High Society's Ballroom Notoriety, Part III


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Scene Title High Society's Ballroom Notoriety, Part III
Synopsis The Police Fundraiser's Gala goes smoothly. For most of the evening. This is how it went down in the balcony.
Date April 9, 2019

The Marriott Hotel: Balcony

The long balcony jutting out from the Marriott Hotel is lit only from what warm light pours in from the three doors leading out to it. Iron railings wrap around it, and there is the scent of cigarette smoke in the air from those needing to escape the elegance of the interior. No waiters or auctioneers clamour for attention, there is only the nighttime environment and other gala-goers to focus on.

They haven't been in the building barely ten minutes and already Sonny Bianco and his soon-to-be blushing bride, Bijou Baxter, has already been chased out onto the balcony due to a dangerous combination of mutual mildly agoraphobic tendencies and the maniacal laughter of a serious saturated Senator's wife. While there are still people present outside of the ballroom, they aren't nearly so eager to assault one another and most have clustered off into intimate little groups wherein slightly more civilized conversation might be had at a volume somewhere below shouting.

When Bebe Bijou makes her way over with two flutes of champagne, the obvious indication is that she isn't inclined to double-fist the alcohol but that one is meant for her fiance, who has only just ended a conversation with someone the his would-be wife doesn't recognize. It keeps her kept quietly on the fringes, smiling prettily like any good piece of arm candy ought even as she finds an unintrusive way to introduce the glass into Sonny's hand like a magic trick. Surprise! Booze!

Sonny Bianco is old hat at these kinds of events. That also means they annoy the hell out of him, especially with daddy up so high in the world these days. That also means there's a be-tuxed Secret Service agent never too far away. It's irritating, and so is this conversation. It's a newspaper reporter by the name of Orson Jeffries. The man is far too slick by half and his casual questions are neatly veiled pointed ones. The man's searching for his next big story and Sonny's just looking worn out by it.

"Yes well - oh, than you dear, - it's not something I'm privy to. Healing Hands keep me busy these days. Most of dad's stuff's too top-level for me." He accepts the flute of champagne from Bebe, then gently touches her elbow. "Mister Jeffries, this is my fiance Bijou. If…you'll excuse us."
And then he steers Bebe off to the far end of the balcony. He leans on the edge, puffs up his chees and takes a pull from the glass. "Have I mentioned how much I hate these things?"

Fortunately the reporter has given up and has slunk his way inside.

Polite smile. Bat eyelashes. Follow Sonny. That's the routine and Bebe's got it down pat like a pro. She lingers next to her hopeful husband just on the edge of intimate proximity, keeping things clean for any wayward glances but remaining easily within kissable reach… if they were inclined to public displays of affection… which they aren't. But, in theory, it could happen. That's how close she is. "You might have mentioned it once or twice in your sleep," Bebe teases, carefully avoiding any sort of patronizing tone. "Who was that?"

Sonny scrubs a hand over his face. "A very persistent young reporter. Doesn't even introduce himself as one. Slick as spit, that one. I got a head's up from my publicist. That little trick isn't going to work too much longer." He swallows a mouthful of champagne and wrinkles his nose as the bubbles burn his sinuses. "How about you? Are the vultures circling? Dozens of flashbulbs going off in your face for the society pages?" His lips curl into a barely there little smile.

Restrained. That's what these two are to a tee. "I'm almost certain you'll be reading about the affair I'm having with the waiter on page six in the morning," she says before letting a little sly smile creep out over the rim of the glass shortly before she enjoys some of the bubbly beverage within. She's kidding, of course, the the humour's so subtle it probably won't be arriving until later in the evening. "I'm used to it," she lies prettily. "Besides, it's not me they're really interested in." That's probably true. "How're you holding up? Want to leave soon?"

"I wanted to leave the moment I walked in. But no, have to put in a little more face-time. A lot of dad's support is still in this city. From the civic folk." Former Mayor and all. "Dad's got lots of friends he wants me to thank for their support, blah blah. I wish he'd just send cards," instead of his son. Sonny's glass of champagne is finished already. Sigh. "See anyone you know inside?"

That's a trick question (punny!) even if Sonny didn't mean for it to be. The slight crinkle that briefly manifests on the bridge of Bebe's nose makes it obvious that she finds a distasteful word in two in something Sonny just said. "I… didn't really look. Maybe?" Could it be she's getting the brush off already? "You want me to go back in and get you another one?" she asks, gesturing to the emptied glass while still clutching her own nearly-full flute as if her life depended on having alcohol in hand.

Sonny looks down into his glass as if he's surprised to find it empty. "Nmmn. No, no it's okay." He sets the empty glass aside and leans on the edge of the balcony. "I say we spend at least a month out of here for the Honeymoon. Get away from all of this. Go to the place in Greece or something." They've had this conversation before. Last time it was the Caymans.

And so, she stays. Instead of fleeing back into the mouth of the beast, Bebe remains at Sonny's side, sipping champagne and turning so that she's no longer staring up at him but rather allowing her gaze to wander out over the evening display of a once ruined city enjoying its springtime rejuvenation. "Greece would be lovely. We could visit Santorini," she suggests hopefully. Everywhere that Sonny has ever indicated a desire to flee to has somehow, miraculously, always been on an island on on the coast and Bebe so longs to be surrounded by water again.

It's a desire to flee. But there are many times over the years when Sonny could have chosen to leave. Or when gone, to stay hidden, But his sense of obligation to his father always brings him back. He's never unaware of how his behavior would reflect on Harry Bianco. And being unmarried with few prospects over the last few years - well, that's where Bebe came in.
The doctor looks pensive. "Mmmm." The Secret Service agent, whose name is Todd, keeps a close, but polite eye on the pair of them. "Just us and our shadow."

Suit black blots out the Northern star, brief as a wink, before its owner fades out of the sky on wings neither visible nor audible— until he is.

Another Baxter for the house, dropping out of the sky. Shiny shoes first, green tie spinning a wild tangle over one shoulder, his yellow hair dashed into a fashionable tousle by wind-carded clay and eyes bright with laughter. Todd the Secret Service agent warrants a wave, while he presents the power couple with a full set of white teeth. "Heyyyy," he says, banking on the air just beyond the balcony railing. "I'm late. How you doin'?"

Hey, okay, was that a hint? Bebe's ability to read body language has degraded somewhat ever since she'd escaped the confines of John Logan's very tastefully appointed purgatory but she isn't alien to at least catching a clue here or there in regards to Sonny's disposition. She silently reaches over to entwine a pair of unoccupied fingers with her own and has this look on her face like she's about to reveal something very sincere when…

…everyone's favorite Peter Pan disguised as a sharp-dressed man makes his impressive entrance. Bebe nearly beams as she informs Baxter, "You are… but, very fashionably so." Which must mean it's okay.

Todd the Secret Service agent starts to go for his weapon, but then slowly drops his hand away. If the man wasn't wearing dark glasses, Baxter might see something akin to a teacher's disapproving glare.

Sonny blinks and rubs the side of his neck. "Mmm, you know, there is a door, right? Sorry to be the only audience for your grand entrance."

"Don't worry about it. I'm going to do another inside. Maybe more than one, assuming they have enough rooms," Baxter reassures the President's kid, cheerfully. "I was late. Had to fly. Y'know.

"They want you to use feet to get through doors, and that's slow." Having been subject to a great many Reproving Stares throughout his life, he can tell when somebody is giving him one even if they are wearing sunglasses. He adds an extra inch to his smile for Todd's sake, picks up his shiny shoes in order to come bobbing over the lip of the balcony. There's a clack of hard leather as he alights, tugging his tie down.

It isn't straight, despite a haphazard pull of his fingers and Jordan gets the sense. He crooks a brow at Bijou to seek her assistance, before the other one arches also. His eyes scale her clothing, velveteen wine. "Looking good, ma'am."

Abby has arrived.

Let's see. There's Baxter, perched precariously on the edge of the balcony railing, doing what he does best and defying gravity with a boyish smile. There's Sonny and Bebe, who appear to be very nearly holding hands and squaring various shades of mild irritation and amusement at the man-child's antics respectively. And then there's Todd, the Secret Service agent, who looks like he stepped out of the Matrix and doesn't have time for anyone's shenanigan's tonight, kk.

Bebe has the good sense to be flattered modestly and thanks Baxter for the observational compliment with a reserved, "Thank you." She successfully manages to avoid chiding him with a follow-up 'now, get down from there' and instead turns to Sonny and says, "The sooner we make the rounds…" She leans in very close and whispers in a tone still audible if you're within about ten feet, "…the sooner we can go home and play doctor." Ooh. Flirting. That's naughty.

"Honestly, I don't know how you fly around without getting bugs in your teeth or colliding with birds," says Sonny to Baxter. Now that they're not alone, his best flashy, Hollywood smile appears. It faulters a little bit at Bebe's whisper and the side of his lips tic faintly. "Mmm. I suppose you're right, dear. After you, Mister Baxter?" He motions towards the entrance to the main ballroom.

Someone from Bebe's past, like that past, comes through the doors they're heading towards that lead out to the balcony. Glass of champagne in hand, red faced, black dress that's frankly modest to most. Someone is sleeping in the doghouse tonight. no fucking for two weeks now. See how you like that. The blonde pulls up short when secret service stops her and when she's face to face with Bebe and Sonny. Oh hey Baxter. Abby moves to the side, to let them go by if they want with a soft "Hello"

Mister Baxter is bobbing along between the earth and the air like a cork when his course is interrupted by the sudden appearance of another blonde. Except this one is looking decidedly under the weather, emotionally if not physically. His heels finally find solid purchase on the stone, his tall frame squaring itself before his father's lover; he tilts forward a few degrees, baby blues roving the contours of the girl's face.

Jordan might redefine the term airhead nine times out of ten, but on that tenth, he is pretty fucking quick on the uptake. "I have a decoder ring," he says in his indoors voice. "Maybe he didn't mean what he said. I'm sorry on behalf of the gene pool."

Far be it from Bebe not to be polite, especially at this point in her life. "Hello," she echoes sweetly, one hand kept in the crook of Sonny's elbow while the other boasts a champagne glass that is either half full or half empty. She does not, however, make eye-contact with Abby, even if she's seen the woman frequently ever since then due to her personal proximity with Sonny and the Helping Hands Foundation. Her desire to be roughly thrust into the crushing crowd of the ballroom has suddenly come on strong and she practically drags the President's son back into the limelight again. But, only because they can't fly and are thus forced to use their feet in order to find their way to the exit.

Bebe has left.

On another occasion, Sonny might stop and say hello to Abby, how's the family and all that. But Bebe's insistence and Abby's state reduces it to a polite, murmured hello before he heads away from the balcony, trailed by their good friend Todd.

Sonny has left.

"I'm going to kill your father. Decorder ring or not" Another dip of the head to Bebe and Sonny. Yup, another time, another place. THe champagne glass all but guzzled and put to the side. "Maybe i'll have you pick him up and take him real high and then let him drop for a bit before you pick him back up. Always worked with Magnes"

That sounds like a sad story. Or a very funny one: it's kind of hard to tell. It puts a tiny V-shaped frown on Baxter's face; with his lips, dangerously close to a pout. "You wouldn't kill my father," he answers, "even though you could. Besides, I think the altitude would just give him brain damage and he'll go even more Phineas Gage on us.

"Anything you want to talk about? Seriously." He isn't sure how to make his offer appear more authentic, so he settles for flattening his tie further with a pull of fingers on the hem. It is still somewhat crooked, catching an iridescent sheen of patterned silk.

"In a room full of high society and cops he says out loud "we're fucking" when he's introduced to a friend" Seriously, Deckard doesn't piss her off that often, but he did right then. Tack on the people in her home, and she's really starting to rethink having attended tonight. "I'll be okay Baxter. I just have a lot on my plate. I need to shovel the kids off to my dad's for a few weeks I think. How are you?" Cool air makes for cooling cheeks and she's down to a light blush now. "How were Sonny and Bebe?"
Cat has arrived.

Comfort is most easily conveyed through casual touch, but touch is rarely casual with Abigail and Jordan Baxter knows it. His right hand darts outward, but stops a few inches away from the slender line of the woman's arm. He frowns sympathetically instead and decides to say something. "I'm awesome," he answers. It is rote, default, and more or less always true. Cheerfully also, "Just between you and me, I think Sonny and Bebe's thing is too fake to succeed, though.

"As for the old man…" Jordan occasionally— almost always— forgets that Abby probably doesn't need to hear Deckard phrased as such. He exhales thoughtfully. Or as thoughtfully as Jordan Baxter is capable of exhaling, anyway. "He's probably just being skittish. You know. First relationship hurdle, and he balks."

But he is. An old man that is. And she's easily twice his age his junior and his son is 5 years older than her. So if they ever got married. "Does he like it Baxter? Being with me? I can't tell anymore. We just.. I mean.. How hard is it to not say that in the ballroom. Did he say it to tick me off, because good Lord, if he did, then he succeeded, because I know/ he has manners in him somewhere" The blonde leans against the balustrade, arms planted on either side away from her body and looking out over the cityscape. "Not the first hurdle, just we had a fight. Over something stupid, that wasn't even a fight and I think he almost left" But onto Bebe and Sonny. "It is. Utterly fake" Why it's fake, she's not saying, she knows. from so long ago. 'You can deny the heart all you want and put on a face, but eventually ti's going to make you miserable"

The two aren't alone out here anymore. A woman in a very formal dress, one which reaches and conceals shoes which make her close to five feet ten inches in height, steps out from the ballroom. It's a pale gray color, conservative in style. The Medal Of Freedom is around her neck as she tends to wear at functions such as this. There's little else in the way of ornamentation; just a simple pair of gold posts in earlobes.

Cat approaches the railing slowly, perhaps not noticing others present as her gaze is trained on points beyond the barrier. Her expression is calm, fairly neutral, she perhaps being adrift in thought by the time fingers curl around the balustrade with one hand holding a flute of champagne.

Baxter, on the other hand, can tell because he is perceptive! Albeit selectively. He keeps his face tucked into that small frown but picks up his feet, folding them into the cross-legged stance of a seated bodhisattva, except that he is seated on nothing but empty vespertine air instead of a gigantic lotus flower.

"Yeah," he says. "Kind of. I mean, sometimes he feels like he doesn't deserve you or whatever because… he doesn't?" A beat's pause so that Jordan can retroactively check the veracity of his word choice. He decides that it is true. "So he's probably all conflicted about that. Being conflicted isn't fun. But so far it's been worth it. I think.

"Otherwise… he'd just run. Instead of testing you.

"I do it too," Jordan footnotes, as one would format a citation reference and offer proof. "But for diff—oh, look. Your friend." He points at the the other woman approaching from behind Abigail. They are both terribly stylishly dressed, considering how carefully they are otherwise covering up.

Because Baxter can say what Deckard doesn't. Isn't that what kids are for? He doesn't think he deserves her. "SO why does he stay around? Is he pretending to be a filler husband till he finds someone that he thinks does deserve me?" But her words trail off at Cat makes an appearance at the balcony. "That you have the courage to wear that thing in public always astounds me. I've buried mine deep in the closet as I can get it" Topic switching time.

Perhaps she heard what was being discussed between them, perhaps not. Cat isn't showing any signs of having done so, other than she reacts by turning toward them when first the sitting on air Baxter then Abby acknowledge her presence. A thin smile forms, out here in Abby's presence there's nothing that anyone might call fake or society front about her demeanor.

She glances down briefly at the worn medal, then looks back toward the healer. "It represents sacrifices made for a great goal," Doctor Chesterfield states, "and represents having taken necessary risks in achieving it. It seems fitting to wear it here at a gathering for the benefit of people who take risks often themselves doing a job they believe in which too often is unappreciated."

But cat's also born to fame. She's born to this type of thing. The people in fancy dress's and champagne, auctions for things that Abby can't afford unless she took that outrageous salary/promotion. She's not going to argue with Cat on the representation. It differs from person to person. to Abby, personally, it represents that she killed someone. A massive personal violation of her own morals and ethics. "Needed some air? Or did Liz send you?"

"I dig it," Baxter says, with aplomb. The medal, he means, indicated with a long finger uncurled at the point where the halves of the chain converge. "Ought to be commemorated." He glances sidelong at Abigail, the expression on his face momentarily, peculiarly inscrutable. That wasn't a bad question. The one that he hadn't answered. Kids aren't for anything, last he remembers.

Taking a page from the Breakfast Club: they just know what they would hate to grow up to become, that's all. "Liz is around already?" he asks, shuffling his suited shoulders upward as if he's cold. Short of a cryokinetic assault, however, he never is.

"I came to think, actually, to find a bit of quiet for a few moments," Cat answers. Inwardly she speculates on the wearing of the medal for few moments, of how it equals the military Medal of Honor and if anyone who survived earning it were at a function of this type in the full formal uniform worn at such times the medal would be worn too. For her, it's the same thing with the uniform of society being the tuxedos and expensive formal dresses.

But there is also respect; Cat doesn't argue with Abby's point of view. Her medal is hers to wear or not for her own reasons.

"If Elisabeth is here, she's not in the ballroom. Or at least she wasn't when I came out."

Deckard has arrived.

"Probably trying to keep Felix and Deckard from behaving like asses. Cat, Baxter, Baxter, cat" Unsure of whether the two had met before. "I think i'm heading home soon. Have to pick up the children from Delilah and get them packed, take them to my fathers for a bit. They have some beautiful stuff in the auction room, you'll probably want to take a swing through there" The blonde nurse has long since now lost the red in her face, just leaning against the balustrade beside a floating Baxter and cat bearing her medal of honor proudly.

"Just fucking die!"

The murderous shout comes from the region of the ball room, and sounds to be in a familiar voice for those on speaking terms with Magnes J. Varlane.

Who's that man with the silver hair that's currently flying through the air: DECKS.

There's a blur of black tuxedo in the vague shape of a middle-aged, grey-haired gentleman who looks to be in a certain amount of pain streaking out horizontally from the same direction as the shout. He doesn't clear the railing (ClANG) but gosh he sure does keep on going.

A single empty champagne glass tinkles brokenly to the balcony floor.

She seems about to answer Abby's introduction of her, Cat's mouth is even open, but whatever words she was going to speak die on her lips as the shout in the voice of Magnes reaches her ears, followed by a man flying not under his own impetus. She follows his trajectory, only by that being able to recognize him as Deckard due to the speed of his arrival and departure, then her eyes go to the gravity-immune Baxter. She's likely expecting he'll soon use his ability to go try snagging the man.

Then her eyes go back to Abby and watch for her reaction. Well, she thinks drolly, this certainly is turning out to not be just another boring society function.

There are a lot of pros to being very blond and highly distractable. Being positively immune to real angst and lasting boredom are two. Being quick on the uptake when your old man comes catapaulted out of the balcony above which you were floating, Buddha-style is another.

"Woo!" Baxter straightens.

Not just his back and shoulders and a quirk of his head, mind you: no, he's stretched out, full-bodied, flattened out to razor aerodynamism, like a jetstream, hot in pursuit of the the gray old figure of his biological father. He's off like a rocket, leaving a gentle press of concussive air eddying into the trailing skirts of the women whose companionship he had held a fraction of an instant ago.

Instantly, his tie is caught up in a writhing mess again. Through the eye-watering blur of wind, Peter Pan bears down toward his mark, arms open to catch Deckard around the barrel of his chest.

Oh lord. Oh lord, please no, don't let that be… Magnes yelling. Yup, yup it is. And there goes her boyfriend. Fulfilling her spoken desire to Baxter. Hey Bax, why don't you take your father up in the air, drop him from a couple hundred feet and then catch him. Only, Magnes seems to have some Telepathy and is fulfilling that request. Only as soon as Abby recognizes Deckard flying through the air with the not so greatest of ease, the blonde is moving to try and snag him. Her fingers brush the hem of his pants but no more and she's left beside Cat, skirts swirling, watching father and son hurtle off into the night. "fuck me" Explenatives flowing from her mouth as she looks towards the ballroom and towards Magnes. The urge to walk in and grab that bastards ear is great and haul him over so she can dangle him over the side is really strong, but she's not. "Perfect, just perfect Cat. Really, can the men just not behave?"

Breathing is difficult. There's a weight on Deckard's chest — on his insides, constricting well before Baxter's arms contribute to the tension there and in his back. Perhaps understandably, he's a little wild eyed, demon irises lit with a furious kind of clawing panic that more than compensates for his lack of movement elsewhere.

He doesn't just stop when Baxter gets there, either. The forces acting on him keep wanting to go in that same direction, gravity relentlessly dragging him and his penguin suit the wrong way.
She watches for some silent moments to track Baxter's progress in seeking to catch AirborneDeckard before answering Abby. Cat's voice is fairly grim. "Some can," she replies. "I think the key is whether or not they're men, or boys who look like men." It's an unspoken thing in Cat's mind, perhaps a throwback to ten years past, the thought that if one wishes to make someone simply go away it's far better to do it with no witnesses. Displays of ill temper are simply bad form, after all, and can only result in legal consequences.

But this is Abby's paramour, and it doesn't seem as if he's going to get stopped very well by Baxter. A man she acted ten years past to help save from being sent to Moab. This is so very not good. Her eyes shift back to the healer. "I think we may need to go back and prevail upon him to undo this."

"You think?" Is Abigail's answer. That wasn't a healthy sound her boyfriend made hitting the railing. On her heel the blonde turns, not a hair out of place as she stalks into the ballroom. Find Magnes, or find fucking Gabriel. One of the two. Fix her fucking boyfriend. God fucking damnit what can possibly happen to worsen this evening.

Abby isn't going alone. Cat is right there with her, re-entering the ballroom.

Cat has left.

Abby has left.

There is a frown of consternation on the fair-skinned face beyond Deckard's shoulder, a look that is not dissimilar to Kermit's displeasure— or Flint's own, for that matter. Though he has little difficulty catching up with the old man's flight, stopping him turns out to be a different undertaking altogether.

Absurdly, Jordan finds himself being swept along, like a beaver caught by the current with the very same driftwood he had been hoping to assimilate into the dam.

His suit is expensive, so he decides not to test out an opposing force against Magnes' gravitokinesis. It would not look better with red Deckard paste, after all. There's a brief grimace, a rictus of even white teeth; he throws his arms wide around the other man, squaring his shoulders, braces against the impacts of inevitable obstructions. Considerable experience has shown him that he's a sturdier build than most things, in both sapien and supernatural capacities.

"Gold star for you!" His holler is riven to pieces by the wind funneling into Deckard's ear.

Gradually, gradually, the awkward pair slows out of its sideways escape, if the relevant forces make it feel a little like there's a small pile of bricks on top of Deckard's considerable weight that keeps on wanting to 'fall.' Gravity turned sideways, and then some. It might be a familiar feeling for Baxter; Deckard is busy being bloodlessly, painfully terrified and doesn't look like he's ready to stop panicking just yet.

A weak, wheezy "Fuckkkh," is about the best he can manage in return, one hand clawed vaguely to his chest with some effort. Talk about not regretting your childhood mistakes for once.

"The feeling is perfectly normal," Baxter replies. His tone contradicts his ironic choice of words: a gasp of breath, tension caged in the grit of his teeth. His dress shoes kick at the sky as if he could actually find purchase against the starred firmament or the invisible currents of wind.

They can't, of course, it's merely runoff energy expending itself as he tests, torques the physiological components that allow him to use his gift, gingerly, gingerly moving to ease his biological father out of the grasp of perverted gravity, into his own and the carrying power of his flight.

"Breathe," he advises, as he has advised a thousand other rescuees a thousand times before. His grip shifts, allowing Deckard his lungs. "Take your time."

Gabriel has arrived.

Nothing about this feeling is even imperfectly normal. Wind torn and now host to a cold sweat, Deckard fails to relax in his son's arms. He's clearly trying to breathe, but the intentional restriction in his chest and elsewhere persists and prevails. "Can't," broken off at a hoarse whisper, he squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open again, which…doesn't help much of anything. The balcony has faded into oblivion. Everything is black, save for the occasional white blue touch of his own skeleton (or Baxter's) tipping briefly into view.

At least one of his legs is broken. It's still and kind of at an awkward angle where the other finds it in itself to kick once or twice at nothing, seeking purchase where there's none to find. One hand has clawed itself into a death grip around one of Baxter's arms — the other continues to grasp at his diaphragm. Awkward.
Magnes has arrived.

Eileen has arrived.

Cat has arrived.

Brian has arrived.

Abby has arrived.

Can't? "Fuck. Okay." That's bad news, to which Baxter responds by recurving his flight path back toward the lumbering shape of the Marriott once again, fast on footless halls of air— or as fast as he can without compression against wind pressure to allow Deckard's breath to gutter too dangerously low in what little Jordan can strain through the dark and hear. "Abby'll get you."

Until then, Baxter does, apparently.

He flies, cerulean eyes sharp in the dark and mind honed from years of navigating the city during night or day.

The lopsided silhouette of father and son emerge back into the slippery splash of incandescent chandelier light. He picks the same balcony without requiring an instant's pause to remember and alights gently, with a low warning, laying out the broken straw of Deckard's limbs on the stone. His shoes click down after, stumbling, his breath louder in his splayed jaws than he'll admit to, later.

He shouts: "VARLANE."

It's cool out here, which Gabriel appreciates for half a second. And empty. Leaving behind the mess that is the ballroom, organisers and security struggling as to whether to keep it going or to shut it down, and the band has started to play again, Gabriel rests a hand against the iron railing when he nears the balcony edge. In the distance he can see Magnes, when he squints and lets his vision zoom into something preternatural, and Baxter and Deckard are given the same treatment.

And Eileen had been right. He'd dismissed it so easily, that Magnes wouldn't really harm Flint, that it wasn't a good idea to warn the man of such things, which proves how much of an optimist Gabriel has turned into in the last ten years. Fucking fantastic.

He staggers back some when Deckard and Baxter come to land on the balcony, and if Baxter knows Gabriel, which we think he does, he'll know his former partner is something close to hammered. "Varlane's in Hawaii," he reports, thickly. He's angry, and struggling not to be so. But more importantly, Gabriel is moving, quickly, towards where Deckard has been set down, silently laying his hands down on the older man. He's done this before, fixed Magnes' mistakes, but never to an innocent civilian. Christ.

Gravity restores itself to something normal. "Abby'll be out here soon," Gabriel says, voice tinged with slur. He could heal, but— for certain reasons, he trusts the woman to do it better. "How bad?"

Deckard looks like a man who has just fallen off a cliff and got winged off a few crags on the way down which is…pretty much exactly what has occurred. He's windblown and pale, tuxedo rumpled, heart struggling to race against the pressure in his chest and the limited expansion of his lungs. Ignorant of any persistent photographers that might be hanging off adjacent balconies, he stays down once some semblance of normalcy has been restored.

Blue eyes too bright under atmospheric lighting, he draws in one long, rattling breath, tries to lift his head to sit up, and…promptly blacks out. Thonk, goes his head against the ground. Some of the tension slacks out his long face at least, relaxation (if not necessarily relief — his leg sure is at an odd angle) sinking into the lines and angles that define his person. He's just going to take a little nap. He's old, okay?

As time goes on and more alcohol mixes into one's system, one leans more and more on the one under their arm. In this case, Brian is leaning more heavily than he should on Eileen as the two come waltzing slash stumbling out into the balcony. Brian's voice is a mix of some song about coming out and then quick intervals on how he totally would have kicked Magnes' ass, just for reference sake. But then, Brian is suddenly reminded of Deckard's predicament, and how he was thrown off a balcony.

"Deckard." Brian states sadly, slowly pushing up against Eileen's poor shoulders. Straightening up as best he can, possibly with the woman's help he gives a sad sad look at the crumpled up man. He stumbles towards the old old man, his feet draggin a bit as he goes forward, his hands dangling at his side. "Deckard." He says with a longing tone, "I had a really hot date. Did you see her." Sadface. His lips pulled down into a perpetual frown. He will never know. :(

Abby's at the door behind Eileen and Brian, imaginary steam roiling out of her ears. Magnes and god only knows what Deckard was spitting out to piss him off. If she had sleeve, they'd be being pushed up, right now though, there's wisps of blonde hair loose from it's chignon, as she gets a look at Deckard, drunken Brian and drunken Gabriel. "Sweet blessed Jesus. Men!" One hand reaching out as she passes to touch Brian's neck, transfer some healing to him. Ease the impending hangover and help him burn off some alcohol right quick. Same goes for Gabriel, trying to get a hand on him and hope his other healing ability is turned off. "Eileen, your going to have to help me set his leg" cause it's definitely broken and the blonde is not going to heal it till it's set. "Fucking Magnes. God fucking Magnes. I told you"

"I'm going to fucking shoot him when I find him," Jordan snaps with emphatic certainty. There's a beat's pause, and his eyes flit furtively to and fro behind blond-fringed eyelids. "Or arrest him," he adds, somewhat louder, enunciating the syllables carefully, lest journalists be in range with pens poised.

Having windmilled to a halt, Gabriel is then privvy to a more thorough examination through Baxter's bright lenses. "What. Man, I sure as fuck hope you saved me some," he notes, before his eyebrows abruptly seize together with annoyance at himself: focusing, focusing. Ignoring the crowd, he drops to check Deckard's breathing with a downturned ear.

"Broken leg. Fucked up rib or three" He lifts his tousled, chickadee-bright head. "Where the f Abby." He pulls himself upright and treads into air moving himself out of the way.

There's not a lot to do for Cat but watch and stick by Abby. She could perhaps set the man's leg and tend some basic tending, the benefits of having read Grey's anatomy and related material years before which is now perfectly remembered, but there are trained nurses on hand. She leaves this to the pros.

Gabriel knows that hand, Abby's outreaching touch. His lip pulls back in a scowl and he rather sharply bats her hand away, evading the healing touch. "You only have so much energy and your significant other needs it more," he reprimands her, that slur remaining in his voice even as his words come out snippish. Sigh. Gabriel draws in a breath of colder air, lets it out slowly. Goddamnit Magnes. He has now become the one to blame for everything tonight.

"I'll fix myself later," Gabriel adds, a little gentler, wrassling his temper back under control as he goes to get up from his crouch beside Deckard, to give the medical team some room. A lot of room, moving enough to lay a steadying-himself hand on the railing, to watch the goings on. Jazz music continues to wind its way out the doors from the ballroom.

Wordlessly, Eileen adopts a crouched position beside Deckard's crumpled form, one hand on his whitewashed brow, the other checking his pulse with two rigid fingers. There will be plenty of time for I told you so later, when her husband isn't drunk and their family friend isn't flopped out on the ground like a dead fish out of water. She focuses on the task laid in front of her, carefully maneuvering Deckard's leg into a less awkward position as she rolls his slacks up to his knee in order to better assess the damage. "I can set it," she assures Abby after a prolonged moment in which she says nothing at all, cheeks flushed pink with silent fury. "But someone should still call an ambulance."

Jerking his head away sloppily from Abby, his reply is certainly not as reasonable or articulate as Deckard's. "Ffffhssshhhrrfff." Is the sound Brian makes through his teeth as he dances to the side to avoid the heal rape. Then his eyes follow Eileen's progress groggily, the replicator (after his dance is finished) goes to settle on his knees next to her. Watching Deckard sadly, his body slowly falling off balance until eventually his head falls into her shoulder. Eyes closed, mouth open, lights off. Nightnight bribri.

"Gabriel Gray. I'll tell you how much energy I have." They're not the only ones who've had a little more than they should. Three glasses for Abby, but it's not enough to throw her concentration off, not yet as she takes her spurned hand away. "Yes Baxter, I'm fucking here" Abby's bad word quota for the year is fast approaching it's maximum as she kneels down to lay a hand on Deckard's neck, check his pulse and take in the injuries with the lightest expelling of her ability. Every movement gentle and at odds with her general demeanor. The various wounds pop up like some sort of Evolved healing radar in her mind. Yup. What Baxter said. Why is it that the guy who can actually see where the leg is broken… is unconscious. That bites. "Ambulance. I'll fix his ribs, get the leg -rays and let them set it proper before I heal it. I don't need him limping" Abby murmurs. There's a glance to the downed Brian. "Let him sleep that off" Lord this was a horrible night.

With the matter seeming well in hand, Cat drifts back to the ballroom and from there the auction room. She leaves a sizeable donation, then heads for home. There are unexpected guests to see about, and too many people here may be in the way. She will check in on Abby some time later.

This scene occurs concurrently with High Society's Ballroom Notoriety, Part I and High Society's Ballroom Notoriety, Part II.

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