Participants:
| Scene Title | Leper Tackling |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | :points to the title: nuff said. |
| Date | January 9, 2009 |
Deckard has seen better days. Stitches carve a black trail from partway across his left brow down to his temple. A similar, shorter track starts across the side of his nose and curves down under the orbit of his eye to his cheek bone. Under his overcoat, his back is stiff, his shoulders are stiff, his arm is stiff. He's walking with a limp. Both legs hurt, so there's no favoring one or the other, just. His usual long stride is hitched a little shorter than usual at Leah's side.
"Like you've never gotten drunk and fallen through a glass window." They're mid conversation, Deckard's brow creased and his glare turned down on the snow and ice that makes the path they're on treacherous for a gimp.
eah's coat, a sweeping length of beige wool whose hem whirls about her legs as she walks, has seen better days. But there is no stiffness or battering to her stride, easy at her brother's side though it is largely matched to his. her long hair is loose and a dark green scarf is wound around her neck, its tail trailing down her torso with a whisper of silky knotted fringe at the end.
"When you say 'fall,'" she intones, her low voice rippled with humor and exasperaton, "do you mean 'be bodily lifted and hurled'? Were you being clever at some seven-foot golgawhatshit?"
He's hurt the phone call said. Hurt fairly bad and… he's not at the ferryman safe house when she shows up. Nor at the second, nor the third, nor at the others when they're all called. Not in the ruins. Abby's been out a good half of the day, stopping for coffee to warm herself up. How far the fuck, does an injured man get?! She's cut through the park on the little green Vespa, having to give up her search for now. She's got work, there's a thousand things on her mind. Putt, putt, putt, putt goes Lazarus with it's load of religious crazy chick. The sound eases up a bit when she spots just who it is that's consumed her day. Deckard, shambling with… a prostitute? Has to be. No other woman would voluntarily be with.. him. Or so she's surmised since that's the only ones she's known to voluntarily and monetarily venture close to the x-ray visioned man. The engines cut as she steers off to the side, kills the engine, grabs her keys from the ignition and scurries off in thier direction, helmet still plunked on her head, with matching blue scooter jacket.
"I wasn't being clever." Deckard is not in a very good mood. Tends to happen when you hurt all over. He hasn't shaven in days and he hasn't bothered with a hat, which means he looks approximately as wanted as he is. It gets harder to care about that kind of thing when you think the world is ending soon.
"There's nothing clever about going through a giant piece of plate glass. Didn't you almost go to medical school or something?" Cynicism is largely limited to what he can force into his voice. Making faces hurts too. He can manage the barest edge of a sneer, pale-faced and a little clammy in the cold.
Meanwhile, putt putt putt putt, and there's the pitter patter of little feet coming to get them both. Deckard reaches into his coat and clicks the safety of his gun off without bothering to turn around.
"I don't know," Leah retorts, "I was pretty wasted at the time." Her face, in contrast, is mobile and expressive; she rolls her eyes and lets her mouth twist, an upward quirk at one corner that reflects long-standing smile lines. But then, she is feeling no pain, and has not recently encountered any malicious windows.
Tipping her head slightly to one side as she walks beside him, she slides one of her hands between the buttons of her long coat, curling fingers around a reassuring weight holstered therein. Although it does look sort of Napoleonic. "Why, did you want me to operate?"
"Mike," It's growled and loudly from Abby, noise reverberating across the snow. Yes, that putt putt sound belongs to her. Her hands go to the strap of the helmet, pinching the clasp to undo it, flip up the face shield so she can take it off. Honey blonde hair spills from under it, the rest of it unleashed. "You won't call and ask? Someone else has to and when I show up" Abby looks to Leah, a dip of her head and oblivious to the fact that both have reached for their weapons. "You should probably go. He doesn't need you tonight. He can't afford you anyways. Besides, he's got… stuff. You don't want to catch what he's got" Prostitutes. Why on earth Deckard needs one, when he's ambling around instead of sitting his ass in a wheel chair. "No offense, I'm sure your really good at what you do, but, you don't want him"
"If I ever want one of my hands sewn to my forehead I'll give you a call." No, he doesn't want her to operate. Deckard gives her a dirty look to boot, followed by another muffled click and the fall of his hand out of his coat. Gunless.
Abby's voice is familiar. That, and he doesn't actually know that many nineteen year old girls with southern accents. Proving that he has enough mobility left around his brows that he can press them down into a hood that would make Frankenstein's monster proud, he turns slowly on his heel, and cranks the dirty look he was giving Leah up to eleven. Apparently insinuating that his sister is a whore is only funny when he does it.
"It's a wonder I can't get any for free with you putting out that kind of press."
Far from taking umbrage at this, Leah lets out a whoop of laughter and breaks into a fit of cackling, stamping one square-heeled boot hard against the crackle of ice on the ground. Hand withdrawn from the muzzle beneath her coat, she lifts her hand to swat Flint on the shoulder. Except that he is in a lot of pain, which she remembers partway through the gesture, and her hand deflects, skimming dematerialized through his coat without ever impacting flesh.
"Damn, man," she crows at him, careening happily past her near miss, "is your tool in trouble too? That's so sad, I'm gonna shed a tear! Girl," she adds to Abby, wiping a tear of mirth away from her eye as she works her jaw, fighting the smile in her cheeks to stop their flush, "I've got him whether I want him or not." Feel the love.
Walking at a pace that is neither quick nor slow, Brian has his hands tucked into his black track jacket's pockets. A white hat is pulled low and cocked slightly to the side. Cause it's cool. Buds of an iPod are tucked into each ear, though he brings his hand up to bring one out. "Dickard!" He calls out as he spots the man from behind. A smile tugs up on his lips as he spots the woman with him. "Tink." He says somewhat affectionately as he approaches the two, though when his gray eyes travel past the two to the third his words change somewhat.
"Ffffff—ulton. Avenue. Fulton Avenue. Is where I just came from."
"You don't want him. He's got like… Crabs" Abby's looking a few seconds at Leah, pulling ome random sexual.. disease from the depths of her mind. She starts pulling off a glove to expose her hand. "Give me your stupid hand Mike. So I can get to work. I'm not leaving till you do" She wiggles her fingers before him, waiting. Watching. Those blue eyes are centered square on his. "You know you want to so fuck your pride and just give me your hand. You can still be mad at me afterwards" Brian's not seen in his rambling though he's heard and if the blonde stiffens, oh well. "Now" she hisses.
"I don't—" he doesn't have crabs. It seems like the sort of thing you shouldn't proclaim loudly in the middle of Central Park, though, and Deckard is left to look strained in frustrated silence. He's outnumbered. "Fuck you," is the default response, aimed at one or both of them. He does not offer either gloved hand, but remains standing solid next to Leah, whose intangible shoulder slap goes blessedly unnoticed by his nervous system.
"I'm not giving you a fucking thing. Go rub off on a park bench if you're desperate." Or even better, her pretend husband. Brian's call of 'Dickard' is enough to make him flinch for no apparent reason. These are not people who need to see him hanging out with Tink. "Hey."
Leah turns on her heel, taking in Brian's approach with a flick of her gaze and the flash of teeth in a grin of surprise. "Hah," she says. "Breanne, my man!" She turns both palms out, black gloves obscuring her skin, and then rocks back on her heels, running her fingers through the loose tumble of her dark hair. The draw of soft wool through thick hair makes for poofy, staticky results. "That's no way to talk, sweetheart," she reproves, her hands falling to brace at her hips as she eyes her brother, feet planted wide and humor sparkling in her eyes. To Leah, the whole world is a riot, apparently. "The lady wants to hold your hand! — Kid, I don't want him, you're right. But look how cute he is when he scowls!"
"He's absolutely adorable when he scowls. Deckard, just give me your hand. Shelf your stupid pride, I've shelved mine. You can't walk around like that, so just take my hand, Now please" She visually flinches at the swear words, but that hand is still out there. 'Take it, or i'm closing my hand around your neck and throttling you and i'll do it then, or I'll get .. your hooker here and Brian to hold you down oka…" Wait a second, the hooker knows brian. Shock and disbelief crosses the blonde woman's face and her cheeks turn scarlet. "Come on, just take it please. You can still hate my guts and be pissed at me, just take it." Abby's keeping her eyes on deckard, occasionally Leah, but not Brian.
A little smirk is given when Abby says she's shelved her pride. His eyes go to Leah as he approaches. A hand is raised to rest on Leah's shoulder for a moment. In a greeting friendly type thing sort of way. The same is done for Deckard. Though his fingers dig in a little bit. Then he looks to Abby. He won't comment on her trying to force feed healing. Then he glances to Leah once again. "Oh God.. You don't know him because you.." A glance is flicked to Deckard, then back to Leah.. Ew.
To Deckard, this is not funny. If anything it's getting a little embarrassing, and his sense of humor has vacated the lines in his face accordingly. But with two people to glare at instead of the usual one, what to do?
He works his jaw at Leah, nose rankled a little painfully against whatever snappy comment he opts to bite back in the presence of malleable young minds, and turns his scruffy chin back down at Abby. "Sometimes things happen and you can't just ffffhhhah…" Brian's hand is on his shoulder. Digging in. Deckard tips down under the unexpected pressure with about as much resistance as he might have offered Grandma Deckard if she ever managed to get ahold of one of his ears.
Leah stiffens under the contact at her shoulder. Friendly or not, the thing about shoulders is that they are near necks, and the thing about necks is … well, that's where you strangle people, a matter with which dear little sister is unfortunately familiar. The ripple of a shiver runs down her spine as she forces ease through her restless frame, tipping a decidedly pleasant smile in Brian's direction. The tic of her cheek suggests a suppressed twitch, but when she purses her lips, it looks more like she's fighting a smile than a snarl. She is cheerful!
"I'm beginning to get a little offended," Leah intones dryly, dark brows arching high over her eyes. "I'm not a hooker, friends, and even if I were a hooker I have far too much respect for my little buddy here" Who is like twice her size. "to drop trou."
That's her cue! Thank you Brian. She could kiss him right now. Abby's hand closes on the back of Deckards neck while he's distracted by pain, fingers quickly insinuating themselves right up at his hairline, thumb by his jawline. "Good, then keep him like this. I'm not going to hurt him, keep him like that" a warning to the woman before she prays, short and sweet. "Thank you for the world so sweet, Thank you for the food we eat. Thank you for the birds that sing, Thank you God for everything." At the fourth word, Deckards getting the full brunt of her healing, Abby's pushing it since she doens't know how long she'll have. But for this moment, she's gripping him in something akin to a hug, ready for him to try and shake her off. To the outward eye, there's nothing to see. To Deckard, it's warmth and tingling.
Oh. Whoops. Brian's hand quickly recoils from Deckard's shoulder as the man starts to go down. Even though it's borderline hilarious he hadn't been intending to put the older (much older) man into a Vulcan death grip. He shoots Abby a look. No he's not going to keep him like that. The young man also releases Tinkerbell's shoulder. "Sorry." He mutters, arching his brows. "Little buddy." Brian repeats in a half-giggle.
Deckard's damage is widespread and follows no real pattern, save that his left arm and chest deflected most of the bigger pieces. The muscle and skin across the back of his forearm was ribboned under his coat, with sizable blades of glass eventually plucked out of his chest and shoulder by whoever had the honors of keeping him still long enough to do the preliminary fixing. He also has stitches in both calves, across one side, and in his right thigh in addition to his face. It is probably a little amazing that he didn't bleed to death on the way back home.
It takes him a second to recover, even after he's been released. A stitch or two in his shoulder has popped against the fresh tension there. The fact that he Abby has wrapped herself around him like an evangelical man-eating plant doesn't help either. Tequila breath hoarsing out at a shallow wheeze, it's a short pair of seconds before he wrenches his less-damaged right arm between his torso and Abigail's so that he can shovethrow her off with all the delicacy he might spare an attacking pit bull.
The transformation that comes over not-a-hooker Tinkerbell is remarkable as Abby takes hold of Flint's neck. Unaccustomed to prayers outside of church, which is not actually a place one is likely to find her often, Leah finds her hackles rising and gooseflesh prickling at the rhymed couplets Abby shares, to Leah's ear, without provocation. Her hand slips past the buttons of her coat, and darts back out again, her black subcompact Glock firmly grasped and pointing its snub nose at Abby, tracking her as Deckard pushes her off. "What the fuck did you just do," she snaps. Her voice cracks, flat and sharp like a gunshot, and her eyes are narrowed. What evokes this reaction is simple, if possessive, family feeling.
His eyes go wide and a hand starts to come to his mouth as he starts to mouth, 'O snap'. But then Tinkerbell nothooker is taking out a gun. Brian's eyes suddenly go wide. And even though he's mad at her right now. Brian also draws a gun from the back of his pants. His own glock going to the back of Leah. "Easy Tink." He says with a bit of a commanding tone. And he was starting to like her, too! :( "She wasn't doing anything bad." The young man tries to assure.
Deckard's shove works, if only out of the sheer fact that Abby wasn't expecting him to be that hurt. The healing ends with the contact, A small chunk already dealt with thanks to her turning the tap alll the way on with her healing and Abby hits the ground with a grunt and a wince. "Holy shit.. flint.. what are you doing walking" But wait, there's a gun pointed at her while causes the blonde to pale. Then Brian has a gun out "I'm trying to HEAL him. He's.. really hurt abd" her eyes travel to everywhere on him that got sliced up. "Please, dear lord, don't shoot me. I need to work later tonight, and I can't do that with finishing healing him and then brian getting a buttlet out of me and healing myself" Indeed, the cuts on his face have already started healing.
A lot is happening. A lot is happening really quickly. Two guns, neither of which Deckard has actually managed to notice. First off, now that the warm tinglies have faded he hurts everywhere again, and second Abigail just rape healed him. He's passed up annoyance and has arrived at anger, eyes burning blue in their sunken sockets when he shakes out the arm he shoved her with. "What the fuck. I say no so you force it on me? Which verse of the bible recommends that? You can't fucking fix everything. You can't." Although I'm not typing in all caps, he's certainly speaking in them, eyes unblinking and teeth bared around every word he bites out at her.
Then the bit about 'please don't shoot me' sinks in. Except he's not holding a gun. His head swings around to Leah, and he stiffens. His eyes skip over to Brian a second later. Uuhhh.
Digging her boot-heel into the ground, Leah is caught before the pivot even begins, partway to a show of really unnecessary bravado and possibly some inappropriate exhileration; she freezes in place, and stares at Abby, instead. "—Heal…?" The glock seems about as baffled, drooping in her grip. "Jesus Christ!" It doesn't really sound like she's talking to God. Actually from the angle of her gaze she seems to be talking to Flint Deckard.
Brian won't toss in how Deckard is miraculously correct on a biblical issue. The young man can't recall any verses where Jesus tackled a leper or something like that. His gaze remains on Leah. Even though Abby is being a big dummiehead, he will still protect her. "Tink." He murmurs. "I think we should put our guns away." He suggests. When Deckard looks over to him, Brian gives an overly broad grin, taking one hand off his gun to give a thumbs up at the man.
"The one that says i'm dead in two weeks. I'm trying to do what I can before then" She snakes a hand out, slapping it down on the blue helmet with a scowl. "I TOLD you I was going to do it! Your just going to fall over in another five minutes if what I felt is true" Abby mutters, shifting to her side to sit up and jam the helmet on her head. "God damn your pride. Go.." fuck your own self. But she doesn't follow through with it out loud. Just scrambles upwards in the snow, snagging a glove along the way and starts to stomp off in the direction of her Vespa.
"Just Abigail Beauchamp," Deckard doesn't quite sneer out in correction of Leah's assertion that Jesus Christ might have anything to do with this mess. "Why should I listen to you if you won't listen to me? That isn't very Christianly language, by the way!" Deckard calls after the Abby in question, voice strained into a thin, hoarse trail of fog against the cold.
Tentative fingers lift to touch carefully over his own face, feeling gently after stitches that are still necessary, if the angry redness about them has faded and the pain eased. Brian's smile and thumbs up are not returned in kind. They're returned with a flat look and a middle finger.
Turning the rest of the way to face Brian, Leah gives him a slow smile, almost vulpine, and slides her gun quickly, smoothly back inside her coat, into its holster. She is wholly fearless about standing right in the path of a bullet. Such a show of trust from the plainly criminally-minded! "Well," she says in a low tone, quiet as she watches Abby go. Her frown, as her gaze flicks to her brother, is uncomfortably serious. There seems to be a lot she isn't saying, marked in the crease of her brow and the press of her lips.
Leah's smile is returned in kind as Brian slowly withdraws his own weapon. Holding it up as he pulls it back to show he has no intention of using it. Pulling up his jacket, he goes to tuck it into the back of his pants once again. The jacket is pulled over as his eyes go after Abby. He starts to make a move after her then pauses. Shakes his head to himself then looks to Deckard. "Want a beer or something?"
Abby doesn't give Deckard an answer, just thumps down on the Vespa, not deigning to look back. Fine, if he wants to limp around. The vehicle flares to life and with a shake of her head, off the scooter goes, with the healer, driving away down the bike path.
Deckard's hand drops when he turns enough to watch Abby motor off, jawline taut with residual irritation. A glance to his own shoulder, the one Brian molested, ends in a steeper frown and a roll of the joint. "Yeah." A beer sounds…like a beer. So, good. He nods once, exhales mild relief for the fact that nobody has shot anyone else, and nods again with a little more certainty. "You want a drink?" The question is posed with a glance at Leah. Slash Tinkerbell.
Folding her arms over her chest, Leah ducks her head in a nod and sucks in her cheeks. Then she looks back up at them, her eyes skipping from one to the other. Still strangely subdued, she says on the end of a breath, "Yeah."
"No strip clubs." Brian puts out there as a disclaimer. He walks in between Dickard and Tinkerbell, slinging one last look over his shoulder at Abby. He takes a deep breath in. He might get in trouble later. Oh well. Looking back at the path, his lips twist into a larger smile. "Wanna know how they came up with the name 'Double Tree Hotel'?"
 January 9th: Just Bones |
 January 9th: Malaise |