones that will fight for him, I think. It is fortunate that I have good friends also." Constructed lines end there, mouth closing and gaze ducking away from her's as he steps back, hands finding a place to rest at his waist.
Awkwardly, he wants to ask her for a glass of— "You don't have any wine do, you?" he asks presently, allowing a touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I will take beer." Americans, you know?
The question prompts a soft laugh from Melissa and she nods. "Believe it or not, I do. I picked some up when I got a houseguest who was a bit more picky about things than my others. No idea how good it is, but it's all yours." A glass is found, set on the counter, and a minute later a bottle of wine is set beside it. "Want anything to eat? Something light?"
"Got some stuff to keep us occupied until we hear something if you want. I'm a little short of fine literature…" Though there's a pause and her brow furrows slightly. "But there's a nice view in the backyard, movies, music…Something to keep your mind off things though. Your choice, hon."
"I'm not hungry," he denies after a faint merci, moving up to pour himself a glass, which by day would be alcoholic in quantity in more ways than just content, but forgivably, it's a late hour. Glug glug. The tall glass container of near black-red is set back down to be put away, as opposed to insistently taking it with him when Francois picks up his loaded glass. "Movies?" is— maybe not the first thing that Melissa might have expected the Frenchman to cotton onto, having cited fine literature in the first place.
May she never notice the Harry Potter novels (and occasional double ups) stashed on some shelf next to text books and weirder, older fiction about how tribal men lured lions for killing. (You don't want to know.) "Maybe he would want me to have my mind on him. Do we— "
And Francois' supposes they're going to talk about this now, for all that he wouldn't mind a DVD, for all that he didn't say anything in the car ride over. "Do we know what these people even do with those they capture?"
That last question has Melissa going very, very still. She grabs a soda and motions for Francois to follow her after a long moment, before she heads into the living room. "I can't say for certain, Francois. I've only spoken to one person who's been in their custody before and she was…a special case," is her answer, not wanting to give a more complete one. How do you tell someone that their boyfriend is probably a lab rat at this very moment?
He follows, a quiet shadow as he listens with alertness he probably won't have by the time he gets to the bottom of his wide-brim glass, cupped in his fingers with its stalk and flat bottom left to hang between his knuckles. Sitting, Francois reaches to set the glass down on an appropriately flat surface before he's working at taking his shoes off, glancing up at Melissa as he does so. "Who?" he asks, managing quite impressively to not make that query into a demand.
Melissa takes her boots off then curls up on the couch, sipping at her drink while she watches him. "Liette. I don't know if you ever actually met her. She was at the Den when we evacuated and all…" There's a faint shrug. "But like I said, she was a special case. Luis adopted her and her sister."
"Non, I remember Liette," Francois says, glancing down into dark wine, having not yet taken a sip of it. "The girl, with the colours in her hair. I did not know much of her story, but— " A small shrug, and he brings up his glass to drink from after he says, "But there were a few stories." And he doesn't push the query much harder than that — he has a name and even a memory to go with it, and the night isn't young anymore. Shifting until he can lean into the corner of the couch, a second sip is resolutely sipped, eyes closing.
They don't remain shut, just downcast and into his drink again, before he clears his throat and tries again. "I wasn't being completely sarcastic, when I said that Teo did want to go away for a while. He wanted to— I don't know. Or understand. But a part of me imagines he wasn't kidnapped at all, but I could be only wishful. It is easier to be mad at him."
A hand reaches over, giving his knee a light squeeze as Melissa smiles sympathetically. "It is easier. But you won't have to worry for much longer. And yeah, Liette was the girl with the colors like mine." Hers is a rainbow now. Blonde with purple, red, blue and black. "Had multiple abilities. Was a damn interesting girl." She smiles wryly. "Kendall flirted with her and nearly made my head explode."
Tucking his legs up on the couch seat, Francois slouches enough to rest his head back against the raised cushioned arm, and trades her a glimmer of a smile across the space. Dim, as it might be expected to be. The silence that ensues isn't a testament to her inability to hold a conversation — she's carrying it, or at least this more normal part of it, but it is as surmised. There's a lot on the mind. She gets profile and awkward pause— although it doesn't seem awkward to the one doing the pausing— as nothing in particular is looked at, imagination allowed to do as it wishes with his half-emptied glass at an angle in his hands.
"C'mon. I'll put in a movie, you'll finish your wine, and we'll be distracted for a bit." Melissa tries another smile. "Seen History of the World Part 1? The French revolution's a big part of that movie," she says, trying to prompt more positive reaction. "And if that doesn't work, then I have Goonies. No one can stay upset for long while they're watching the Truffle Shuffle."
Francois' shoulders rise a fraction as he takes a breath, trading a half-smile to her before nodding once and taking a long and finishing sip of wine. Downed like a professional, if not a professional wine drinker, per se. "I think I even remember that one," he says, grasping the edge of the couch to help lever himself up. "Let's try it, as long as I can get a refill beforehand."
Melissa relaxes a touch and nods. "Sure thing, hon. That bottle is yours, drink as much or as little as you like. I'll get the movie in and ready while you do that." She pushes herself up, moving over to the TV and crouching down to do just that. But whenever she can spare a glance, she's looking at Francois, almost as worried about him as she is about Teo.
Short glances won't tell Melissa much from where they stand now, Francois' back to her as he pours his drink. There are further questions, about the Institute and Liette and what Peter is exactly planning to do for the situation, things Melissa can and can't answer, variously, and there are enough of them to feel like they might claw out of his chest if he doesn't get around to putting words around them. But they're doused in aged restraint and a couple of generous sips of wine, catching his breath, eyes squeezed shut and opened again, before he's ready to come back.
He brings the bottle, too, the heavy slosh of red wine in glass. Because if nothing else, a hangover can take your mind off pressing matters too.