Participants:
| Scene Title | Okay Means Okay |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard just can't resist bringing the mug back, but instead of a sleeping Abigail, there's a wakeful one and conversation like always ensues. Promises extracted and expansion on what 'okay' means. |
| Date | July 22, 2009 |
Abigail & Leonards Apartment
An average middle class apartment, it's populated with decidedly not middle class furniture. A solitary red suede couch occupies the immediate living room, with a battered coffee table and side tables as it's companion. A decent sized TV sits on a cupboard with a stereo, DVD player. The kitchen sports a relic from the 70's, with matching chairs that still seem to be in decent condition. The two bedrooms off the hall are distinguishable from the other, one bearing a gold cross nailed above the door, the other not.
In the corner of the living room is an ornate cage on a bird stand, a blue budgie within it's depths. In another corner is a massive cat tree house, and often occupied by a black cat with a red suede collar. It looks barely lived in, like the owners are not yet investing their effort quite yet to move in.
It's late and dark. And late. …And dark. Ambient city light casts warm, bleary color across raised edges and furniture in more open swaths of Abigail's apartment. The area around the living room is bathed in the white-blue glow of a muted television set wavering to the silent tune of the slapchop. Initially the movement gives Deckard pause and his scruffy head withdraws out through the crack of the front door like a badger's. The door doesn't close all the way though. Secondary review of the glimpse of the room he caught does not include any people, Abigail or otherwise, and this is his first time actually sneaking all the way in to — do whatever. Maybe they always leave the TV on at night. He glances to his watch, coffee mug swinging clean from hooked fingers.
This sort of shit was a lot easier when he could see through walls.
But if her plane leaves at 8:00 and it's 3:00 now…suuurely. Surely she's asleep. Surely. So in he brushes, winding back in through the door with a sift of black wool over wool and the quiet muffle of wood against the jam when he closes it behind him to pick his way silently for the kitchen.
Don't discount the power of a nightmare. Not Deckards fault that by the time he'd listened and looked, the bathroom had already been used and the light turned off. That bare feet make barely any noise. White eyelet night gown, black cat in arm, blonde hair in braid, Abigail comes around the corner of the hall and into the living room.
Scarlett is summarily dropped and the young woman freezes as if she's caught some big bad burgl.. oh. It's Flint. "Edward Cullen time?" Softly asked.
Little more than a lanky sweep of black coat and grizzled hair in the open space between front door and kitchen, upon first glance Deckard could easily pass for a common burglar on the grounds that he is one. Closer inspection details the absence of gloves and the familiar angles and shadows cut into his face, currently locked into a surly version of uneasy embarrassment while he tries to come up with a good reason for being here at 3:00 AM with a coffee cup in his hand.
In the end all he manages is a murmured, "Who the fuck is Edward Cullen?"
"Vampire. From a book. One of the girls left it at the bar. He likes to sit and stare and watch the human he adores while she sleeps" Abigail sighs. "It was a joke Flint" The cup is spotted with nary a raise of brow as she carries on to her original destination. the couch and the steaming cup of tea there. "If you didn't want to get caught, you should have brought it later, after I left. But thank you. For returning it"
Wow. That sounds really awkward. Even relatively speaking.
Still suspicious, maybe that Edward Cullen is really some other 20 year old limp banana she's declined to mention she's dating on the sidelines, Deckard frowns at her. Suspiciously. He doesn't get the joke, and doesn't seem thrilled about his stealth fail either, mug drawn up into his side when she carries on for the living room and he lingers in the entry. By the time she's settled, he's moved on to hide himself in the kitchen.
She's not very good with jokes. Obviously. Blanket pulled over her lap due to the cool nature of the apartment and it's A/C, Abigail peers across the room and into the darkened kitchen. "There's coffee in the pot, if you want more. I'm up for a bit. Nightmare and no amount of trying was getting me to Louisiana. Think it has something to do with you" There's a press of her lips together in a frown before it disappears again. "How bad is it gonna be, do you think. Richard's saying that a quarter of a million folks are gonna die."
Something else that's harder to do when you can't see through walls is figuring out what cabinet things go inside when you're rustling around in an unfamiliar kitchen. A door swings open in the dark, then closed again. And another. A drawer opens, closes. Why would a cup go in a drawer anyway?
Blunt nails scuffed through the close-buzzed bristle at the back of his neck, Deckard stands dumbly at the counter, one bony hip braced against the surface while he scowls sideways at the coffee maker. Thinks it has something to do with him. Like what?
"I dunno. There's…the Arthur guy." He sounds pretty gnarly. So.
"He's, nasty, from the sounds of it" That is an awful lot of cupboards he's opening and it's enough to draw her off the couch again with her tea and drift towards the kitchen archway and look in. like a ghost in the darkness, what with the pale hair and white clothing. "Third one to your left, or just put it on the counter"
She watches, just studying the man of very little words. "I dunno how to act around you. I always get the feeling I talk too much, or that you don't like me. Wish i'd go away. Lately"
Third one to his left. It stands to figure that this is the only one up high he didn't check the first time around. Scruffy jaw hollowed out in vague annoyance for the absence of his ability in a way he hasn't really felt it for weeks, Deckard nudges the correct cabinet open and scrapes the cup back into place on the shelf with the others. Bump, clink, and the cabinet is closed again, leaving him devoid of distractions when she starts saying uncomfortable things again.
His long face tips sideways, considering whatever else happens to be out on the cabinet aside from the coffee maker and decidedly mundane in the absence of lambent eyes and crazy homeless guy hair. He looks old. Tired. More of the usual. "No." No she doesn't talk to much or no he doesn't wish she'd go away or no he won't put it on the counter. Who knows.
"No" She echoes it with a soft sigh. No is better than Okay, yes? Maybe. Possibly. Abigail makes sure to stand to the side, so there's an escape hole for him. So he's not cornered, not physically at least. "What can I do then. Tell me what to do" Make it easy, give her an answer, give her something instead of the one step forward, two steps back. The awkward dance that they seem to be stuck doing with neither leading, but neither following.
"You don't need to do anything." There's a smudge of something on the counter. Deckard pushes his thumb over it, focusing hard on everything except Abigail until he can force himself to look up at her, brows lifted and forced into casual indifference to — whatever it is they're talking about. Voice kept quiet against the threat of any other ears that might be listening, he even tries to smile. Hopefully effort's the important thing there because he doesn't actually manage to get anywhere close before he's looking elsewhere again.
two very different people. Not just in age. "Okay" For once, a woman of very little words and using his back at him. "Okay" Don't do anything. Could once again, mean a great many thing. That's not an okay look on her face. It's a confused one, her brows doing the opposite of his, furrowed and pulled in. Down. One hand smoothes out some unseen wrinkle in her nightgown, pale legs exposed from the knee's down beneath the flounce of the hem. "Okay" The third time seems to be the charm as she turns away from the kitchen and soundlessly, back to the red couch.
Maybe that came out wrong. Now it's Deckard's turn to look unsure. His brows press down after hers, jaw hollowed out and neck tense down past the cut of his collar while he watches her wind her way back out of the kitchen. Either way he stays where he is, haunting the kitchen until not leaving or not doing anything else are equally awkward options. When he finally moves, it's to nudge the drawer he opened the rest of the way shut, silverware bumping and rattling. Silence prevails a minute or two longer before he actually reappears around the side of the kitchen, hands slack at his sides. He takes his time in meandering his way over to the opposite side of the couch so that he can lower himself stiffly down into a sit.
She's sitting, feet tucked under her, tea in lap, watching an old episode of MASH again. Without the sound. Not like there's any Dr. Phil on and if she tries hard enough, maybe she'll find Oprah. But there's some nagging suspicion that Flint wouldn't appreciate the vocal black woman. So it's two guys in white's out on Korea joking about this and that and a woman nicknamed hot lips. There's a glance over as he sits down.
"I'll be home, in two weeks. Please don't die. I know you can't promise it but.. I don't have many friends, close friends. Real friends. I'd really like to keep the ones I have." There's a pause and she doesn't take her eyes off the TV. "That means you" In case he hadn't clued in.
Deckard has reconnected.
Scruffy chin rested in an upturn palm, elbow planted square on the armrest he's leaning into, Deckard stares blandly into the white wash of television light that is MASH. Face pale and eyes even moreso, he doesn't look excessively interested in the show or sitting on the couch, try as he might to provide some illusion otherwise. "I'll try not to die."
"Okay" There it is again. And there's Abigail, shifting on the couch. The tea put to the side followed by the sound of cotton scraping against the faux sueded of the couch till she's in the middle, closer to him and awaiting the reaction. Flee or stay. Treat him like a beat dog, woo him with little bites of food and maybe, just maybe he might come around, actually take the food from her hand. Might actually sit beside her.
Okay.
Tension twitches into idle crow's feet, automatic against the audible shift in Abby's position on the couch. The reaction speaks more of unease than displeasure and is otherwise limited to a faux lazy glance sideways to see what she is doing. Perhaps she has found a quarter in the cushions!
Yeah. That look. So back, back to her corner, and leave him in his corner. "You don't have to stay. I can get myself back to sleep. Been doing it for months. You can run if you want. I won't get upset" No really, she won't. She does have a cat. She can pay attention to it. Or even turn up the volume.
Deckard just looks at her for even longer when she sidles away again, blue eyes coolly baffled beside the open cage of his hand that was holding his head up until a second or two again. His, "I didn't do anything," has a distinctly defensive thread to it. He just looked!
Abigail's face falls into her palms. "No, you didn't" It's not accusatory, not in the least as she lets her head fall back, looking up at the ceiling. "Ignore me Flint. Just ignore me. I can't seem to do a darned thing right unless I've had about two glasses of something alcoholic in me around you" She shakes her head, braid shifting on her shoulder back and forth. "Sorry"
Expression difficult to read past something midway between muddlement and resignation, Deckard watches Abby squirm in silence that probably does not actually make the situation any better than it already is. X-ray vision long gone, he still doesn't blink enough, save maybe to clear his head when he finally looks away again. "I don't…yell at you. I've never h…" Well, that's not strictly true. He's actually hit her a few times. The thought furrows at his brow and thins his mouth. There are probably other mean things that he hasn't done to her. He will think of them soon, surely.
"No, you've never yelled at me. Flint, you've never hurt me purposefully without good intentions or at my request. Heavens flint it's not.. that. Blessed everything, Flint, you're the one who knows how to be and experience. I'm the stupid bumbling clumsy one who doesn't. Your different from Victor, I know how to be around Victor. You, you I don't. I don't know how to.. react to 'okay' or .." her hands are punctuating her words in the air before her. "I don't know anything"
MASH is still on. Deckard notes as much while he's busy looking to be at a loss with Abigail and himself, both hands fallen to tangle slack between his knees. He's too baffled to bother with frustration at this point. It probably would've been wise of him to have a drink or two before he came over here, just in case. He's hearing everything she says, it's just that — he only manages to process like ten percent of it. MASH isn't helping, so. He leans over to take over the remote for himself and turns the TV off with a blunt twitch of his thumb. "Why do you care? The idiots you live with aren't exactly conversational virtuosos."
"Because you're worth caring about Flint" She looks over at him then. "you've always been worth caring about from the moment I fixed your head after you sold bullet proof armor plating and insurance and showed up at the diner beat up"
"That was a long time ago." Closing in on a year, now. Seems like longer. His memory has gotten hazy, details clogged and clouded — mention of their first meeting hardly elicits any response at all, save perhaps for a slow push to his feet once he's met her look and dropped the remote down onto the couch beside him. "Okay means okay."
"Okay"
"Try not to die" him standing up she'll take as him preparing to leave. "Call, I'll have my cellphone with me. Don't call, i'll leave it up to you. Keep Teo alive too. I don't think I can take the men of my heart dying on me. I'll be safe in Louisiana" She grabs her blanket again, pulling it over her lap, shifting so she can lay down on the couch, feet taking up where he sat.
"Sure." At the very least, he will probably not try to die, which is mostly the same except with some of the words swapped around into different…places. One last glance tipped down over her reclining across the couch and Deckard starts off for the door, frowny and distracted and his typical self when he glances at his watch and works the lock to let himself out.