Participants:
| Scene Title | Not-So-Happy Renion |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sad reunions are sad. |
| Date | February 23, 2011 |
On the way to Brooklyn
The reunion should have been pleasant. It should have been a happy gathering. It should have been a lot… louder.
It should have been.
"Oh. Well then sorry about that, Agent Coates…"
The leather portfolio of the badge disappears into Brian's black jacket. His eyes following the officer who had been asking questions. This close to the former dome area, cops had been everywhere. His various IDs gathered from past encounters had been enough thus far, but it wasn't a good idea to stick around any longer than necessary. Turning on one loafer, his gaze flicks to the woman on the other side of the sedan. A stern gaze then delievered to the man they had come here to pick up. Winters opens the back door of the sedan and gestures inward.
The black vehicle idles in front of a SUBWAY, water still dripping from the awning over the sandwich shop. The rain has stopped, but moisture is still rampant over the New York City sidewalk. One black loafer splashes in a puddle as Brian moves slightly to the side.
A light sigh is exhaled as Brian motions for Doyle to get in. Glancing over to Samara, he opens the drivers side once again sliding in. "You didn't want anything to eat, did you?" Brian asks, rather blankly. There is little to no emotion in his voice as he tugs his door closed.
"Hey." Doyle's moving with an uncomfortable - painful - limp as he steps into the sedan, sliding within and slumping to lean back against the cushioned seat back and letting his head fall against it, "Thanks for picking me up… I'm not really hungry, though."
The puppeteer, not hungry? Yeah. That's a sign of the Apocalypse.
There's a moment's silence, and then he looks between the two, saying quietly, "You have bad news." It's not a question, but a statement.
The rolling scenery should've been a distraction on the drive. It wasn't. The black pavement offered a dark canvas for Sam to stare at her past— her reflection in the window. In an odd trance, she'd become fixated upon it. The dark rings underneath her eyes and paled skin were grim reminders of why she'd barely slept. Yet even in her paleness the light hormone-induced glow of her skin is a reminder of why she should be sleeping. In many respects, her reflection has become something of a paradox.
Death. Life. More death. More life.
There's a weak smile that plays against her lips as she shakes her head. "No," her voice has an unusually raspy quality to it, she hasn't really talked much today, "Thank you. Not hungry." She hasn't really ate since yesterday— the mug of hot cocoa she'd shared with Adisa— since then nothing would stay down.
She twists over the chair, turning her head over her shoulder to peek back at Doyle a moment, yielding a nearly broken smile as she does so. But she doesn't acknowledge the statement. Her hazel eyes blink with the numbness that had set in hours earlier.
Her shoulders tense some as she turns back to the window to catch her reflection, drawing a small frown. Finally, in a gruff whisper, she delivers the first blow, that Doyle may or may not already know, "Some of the kids are sick."
The car is put into drive, as Brian slowly pulls away from the curb. If one thing can be said about the desperate times of New York, it has made traffic a lot easier to navigate. Pulling onto the street, Brian drives down as he leans back into the seat. Lips clapping shut in utter silence, his eyees flick over to Samara for the briefest moments as she explains. Glancing to the rearview, his lips thin. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I didn't think it would help you in the Dome."
Brian turns the vehicle, both hands tightening on the wheel. "We have a new safehouse for the kids. Jamaica Bay. Has an underground tunnel leading to the waterfront. So that's handy." He murmurs quietly. "The kids who aren't sick are staying there. I took Kasha and Emily to my apartment." He explains dully. But from the way he is speaking, the worst news has yet been delivered.
No… no, he didn't know. That much is obvious from the sudden blanching of Eric Doyle's features, his shoulders hunching up a bit as he straightens in the seat, leaning forward, hands clapping to the back of the seats. There's a tightness around his eyes, a dread dawning within them as he looks between the two, "…how many? How— how bad is it?"
It's half-demand, half-pleading, even as dread sinks into the pit of his stomach like a lead weight.
Sam chews her thumbnail while her eyebrows knit together, her expression only seeable through her reflection as her face turns towards the glass. The explanation about Bay House has her turning back to face Brian though, complete with pressed together lips to conceal or contain what else she might say. "It's not good," is her diplomatic answer, which brings a tiny frown at the edges of her lips.
She turns back to the window. "It's bad," she corrects her window friend. "Only a few are at Bay House." Her teeth toy with her bottom lip and her head turns to Brian again, the information and uncomfortableness of her situation surmounts in the pit of her stomach— not a good feeling for a blurter by nature.
"I just need to say Doyle. You shouldn't go back to the island." Brian lowers his head. "You could get sick too easily. And we need you man. So.. I know what you're going to say but…" A light breath flows out of his lips. "It's a bad idea. To try and go there." That is the disclaimer. Before he tells the other man which kids are sick. "The babies aren't sick. They're fine. Other than the babies?" He glances in the rear view.
"Lance, Joe, Lily."
Doyle might think that those are the only ones that are sick. But the next sentence crushes that hope. "Those are the kids here. At the house. The rest are sick at the island." Including Mala. "I'm sorry Eric." The name coming off his lips has terrible effects on Brian. His hand trembling on the wheel, tears almost instantly springing from his eyes as he leans forward. A sputtering noise produced from his throat.
"Oh, no." Oh… no. The breath catches in Eric's throat, and he leans back a little bit, fingers tightening on the back of the seats as he looks between the two again. The expression on the man's face is something like that of a confused dog that's just been kicked by its owner and doesn't know why… and is wondering if it's about to be kicked again.
There's silence, for a moment. Maybe he's about to demand to be taken to the island. But what he says is, "…you aren't telling me everything."
Brian's struggle with the name Eric has Sam clamping her hand over her mouth. The sob that bubbles out isn't just about the sick kids, it's bigger than that. She gasps for a breath, bottling her tears around that pained emotion. Her head turns to Brian again and her shoulders tremble as she presses her hand firmer over her mouth. There's a question in her gaze, but she doesn't wait for an answer, instead, she protects Brian the only way she knows how. She whispers two words that will prevent Brian from having to say them again, "Eric died."
Brian glares as if looking angrier will conquer the tears. Hand gripping the wheel in sheer determination he straightens some, fighting off the sobs that threaten to take him over. Driving forward, he turns left. And then slams the breaks rapidly. Halfway into the intersection, Winters realizes he was running a red. Slapping it into reverse, he pulls back out of the intersection some. Watching the road dully. He gets a few fingers and a few angry looks. He refuses to answer them.
Samara's news isn't reacted to. He just stares ahead. Waiting for the fucking light. He doesn't dare look into the rear view to see Doyle's reaction.
The fabric of the car's seats creaks softly under Doyle's fingers. If he were a stronger man, he might have torn the material, but he's not. His mouth opens— moves to speak a few times, fails completely, his gaze dropping from the front of the car. "O-oh." Softer, "Oh."
There's silence for a long few moments, and then he draws in a slow, haggard breath, "…take me to the island, Brian."
And like a fountain, Sami can't keep the bad news inside; now that the stream has been opened, it's allowed to spill over. "Gillian's sick." She's still trembling, in fact, she's trembling more. Further discomfort spreads across her. Eyebrows knit together into a tight V and her courage melts altogether. Her eyes well with tears that fall in constant streams down her cheeks among which she forgets to breathe.
"The kids.." hiccup "..don't.." hiccup "..know." Her face buries into her hands as she leans forward, her head shake subtley. She'd rather just hide her face.
"They won't let you in the infirmary if you're evolved. I've been fighting for days. Maybe I can get in there soon. But so far they're not listening." Brian says quietly. "Doyle.. I know how you feel man. I really do but. Gillian's sick. If you get sick too." He lowers his head. "I can't do this without you man. Please. Think about the kids that aren't sick. They need you too."
He manages to get it all out without sobbing and gasping for breath. Just staring stonily at the intersection, finally the light turns and Brian turns left. Continuing the drive towards Broooklyn.
"They can't stop me," Doyle replies flatly, his gaze lifting from where he's slouched forward from the back seat, "You know they can't stop me. You can't stop me either. You need me, but they need me more, Brian." There's a pause. "We're going the wrong way."
Hands dropping from her face, Sam shakes her head firmly, "You can't go. What— what about the others?" She sniffles loudly as her head shakes again. "You need… what about Joe and Lance and Lily? Please. Please." Her head shakes again, more insistently. "Wh-what can you do for them? Th-that isn't being done? I.." her hazel eyes fall.
"Stay the night at the Bay House. Eric." Brian murmurs. "I'll take you to the island tomorrow. We'll leave in the early morning." He concedes. Hopefully they can talk him out of it by then. Pulling along the next road. "I'm not going to fight you, Eric. But.. We need you here man. If you get sick." He lets out a ragged breath. "The kids wouldn't want you to get sick man. They wouldn't want it to be their fault. Mala wouldn't want that."
"Mala would want me there with her," Doyle all but snarls out, one hand lifting from the back of the seat. Brian can feel his muscles twinge, begin to tug… and then all at once he releases him, slumping down in the back seat, burying his face in one hand. He begins to cry, heavy, gut-wrenching sobs, rounded shoulders heaving.
Brian's eyes slightly widen. Even in their biggest fights, Doyle has never used his power on him. It would warrant a fight, a gun pulled, a sudden influx of naked Brians. That's what it would do at any other time. But now, Brian slows the vehicle and pulls it to the curb. His hands drop from the wheel into his lap.
He looks over to the passenger seat, motioning with his chin to Doyle. His eyes flicking from Samara to Doyle. "Go hug him." He commands quietly.
Again, Sami's hands fall. This time to her sides. She frowns deeply, the tears still cutting new trails down her cheeks only to be caught by the sleeves of her coat, that distinct plastick-y feeling against her face providing no comfort. Her head peers over her shoulder at the back seat.
Brian's words don't fall of deaf ears, but she doesn't reach for the handle of the door or undo her seatbelt. Instead she disappears, melting through the passenger seat into the back, becoming incorporeal and turning up corporeal again in the back seat. Her arms stretch around Doyle easily without reservation or word.
There's no reaction for a few moments, and then Doyle sinks into that embrace; burying his face on her shoulder, leaving it wet with his tears as he wraps his own big arms around her, shoulders shaking with every sob of breath. "I should've… should've been there," he mumbles, "Shouldn't've been in Queens, I was… taking a short cut…"
Brian stares ahead glassily, his hands laying limp in his lap. Mouth parted slightly. He doesn't watch them in the rearview. He just stares through the windshield.
The moments when other people need her, minimize her own grief. "Shhhh," Sam's arms tighten around Doyle as her head shakes again, letting herself become a human crying towel. "You can't talk like that," she soothes, her head shaking lightly. "…it isn't your fault.." she sniffles, no longer permitting that endless stream of moisture to line her face. "…shhh… it's nobody's fault…"
"It's somebody's fault," Doyle murmurs quietly against her, "It's always… always somebody's fault. And I'll… I'll find him. Or her. Or— or whoever, I just…" He can't talk anymore, falling silent against her.
