Participants:
| Scene Title | No Brain Smooshing |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After her run-in with Silver's car and the pavement, Daphne receives a present from Corbin and the two talk about the still-sketchy future. |
| Date | June 7, 2010 |
Le Rivage, Corbin's Apartment
The door unlocks and opens. It's been a while since Corbin said he had to step out for a bit, and would be right back, and when he returns he's on the phone with someone, carrying a large shopping bag in one hand. " …You're sure? He's not there anymore? Did he take a phone or… Yeah, okay. Thanks. No, it's not a big problem, I just— no, it's okay, really." Whatever he's talking about, it seems to be bothering him a little, as he pulls the phone down and flicks it off, closing the door with his foot. "Daphne? You still here?"
After he picked her up yesterday, concussed from a head injury, he gave her a set of keys to his new, bigger apartment. But he hopes she decided to stay in, while he took care of a few things. Stay in with his mostly empty fridge and skeleton undecorated furniture. And why did he want a spare bedroom, anyway?
Two head injuries, to be specific — one to the front from smacking the door, and one to the back from smacking the concrete. Daphne is not going anywhere, headachey as she is, though she can at least walk a straight line. She is curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, watching TV, her cheek flat on the cushion rather than propped up. It hurts less that way.
She lifts her head to peer over the back of the couch at him — she looks much worse than she did yesterday, since the bump on her brow is draining; this means raccoon eyes. "I'm here," she says, raising an eyebrow. "Who's missing?"
"The guy I was going to ask to be my roommate," Corbin says as he walks over and drops a bag on the couch next to her. It's full of something bigger than a shoebox, but not that heavy from the way it lands. "I wish I could take you to a doctor— you know one don't you? From when you were staying with the Ferry with the flu?" He touches her cheek gently, tilting his head to the side in a bit of worry. Raccoon eyes may be the worse thing she has to worry about, but it still loks bad…
"There's a present for you in the bag."
"I'm okay," Daphne protests, her eyes dipping when he touches her cheek, a hand coming up to touch his lightly in appreciation. Not long ago she was too proud to have him look after her — now she finds it sweet and touching and something she's grateful for. "I had my senses back — don't say I don't have any! — within minutes, enough to freak out that the guy was a lawyer. If I was brain damaged, I would have given him my name and number and nine ways to get ahold of me, right? Speaking of which, I promised to pay for his freaking car." She wrinkles her nose at that.
She sits up, wincing at the change of pressure that the change of position brings, reaching into the bag and pulling out a lightweight metallic-blue bike helmet. "You've got to be joking."
"No, I'm not joking— you go a hell of a lot faster than any bikes or motorcycles, and you aren't wearing a helmet," Corbin says, touching her light hair gently and brushing fingertips on her scalp as he does. "You're lucky you weren't hurt more than that, and that he didn't demand you get taken in— you don't have a registration card or anything."
And it could have been just like that. Super speed alone may not be the most dangerous ability in the world, but in the wrong hands— and the fines and possible jail time for not registering…
"I like your head the way it is, I don't want it to be smooshed."
Her eyes narrow at the contraption and she stretches a hand out to put it on the coffee table. Where likely it will sit unused. "It'll mess up my hair," she points out — as if that's a viable excuse, given the dreadlocked and shaggy nature of her short bob. "I'll just be more careful. I mean… except for saving you and now running into this guy's car door, I've never had any problems," she points out, pulling him down to sit beside her.
"And you're getting a roommate? Besides the crazy cat?" Daphne looks up at him curiously. It's a good sign, maybe, that he's bringing another person into his life. It's more Corbin, and that less solitary and melancholy depressed guy that hurt her in the past.
"I think I could live with your hair being messed up if it meant you didn't get concussions," Corbin says, pulled down beside her with an oof sound, as he reaches to pull her close against his chest instead of touching her head more. "Head injuries are serious. And it's all aerodynamic and won't slow you down or anything— and I think it'd look cute on you." But a lot of it has to do with feeling concerned about her. This isn't the first head injury she's had, after all.
"And yeah, a roommate besides the cat. He's— a friend." Kind of.
"Maybe I'll wear it if I know I'm going to be in congested areas, but I'll look like a total loser when I stop using speed and am just walking around like a normal person — without a bike to go with my helmet. Like I'm that kid on Saturday Night Live who had to have a helmet because he was a spaz, right? I already did the small bus shit, you know?" she says, still clearly not happy, though touched that he is concerned.
She stretches her legs out, so that she's lying on the couch once more, only using him as a pillow. "Is he … a co-worker, or is he like me?" Or anywhere in the broad, broad spectrum in between.
"Then wear a backpack you can shove it into," Corbin says, pressing his lips against her hair, even if she's unhappy with him. He understands not wanting to walk around like she's disabled, though… "I picked one of the bike helmets cause they're small and can fit into bags. You wouldn't have to wear it all the time, just when you're running through cities— or you don't have to wear it at all, I guess."
With his advice given, he looses his grip and leans back a bit to look at the other bedroom. "He's— a little of both, actually. It's hard to explain." Made harder by his own hand, even… "But he's one of the ones I think will understand what you're going through. With not wanting to register and everything."
"I suppose a 'thank you' is the nice thing to say," Daphne says, craning her neck to kiss Corbin's cheek, her lips quirking up into a smile. "It was nice of you to think of me, and I promise not to get my brain smooshed, okay?" She's not promising to wear the thing, but she's not saying she won't either.
"It sounds like things are going to get really bad… with the Registration stuff," she adds, a little more somberly. "Sure you don't wanna let me run us both to Paris? I mean… it's not like you'd need to speak the language or anything to make a living. I speak enough to get by, and … well. I can make a living."
"You're welcome," Corbin says, even if he understands her reluctance even now that she's saying thanks. That smile is back, at least, and his eyes turn back on her, blue, but still sad. The chances of him moving into the bookstore and becoming a complete hermit seem to have been avoided, at least. Perhaps thanks to something only he can see.
"Things might get worse, but I'm not really— I guess I'm not good at letting go of things. Even when it might be safer if I did— But if it gets too bad, you can still leave."
She reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and her lower lip pulls up in a sad sort of smile. "I'm not going to lie and say I won't… I won't be registered, especially not after all those people did for me to keep me from having to be." Him, Teo, Francois, the Ferry. "If push comes to shove, I'm outta here, and somewhere less … pushy. But if it gets that bad and you're still with me… well. You can choose then, if you want to stay." Her eyes drop, and she plays with the blanket's satiny edge. "We always said no promises, so I won't expect any. But when the time comes, if I'm still here… well. You're invited."
"We'll see what happens," Corbin says quietly, as he closes his eyes and leans against her hair. Gently, so as not to press too hard against any bruises she might have. "I owe them a lot too. For you, and for… a lot of things." Everything that the Company did, he feels he should make up for, at least a little. There's a lot to make up for, even in part.
"And I'm glad I'm invited."