Living Together


f_abby_icon.gif f_deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Living Together
Synopsis The Baker household attempts to unwind and make nice despite difficulties that range from the fact that it's still the 'Baker' household to the pair of crazy time travelers camped out downstairs who could ruin existence.
Date April 10, 2019

Abby's Place - Master Bedroom

The night was fun. If you count watching your boyfriend go flying past you with altered gravity, breaking his legs and other sundry body parts after he'd basically announced to the room that he's fucking you ten ways from Sunday. Tack on a couple hours in the hospital filling out paperwork, getting his leg x-rayed and set so that you can heal it then a very awkward cab trip to the house with your co-worker and boyfriend. Thank god the kids were not there. Her anger hasn't settled much, more aimed at Magnes and at Gabriel who despite warning him that Magnes had gone quite unstable, he'd still not done a thing it seems. Shoes tossed into the corner, hand up her skirt, working pantyhose down so she can take them off, the blonde's hair by now has been taken out of it's updo and tumbling around her shoulder in the bedroom on the third floor.

Formal and stately enough for as long as he remained within the Marriott's walls, within the semi-dark of Abby's bedroom Deckard looks a little like a homeless guy who has been attacked and partially consumed by the close tailoring of his tuxedo. The open jacket hangs awkwardly off his shoulders, the collar is partially flipped up around his neck. His shirt tail is partially untucked. He's been thrown off a balcony, drug around, undressed, re-dressed. He's still a little out of it on top of everything, slow to reboot after the evening's events. Or just tired.

Either way he watches Abby undress without making much progress along the same lines, cold eyes bright in the shadows pooling around his side of the bed. "You still pissed?" Valid question, even if he already knows the answer just by looking at her.

"What the hell did you say to him that he sent you flying out the doors?" There's three runs in her pantyhose, and they're summarily tosses into the wastebasket under her night table. Nothing lasts anymore. "Because Gabriel said that you only said what you did because you were jealous or that your feelings had gotten hurt. I don't know how you got your feelings hurt because you weren't the one with your boyfriend going 'We're fucking' in front of who know how many people" Now its' time to fiddle with the zippers, trying to locate the little sliver of metal that will open up the side of her dress. "Fucking Magnes. No one believes me. You had better have his ass arrested for assault. He's not welcome in my fucking house ever again" Fucking zipper, where is that stupid pull.

Yeah. She's pissed. One eye slanted into a grudging wince while he listens, Deckard stands largely immobile, black suit swinging gently from jagged joints over the crisp white of the shirt beneath.

"I just told him I was looking for you. That you left after I said we were…sleeping together." His voice is quiet, as it is usually is during these kinds of conversations. Maybe a little moreso than usual with the potential addition of unfamiliar ears huddled in the empty space downstairs. A few seconds too late he realizes it probably sounds like he's lying, but. There's little he can do for that past a preoccupied lift his brows when he trails his way around the foot of the bed to feel out the white line of her zipper from behind. No comment on his feelings. No comment on pressing charges, either. His selective hearing is in about as fine a form as might be expected.

Yeahhhh, that would do it. Telling Magnes that Deckard is sleeping with her. "He doesn't know that I'm dating you Deckard. Last thing I wanted was for him to find it out after I caught him buying condoms in the Walgreen's and telling me he was suicidal" Abigail holds still, waiting for the zipper to be undone before she's turning around to face Deckard. "Lord you both embarrassed me last night. What on earth made you tell Victor we're fucking" She's not yelling, just a little louder than she normally is and working out her frustration and she's tired. The tie of his is slipped from around his neck, so it can be hung up, his jacket the same, helping him out of it.

"We're not dating," Deckard points out without much feeling, matter-of-fact while the zipper tracks easily down her side, "and 'Victor' is just some guy with the department, not a tax form." There's still champagne on his breath when he sighs down into her face, offering up no resistance to the removal of tie or jacket. He's especially glad to be rid of the latter, shoulders rolled before he starts on the buttons at his collar. "'Significant other.'" Even if he was exaggerating in his manipulative effort via Gabriel, it isn't difficult to pick up on his distaste. "Is that the title you give people sharp enough to figure it out for themselves?"

"Boyfriend sounds too high school," Abby replies. "I could have said we were dating. I don't know. You'd already walked off and hid, left me to smile and make nice. It's a big group of people and i have to show up, it's proper to show up, I just.. you didn't have to say 'we're fucking', it's crass in a place like that" She's hanging the jacket up so it won't get more wrinkled than it already did, with the tie before working her way out of her own dress. "I'm sorry. Okay. I wasn't.. thinking. There were just alot of people and the kids, and hello people who should be dead coming from the past and on our doorstep. It's been an overwhelming few days."

"There's always 'domestic partnership,'" as far as words that harden the line of Deckard's mouth and temper the iced over glow of his already superhuman glare go.

"We could get pamphlets printed. Pass them out downstairs for those who have questions."

'Whoomph,' is the sound he makes when he drops himself over onto the bed, one side absorbing the movement before he rolls over onto his front, still mostly dressed. One black shoe is nudged awkwardly off with the toe of the other. The second follows with less trouble. Once it's tumbled off the side of the bed and rocked to a halt some random place on the floor, he's silent in his sprawl, but eventually, EVENTUALLY there's a muffled: "I'm sorry too."

'Well we're beyond dating, and we're not engaged, so I don't know what you'd prefer we call ourselves. Maybe next time we are out with the cream of society and standing out like sore thumbs we'll have figured it out" There's no fwump from Abigail, just the slight shift of the mattress as she sits on the edge, rolling over onto her side to align herself along his side, one leg pinned on his and her head pressed to the side of his shoulder, arm across his back. "You're forgiven" A kiss to his shoulder. "And you do deserve me Flint.//

"Sometimes more than others," muttered into the mattress at a distance that may not strictly qualify as flattering in its implications, Deckard fails to reciprocate, but he also fails to pull away. "I dunno either," replied a little more coherently, he turns his head enough to peer back at her, long face smashed somewhat into the comforter beneath it. "Lucky Jordan was there." Random. He breathes in and breathes out, still trying to relax again some four or five hours after he went flying. "Why are there dead people downstairs?"

"Because they came from the past" Really, knowing who they know, is that surprise. The tip of Abby's nose brushes the outside of his ear, her breath soft and warm on the back of his neck. "Isabelle, and Elle. Moab.. in their past, somewhat succeeded and there's.. a bunch of dead people over at Dorchester who are living breathing and existing." There's a rattling sound from Abby's clutch as her phone inside vibrates and rings some fancy little piano tune.

"Mmm," is Deckard's indistinct opinion of current company being from the past, or Abby's breath on his neck, or both. Probably both. There's a rustle where he braces one arm up underneath himself — leverage enough for him to push a slothful kiss into the curve of her jaw. "Phoenix and time travel," the next kiss is as indolent as the first, on down her neck even while he murmurs into it, "sounds like a really terrible combination." He's halfway to her collarbone by the time her phone sets to buzzing and the warmth of his breath stretches into a sigh. Resigned to the interruption, with an unintelligible grumble he rolls the rest of the way over onto his back to set to unfastening the band of his watch.

She only answers it because it's this hour of the night, early morning, take your pick. Usually denotes an emergency. Even if it tears her away from cuddling with her 'significant other'. There will be no sex in the champagne room. Not while there's a guest/stranger in the house. Well. maybe. As he pulls away to take off his watch, Abby leans over to fish in the clutch for the phone, dial up the message waiting for her. "Teo. Excellent timing VECCHIO," her thumbs flicking over buttons, firing off a message in return to the Italian before she looks downstairs, or well, to the floor. "Are they both okay down there?"

"Because if anyone needs more to be fucked up over, it's Teo." As far as gripes go, it could be more ill-intentioned. As things are, Deckard sits up to finish shrugging out of his dress shirt once the watch is off with a deliberate kind of neutrality. "Both are still alive. Do they know they're supposed to be dead?" The shirt is tossed down after his shoes, the undershirt and tattoos left beneath altogether more comfortable for when he draws back the sheets to let himself in under them. His eyes go dark.

"Yes. They both do. The blonde is Elle. Company agent. The brunette…" Well Deckard knows the brunette. Isabelle. Message sent back to Teo and a subsequent one to Elisabeth, she's getting out of the bed to pad into the master bathroom. Get the makeup off her face quick as can be before she slips back into bed with Deckard. Bathrobe tossed to the side. "I don't know what to do with them. I think they're going to try and find a way to send them back. That's what I would do. Surely someone out there had time manipulation. Somewhere in the world" One her back, staring up at the ceiling, she lets her mind wander. "Did you at least punch Magnes?"

"If you don't send them back, they can't die like they're supposed to. If you do, they know how they're supposed to die and can try to writhe out of it." Thinking about it even in the most basic of pessimistic terms is enough to give him a headache. Right hand caged over the alarm, rather than finish the process of setting it at a responsible hour he…turns it off. Nearly dying again and timeline fuckery is probably worth at least one late morning. "I was preoccupied," comes at more of a mutter when he finally settles down enough to close his eyes. Preoccupied with with undesired flying lessons.

That and they have no children to get up and herd to school. Thank you Delilah. "I don't know. and I don't want to think about that right now. Three hours in the Emergency room and a bunch of men drinking to excess" She's long since curd her own slight hangover. "I can only imagine what the front page will be like tomorrow" She turns onto her side again, assuming the position. Head on his shoulder and chest, hand on his abdomen, soothing motions. "What should I do with the children? I don't know how long they'll be here."

Deckard's drowsy, "Send them to the circus," probably isn't a sincere suggestion. Probably. He's had time enough to get used to all the touch while he sleeps, meanwhile, if not nearly enough to repay it in kind. "Kids love the circus."

"I can't send them to the circus Flint. Regardless, Elle is here, and so are Isabelle, till the others decide otherwise, or they want to go back to Dorchester. I don't want to impose on Delilah. Maybe Dad can take them" Who's as old as Deckard, and beats him by a few years. "I'm thinking of taking Vacation because of all this. The good Lord only knows what is going happen now that they're all here"

"Send them to your dad's." It's as good an idea as any other that involves them being somewhere other than the psychopath and the pyro. "Just," he pauses a beat to grunt, "don't make me talk to him." 'Cause — yeah. Awkward.

"But you love talking to him." Abigail looks off towards his shoulder, listening to the heart thudding beneath the newly healed ribs. "I tried to make Magnes go fix you, but he took off for Hawaii. Maybe now Gabriel and the others will get him the help he needs. I'm sorry that he did that to you. Whatever you said, that we were together, it wasn't proper what he did. And Jordan was …" More petting, comfort. "You have a good son Flint. He looks out for you" Calms your girlfriend down and makes her see things she doesn't. peter pan has a brain somewhere in that pretty head of his.

There's a quiet chuckle at that because she's making a joke. Right? She's joking? It dies off a little uneasily when Deckard decides he isn't sure. "I didn't raise him," muttered next, he just twitches a brow at the rest. Magnes is crazy and hates him. He's known this stuff for a decade. "Stop worrying and sleep."

She's terrible at jokes. But she's good at taking orders from Deckard, ten years down the line. Blue eyes are shuttered, blonde lashes quietly settling home against her cheeks. "Children to fathers, Dorchester to see what the plan is. Get them clothes, call in vacation, get Marie to cover my shifts" She'll have to do some overtime for the short notice. She'll see about Sonny inventing some fake emergency that needs her. "I'll never stop worrying. Same as you'll never stop using your ability. so Hush, or I'll sing you to sleep" She won't, it's a baseless threat as she's relaxing into him, shifting her head to find the perfect resting spot for her head.

Baseless or not, the idea is enough to rankle Deckard's nose while she settles against him. He's still tense. Probably not going to sleep well. But the rise and fall of his chest is drawn out and regular. Comfortable. If he's lucky he'll be snoring before his arm has a chance to fall asleep.

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