Participants:
| Scene Title | Okay |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An Abby log that has nothing to do with Jesus. |
| Date | November 2, 2018 |
It's November, or thereabouts, and 'FELIX IVANOV IS A DOUCHENOZZIE' according to the hissing spray of blue paint that Deckard has just applied to the already egregiously defaced bricking of a conveniently abandoned row of abandoned brownstones not too terribly far from the one Abigail resides in. Salt and pepper scruff bared open to the cold wind beneath a black knit cap pulled down low over his ears, he steps back, squints at his work so far, and chuckles a little nefariously to himself as he steps back in to fix the 'L' with a flourish. DOUCHENOZZLE. At least, that's what it probably says. His handwriting is as careless a foot tall as it is at a quarter inch. His can is given a solid shake while he leans over to check on Abby's progress, and the dot on the 'i' in Felix is expanded into a curling heart.
'Lets go out and paint' Deckard had said, lets go out, I have a babysitter, the kids will be fine. She hadn't been expecting this kind of painting. She'd though maybe they'd be going to some adult education thing, or that he'd arranged for an evening at the university in the art buildings, and some painting there. Body painting maybe.
The hiss of her own bottle is cut short, the little steel balls jangling inside it as she shakes it to stir up the paint then goes back to the flower that she's painting on wall a couple feet down with more artistic intent than Deckard applies to his 'Felix'. This ladies and gentlemen, is a date. Class A misdemeanor. Destruction of public property. Criminal Mischief. So romantic. A styrofoam cup of starbucks is her companion, another one for Deckard beside her but the one with lipstick on it is most certainly Abby's,
"Nice flower." Shake shake, rattle rattle. Another hollow knock around the can's interior leads off into HE'S ALSO GAY. The GAY is underlined, then sketched over again when the line proves a little weak. "I think I'm running low on blue." Could have something to do with his incomprehensible need for grammatically correct graffiti. Maybe that's what happens when you get old.
Another quick step back ends in a grin. An actual honest-to-god smile, however brief. It exists only for as long as it takes him to lean over after his coffee. After that he's busy glancing over the street at their backs, chilly eyes flaring briefly to life while he sips. "I haven't done this in forever."
Because Abby's a girl and she's not about to write what Deckard wrote. "Great date 'Mike'. Defacing public property." There's another shake and then a spray of green blossoms on the bricks, a leaf added to the flower, an extra layer where the stalks within the leaf would show. "I haven't done this since… I first joined Phoenix. We drew burning birds on the side of boxcars. Alexander and Teo and myself." She offers a small smile herself at the memory. Her second illegal act. The first having been that she'd never registered. "I thought you were dragging me off to the university." More green is applied on the wall.
"Who says it's a date? Looks like a perfectly voluntary cooperative effort in being a public nuisance to me." Already rough voice made moreso by the season, Deckard lets his eyes go dark beneath the nearest street lamp's feeble orange glow before he turns back enough to look her over. Gaze scraping around in search of earnest annoyance, he takes a longer sip before he sets the cup down, quiet footsteps scuffing to a stop behind her. "Get any fresh recruits out of it?"
Near polite interest in the memory is somewhat undercut by the wind of his left arm around her middle and the warmth of his coffee breath in her ear while he watches her paint. Arguably it's an improvement over its more characteristic whiskey stink, if nothing else. "We could steal a car. Go for a joy ride."
"I don't think we ever did. No. Maybe we did and I just never knew." The green can is tossed into the canvas bag filled with other can - used or empty - as his hand winds around her waist. Up she looks, blue eyes searching his with a soft smile on her face. Coffee breath is much preferred over whiskey breath. Means sobriety is sticking this time around. "If we do, is it a date then Flint?" Her own hand mirrors his, sliding around behind her to lay her palm against his back, looking up at their communal artwork. "I think maybe it's time it became a date, for real, and not.. a private support group of 'life dealt us a shitty hand.'"
"I dunno. I'd have to check a dictionary to be sure. Google it, maybe." 'Does motor vehicle theft qualify as a date?' Deckard's in too good a mood for the question to give him pause. He doesn't even go stiff against her, the rise and fall of his chest even and easy beneath the black wool of his overcoat. Sober, warm, relaxed, eyes clear in their return study of hers. Breaking a few minor laws and twice her age, yeah, but with no one else around to see, he's about as ideal a version of himself as is capable of existing. "Think so?"
"Probably not an ideal date. But this feels like a Flint Deckard, Abigail Beauchamp date." She inhales deeply, her chest expanding against his. She picks out the curl of the F, and the Y of the last word in his piece de resistance before quietly she blurts out, "Be with me."
"Out here? In the middle of the street? It's…a little cold." Excessively practical and deliberately dense, Deckard tips his brows down at her while he winds his arm more firmly around her waist. Typical inability to take serious things seriously. "I am with you."
"Be with me. Be Mine. Officially. Pin me. I wear your letter. Go steady. Go.. more than we've been going," it tumbles out. Letting his arm tighten around her waist before she leans over - thereby dragging him with her - and grabs a can of red paint. Shake, shake, shake - Hiss. Be my boyfriend Mike? All while he's latched onto her. Blonde hair rustles as it slides over her jacket and she looks up into the stubble that is a permanent companion to his jaw, and the all seeing eyes. Waiting.
Mild surprise fades the upturn at the corner of Deckard's mouth and eases the cynicism etched in between his brows while she paints a picture that's more difficult to intentionally misunderstand. Verbally and…literally. With paint. One eye squinted into a mild wince against her wielding the can with an uncomfortable nearness to the region of his face, he takes longer than he should to finish reading. When he finally looks back down at her, there's a blankness to his expression that betrays hesitance ahead of the simple, "…Okay," that follows. Okay. Okay! He can do that. She asked, and everything. "I…can I kiss you or do I have to ask on the wall first?"
"You can kiss me whenever you want, Flint Deckard." It's terribly high school really. It's about the only highschoolish thing she's ever done in regards to him since years long past. "Or you can write it on the wall. Whichever suits you better."
"Okay," Deckard says again, still a little baffled. He goes with 'okay,' a lot over the course of this relationship, apparently, for lack of anything more intelligent to say. Also it gives him about a second longer to procrastinate before he leans in to kiss her. It's a light thing, brief and reserved, broken off quickly so that he can pull in a shaky breath. Speaking of high school.
He's been around too long for high school. When he goes back in there's a more deliberate, driving heat to the work of his mouth against hers — a decade's worth of words gone unsaid and thoughts firmly suppressed. The blue can is dropped, and he doesn't break off early to breathe this time.
"Okay," Has defined a lot of their relationship until now. No whiskey to ruin it, just the whiff of caffeine before the brush of lips occur, her small soft lips against his more wizened ones. Brief, short, a light touch of nose to cheek before he pulls away and she does too. Then up on toes to meet him halfway, lips parted, taking a much as Deckard gives with one hand tugging down on his collar, the other cradling the side of his face. screw the stubble burn he'll be giving her, she's not pulling away until there's bound to be puffy lips and an allusion to tonsil hockey has been made.
It goes on for…what seems like a long time, and probably is a long time. His tongue trespasses without shame, a testament to his not thinking very clearly at the moment, hollow cheek scraping rough against her hands while one of his manages to get past the lapel of her coat and the waistband of her pants in search of her ass, which is probably a lot warmer than his palm. When he finally dips his head away from the effort to breathe, he is wearing almost as much lipstick as she is, coffee breath fogging heavy between them.
"Jesus."
"He has nothing to do with this." It's breathlessly spoken, her own hot breath curling out in the air between them as she ducks her head, forehead against his chest, crown of her head tucked under his chin. "Should get a room. Somewhere." Even as her own hand is creeping under his jacket and sweater, seeking out the flesh of his back to plant her palm against. "It's too dirty back here," as if what they'd do with each other isn't dirty itself.
"Probably for the best," Deckard agrees at length, both on the subject of Jesus and getting a room. His eyes give their current location more of a fair chance than she does, forgiving in all the wrong ways and for all the wrong reasons, but she's right. A hotel room would be the responsible way to go.
Not that being responsible really has anything to do with this either.
There's a sharper intake of breath when he feels her hand, and suddenly sympathetic to the plight of her bum up against the cold, he pulls back enough to glance after dropped paint and forgotten coffee. The NYPD probably isn't going to test for fingerprints and DNA over a little bit of obnoxious graffiti. …Probably. "I saw a place on the way over."
The won't get the chance to test it, because after another surge forward, a capture of lips between her so that more lipstick can be transferred and a slide of her hand away from under his shirt, Abby wriggles away. She may have just broken the law with Flint Deckard, but she's not going to litter. The cans are gathered, quickly, tossed into the canvas bags along with the coffee cups. Who knows. they just might bring Felix Ivanov down here if they see it and it'd just be downhill from down there.
She falls in beside Deckard, one last look to the art left behind before she slides a palm into his back pocket on the opposite side of her, canvas pack tossed over her shoulder. "Tilt your head this way, so I can tell you what I want to do to you when we're in the hotel room…" She slants a look up toward Deckard with a grin that shouldn't really be on her face and none could ever imagine on someone as innocent looking as her, even having that look on her face.
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