Participants:
| Scene Title | In or Out |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard, quite drunk, yells at Teo a lot about how stupid he is then asks him for direction in his life. Teo does the best he can considering he is not exactly being given fantastic material to work with, here. He is a trooper. Also: a penis is happy and Merry Christmas. |
| Date | December 21, 2008 |
In a time that seems long ago, Greenwich Village was known for its bohemian vibe and culture, the supposed origin of the Beat movement, filled with apartment buildings, corner stores, pathways and even trees. There was a mix of upper class and lower, commercialism meeting a rich culture, and practically speaking, it was largely residential.
Now, it's a pale imitation of what it used to be. There is a sense of territory and foreboding, as if the streets aren't entirely safe to walk. It isn't taken care of, trash from past times and present littering the streets, cars that had been caught in the explosion lie like broken shells on the streets nearest the ground zero. Similarly, the buildings that took the brunt of the explosion are left in varying degrees of disarray. Some are entirely unusable, some have missing walls and partial roofs, and all of the abandoned complexes have been looted, home to squatters and poorer refugees.
As one walks through the Village, the damage becomes less and less obvious. There are stores and bars in service, and apartment buildings legitimately owned and run by landlords. People walk the streets a little freer, but like many places in this scarred city… anything can happen. Some of the damage done to buildings aren't all caused by the explosion from the past - bullet holes and bomb debris can be seen in some surfaces, and there is the distinct impression that Greenwich Village runs itself… whether people like it that way or not.
As much because of as despite the general misery of the weather, Teo has taken his phonecall outside. Where nobody wants to be near him, and he'd rather not be, thanks to the great, windy flurries crapping down out of the otherwise lightless sky. A government service truck comes by past him, plow out, scooting a beluga whale's weight in frozen water and artificially added sand in front of the glare of its high beams, yellow warning tiger-stripes, and snarling motor, like some kind of deranged chimera of a predator wreaking havoc on the cetacean population.
The Sicilian has to cover the mouthpiece of his phone to make his final salutation heard. Claps the phone shut and squints balefully at the sky, briefly, before he kicks a forming drift from his right foot and looks through Old Lucy's window to see if there's any crowd to actually return to.
The percentage of the crowd consisting of Deckard has dispersed. It stands outside the door in gloves and an overcoat, having emerged more quietly than might seem possible for a man who is squinting out at the street as if he isn't quite sure what to do with it. It's cold. There's ice. And snow. And the government. And big trucks gravely rolling out their retreat. And, his eyes flicker briefly bright, followed by a sniff, Teo's skeleton over there peeking in through the window.
"Hey!" says Flint. He is overloud. Not because of the fading noise of the truck or because he's wearing earmuffs, because he definitely isn't. He's just somewhat lacking in the department of volume control at the moment.
It probably all works out in the interest of practicality, in the end: Teo would have had a harder time hearing him otherwise. As it is, he startles slightly, in that way that comes less of surprise than displeasure, a growl of Italian under his breath as he stamps around in a rough circle to face Deckard, mumbling the Italian equivalent of Yeah you couldn't've just fucking waved, thanks. Conversational proximity established, he schools his features into something polite.
Which wrinkles only slightly around the edges when he smells the saturation of alcohol on Flint's breath. "Yeah," he says. "Sorry about that, amico. Medical supply run. You heading out?" He raises a gloved hand to the back of his head, rakes his fingertips along the back of his tousled scalp.
"Nineteen." That's what he was going to say. The volume goes down a little, but there's a hard edge to those two syllables that manages to write itself into the shadows around his face as well. Of course, out of context he is just angrily saying numbers, whiskey-heavy breath still warm enough to fog thick about his ears while he eyes the younger man.
No blinking, no approach, no additional information. He's waiting for a reaction at the potential cost of having his eyeballs freeze solid in their sockets with his shoulders slumped and his arms slightly away from his sides to maintain balance.
After having discussed the deterioration rate of banana bags and appropriate mixing and refrigeration methodologies for the intervening twenty minutes while freezing his nose and fingers off, Teo has completely forgotten what the beginning of Deckard's sentence was. 'Nineteen' doesn't mean a lot to him. Inspires a blank expression, his brows knitting slightly as he immediately, obligingly begins to review his memory for ready associations with that number.
He doesn't have a lot of those. "I would make a dirty joke, but you don't seem like you're in the mood, so…" his teeth meet with a click only Teo can hear inside his own metal-plated head. "What do you mean?"
"Your boss," Deckard fills in after a pause just long enough to let the offer of dirty joke languish. "King of Town. Malcolm X. Alexander the Great, only in high school and without a dick." The emphasis there suggests a need to flounce, but there's really not anything to flounce with. A quick glance aside confirms as much, and the first half-step he takes forward ends in a near slip that might be skull-cracking if he didn't manage to catch himself against the closed door behind him.
Oh. Yeah. Possibly not the best or most reassuring time for Teo to volunteer that he doesn't have a boss; he's fairly certain that a twenty-six-year-old who fucks up as consistently and visibly as he does can't inspire more confidence than a blonde girl with her name all over Chinatown and under two decades of life experience under her belt.
"You shouldn't listen to Brian so closely," he states, after a moment. His gaze holds steady, as does his voice. His grin is crooked; not exactly honest, but earneest enough. "He's gotten to meet a lot of people because there's that much of him to go around, but there are a lot of things he doesn't know about the way we work. I… I— you don't look okay," he observes, after a moment, his expression flattening into something solemn.
There should be a wince. There might be a small one for the fact that there's still some bruising from his last adventure being bashed into things backwards, but Deckard manages to stay pretty stone-faced for the most part while he pushes his weight back onto his feet. The cold helps. It's hard not to notice the cold, numb face or not. "Why shouldn't I listen to Brian? He's a fucking kid taking orders from fucking kids up against a pack of psychopathic murderers. Somebody should listen to him. Maybe his parents, or a fucking counselor, or someone old enough to buy liquor."
He's loud enough now that his voice might be audible on the other side of the door, should anyone have an ear turned to the content of his not-quite-shouting. His next attempt at forward movement is more successful at least, if accompanied unpleasantly by the scattered refraction of lurid blue light through his own cloudy breath. "I'm drunk, asshole."
Drunk enough to appear strangely concerned about the well being of a bunch of kids up against a bunch of psychopathic murderers, Teo sees. Pretty fucking drunk. Bizarrely, he feels a little bad when the old man calls him an asshole. This probably has something to do with the fact that the old man is falling-down-drunk, and Teo belatedly realizes he should've helped.
He tries to do so now, a cotton-gloved hand on Deckard's arm, an apprehensive scowl on his face and a furtive glance over one shoulder. That way. This way. Across the street, then in through the door. No one's listening, but somebody will, soon. "We're not all fucking kids, all right? Come on— Flint. Let's do this somewhere else. Je-sus, amico," the last two syllables come out with an airy aspect of a phe-ew to them, when he inadvertently collides with a cloud of whiskey breath.
Deckard is angry, that is true. That he is falling down drunk is…also true. A stiff tug away from Teo's glove doesn't really go much of anywhere past the initial recoil. Better to concede, maybe, and save himself some stitches. Regardless, his progress across the street is largely non-linear, as he does not know exactly where they're supposed to be going and so guesses incorrectly at least two or three times. He is scowling. Unhappy.
Stinky, yes. Definitely that too.
"You can't count Conrad either. He's a fuck up as much as any of the rest of you. I haven't seen the bitch that picked me up since that night. You're all going to die, you know that, right? I mean, the ones that don't get lucky and go to prison forever, if you want to be optimistic."
The small shopping complex shows a varnished hallway straight through to the broad street on the other side, through the big windows and glass doors. They're selling anoraks and skis in the big store to the left, and there is a series of shoe stores to their right, all of them dark, closed down for the evening. His steps slow as the asphalt gives way to the cheap flat of plastic, ice and new snow falling away from his shoes. The door rattles shut behind them.
It's warmer in here, but not by much. Teo releases Deckard, manages not to flinch back as he does so. Sorry, sorry. Personal space. He remembers. "I'm not counting Conrad," he says, teetering to a halt a few steps further in. "We have people in the NYPD, private security, liaisons with Federal agencies— like that ever does anybody a flying fuck of good.
"HomeSec. The Mossad." Ex. "Some creepy organizations that don't even bother with having names. We're the underdog, it's true, but we could be worse off. I think some things are worth dying for, and I don't mean that in any edifying gorgeous kind of way. It's just a life." He studies Flint through eyes narrowed in defense against the cold. Squeezes a blink out of his eyelids, then breathes out, wearily. "I don't know why I'm trying to make you feel better. Is it working?"
Upon release, Deckard remains up long enough to do his best impression of a decaying fence post, eyes unfocused and attention turned to a hazy sweep through closed shops and across polished floor. Then he decides that sitting down seems like a good idea. So he does.
It's not a graceful sit, all knees and overlong arms, but one that results in no serious bodily harm to either Teo or himself. Once he's down, he scoots over the extra foot or so needed to prop his back up against an unlit glass window and stays there with his legs stretched out in front of him. Heedless of the slush they tracked in.
"Can't trust any of those people." He thumps his head back against the window. It rattles. "Nope."
After a momentary struggle, Teo manages not to think of what the stain on the seat of the old man's pants is going to look like. It'll make the logistics of getting him on the bus home either much easier or more difficult; he's not sure which, decides to stave off thinking about it. Leans his elbow on the dividing metal that separates the complex's plateglass window into upper and lower halves. He looks through the frost-edged transparency, his breath fogging it with condensation. "That's great.
"Don't trust nineteen-year-olds, can't trust Brian. Not the PD, HomeSec, FBI. Everybody either has an agenda, or no idea what they're doing. No wonder you're drinking yourself into a fucking cancerous mess." Bleak though the outlook he's describing is, Teo's voice sounds dangerously close to fond while he does it.
"The fact that you aren't is further evidence that you're as stupid as the rest of them." There is a certain 'duh' quality to this statement that speaks of the many ways in which Deckard has already worked all of this out in his drunk head. "You just haven't been fucked by enough people to know. None of you have. Cops give out lolly pops and pat people who do the right thing on the head. Maybe even give them medals, keys to the city. They ride around on bikes and take bullets for people and smile a lot."
Always one to be difficult, Teo points out: "I can't drink. I'm working." Seriously. Walking little girl healers to work, following around drunk informants who are clearly outstaying their usefulness, yelling on the phone to arrange stolen medical supplies. It's work. And you can't do any of it while you're drunk.
His gaze drops to the top of Flint's head and its ghostly reflection on the window below. "I was the one who fucked the people I knew," he adds. The statement hangs there pointlessly and without supplementation. For three seconds, before he pokes Deckard's thigh with the toe of his shoe, as if expecting the older man had disbelieved, grown bored, the drifted off in the interim. "Who fucked you?"
"Who hasn't fucked me?" It's a matter-of-fact question more than it is one singly of self-pity, and pointed in that it isn't an answer. "I'm sure you thought you were doing the right thing," follows, derisive, and Deckard bends his knee up, away from the poke.
He's quiet for a little while, stuck frowning at the toes of his own shoes and the blurry span beyond them. He is not interested in standing, or getting on the bus, or going home. "I'm leaving soon," is the result of whatever deciding he's been doing in the silence. "Tired of being the class pet."
Whether because Teo's brighter than that, or because he'd thought— once upon a time— that that was the right thing to do, that statement doesn't seem to surprise him much. The bit about leaving.
Even if Deckard doesn't look like he's going anywhere anytime soon. The younger man continues to stare at the top of Flint's head, which continues to withhold explanation. He flexes his hand, feels the corresponding crease in the fabric of his glove squeeze deep into the line of his own palm. "I'm sorry," he says. More blank than repentant, though there's always a little of that in there.
The apology is general enough to be useless, but Teo has a good enough idea of what he should be sorry for to cause discomfort. Possibly life is less painfully complicated when people are just probably going to kill you, and you don't have Teo lording his snobbiness over— eh. He frowns faintly.
Deckard's head is tousled, windblown and pale, offering little insight into the interior. He's been out in the cold and he's drunk. That is what his head has to say. It tips sideways a little at the apology, acknowledging if not overly accepting.
"You gave me a place to stay, hooked me up with a fake identity. Free booze." Other…things. Books. Hookers and books. "If you need my help that's fine. If you don't, that's fine too. I'm pretty sure I don't care. But the in between shit and half knowing is driving me crazy. So." He lifts a hand, apparently trusting that the nothing gesture will somehow make his point for him in a sensible and sober manner. It does not. "I'm tired."
Finally concluding that Deckard's cranium is not going to divulge its secrets if he just looks at it really hard, Teo angles his eyes back up at the window. A passing sedan glitters by with what appears to be a giant styrofoam crab in the back. "Most people don't want to know. You didn't seem to want to know," he amends after a moment. "Or I made the assumption. I make too many assumptions." A little girl told him that once, before she ran him through with a knife, and then again afterward, once they were back on speaking terms.
"The opposite of in-between is taking a side. In or out. I understand if you mean— that's why you have to choose out. Or I think I do." Assumptions. "I didn't— think you wanted to be in anything. The Ferrymen, or Phoenix, or dead, or jail, or Conrad." It doesn't seem like your style, is the tacit implication. Doesn't go with the new hair, clean-shaven angles. Teo nudges a pip of ice away with his heel.
"The more I know, the more likely…I'll live if Ethan comes looking for me. But the more I know, it's more likely that he'll…come looking for me." He's given the matter some thought, really. He's just having some trouble putting the words together in a way where they make sense.
Deckard settles back against the window again. Limiting his own progress in the way of actually going anywhere. "I'm going to back prison. Sooner or later. They'll find me. The guy who is supposed to be helping me is busy being dead. Of course, if Ethan finds me first, I might be similarly occupied." There's a faint slur on the word. Occupied. Catching the mistake, he wrinkles his nose, but doesn't attempt to say it more clearly.
"I don't want to be in anything. I don't work well with others. I don't like you telling me what to do. If you need…I don't know. If you need guns, or a ride, or someone who can see through walls. Maybe I can help sometimes. I owe you for whatever it is you've tried to do."
The younger man's discomfort triples at that, confronted with his own— something. Not that it takes much to activate Teo's sense of guilt, of course, but it might be worse that its origin is a man who has never asked for pity and therefore refrained in large part from reproach. And stuff. He's frowning again. More. Deeper, brows stark and lower lip folded into a scowl that reads childish if not petty. Unable to tell how much of this is him and how much is everything else, he's left only wanting to help.
"I'm sorry," he repeats at length. This time, the apology might be specific enough to be useful. "I never meant to do that.
"I'd convinced myself you had options and I was just telling you what some of them were." He shifts his weight off the arm on the window, pinches the bridge of his nose between a forefinger and thumb fat from gloving, pushes his own head upright with a brusque shove of his hand. "I could leave you alone, if you want.
"Long as you want. Just— if you gave me some time. Ethan will be gone. Some people owe us: they could get your name cleared. Easy. Just not yet. It— you don't owe us a thing. Won't. You've already done your part. Telling us about Ethan, saving Abigail. You've done more than enough, uomo. If you'd just wait…" his fist spasms before he realizes he'd made one; he drops into a crouch, looks at Flint out of an earnest face and over huddled knees. "Afterward, you could leave, and be free, and it would be like none of this happened."
"Just…doing your job. I guess. I don't know. If herding me around is a job." If it is, it kind of sounds like a crappy one. The tilt of Deckard's brows acknowledges as much while he folds his arms across his chest, tucking gloved hands into his pits where they might, if they're lucky, regain some feeling.
"How much time are we talking here, Teo? A few more weeks? Months? Years? Because if you don't know, maybe I should sign up for the kamikazi crew so that I have shit to do. My options all suck. More than usual, even, but what's the point of being alive if you're just going to sit in your room, read, and get drunk? I can do all of that in prison. With the murder charges I might even be able to get myself a bitch or two to do my evil bidding." Skepticism pulls taut into the crows feet around his eyes at the rest. Cleared charges, favors owed, but none on his part.
Skepticism, Teo is used to: he's a God-fearing man in a Godless world, after all. A God-fearing man teetering on his heels, less numb from the cold but acheing in his head a little. He doesn't know. "I'm not 'herding you around.'" He's herding Deckard around. "I'm trying to help you because— you helped us," which lies somewhat contrary to the altruistic mission he had cited on behalf of the Ferrymen earlier, but as long as hypocrisy is acceptable in small and furtive quantities. "A month.
"Maybe two." Longer than that, Teo is fairly certain the whole world is consummately fucked anyway, and Deckard's appointment with a concrete room will be up in favor of a mass grave. "I don't know what the point is.
"Of living. That's an existential quandary for a sunny cafe with somebody else, isn't it? We could've had your face changed, but— we could— what do you want to do? Go to Disneyworld? Make new friends? Get back to work? Be able to shoot and tase people without restraint? We could probably use you, but if you're just bored…" The exasperation that creases Teo's features probably isn't really meant for Deckard, but it's probably all the same to him.
"I ran to you with my tail between my legs because I didn't have the stomach to get a bunch of kids killed or the brass to…" do…something. Deckard has lost his train of thought. Frustrated in his dim drunken way, he hollows his jaw and grinds his teeth until it sort of comes back to him. "I didn't feel like dying for a bunch of vigilante idiots." That was more or less what he was going to say. Probably.
"I don't care about the meaning of life. I just want to do what…I want to do." Is that so terrible? Expression and tone both plead that it isn't, or that it shouldn't be. "Something. I didn't come here to die, but I didn't come here to be safe. I came here because the city structure is fucked and the cops don't care about the petty kind of shit I get up to on a day to day basis because they're busy with buildings caving in on people, rape, and murder. Who gives a fuck what my motivations are, kid? Give me a job and I'll do it, or I'll start risking finding other ways to entertain myself."
Giving a job to a man who doesn't want to be told what to do is a tall order, even for Teo, who's surrendered himself to the inevitability of doing things other than what he said he was going to do even if he wasn't lying. His brow is all knit up, eyes narrowed from more than just the arrhythmic twinge that has taken up residence behind the plated part of his skull. A dozen sentences begin and abort on his breath before he can make it further than a staccato series of dashes, a hyphen, concludes in a limpid ellipse.
You're drunk, he means to say. What emerges instead, "I can give you a phone number. Grace. She helps run the Ferry." He's taking his phone out again, a jumble of hands and electronics, his head down to look at the diminutive LCD or as if he can't bring himself to meet Flint's eye. "Also known as cattle-rustlers to some: they help Evolved stay hid.
"And they help us. They help Phoenix. Phoenix could use your help with this, I'm sure too. I'd have to run it by people, but you can shoot, and you can see better than the ordinary man, and you can be trusted to… to want to." He doesn't have to finish that sentence because it finishes itself on notions less offensive— or embarrassing— than the ones he otherwise would have proposed. The midi sings out, bleep bleep, as he taps out Grace's number.
Bleep bleep. Bleep. Deckard watches the tapping in dull, suspicious silence. He could be calling tipsy taxi. Or the cops. Or dialing a chip inserted into his brain that will self-destruct at Teo's command if he should finally become more of a nuisance than he's worth. Nonetheless, he makes no move to stop him. Can't be bothered. And for a long, happy moment, it seems like he might not have noticed the lack of an end on that last sentence. Unfortunately, it's just the one moment.
"Want to what?" He's wary again, brow furrowed when he lifts his eyes from the phone to Teo, unnaturally bright in the dark while he tries to gauge pulse and rate of breathing and other things he's better at when he's sober. "Why does it have to be a ferry? Why can't it be…a 747. Or a caravan."
"I don't know. I didn't make up the fucking name," Teo mutters under his breath and between gritted teeth. Another moment and, wherever it is, the old man's phone is ringing in the text message received. "Grace. Her name's Grace. She can see about setting you up with some work." The phone shuts clumsily on the Sicilian's thumb instead of the crisp clack of contact he would have preferred. Muttering, he frees his hand and jams the thing back in his pocket. Glances up. Down.
Away. "You want— you want something to do. No? At least, not to leave a fight that involves you to a bunch of idiot children who're gonna fuck it up anyway. I…" wasn't originally going to say that, that much is evident, but Teo's train of thought has departed for another station already. This one seems to embarrasses or worry him moreso even than the rest of this babysitting job has already. Neither heartbeat nor breathing are right. He swallows. "And one of my people is missing," he adds, eventually. "I've searched the area I think he's at, but I can't find him yet."
"Hang on. Someone's calling me," says Deckard intelligently, suspicion fading into the background in the face of his Pavlovian need to see who is after him now. Unfortunately, when he drags the phone out of his pocket and flips it open it's to see that it's just a text. And that it's from Teo. Because…he was just poking at his phone and said…yeah. Jaw slid into a sideways set, he clicks the phone close and tucks it away again. "Just kidding."
Face gone unsaved, he roughs his unpitted hand over his head and turns enough to frown at his hazy reflection in the breath-fogged window, eyes dull by necessity after having checked the phone. "What do you mean, 'missing?' Just now?" The narrow-eyed look he was scoping his rumpled self out with swings sideways onto Teo, who has definitely been here with him.
Winter in Manhattan always finds Teo struggling with some level of discomfort or other. This ought to be nothing new. He stares at Deckard retrieving the incoming telecommunications without comment, his expression blank instead of exasperated. Rejuvenating his face into working order requires a hard blink of his eyes. He scratches his jaw, and there's nothing idle or fidget-like about the action, blunt nails rough down to the curve of his chin. "No.
"He's been gone two days so far. Sometimes we go to ground — for safety. You understand." Teo's cheek twitches; almost a smile. "It's probably nothing, but with the shit in the fan lately… he was an onlooker at Rickham's visit to Midtown. Ethan and his friends were going to assassinate your President-elect." There. Information disclosed. Possibly not the sort that would give Ethan pause for taking his life, but it's something, albeit hesitantly dispensed.
To Deckard's credit, he absorbs this information with an expression serious and intent enough to pay the subject matter some measure of respect. Less in his favor is the fact that he takes a minute to turn the information over in his head and promptly misses the point. "Not mine. I can't vote. If I could, it wouldn't be for some vegan fucknut with visions of world peace and koombaya bullshit." His mouth hangs open a little as if there is more that could come out of it, but some part of him by that point might detect that he's on the wrong track.
He tugs at his collar, fixing it around the back where it's stooped awkwardly against his neck, and transparently using the effort to buy more time to try and think with. "Maybe you guys should look into some kind of buddy system."
"I'm pretty sure that would defeat the point." Teo starts to reach over to help the old man fix his clothes but, intelligently and fortunately for everybody involved, he stops before actually making contact. You know, in light of their previous conversation and all, probably wouldn'tve been the best encouragement for acquiescence. Somebody's shirts need more starch, it seems. "Better to lose one than two." That sounds cold, he realizes, in retrospect.
He grimaces slightly before he goes back to watching the harsh lines of Deckard's profile against plateglass. "Comunque. If could look for him some time soon, that would be great. If not — I know there are risks, so I'd understand."
Not that he really expects his understanding to be a requirement for Flint Deckard's happiness, but he lets those words lie there, tacit promise that refusing the one thing won't condemn him to the arduous task of entertaining himself alone in a kamikaze project after this. No pressure! There's never any pressure. Situation is easy. Teo is possibly the worst terrorist ever. He doesn't know why he gets stuck negotiating with hostages.
Deckard is a chronic failure when it comes to the art of laundry, it's true. Even the aborted effort on Teo's part is enough to earn a wary look and a lean away, but it's an automated response, and not one he's inclined to dwell on. Particularly not when the lean in question tips his balance out of alignment and he's forced to brace a hand against the cold glass to keep himself from falling over. "You know I still don't speak Italian, right?"
Innocent curiosity with a malicious edge to it. So, maybe not actually that innocent. "I can look. If you have a place in mind, that would be helpful. Otherwise I'd have to start at the middle and work my way around in circles and I will probably have died from radiation poisoning before I find anything useful." Collar finally fixed after another twitchy adjust, he glances down at his watch. Holds it further away. Closer. Further again.
"Just as a future…suggestion. If you want to lose none — you could probably…try not to be around when people are trying to kill the president and…tell the secret service or something. Like that." His hands lift to emphasize the 'just a suggestion' bit.
Again the grimace, like Teo's four years old rather than a terrorist cell leader accepting criticism. "There wasn't enough time, but I know: the plan was bad. Wasn't mine, if that helps." The latter remark, he makes in a tone of voice flat enough to indicate that it hadn't in his perspective, anyway.
He rocks slightly on his heels, ridged rubber sole finding enough damp friction to squeak against the meltwater. The Sicilian pulls his hands back into his personal space, leaving the older man his own. "I do. Midtown, not far from where Rickham clusterfuck happened. Graz — thank you," he says, sheepish in his choice of languages. He folds his hands into fists and assures himself Deckard isn't about to fall over and crack his head open on the bottom of the steel window frame. "So you won't leave yet."
"Not really." Dude's still missing, after all. Still inclined to stick to the wall of glass that separates him from some miscellaneous retail heaven, Deckard leans against it sideways this time, temple tipped to sketchy frost. Maybe in the hope that it'll do something for the headache creeping in around the same region.
"Can't leave now. Things to do." Like, right now, he has to breath on this window his face is increasingly flat against, and…draw a cock into the resulting fog.
It's better that Flint doesn't leave, so Teo doesn't do anything about the cock on the window except to frown at it then shift his eyes away, self-conscious, then searching for anybody else around. There's no one. Not near enough to see or say anything about such a facetious and minor bit of defacement, anyway. "Okay," he says, nodding. At Deckard, but since he's glancing away right now it looks more like he's nodding at himself. Blearily, he rubs a fist across his brow. "You want to head back to the safehouse yet?"
"No."
A smiley face is drawn in next to the cock. Happy cock. Then a second smiley face when the first one proves unsatisfactory. Or maybe it's just really happy.
"You're a nice guy, Teo. I hope it's a long time before I have to go scouring around Midtown after your corpse." From Deckard this may somehow pass as a compliment. Given how affectionate he's getting with the wall, the probability seems higher than it might otherwise be.
Splaying a hand on the glass, Teo pushes himself up onto both feet, stabilizing himself with a little effort to counterbalance the stiffness that had taken up residence in his knees after holding that squat for so long. He deeply dislikes the insinuation that Al is dead, but is hard-pressed to resent the sentiment that the insinuation frames.
"Thanks, I think." Teo has to force his gaze away from the cartoon penis — the super happy one — a second time. "I hope you're still here to do the scouring," he concludes, with the hitch and awkwardness of somebody effortfully figuring out how to proportionally reciprocate a compliment-thing without halting or getting too awkward. Yup. So: A-plus for Teo. "You have my number."
"Sure." Sure to the thanks or sure to he has his number or sure to both. He throws an ambiguous shrug in there for good measure. Whether or not dejectedly mellow drunk is an improvement over angry indignant drunk is a subjective thing, but he seems a lot less likely to try and break his face in the course of attempting to tackle someone in this one.
For a few seconds he just exists. It's cold, and after a few long breaths, fog starts to lace back over the penisy path he cleared across the glass with his fingers a few minutes ago.
"Ok. We can go."
If Teo had plumage, his surprise would have pushed a mild ruffle through it then. As it is, his shoes squeak slightly further as he rights himself out after an abortive step away, in what he had originally conceived as an effort to surrender Deckard his space and solitude and smiley-face penises and stuff that alliterates and other things good-natured like that. He nods his head. "Okay," he says, straightening that insipid look of uncertainty off his face.
He squares his shoulders and stops his hands before they start chugging forward to assist. "No problem."
So long as the decision is Deckard's to decide as alliteratively as possible, there's little reason for argument. Of course, that he can go doesn't mean he immediately does go. The wind is out there, and most of the snow. Nevermind everything else.
But eventually he's up and ready to move out, stooped shoulders unflattered by the damp, haggard state of his overcoat. To the bus. And to bed. With Teo's help to make sure he doesn't incur brain damage on the way.
 December 21st: We Don't Serve No Stinking Bitch-Drinks |
 December 21st: Nite Owls and Exploding Manatees |