Mixed Messages


deckard_icon.gif felix_icon.gif raquelle_icon.gif

Scene Title Mixed Messages
Synopsis In which Deckard is really GLAD to snap out of the coma Delilah put him in and becomes even more religiously confused than ever. Do guardian angels wear fingernail polish? Do demons dress up in drag? :( He's not sure he knows anymore.
Date April 22, 2009

Staten Island: Coast

The coast of Staten Island is as much of a presence as its inland, with rivers that invade right into its heart as well as cutting off the circulation of transport from the rest of New York City. The coastal regions reflect a lot of this borough's rural nature, with rough shores and plantlife, broken brick, and general abandonment. The harbors are left to the devices of those that freely come and go, a conspicuous lack of official presence - a number of them notably overrun by the developing crime syndicate, but there are still quite a few, particularly on the coasts nearest to Brooklyn and Manhattan, that are accessible to the lawful public.

It's still early in the day when Deckard finally starts to stir. A thin layer of pale mud cracks out of its gray-brown cake over the duskier leather of his jacket, isolated bits breaking off to flake into the still wet puddle that houses he rest of him when he draws in a deeper breath. The same mud is dried dusty across the side of his face and cemented into his hair, greying it out all the further.

Some 48 hours after Delilah spat in his face, he's just now waking up at the base of a row of abandoned shops not too far from the sea wall. A cement road lies between here and there, tall grass swaying breezily in the light sand beyond. Too-blue eyes squinted hard against the rake of sunlight against his pupils, he reaches dimly to feel for the holster snugged up under the dry half of his jacket. Empty. Frghh.

You know, that's totally lucky. Because guess who's walking along that sea wall -AGAIN-. As if it hadn't gotten him killed the first time? Nemesis is too grand a title for someone as ultimately ineffectual as Felix, but he is a persistent son of a bitch, creeping along in a hurry to get back to the safer harbors.

Raquelle is dressed simply, a tightly fitted black t-shirt under a black leather jacket, black jeans, docs on his feet, black newsboy cap and a black messenger bag resting against his hip as he makes his way along caaaaaaarefully, eyes hidden by a pair of shades and he's lost. He's lost, and he's praying to god and su lin whoever the japanese gods are all at the same time under his breath as he edges along that row of shops, edge, edge…and then he sees somebody. A person perhaps? Maybe sick? He must investigate cuz he's pretty and tall and in TV these people's common sense in dangerous areas IQ seems to lower for the sake of drama. "Yooho…you alright over there?"

Deckard has never suffered any kind of deficit when it comes to bad luck. His current state is evidence enough of that. Murky water ripples cold from the plant of his right hand on its way to pushing the rest of him sluggishly back to his feet. Tongue dried thick to the roof of his mouth, knees stiff, he feels about twenty years older than he is and the sun isn't getting any less painfully bright overhead. He's hungry, he feels sick. He's simultaneously soaked to the bone on one side and doing an impression of rhinocerous hide on the other. And somebody is asking if he's alright.

Harsh squint further cracking the thin layer of grey grit painted onto the side of his face, Deckard looks Raquelle over as if he's not 100% sure he's actually there. He's tall too, if not particularly pretty, and two days outside of his last shower besides. "…What day is it?" is the best he can think to rasp in answer when a frown down at his watch proves that it has stopped. No. He is not alright. He doesn't pick up on Felix's presence immediately, but he's still waking up if the steady swell of his headache is any indication.

And Fel assumes that Raquelle is addressing him, and turns with the sort of speed that would seem to indicate a fight is immiment. But that's no one he knows, and if they were after him, they'd hardly warn him, would they? "I'm fine, I…….you weren't talking to me," Fel finishes, more quietly, though he does approach, more slowly. He hasn't seen Deckard yet. He's in drab, plain clothes, not his usual suit.

Raquelle looks a bit uncertain, worrying his bottom lip as he /now/ gets a good look at Deckard, coming closer and his eyes sweep up and down his body and widen behind his shades. "Oh my sweet merciful jesus…you look a hot mess honey…here, take my arm and we'll get you somewhere ah…to sit down, you need somethin' to drink?" BlinkBLINK as he peers at Fel and just stares for a little while. "Ah…well I suppose I'd want to know if you were okay too sweetie…I know things can be rough around here and I'm just as lost as Madonna's sexuality right now." Oh, Question! "And I think today is Wednesday…"

The more damp of his hands scrubbed back over his brow, Deckard is slow to say or do much of anything. It takes time to absorb what Raquelle has actually said. The knit of his brow suggests this might be because he isn't sure he's hearing it right. Or if he's for real. Jaw worked and tongue turned over into a swallow behind the slight part of his teeth, he starts to shake his head no, as in no he doesn't need help from someone who's as in the wrong part of town as he seems to be. But then there's Felix, and Flint's scruffy jaw tips up ahead of tension lining quick through the flex of his neck. For all that he's been asleep for the last two days, he looks strung out and tired, bloodshot eyes the only real source of color about his dirt-washed person. "Wednesday. Thanks."

It is great luck on Deckard's part that Raquelle is there to flutter and be solicitous. This keeps Felix from murdering Flint with his bare hands. Or simply beating him back into bloody unconsciousness. Both options do have their appeal, after all. The fed's face has gone exceedingly grim, lips drawn tight over his teeth. To Deckard's eyes, the pistol riding under his arm is visible, though to Raquelle's it'd be hidden by the canvas jacket he's wearing. And then he's grinning a very bitter grin, and coming to assist of all things.

Raquelle looks between the two, back and forth and forth and back and he hmms softly before just taking a deep breath and sticking close to Deckard. "C'mon now sugar dumpling, wednesdays aren't that glum, 3 days away from Saturday and only 2 away from Friday." His voice takes on a soft and soothing tone as he moves a hand to his bag to pull out a bottle of water, which is offered to Deckard somehow in the same motion as he's sliding a handkerchief from another pocket and gesturing towards his face. "You got somebody I can call? Ain't safe for somebody so tall…darkish and hand-well scruffily rough around the edges of handsome to be all out here by their lonesome." Another look to Felix as he just stares. "…do you /talk/ darlin' or are you gonna just stand there looking like the missing member of Vanilla Boys to Raggamuffins?" A slender eyebrow raises a fraction.

Sugar Dumpling. Deckard hears the words Raquelle is saying. Really, he does. They just seem to have this way of bouncing harmlessly off the filter of his skull so that he doesn't actually absorb them. Even with Felix right there looking quietly murderous, gun outlined ghostly under arm, he can't help but find the scrape of his stare dragging back to the hair stylist instead. It's like trying to focus on a fire while a naked guy juggling bananas in a pink turban rides by on a unicycle.

He accepts the offer of the water bottle in a distant daze, scruffily rough around the edges of handsome, and blinks distractedly back at Felix while he unscrews the cap. Jesus. His life. "I don't need to make any calls. I'll be fine in a minute." Nevermind the fact that he leans half a step closer to Raquelle in turn. Or the fact that he smells kind of like whiskey, piss, and a guy who really needs a shower at close range.

"Oh, I'll help," Felix says, voice sweet, though there's that bitter edge underneath, like a razor in a candy apple. HE even offers to help support the older man, though not without a grimace. "I know this guy, actually," he adds to Raquelle. "He does this, now and then." He's trying to keep his body language calm, rather than imminently murderous, but there's that glint in the pale eyes that promises Deckard all sorts of unpleasantries should he get him alone.

Raquelle ahhs and actually unless batted away starts to reach towards some grime with the hankie but he stops, cuz there is a smell and his eyes may start to water but he blinks back tears, thankful for tears as he chuckles. "That's what they all say scruffylicious, one moment…" He rummages in his bag, mace, razor, eyeliner, candybars, magazines, lighter, emergency stress cigs (even though he's supposed to have quit) aha…mini lysol. He pulls out the small travel sized canister of air freshener and sprays in Deckard's general direction, spraysprayspray. "Lets get you seated and I've got a snickers and a couple of milky-ways, maybe some mixed nuts in here somewhere so you can get it all together."

Spraaaaaaaaay. Then he just eyes Felix and looks back to Deckard, stepping in to make sure he offers /his/ arm, he blinkblinks as his mind takes leaps. Then he looks back to Deckard. "I had a friend in a problem like this, pretty bitch always getting left high and dry by his partner Jeff. Then one day the bastard put pretty bitch in the hospital and a group of us had to - " He cuts himself off. "Oh honey, you can do much better, trust me. Now here…wipe your mouth." He offers hankie again.

Do not want. Deckard goes rigid against Felix's kind offer of assistance, long face angling away even as his pale glare hazes into sharper focus, reaction not unlike that of a horse that's had its gums sawed in a little too deep by the bit. Spending a coma on some random Staten Island street is bad enough. Waking up out of it to Felix is pretty solid proof that there is such a thing as karma.

Even so, for whatever mysterious and probably stupid reason, he doesn't say anything. Doesn't argue, or decide that maybe he wants that phone call after all. Just eyes Felix until the scent of air freshener catches in his flared nostrils and he looks back over at Raquelle. Impulse irritation hardens the line of his jaw but he tolerates it. No attack, no stabbing, no gun produced out of nowhere. Just a flat, level-browed stare and grudging acceptance of the offered arm. And hankie. The wet portion of his hair is starting to dry to matched the spiked disorganization of the dry half, albeit with slightly less mud. "I'm not gay." Just in case that wasn't clear. With all the touching. And the hankie. And the…everything else.

Just. In. Case.

Yeah. Though arguably Deck was karma's agent to begin with, considering just how dirty a cop Fel actually is. Felix just eyes Raquelle with faint disbelief. Lysol. He carries Lysol with him? He doesn't offer any particular comment, once Deckard is upright and in motion.

"There we go honey, clean your face up…mmhm, now we'll find ah - do you even have motels on this island place?" Raquelle lowers his can of lysol, it is tiny okay…dainty even as he has to laugh, a rumbling cheerful sound at the declaration. "Oh, my muddy little mess, I could've told you that." He starts walking slowly but surely, tucking the lysol back into his bag to take out one of his spare candy bars, offering it awkwardly and looking back to Felix, buhlink and he shakes his head, hiding most of his expression behind his shades. "Do /you/ know where there's a place to settle down for a bit? I can pay hourly or hell nightly?"

"We have…brothels," Deckard hazards, hankie pushed up over the hard angles of his face. It's not very effective. Most of the stuff that's still damp comes up but whatever's already dry just gets pushed around. There's a hint of red on the soiled cloth when he shakes it out and hands it back, blood smeared out of the grizzled bristle of his stubble collection. There's also a thinning of his mouth at the perpetuation of the whole nickname thing, but still no complaint. Muddy little mess. His dignity hurts. Almost enough that he might forget Felix is here if not for the fact that the fed is jammed up against him, physically very much there even as Deckard endeavors to keep his eyes elsewhere. "I know a place."

"There's a fairly reputable place not far from the main harbor," Fel says, in all apparent innocence. "Blue something. Blue fish? Blue Parrot?" He shrugs. "I don't remember," He eyes Deckard. "You hurt?" he says, trying for an approximation of kindness.

"A ho house? Heeeeell no, the most you'll be able to get up is your temperature in this state." Raquelle just grimaces and looks a bit unsettled as he shudders and then peers at the cloth and with a soft chuckle. "You keep that, token from your Fairy God Father." He eyes Felix again. "Well you do have some manners about you don't you - c'mon then, you can hold the doors for us." He takes a deep breath. "Where are you bleeding?" He really does have to ask, voice loosing some of it's sassyness and deepening in a more 'masculine' way, he's…sober and worried at the moment.

The Blue What? Now Deckard does look sidelong over at Felix, the angle of his glare made all the more suspect by the fact that he's leaning most of his weight over onto poor Raquelle. "I didn't mean — " that they had to go to one now. Defensive explanation broken off in favor of looking distantly frustrated, he re-sets his jaw and tries to wish both of them away. It isn't working. "I'm not bleeding."

Felix just makes a little motion of his hand towards the cluster of buildings in the distance still in decent repair. For all the world like Igor showing the way to the lab. "You seem to be," he points out, tone mild.

Raquelle supports Deckard well, walking along and humming softly. "Then that's a lovely shade of lipstick, I didn't even notice you were wearing any. Very natural." He offers wryly as he gives Deckard a 'yeah right' look and then he looks to Felix to see the way he's gesturing. "You lead us somewhere that ain't gonna help my dirty birdy of a friend and I will give you a makeover." He gives the man a serious look. "And I'm pretty sure the concealer I have /isn't/ your color." Creative threats for the win. "You'll wake up looking like a drag queen trying to channel Shirley Temple, ringlets and good ship lollypop missing." He nods again. "Now, c'mon before we catch our death of cold. Even if it isn't cold."

"Jesus," muttered mostly to himself, Deckard curls his fingers around the once-hankie-now-rag and walks on in relative, smelly silence. Being the cream filling in some kind of terrible homosexual oreo was definitely not on his list of things to do ever.

This is gay enough to make Felix feel straight, and he spends way too much time pining for his own straight partner already. "I don't do drag," he says, bluntly. "Listen, it's not far. Just along the main drag," He's already begun to drift off.

Raquelle looks thoughtful now as they walk and he just hums softly as they go and he rolls his eyes. "Of course you don't do drag, you haven't the facial structure for it." He rolls his eyes and he is just trying to make sure he's a steady support for the man stinking up his leather jacket. "Do you have any allergies Mr. Stranger?"

"Mostly terrorists," Deckard fills in for the question of what Felix does do, cold eyes narrowed with conspirative malice while he scans the drag ahead. If Ivanov is rooting for this place it's probably crawling with cops. Or zombies. Or zombie cops. Who fucking knows, anymore? "I think I'm developing one now."

Felix just chuckles, and fades away, before they can really get into the warren of Staten proper.

Raquelle ahhs and watches the suit dressed BoyBand walk away before looking back to Deckard and grimacing. "You are a strange man…you know that? Dirty, stinky, strange like a candybar in a filthy wrapping. But don't you worry, hmm? I'll get you somewhere safe for the night where you can get cleaned up." He assures the man in a reassuring voice.

"The Lighthouse," Deckard says as soon as Felix is well out of ear shot, boot heels dug in and spine straightened a little creakily away from Raquelle's support. Accusations of dirtyness and stinkyness don't seem to phase him overmuch, which may or may not be telling. "It's…an orphanage. Sort of. I work there. That guy," presumably Felix, "is a piece of shit."

Raquelle lowers his arm slowly to eye Deckard with some concern, glancing towards the man before looking away and looking back to Deckard as he sighs softly. "Okay, c'mon, lets get you there then. As long as it'll be safe for you." He hesitates before admitting. "I had a feeling." He coughs. "And just so we're clear, I do not want to fuck you and I am not thinking about you fucking me, I just really want to help you here and then maybe spot you a couple of hundreds for your future brothel enjoyment."

"It'll be fine." Bottled water sipped, swallowed and sipped again, he fumbles with the cap and tucks it away into his own coat pocket so that he sloshes with every subsequent step. Slosh. Slosh. Slosh. He indicates the rough direction of the Lighthouse with a tip of his scruffy head. Then there's that thing about what Raquelle isn't thinking and Deckard lifts a brow over at the younger man. They're about the same height, which may actually make the look more awkward than it might be otherwise seeing as it's right on the level. "Is this some kind of nervous babbling thing? You said I was handsome a few minutes ago. I'm not sure I believe you."

Raquelle mmhms and follows after Deckard, tucking a hand into a pocket before arching a slender eyebrow with a tilt of his head. "Eh?" He snorts and tugs his shades down a bit to stare at Deckard when he's looked over, pale eyes rimmed with liner as usual. "Honey, Tom Cruise is occasionally handsome but I still wouldn't stick my dick in him." He seems vaguely amused as he waves a hand vaguely. "I'm not nervous, are you nervous?"

"Would you tell him you weren't thinking about 'sticking your dick in him?'" More himself in the absence of their Feeb assailant, Deckard goes back to work with Raquelle's hankie, rubbing it up past the loose skin at the base of his neck to clear clinging dirt out of the beginnings of beardage there. His head aches all the way down into the roots of his teeth, alternately tensing and slacking through his jaw in a half-hearted effort to find relief. "No." Not nervous. Slightly concerned, maybe. Color bleeds back into the irises of his eyes and he immediately regrets it. White light, searing all the way back through to his brain, feels like. "Why are you helping me?"

Raquelle considers the question with a wrinkle of his nose before just removing his shades and clipping them to his shirt with a shrug of his shoulders. "Depends on the situation, if he was with his fam…nah, gotta watch the language around the ladies and the little ones but other than that. Probably." He winks and flashes a smile. "Good, cuz I hate making folks nervous. So if neither of us is nervous, that's probably a good thing." He adjusts his cap watching Deckard like a hawk really as he speaks softly…soothingly even, starting with…"Did you lie when you said you weren't hurting?" It is an innocent enough question, even if the question to him makes him pause. "Because I can. Because it is the right thing to do. I can give you many different answers I suppose, but the truth is because…I did. Tell me. What would've happened if I hadn't have been there and you met scruffy Boyband?" He shrugs again, even as he talks tendrils of his ability reach out reflexively in their attempt to sooth or comfort, put at ease, he can't help it really as he sighs.

"No," Deckard lies again, blatant dishonesty giving him about as much pause as his crust-spiked hair gives the sea breeze whipping irregularly through it. Lying about having a headache probably isn't going to do Raquelle any long-lasting damage. Meanwhile his dignity is suffering enough under this new and alien brand of same sex mothering.

"I don't know." This time there's truth in the vague non-answer. Deckard keeps his eyes on the street ahead, lifeless save for the tag of unmanaged grass up through rippling cracks and alongside the curb. The tension in the stiff set of his shoulders has begun to ease, as has some of the broken-edged harshness to the lines around his face. It's kind of a nice feeling, so long as he doesn't think to hard about it in conjunction with the probable source, so far as company is concerned. "Something drawn out and painful, I'm sure."

Raquelle ahhs and nods slowly. "Well okay, I was gonna offer to get you some uh, stuff for pain or a bandaid or something but suit yourself." He chuckles softly and then sobers up a bit more at the admission of ignorance in vagueness and he swallows, the latter part though makes his ability flair reflexively and he pulls back some. Comfort, reassurance lingering up he has to run a hand over his face without actually touching his face cuz hello, make-up. "Look dude, I won't pretend to know, understand, get or any of that other typical 'awww it'll be okay boo boo' kinda uh fakey just helping for the show of it kinda shit…or try to tell you things will get better or keep your head up and keep smiling or that rainbows and unicorns are just around the corner waiting to kiss all the pain away and make your life happy." He waves a hand and flips his wrist, dismissing the possibility.

"But I have a feeling that your life is pretty shitty right now and probably has for a hella long time, I can see it in your eyes and in the lines around your cheek and the fact you smell like frat boys bathroom…but that's besides the point." He examines his glossy black nails. "So if your life is full of shit and somebody comes along with a shovel and a trashbag and you know a few steps more and you'll be right back in more shit…having a moment where somebody shovels some shit out of your wave, throws it away and buys you some new shoes is uh, well, also part of life." He lets his hand drop back to his side. "So this is me shoveling, bagging and giving you new shoes, hm? I just hope the shoes give you a head start for the next pile of shit you'll get into." He's tugged out his wallet and flipped it open by now, thumbing out a few bills and folding them over to offer to Deckard with a flick of his wrist and twist of dextrous fingers he wraps the bills around his business card. "Just let me get you to the lighthouse and I'll be out your hair."

Raquelle talks, Deckard walks, water bottle still marking every step with its audible liquid toss from end to end. He's not limping, really. Stiff from lying in the same position in the mud for a couple of days, maybe. The first part of Raquelle's reassurance re: booboo and unicorns gets a mild, "Good," and little more than that. First because of skepticism, and second…because he starts talking again. He gets a hard look just for that — not even Teo talks this goddamn much when he's trying to be reassuring — but as before, there's no bite to accompany the bark. He keeps walking, and Raquelle keeps talking, this time about shit.

There's a self-conscious lift of a hand to push calloused fingers against the lines worn into his face a minute or so after their mention, but it doesn't stay there long. Annoyed that he's bothered at all, his next sideways look at the younger man is accented with a hint of a rankle at the bridge of his nose…only to see that he's in the process of offering out cash money. Baffled back to silence away from whatever asshole thing it was that he was going to say, he drags to a halt to stare dumbly down at folded bills, card, and fingernail polish. Why does he keep running into nice people who give him things? WHAT IS GOD TRYING TO TELL HIM? "Mixed messages," he says aloud, ignorant of the fact that Raquelle cannot hear him thinking about God and his failure to communicate, which is incidentally pretty stupid considering that he has a guy whose only job is to go down and tell people things. A dry swallow later, he scrapes a glance over Raq's face and reaches to take the money. Fine. Not like he was using that pride anyway. "It isn't far."

Raquelle mmhms softly and shakes his head slowly, unclipping his shades and slipping them back on smoothly as he shrugs. "Then we don't have long to walk." And with that, he falls quiet, verbally, but he has to hum softly under his breath, watching the ground mostly as he slips his wallet back away and slips his hands into his jacket pockets. Oh his life lately.

'Raquelle,' says the card. "I'm Flint," says Flint, albeit on a delay and only after he's reached into his coat and discovered his wallet is missing. Fair exchange of information and all. He tucks the cash and card down into the dry side of his blue jeans instead. This guy hardly looks the type to be selling him out to evil feds and crime bosses anyway. "Thanks."

Raquelle smiles a bit. "Flint…" He almost purrs the name reflexively, mmhming to himself as he tips his hat. "Pleasure to meet you and trust me…You're welcome." When/if they do eventually reach the Light-House though, he has the parting words soft and wrapped up in the reassuring/comforting blanket of his natural ability. "Take care of yourself Flint, and don't forget to wipe off your shoes from time to time." Wink and a flash of a smile. "Call if you need anything. We'll be in touch."

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