Less Than Twelve Hours



Scene Title Less Than Twelve Hours
Synopsis Abigail practices her new name while being a creepy cullen in the middle of the night.
Date September 23, 2010

Le Rivage - Abigail's Apartment

Sprung from the pages of an IKEA catalog, Red suede couches, love seat, armchair, a comfortable cushioned recliner that doubles as a rocking chair. A black cat can be seen on occasion, perched atop something, same for a brown furry dog that promises to be bigger as time passes.

Pictures on the wall of a blonde woman and two adults who look like her, blown up pictures of beautiful scenery. The kitchen is partially open to the main room, meticulous and clean, nothing out of place, a dining table and chairs in the dining area with flowers always in it's centerpiece.

A hallway leads to bathrooms and bedrooms, Three in total and one of which bears a gold cross hanging above it. Inside an antique arm chair in a black and red floral pattern, at odds with the rest of the room in it's pine, purple and cream theme. A painting hangs on the wall across from the bed by a long dead painter and worth a great deal of money. The other rooms unoccupied most of the time.

Somewhere, a budgie sings it's loving tune in it's spacious ornate cage.

Toes curl, the piping of the antique black floral cushion clutched between the pads of toes and the pads of her feet, the stiff fabric soundlessly warping as it's caught up. The fingers of her left hand curl, thin striped cotton bottoms twisting beneath the digits that trap the fabric between her hands and and forefinger taps on the hard plastic strapped to her ankle as Abigail rests her chin on her knee's and watches the bed with ankles turned out.

The bed where Robert Caliban sleeps soundly - She believes he's sleeping soundly.

Less than twelve hours has passed, the cream colored dress hangs up on the back of her bedroom door to be taken to the dry cleaners, Roberts suit hung up nice and neat so that it can be dealt with the next day as well. The sickly yellow from the streetlight casts a rectangle on the floor, the dog sprawled out on his side with paws twitching, dreaming of catching rabbits or Scarlett in his sleep.

Abigail Caliban. She's been saying it over in her head, rolling it silently around her tongue. Abby Caliban. Abigail Marie Caliban. Mrs. Robert Caliban. To Mister and Misses Robert Caliban. She's idly realizes that she upgraded one letter in the alphabet. If she'd hyphenated, it would have been alphabetical even. Abbygale Callyban. Cahlihban. It brings a smile to her face, corners of her mouth lifting just above the rim of the teacup as she drops her gaze to his shoulders and down his arms. Down to his fingers.

Less than twelve hours ago, they'd stood in front of a milquetoast faced man who's pronounced them man and wife and affixed his name to paperwork scant minutes later while they had exchanged rings. There's a glance to the two bits of jewelry on her left hand with a soft smile and knowing there's a matching simple gold band on his hand. Her parents knew, but they hadn't been present, a promise that maybe some time in the future, they'd do the white dress and fancy affair down home or somewhere. When there was time, when things were calmer in both their lives and the threat of imprisonment wasn't on the table for her or her husbands boss. She had skipped over that part with her father. He'd find out soon enough, she's sure and she'd cross that bridge at another day. His heart was still on the mend, no need to stress it further.

Joseph had been thrilled, genuinely happy for her, but there was a loyalty to Flint and uncomfortable with the repercussions that might be visited upon himself by his friend should he preside over the union. Something that was all too understandable if maybe a bit disconcerting. That Flint still harbored something for her. What did Joseph know that she didn't? The cooling cup of tea, no longer steaming, is lifted so that she can take a sip, divert her eyes from the man who takes up part of her bed towards the window and the night that's looming outside the glass and watch. The apartment is quiet. She'd almost half expect one of Eileen's beloved birds to be at a window. Watching.

She can't sleep, not because of the day but because it's just how she is. Middle of the night sit-quiet-cup-of-tea-drinker. Usually in front of a television though. The two of them have come to learn this, the both of them have this defection in their nights for different reasons. She does the Edward Cullen thing tonight though, watch her man from a perch in the corner of the room while her mind turns and turns about what she needs to do. Heck was she going to do with Pila? Take her with her? Bring her to Francois and have him take the bird for when - When - Their Teodoro returned. How many boxes would she need to pack up her stuff. What should she bring with her, what would the salvation army take? Should the carrot cake at the dessert bar be a cupcake, or should it be an actual cake. She can understand, somewhat, why he does it. Edward Cullen that is. She's enjoying stealing this time and watching him while he sleeps unaware. Maybe. unlikely.

Rhett grunts in his sleep, the rabbit lost and scarlett chooses this moment to pad silently into the doorway during her nocturnal ramblings, glance with yellow eyes then turn around and leave, off to see what other rooms are empty so that she can monopolize a bed all to herself and stretch her black furred body out. She'll probably claim Peter's bed. He hadn't fetched his stuff yet but it was only a matter of days.

Toes uncurl, one foot then the other settles on the floor with just a whisper of rubbing fabrics. The coffee mug placed on the dresser with a dull thud. Rhett startles away, head jerking off the floor and staring at her but satisfied that it's just her and not someone attempting to come in that shouldn't, lays his head back down with a chuff and closes his eyes. She lets a foot trail across his fur, drag from hip to belly to shoulder before leaving him alone. Palm first, sliding under the bunched up sheets, other curling around them followed by her knee till she's sliding beneath the crisp cotton and settling the blankets about her as quiet as possible, back in bed beside him and lay her head down on her pillow so she can inhale deeply, draw his scent in as she wriggles her smaller body close, careful with skin to skin. Time to try to sleep again, a kiss pressed to a clothed shoulder before she rests her head.

Abigail. Caliban. For once, she's content and satisfied, delighted with her impulsiveness.

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