Just a Git


delia_icon.gif lynette2_icon.gif nick_icon.gif

Scene Title Just a Git
Synopsis The world is full of bad news, and consequently, bad moods.
Date August 17, 2011

Fort Greene Nick's Apartment

When you've caused someone a broken limb, it's only fair to make sure they're okay before you ditch them and run off to your life of exile and terrorism. Plus, it's been a really long time she she was in an apartment. With a kitchen that isn't crowded and cooking for giant groups of people. But Lynette is cooking, anticipating Delia's arrival and maybe feeling a little bad for the cast on Nick's arm. So she stands in front of the oven, making some sort of pasta dish that smells really good. It's not a widely known fact, that she can cook. But she was domestic once upon a time.

And because it's her, there's a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, proving that even the worst of hangovers can't turn this woman off the booze.

The smell of cooking hasn't roused Nick from his nap. He's been up a few hours and his bed has been vacated so he could watch television and check email from the sofa, but now he lies slack jawed with the uninjured side of the head on the cushion, the tiny stitches close to the hairline hardly do justice to the headache he has. Head injuries bleed copiously, but all stitched up, it's barely noticeable. His injured arm isn't doing itself any favors, having fallen from the sofa into a dangle. It'll hurt more when he wakes — but there are drugs for that.

She never did give back her key.

Before opening Nick's door, Delia paces outside of it for a little while, trying to figure out what to say or do or how to react. The aroma seeping under the door is heavenly, which makes the redhead turn a little greener with envy. A gorgeous blonde is inside with her boyfriend. One that Delia just happened to hurt a few nights ago while on a drinking binge.

Good job.

The longer the young woman paces, the worse the picture gets in her head. By the time the key is jammed in the door, she's seething with jealousy. When the door swings open, Delia stands in the frame with her hands on her hips and fully expecting there to be two people on the couch, or in the bed, or in some other position that really should make it too awkward for her to be there.

Unfortunately for Delia's imagination, the two people aren't even in the same room. And one of them's snoozing away and the other is even fully clothed! And looks like she's spent a few days drunk and/or hungover, so. It's all very romantic.

Hearing the door open, Lynette pokes her head out of the kitchen, lifting her hand in a wave. She does look over the pose the redhead is in, and there's an amused look that comes over her, although doesn't quite manifest into a smile. "Delia," she greets in a wry tone, "For a moment I thought you weren't going to make it." An eyebrow lifts before she slips back kitchenward, leaving the two lovebirds to themselves, relatively.

Nick feels the breeze of the door on his face and suddenly blue eyes open — he sits up rapidly to assess the situation, then groans and puts a hand to his head.

"Del," he says softly, probably more because even soft voices sound too loud in his head. "You okay? You made sure to watch for tails? Close the door, all right, hon?" He reaches for his pills on the coffee table, and then the glass of water beside them.

"Smells good," he says over his shoulder toward the kitchenette before blinking blearily at Delia. "You okay?"

Still a little angry, now mostly at herself for doubting either of the two in the apartment, Delia gives Nick a shakes of her head and a disbelieving stare. "Should I just chew off my leg?" It's her grouchy way of saying, Of course there's a tail, of some type.

Her shoulders slump and she plods inside and closes the door softly behind her. "Sorry, I've just been having a really bad couple of days…" Lynette and Nick both receive a small smile as she pulls her boots off and then stalks the few paces to the couch to sit down beside Nick. His good side. "Almost as bad as you, I guess? What happened?"

Lynette leaves things to simmer in the kitchen, but comes out with a couple glasses of wine. None for Nick, he has painkillers. Which, when you think about it, is the better deal anyway. If you don't count the pain part. "Don't worry, Delia," she says as she holds out a glass toward her.

"As for Nick's arm, well. It's only partially my fault." She doesn't move to sit on the couch, but rather pulls over a chair to settle into. "Mostly it's the lovely Calvin's." And that's the story she'll stick to.

Nick frowns at Delia's initial response and looks down, then opens the bottle to shake out three pills. It is probably supposed to be two at the most, but who's counting. Tossing them into his mouth, he chases them with a gulp of water. "We don't need to go into that," he says a little tersely to Lynette, before reaching to take Delia's hand, sliding his thumb over the top of her knuckles.

"You okay? What's wrong?" he asks, worry creasing his forehead.

Delia takes the glass of wine with her free hand but places it down on the table in front of her instead of taking a sip. "Thanks," she says quietly to Lynette, then turns a worried glance to Nick. "Calvin did this to you? Wh— " She stops herself, her jaw clamping shut and lips pressing into a thin line. Her fingers lace between Nick's and she squeezes them to lock his in place.

"I'm fine, nothing you need to worry about." A fake smile is pasted on the young woman's face, unfortunately the tight hold she has on Nick's hand doesn't loosen. "You weren't supposed to fight with him, Nick." The topic she focuses on is probably not the one he wants to but her chances of winning this battle of wills is better due to pain pills.

Lynette tilts her head curiously at Nick's note in her direction and she seems content to sit and sip her wine without elaborating, answering with a lift of her shoulder.

It might have lasted, too, if not for Delia's return to the topic. "Oh, he didn't. Honestly, I wanted to zap the man several times, but Nick was reasonable." Unfortunately so, because Lynette would really have liked to zap him a few more times. But you know.

Nick looks wearily at Delia' fake smile, not responding with one of his own, and he shrugs about whether or not he was supposed to fight anybody. Lynette has his back, to which he tosses a small upturn of the corners of his lips — it could hardly be called a smile.

"I tried to talk to him, offer help. Asked for his," he says, phrases clipped, flat.

He shrugs his left shoulder again. "He insulted me. I may have tried to hit him. It doesn't matter. I'm all right. Thanks to Lynette."

He sets the bottle and glass back down on the table. "You're sure you're okay?" The question is weary — he knows any answer in the positive is a lie.

"You have a broken arm, you're on pain pills, and you shouldn't have to worry about my.. uhm.." Now Delia reaches for the glass and takes a sip while she collects her thoughts. It's not quite a cigar but the nurse has learned a few things from Benji's dreams, a lesson from Raith in how to prolong an explanation.

Now if only she could copycat his air of authority.

It's a power she could possibly use to destroy the world.

When the glass finally finds itself back on the table again, half of the wine that was once inside is gone. The rosy tinge that creeps to Delia's cheeks isn't from a blush but from the alcohol. "Have you heard from Eileen?"

"Sort of alright. You can save the thanks, though." Lynette lifts her glass his way before taking another drink. She watches Delia do the same, an eyebrow arching for her… technique. The Beverly Hills snob within her really wants to comment, but the more sensible bits of her keep that urge down.

"Should we have heard from Eileen?" It's a careful question, asked with a swirl of her glass. If Delia's question worries her, it's hard to say, exactly. But it has gotten her interest.

"I…" Nick says, and looks to Lynette. Have they heard from Eileen? But she's asking the obvious question so he stands to go find to his jeans where he discarded them the night before to seek his cell phone.

"No," he says, a moment later, tossing the cell phone on the bed before crossing the small space back to the sofa. "Delia. This?" he lifts his cast. "Is probably the least of my worries right now. I'll be off the meds by tomorrow except to sleep." Mostly because he has insomnia without the added distraction of pain.

"I had another dream, she was in it… So I wanted to know if she remembers." The simplest of the problems is the one that Delia chooses to talk about. The gunshots, the names over the radio, being held in an abandoned shop with the other ghetto residents, those are all passed over. "I forgot to ask her when I talked to her."

A tight smile is given to both Nick and Lynette before Delia grabs her glass again. She swirls the liquid around in her glass, not tasting it this time. Not that she did the first time, it was guzzled rather than savored. "So… pasta… is there enough for three?"

Dreams. Oh jolly. This time it's Lynette who finishes off her wine in one fell swoop and stands to her feet. "There isn't," she says, although it's a lie. There is certainly enough for three waiting in the kitchen, as they'll no doubt discover later. "But I thought to leave it for the two of you. I'm watching my figure after all. And also have work to get back to, now that Nick has someone more competent to look after him."

There is, after all, no better way to get Lynette to leave a conversation than starting in on the dreams. Except maybe mentioning Ben Ryans and his new daughter and his new wife and his new happily ever after. "You both know how to find me, if you need me. Delia, lovely seeing you again, darling. Nick, take better care of yourself, hmm?" That one's even a tease. But she's heading for the door moments after delivery.

Nick's brows draw together as he watches Delia, not quite sure what the problem is — but sure there is one. "You can take the boat. I can catch up with you after curfew, or you can head on north with it, whatever you prefer," he says, turning to look at Lynette. "Thanks for babysitting me and… you know. Probably saving my life."

The grin at that is a wry one — he knows she feels bad about the fall, but collateral damage is sometimes acceptable. Especially given the alternative.

His eyes return to Delia's again. "Don't tell Benji," he begins, "and don't worry about it. You're safe from him, I'm pretty sure. You, after all, aren't a 'sub human.'"

He moves to the kitchen to get plates. "Let's just watch a movie or something and eat," is muttered — clearly he's not up for hearing any more dreams. They tend to make him feel worse about himself, and he already feels like reheated death today.

“You shouldn’t go,” Delia says to Lynette’s back as she reaches the door. Reason is given by way of a gesture and the lift of her right foot. The orange cuff, still there and looking as new as the day they put in on is tucked back under the pant leg seconds after she displays it. “They know I come here a lot, I don’t know if they have people follow me but this thing tracks where I do and don’t go… It’d be better to wait until I leave.” With the way the redhead has made herself at home, following Nick to the kitchen to help serve, she’s going to be staying a little while.

After liberating dishes from Nick’s grasp, she shoos him out of the kitchen with a flick of a dish towel. She misses, of course, not wanting to hurt him as much as just get him out of the way. Three plates are served up and brought out to the coffee table before she settles again, on Nick’s left side.

Delia waits…. until both Nick and Lynette have their plates and are into their meals before speaking again. She doesn’t touch hers, she also didn’t dish herself out more than a few mouth fulls. “I’m worried about Eileen…” she murmurs in a low voice, just over the sound of the television. “She did that thing she does— with the birds? Her and Abby were close to Eltingville, I heard their names over the soldier’s radio— just after the shooting.”

“Oh you know, anytime,” Lynette says to Nick with a crooked smile. But she only gets as far as her hand on the door knob before Delia’s advice stops her. And with how comfortable the red head looks here in the apartment, she can only let out a sigh. “Alright, but I don’t do slumber parties, as a general rule.” She tries not to be grumpy as she comes back over to sit in her chair, legs crossed and arms folded.

There is a thank you to Delia when she brings out the food, even if she is slow in picking it up to start eating. And it’s a good thing, too, because when the truth comes out about her worry over Eileen, Lynette would have just set it right back down again.

“And no one’s heard from either of them?” It’s a good way to alarm an already paranoid councilwoman.

Nick sets his fork down to turn to Delia, more worry lining his face. “Shooting? Outside of Eltingville? When was this?”

Rather than wait for her reply, he stands again to pick up his cell phone, then strides to the table where his keys were dumped, shuffling the two objects in his good hand. The concussion is a mild one, but it makes decisions hard — call first or go look around? Finally, the keys are shoved into his pocket and he awkwardly brushes fingers across his cell phone until he has a message up, then types into it a text for Eileen:

Are you ok? Please respond ASAP

“I’m going to go look around out there,” he declares, jaw clenching and chin lifting a little stubbornly, expecting the women to argue with him.

Delia does, argue, that is. Raising her chin just as stubbornly as Nick does, she races to the door and slams her back against it, like a spoiled child locking itself in a room. “No, you’re not. You’re not safe to drive, you’re on pain medication, and you’re hurt. You are not going anywhere.” Her eyes narrow and her lips purse into a tight line that she hopes makes her look a little more formidable. Or at least a contender.

“It happened yesterday, Eileen talked to me from a bird. I don’t know what happened after the guns went off because they herded us all into a little building.” Plus she was running for her life in the opposite direction. “If you haven’t heard from anyone, chances are that they’re hiding somewhere… If something bad had happened, someone would have gotten in touch with you, right?” She looks to Lynette for some support, at least in keeping the man in his apartment if not for what she says.

“Absolutely. They’re probably laying low until the heat passes and then they’ll make their way out to the island. We can’t be hasty anymore, you know. And the last thing Eileen or anyone else needs is a man in a cast on drugs running around looking for her. Relax. She’ll check in.” Lynette doesn’t get up from her chair, letting Delia play the actual barricade while she works with calm reason.

“And if something has gone wrong, we have people for that. We’ll talk to Raith and see if there’s even a reason to worry.” Raith, not Ryans. Pointedly. “But there’s no reason to act foolishly at this moment. Save it for later.”

Nick’s eyes narrow when Delia blocks his path, and he looks from one woman to the other before growling in exasperation and tossing his cell phone back on the table by the door.

“Fine. But if you or I don’t hear from someone soon,” he glances at Lynette, knowing Delia’s not likely going to be called, “I’m looking tomorrow.”

Reluctantly he returns to the couch to pick up his plate of pasta. “What the hell were they doing?” is more of a rhetorical question than one directed at either Lynette or Delia.

It takes Delia five minutes or so more before she’s satisfied that Nick isn’t going to bolt the moment she moves away from the door. Just in case, she takes a seat at the little kitchen table instead of going back to the sofa to finish her dinner. Her head hangs, red hair spilling forward to hide her face as she usually does when she’s trying to hide… like an ostrich.

Absently, her hand goes to the anklet where she begins to scratch at the already raw skin underneath the cuff. As though her nails will do a satisfactory job of taking her foot off and finally freeing her off the piece of Eltingville jewelry that she’s been blessed with.

“She wants me to do a few things for her. I think she was there to talk to me… or whoever is on the inside that she happened to find.”

“Haven’t you heard, darling? We’re terrorists.” It isn’t really an answer to Nick’s rhetoric, but Lynette can’t pass up an opportunity to be a smartass. And if you’re going to insist on it, fine. But try not to attract attention to where she might be, if she is laying low.”

Looking Delia’s way, Lynette tilts her head a bit, “Don’t worry, Delia. He knows I’ll zap him if he tries to leave. Come and try this pasta. I need to know if it’s edible.” It’s a joke, really. “What did she ask you to do?”

Chewing, Nick lets Lynette do the talking, blessing her smartass remark with a slight snort. His eyes dart to the cell phone on the coffee table every few seconds — like he can will it to chime with Eileen’s reply.

He looks up to wait for Delia’s answer to Lynette’s question, then tips his head back to the sofa, a small and slightly apologetic smile curving his mouth upward. “Can you keep an eye out for her, tonight?” he asks, setting his plate back down, a hand coming to his head with a wince.

The redhead slinks back to the sofa, settling into a corner far away from both Nick and Lynette. Her long legs draw up to her chest and she loops her arms around them, hugging them tightly. More than likely, she’ll be gone before the meal is through, judging by how defensive a posture she’s taking. Nick’s headache receives an expression of worry but the young nurse isn’t in a hurry to rush to his side and coddle him for his injuries. They’re not exactly self inflicted but he did sort of break his promise.

“She wants me to talk to Logan for her and to find out how many people in Eltingville want to get out.” Lynette’s invitation to become a beefeater to the pasta isn’t really acknowledged except for a small glance at her plate. With the supplies in Nick’s apartment it’s likely the same mix of ragu and noodles anyway. Unless Lynette went out. That thought alone causes a curious lift to Delia’s head and she inches toward her plate like a pack omega looking to steal a scrap. “I was going to ask Mister Gataullin for help and see if he wanted out too.”

“I suppose that makes sense, Logan being in the position he’s in.” Lynette doesn’t seem to think the request is odd or even a problem, all things considered. That she knows about. “Given what we know of the future, it’s best we get people out while we still are able.”

As it turns out, Lynette did go out because the cupboards were shameful and her taste in wine is very specific. So it may well be similar to what she’s used to around here, but it is a step up all the same. Lynette even takes a few bites herself.

Somehow she manages not to choke when Delia drops the next name into the conversation, and a far more unexpected one, at that. “Dema’s in there? You talk to Dema?” It’s a mix of surprise and concern and a little fluster that comes along with those words. “Is he alright?”

Nick scowls a little when Delia keeps herself distanced from them, and that scowl only deepens with the names tossed about so lightly. Logan. Mr. Gautallin. Dema. And Lynette’s a fan of Dema’s as well? He tosses his fork onto the plate and rises again.

Grabbing his cell phone, he moves past Lynette rather than Delia to grab his leather jacket from the arm of the sofa, pills from the coffee table, and finally toward the door for the keys. Shaking his head, he casts a glance over his shoulder at Delia, lips parting to speak before he closes his mouth again. “You’re amazing,” he says — this time not as a compliment — before opening the door.

In a flash, Delia is up and toward the door, her plate clattering to the floor and spreading pasta in a wide radius around where she was sitting. She doesn’t pause to clean it up, instead slipping through a couple of noodles as she slams the door shut again with one hand. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses through her teeth. “Don’t you dare try to insult me when I’m doing my best to help your sister. Do you think it’s all fun and roses for me? Because it’s not.”

Tears are already forming on her lower lids but she turns her head, ducking it down to wrench the door open again. Not for him but for herself. “Thank you for the pasta Lynette. I’ll see you when— “ she doesn’t know but the door is slammed behind her on the way out.

Oh. Drama. Lynette can only watch as it unfolds before her and given that she’s in the dark as to the catalyst there, she can only raise an eyebrow at the whole display.

But after Delia slams the door behind her, the blonde stands from her chair, straightening her shirt before she looks in Nick’s direction. “Well done, casanova.” She turns to start for the kitchen, because hell if she’s going to leave the mess just laying there to soak into the carpet while the two of them get over emotional. “You’d better go after her,” she adds over her shoulder, “I do believe she deserves an apology for that one.”

Just a little friendly advice.

“Fuck this city. I can’t even keep track of who the ‘bad guys’ are,” Nick growls, throwing a dark look in Lynette’s direction for the unsolicited advice. Still, he sighs, and opens the door again. Luckily he lives on the first floor so there aren’t flights of stairs to maneuver while light-headed.

“Delia, wait. I’m sorry,” he calls down the hallway to catch her before she makes it out the lobby door.

She pauses at the handle, weighing her options and not turning around to look at him. Lifting her shoulder, she shrugs once and then drops her hands into her pockets. Outside the sky is starting to darken, signalling it’s time for her to go home anyway. If she wants to make it through the gates before curfew sets in.

“It’s better for me to talk to him than her, you know,” she says just loud enough for him to hear. Likely the neighbours are all inside their apartments and turning up their televisions. It’s not really the first time anyone in the building has had a storm out screaming fight. Not even the first time for the residents of 101. “It’s easier. Plus, you don’t want her inside the gates anyway, right?” She turns finally to look down at his shoes, remembering that she forgot her boots inside. It’s always something. “You’re always so angry with me… why?”

Nick slowly draws closer, standing a bit self-consciously in the hallway, eyes down as she speaks. “I meant Dema. I might not like Logan but that’s a necessary evil, and if she said to talk to him, then fine.” He’s not happy about it, but he imagines they have conversations once in a while without Eileen’s prompting, given, you know… they’re living together.

“He took you from me,” Nick adds, more quietly. “And I let him. I’m not… angry at you. I’m more angry at me, and you just have a tendency to bring it out with your willingness to forgive everyone their mistakes.”

He shrugs and follows her gaze to her feet. “Including me.”

Stepping back, he begins to move back to his door. “C’mon. At least get your shoes on.”

It’s hard to guess whether or not Delia’s impulsive exit was as serious as she wishes it could have been. She forgot her coat, her boots, her keys, everything that he gathered on his way out. “Yeah… I might need them to walk home.” Folding her arms over her chest, she hunches over and nudges through the door.

Lynette is greeted with a solemn nod before Delia makes her way to her own mess to help clean it. “I got it, it’s okay.” The floor has seen much worse in its time, besides how much damage can a bit of sauce do between the cracks of wood? The redhead’s socks pick up more of the spill than the cloth she stole from the blonde’s hands. “I won’t ask for Mister Gataullin’s help,” she offers Nick as a compromise, “but I’ll ask him if he wants to go.”

When they come back in, Lynette blink a little and ends up with the chore stolen right out from under her. Which is alright. “That has to be the shortest fight I have ever seen,” she comments, but hey, she grew up with a lawyer for a father. Fights were very longwinded.

She opts to head back to the kitchen for the bottle of wine, pouring herself a refill, although she doesn’t sit again just now. She looks over at Nick at the compromise, her head tilting slightly. “Sounds fair enough to me. I think we all can agree no one deserves to be shoved into a ghetto like that one.” Well, some people might, but, you know. Liberty and justice for all, all that. There is a glance to Delia, but through great restraint, she doesn’t ask her to pass along a message to the man.

Unlike Lynette, Nick doesn’t know how to fight with words — and while he may lash out with ill-thought comments once in a while, his only real resolution for most thinks lies in his fist or gun. Neither’s really an option here.

“All right,” he concedes regarding Dema, though the twitch in his jaw conveys his anger toward the man and his own failures in keeping Delia safe. “If he’s there, and Eileen is looking to help anyone stuck in there out,” he adds, unnecessarily — it’s a way to make Delia’s part in dealing with Dema something easier for him to accept.

Nick reaches to draw Delia up from cleaning, tugging her into a hug for the first time since the redhead entered the apartment. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, brushing lips across her cheek. “I’d say blame it on the meds but we both know that’d be an excuse. I’m just a git sometimes. Love me anyway?”

Delia’s arms circle Nick at the waist and her revenge for the comment comes by accident more than premeditation. The rag, sopping with red sauce and noodles presses against his leather jacket as she leans into the hug and she doesn’t become aware of it until a few noodles fall to the floor with wet plops.

Nick might be able to feel what’s next, as both of her hands move to gather the remaining noodles inside the cloth and discreetly wipe off the part of the jacket that she’s been touching. It’s a blind cleaning but it seems the redhead is relying on Lynette to direction as she gives the other woman a wide eyed look over his shoulder. “Yeah, as long as you do…” for the jacket. But she doesn’t say that bit out loud.

This part might be worse than the fighting. When the pair starts to be mushy and coupley, her glass of wine goes from a few inches at the bottom of the glass to nearly hitting the brim. But there is at least some wine left in the bottle as she sets it aside and picks up the glass for a long, long drink.

But it doesn’t prevent her from giving Delia a motion lower at that look in her direction. Just a little finger point downward. And a lot of drinking.

He is not Fonzie, and isn’t particularly concerned about the state of his leather jacket (nor his hair, clearly) so he doesn’t notice any covert cleaning of pasta or what led to it. Kissing her forehead, he murmurs, “Always,” then lets go so that she can get rid of the rag o’ noodles.

Tossing jacket, cell phone and keys all onto the table, Nick sits back on the sofa. “Just… you know. Make a list or something of who I’m still allowed to hate, yeah?”

It’d make things easier.

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