Participants:
| Scene Title | One Night Only |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After Ordinary Heroes, Doyle takes Meredith away for a heart to heart. They don't see eye to eye. |
| Date | March 13, 2010 |
A Diner in Brooklyn
The quiet clink of glasses and plates and the quiet murmur of conversation fills the late night diner, only a few bodies filling the booths and stools, the parking lot half empty. A waitress in a faded blue plaid dress, hair tied up and expression tired, walks along past one of the few filled booths and refills the coffee cups before moving on. Eric Doyle murmurs his thanks with a wan smile, reaching over to draw his own towards him, both hands cradling about it as he turns his gaze back to his late-night coffee companion, Meredith Gordon.
After the explosion on the bridge, he'd slipped away from the entire scene, and with him went Meredith - not that she had much choice in the matter. Now there they are, sitting opposite one another, and he fiddles with the coffee cup for a moment before asking quietly, "So, um. How's the arm?" Her power still held in control, and she can't stand up, but she still has motor control from the waist up for the moment otherwise.
Meredith's arm has been put into a make-shift sort of sling that cradles it across her body. It's a temporary fix, she'll need to see a doctor to tell whether it's just badly sprained or actually broken. The left side of her face has finally started to bruise into a terrible shade of purple and red from the window of the bus she slammed into. It's a good thing there are no knives at the place setting, otherwise she would be doing some very unkind things to him in an effort to make him release her.
For now, instead, she just stares daggers at him, biding her time for the right moment. The coffee that was poured for her remains untouched and going slowly cold in its cup. Through clenched teeth, she responds with ice in her voice, "It hurts like hell. How do you think it feels?" It's not hard to imagine that she's imaging all the things she could do to him with the spoon she was left to stir sugar and creamer into her coffee.
Ferrymen> Once Bitten Delilah chuu.
At that aggressive glare and those growled out words, Eric exhales a sigh of breath, his head falling forward to look at the coffee in his cup - turning it slowly in his hand. "I'm not… I'm not going to hurt you, or anything, Meredith," he says quietly, "You can walk out of here by yourself when we're done talking." Those eyes flick up to her face again, and he leans forward slightly, "I promise."
He leans back again, one hand coming up to rub against his forehead, "I just… I just want to talk."
If it didn't hurt to cross her arms, Meredith would certainly do so now. She's already halfway there without trying. Instead, she keeps her other fist balled up at her side - the only good one she has. The glare doesn't ease and his woe is me act certainly isn't convincing her. She knows this man's true character - he revealed it to her years ago and she doubts solitary confinement has really helped matters at all. "Talk?" The laugh that spills out of her mouth is almost mocking. Really, she is going to kill Peter when she finds him again for putting her through this.
"You want to talk." Even if she laughed, the glare never eases up, if anything it makes it more pronounced. It's such a strong contrast. "What could we possibly talk about, Doyle? You kidnapped me."
"I did not! I just sort of… rescued you really far away," Doyle attempts with an unsteady smile, hands spreading a bit to either side around the cup, then falling back again, the smile faltering and fading for a more serious expression, "And you wouldn't— you wouldn't talk unless I made you, anyway. You can't argue that one, Meredith, I know you."
He leans back, bringing the coffee cup up to his lips, taking a sip of it and saying quietly, "You knew me a… a long time ago. Before the Company, before— " His voice softens to a hush, "— before Moab. I'm not the same guy anymore." A wan smile, clearly doubting she'll believe him.
"You don't know me." Meredith's eyes narrow into a threatening slits. "You don't know anything about me." He just thinks he does, which is just as dangerous. The smiles and the wounded bird act isn't going to work on the blonde pyrokinetic. When someone goes to that extreme purposefully, it is still there. He is different from burning down a building in rage. He's calculating.
She doesn't lower her voice, but it comes out as a hiss anyway. "Yeah, and you know what that says, Doyle? That you shouldn't talk to me." This really isn't proving his point. "Don't talk to me about the Company. There's a reason you were put on Level 5. Because you deserved to be there." Of course she doesn't believe he's changed. Or, if he has, she believes he's gotten worse. "Whatever happened after that doesn't change anything."
"Nobody deserves that, Meredith," Doyle says with a tight shake of his head, lips pulling in a grimace, "I was just… forget it. You know what? Just— just forget it, you don't care, and you're not listening." A faint, humorless laugh as he leans back, smiling a mirthless smile and raising a hand, "Fine. Just go, just— get out."
A flick of his fingers towards the door, his hand dropping back to the formica surface of the table. So suddenly he releases his hold on her, the puppeteer's strings releasing as he sets his coffee down and looks to the window, "Goodbye, Meredith."
"You kidnapped me and forced me to do what you wanted me to do." Meredith's voice raises in anger when he says that nobody deserves that. He deserves it and she wants him to see that. Angrily, she hits the table with the flat of her good hand. The silverware and flatware bounce and make tinkling sounds when the settle back down, a few millimeters off from where they started. Luckily, the diner is basically empty and those that are there are used to 'lovers' squabbles', so they don't pay the pair much attention. "Tell me why I'm supposed to care about why you want to talk to me. What have you done to deserve it, hm?"
As soon as she feels her lower half come back under her power, she takes a big sigh of relief. Though it's an awkward attempt, she tries to slide out of the booth without jostling her arm. It's slower going than she'd like.
"I was Santa Claus." It's barely audible, a quiet whisper from the puppeteer as he watches another emergency vehicle tear past the diner with sirens blazing, red and blue lights reflected off the windows in stark colour for moments before it's past. The assertion is absurd given the nature of the crimes placed at his feet, although he seems to put some importance to it. Of course, trying to understand exactly how Eric Doyle's mind works is an exercise in frustration for most people.
There's no attempt made to stop her, as she stands up. Apparently, she really is free to go.
Maybe the line is barely audible, but Meredith still hears it. Especially since she's still awkwardly attempting to extricate herself from the damnable squishy seat of the diner booth. In her rocking and sliding, she pauses and looks over at him for just a moment. As she's free to go, she's no longer glaring, however the look she gives him is still a hard one. There's no feeling there. The claim is certainly absurd. How being Santa Claus will ever make up for what he did to her is laughable, but the whisper is enough to catch her for just a second. "That was only for one night," she tells him.
Finally, she's out of the seat and wobbling to a standing position. Her face hurts, her arm hurts, everything about her hurts. It's time to get to a doctor.
As she rises to depart, Doyle doesn't look away from the window. He sips from the coffee, gaze far away, sad and haunted with whatever thoughts stir in his damaged mind. Sometimes, he thinks, One night can be enough.