Participants:
| Scene Title | Healing Is |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | "Francois" comes by to attend to unfinished business. |
| Date | November 17, 2009 |
La Rivage: Felix's Apartment
They aren't far from the HQ. Ironic, eh? No commute worth the name - in Le Rivage, several floors up, middle of the hallway. It's a comfortable two bedrooms, middle class all the way. Fel's dozing on the couch, trying to watch an Eastern - Russian no subtitles, though it's somewhere in Siberia, by the immense vistas on display. He's got his head tipped back, mouth open. Amazing how film acts as a sedative on him.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sharp raps are not polite, but not unnecessary either. Economical, pointed, demanding attention. Cut to the other side of the door, where it appears Flint Deckard has positioned himself, in drab, practical clothing designed to stave off the cool of fall, a knit cap in his other hand and form bundled in a bulky coat that's specked with rain water.
He'd already tried buzzing himself up, but when that didn't immediately have any affect, he'd been fortunate to slip in after an absent minded resident had let the door swing. Now, he's knocking, and he lifts his hand to try again with a patient kind of determination of someone who has all the time in the world.
Once upon a time, Fel'd've gone, gotten his pistol, and shot through the door. Now….he gets his cane, heaves himself up, limps ungracefully for the door. Francois can hear the pad-pad-thump of him making his way over. A hand darkens the peephole, and then he peers through it. The door swings open after a moment, and a very obviously sleepy Felix is swaying and peering at Deckard. His mute squint is sufficient demand for an explanation.
"Bonjour." Possibly not the expected thing out of Deckard's mouth upon the sight of Felix, and the smile is out of place as well. One of curiousity and politeness, with some general warmth glimmering away like embers in a hearth. The cap is stuffed into his pocket, now that his journey has proven to be fruitful, and he holds out bare palms as if to implore the other man. "It's taken me a while to come here, when it should not have. For that, I am sorry. Are you very busy?"
Blue eyes dart over Felix's shoulder to see if, beyond the obvious weariness on the other man, he is in fact busy - or to silently point out the answer for him. Incidentally, Francois is not trying to be Flint. Whether he knows this fails, or whether it wouldn't necessarily be a good idea— well. Either way.
It's clear, yes. There'd never be a look like that on Deckard's face in Felix's living presence. So the Fed is clearly perplexed. "Who are you? What are you doing in Deckard's body?" he asks, but his tone is polite, rather than angry. No, just the movie. No sign of anyone else there. "And…..what do you want with me?" He doesn't seem in that much of a hurry to let him in, even though whatever's in Flint's body could just brush him aside.
That glance from the apartment now roams up and down Felix's body, as if judging exactly that. Three, two— unstoppably but very politely, Francois insinuates himself inside. Gentle and firm at the same time, in the way adults might have to be with children, a muttered, "merci" as he goes and steps into the living space. He carries with him the scent of urban rain, from the ozone scent of storms through to the leaky gutter water that drenches the street and apparently his coat, at one stage or another. There is also the sweeter, acrid odor of wine and bourbon mingled on his breath.
"I am not your enemy, or Flint's, and that is probably the most you need to know. I am in Flint's body because he chooses to have me here. I am healing and memory - you might not be surprised to know how often the two things mingle. I have come to see about your foot - you probably want it back, oui?"
The Fed's eyes are round and wide as saucers, as he stumbles back to let Francois pass. He should be afraid. Or….something. "Yes," he says, without hesitation, and with childish bluntness. "Why me? Are you what, who - healed me in the hospital?"
"Yes," Francois echoes, although then his brow crinkles a little in consternation, as if unsure if that's the proper answer to the question posed. Then, he shakes his head. "Non. Flint Deckard healed you, in the hospital. He put himself at risk to do it— needless risk— and something inside him, I think, quit. And that is how I am here. Not always, and not for very long, but I am here. To help himself, and those around him. That is what healing is. He is very bad at the first part."
He doesn't take off his coat, not expecting to linger very much. He warms his palms against each other, studying Felix as he speaks and lapses again into a pause as he meets Felix's eyes again.
Fel just nods, looks around. "Uh….do you want to sit? There's more room in the kitchen," he says, still obviously utterly puzzled. "'So, that really was Deckard working on me. Why'd he do that? And why'd he quit?"
Francois gestures with his hands, communicating that he will follow as led, a shrug at the offer to sit. Whatever is easiest. "Because he wanted to. Because his friends wanted him to. Healing someone like yourself, being who you are to Flint, is not simple. So, it is a question you should ask Flint, when you have the chance. Sitting— "
He lifts a hand, considering. "Sitting would not be a bad idea, actually. And you should make yourself comfortable as well. I imagine that Flint has done much of the work, but it will not be simple either."
Glancing over his shoulder, he limps into the kitchen, settles himself in one of the vinyl diner chairs, motions for Francois to do the same. "I will. If I ever get the chance," he says, shaking his head.
"We make our own chances," Francois states, as he pulls himself up to sit. There is a subtle sway to his posture, and if it were more pronounced, one could speculate that Deckard drank himself into delusion and has finally cracked. But whatever effects dual drinks have had on him, it doesn't seem to be all that great a factor. He puts out a hand for Felix's to take, eyes and posture patient.
No argument, or hesitation. Fel takes the offered hand, still staring searchingly into Francois's face. It's weird, to touch Deckard in something other than violence.
The touch of healing is practically instant. It surges up from Francois' shared flesh and into Felix's - at first a glimmer of warmth between their palms before it vanishes entirely and instead wraps directly around the half-formed foot in question. It prickles like pins and needles before settling bone deep and slowly—
Slowly it repairs. Francois drops his gaze from Felix's as he works, focus going hazy as he concentrates. It's not quick, nor a rush, but a carefully measured application of ability at the hands of someone who knows it well.
God, it feels so completely bizarre. It doesn't hurt, but it makes the nerves twinge and tingle, and Felix squirms like a child bored in church. Until he gives up, and fixes his gaze on a point on the ceiling, as if that might help.
Long minutes pass.
"It can be alarming." Deckard's voice, mouthed by Francois, cuts through silence that isn't awkward at least to him, as the healing continues. "Restoration, self-preservation. The thing that unites us all is survival and yet we do so much to hurt ourselves and stay hurt. Our body toils to keep up with us - heals bruises, scars over wounds, purging and fatigue. There is age, too. I have never tried to heal age."
His hand squeezes Felix's, and quite suddenly, he makes his healing home run as warmth increases to an almost uncomfortable level, squeezing around that extremity. "Except for myself, but I like to think it paid off."
Felix's hand is released, but only so that Francois can grip onto the kitchen counter when he sways, fatigue writing itself into thje bow of his back and the lines of his face.
There's the clunk as the prosthesis, which no longer fits properly, hits the worn linoleum. Felix looks down, eyes huge again…..and his expression is promptly delighted. "I've never been so glad to see my -toes-," he says, fervently, as he stretches the newly whole foot out before him. "Look at that. I'll be damned." He flexes the newly returned piggies, hops up, stands in both feet after gently shoving aside the prosthesis. Still wobbly - the muscle on the bad leg has been weak, left out of practice. And then he peers at Francois. "Now, what can I do for you?"
Also struggling onto his feet when Felix does, Francois keeps an elbow braced against the counter as he watches Felix with mute, if tired approval. Then, he reaches out a hand. "You may help an old man, s'il vous plait, to the door. And do not tell Flint I called him an old man - he isn't, really, you know. But this power… it gives and takes. Happiness and two feet suit you, est-ce que tu sais que?"
Despite his request for help, that's where he's already moving, at a weaving kind of pace.
"Who doesn't it?" Fel asks, simply bemused, even as he hurries over to offer Francois a helping hand. "I can't thank you enough - if there's ever any way I can really help you, you have to let me know." Jubilation is a weird, weird expression on Felix's face.
He's silent and thoughtful for the time it takes to be escorted for the door, taking Felix's words seriously as his other hand wanders out to grip the doorhandle, lever it open. Once into the hallway, he waves Felix's help away so that he might take his hat from pocket and drag it over his skull, to better shield it against the cold outside. Francois glances back at the man, a quick, gentle smile on his face before he shrugs his shoulders beneath his heavy coat.
"There is not much something like me can ask for, truly. I would request that you not shoot Flint on sight in the future. At least not until this gift he bears moves on to the next worthy. But I don't think I need to put that to words, oui?"
Fel lifts his hands. "I'm….that vendetta is done. He killed me, he gave me my life back. That…doesn't make us even, but it makes me ….I don't know. Less inclined to force it, you know? People I care about, people I owe as much as I owe you want him protected. So…I leave him be." He stands there, funnily poised in the open doorway - up on the newly healed foot like he's remembering all that ballet training from his childhood.
"Tres bien." Perfect pronunciation around those words, and another quick smile as he glances him up and down once more, and squares his shoulders. Either he's recovered his strength, or making a good show of it. "Very good. Be well, Felix." As simply as he'd announced his presence, Francois carries Deckard's body with meandering foot steps back down the hallway, scratching the back of his neck as he goes, his other hand out to brush his fingertips along the wall beside him.
It leaves Fel to shut the door oh so gently behind him. And then, with no one watching, to dance a few clumsy steps - some folk dance he learned as a child - on the worn carpeting of the living room floor. And then to run for his phone.