Or Something


abby_icon.gif deckard3_icon.gif

Scene Title Or Something
Synopsis Deckard catches up with Abby in the tunnels outside the Foxhole after they cut out of the Ferrymen meeting early. Awkwardness ensues.
Date September 3, 2009


Cutting out of the meeting early is.. something new for Abby. She tends to stick around regardless of how things go. But she was feeling not in her league, especially when the talk turned to Humanis First and taking action against them. Last she knew, Ferryman didn't attack they just smuggled and helped.

Getting out of the foxhole proper was not the issue since it's all smooth and nicely created thanks to a trio of individuals with complementary abilities. But then you get into the subway proper, with it's rocky tunnels, questionable materials on the floor. This looms ahead and while she had company while she was coming in, Abby is lacking company to go out. The flashlight flares to life, with the push of a finger into the soft rubber of the switch. Jaw tight, she peers out past the lit area, gathering the courage to venture forth and out.

Despite distractions and one last exchange at the door, Deckard isn't far behind. His own flashlight either isn't working or he's too stubborn to use it. Whatever the case, his boots catch often at displaced lumps of rock and he's still in the process of trying to shrug his jacket on over the cross of his holster when his last step sends a piece of mystery metal skittering and scraping after Abby's heels.

Prepare to be blinded as the flashlight turns around as the blonde does from the contact with her sneakers. Well, maybe not blinded as the beam lands on the chest of the man in question. "Oh thank god it's you and not the guy with the scar. I thought for a second I'd be running outta this tunnel screaming about him" The drawls a touch deep right now. "Flint. Heading home?" THe flashlight is swiveled to point to the ceiling so that it's light will spread and illuminate the area as opposed to just the section of the floor and their feet.

Even with the beam centered on his chest, Deckard blinks and squints, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed to blue slits against the swing of a light that never would've bothered him before. A non-committal noise in the back of his throat serves the dual purpose of a hullo and a please stop pointing that thing at me, but she seems to have gotten the message on her own anyhow.

"You know that guy?" is asked on a delay that borders on cautious, or at least reluctant — too low and quiet to echo despite the tunnel's press all around.

"No. Never have. He was staring at me like.." Abigail frowns in the dim light, brows drawn downwards. "In a way I didn't like. Like I should have known him. And you. I don't know what that was about" She adjusts her own volume to match his as she reaches out to adjust his jacket, smooth the collar out quick as can be before the arm is pulled back so that he can't swat or complain that she's done it. "What did they call him?"

Deckard frowns. Dimly, even. As far as reactions go, it's not an excessively promising one. In fact, it's a look she's probably seen on other faces before — evidence of some critical detail or hint of elaboration being withheld after he takes a moment to glance her over and winds up looking up at the cottony network of cobwebs laced over the ceiling instead.

"I dunno." Did they call him anything? Too many people talking at once if so. He can't remember when he tries to, and leaves off the effort with a hazy shrug at his shoulder that buffs up against her fixing his collar.

"I'll find out later. Was just creepy." Deckard's never even been that creepy. "I finished it with Victor. Didn't go too good but, I mean, there was no bullets flying so, that had to be a good thing" Not that she so enjoys tromping on hearts and squishing them into the ground. But that little fraction of information is sure to make the man across from her happy in as much as he can show such an emotion.

"We're moved in on top of the bar, and Richards finding someone to fix things there, and make sure someone can't break in again. I'll make sure you have the new keys and whatever else you'll need if you decide to drop by."

"Sure." She'll find out, and maybe tell him if he can feign the right balance of curious but disaffected. Deckard's busy trying not to look overly interested in the present meanwhile, which leaves him less interested in the things he should probably — be interested in as an ill-timed side-effect. He's only half listening about Victor. Just enough for the long lines carved in around his face to reflect a ghost of a wince without benefit of cover, every twitch of uneasy movement painted in stark shades of black and white under the flashlight's yellow cast.

"That's…good. About your place." Being fixed. Still distracted and back to eyeing her again, he scratches blunt nails over coarse stubble, sandpaper scraping doing little to break up awkward silence made more awkward by the way he's watching her. Like he isn't sure he should ask what he's about to ask or not.

And she's just filling the air between them, as is her habit when around him. The one used to silence, the other used to filling it with everything but that. Only these days, she's more aware of Deckard, and these moments where inevitably she realizes that she needs to shut up and let him talk.

If he'll even do that. But pink lips press shut and blue eyes glance up and over, gaze crossing the span between five foot seven and oh my freaking lord tall. Go ahead, say it, silently prompted.

"Back when you had your ability," definitely 'your' rather than 'my' or 'this,' "I was — mnnh." Not wondering, exactly. Word choice blown off ashy in a wind that isn't there, he reconsiders himself and dips his chin, conspicuously self-conscious in bare light and gaunt angles.

"Did you ever have…weird dreams? Or. I dunno, exactly." Deckard knits his brow, surly against his own stupidity.

Not what she was expecting him to ask. That wasn't anywhere near the myriad of questions that he might have asked her.

"I had weird dreams all the time. Don't rightly think that they had anything to do with.. the Lords gift" Abigail answers back cautiously, browns furrowing again, thin delicate lines on her forehead. "Hokuto showed up again?"

"No." Who? There's a question mark knit in between his brows when he looks back up to her, but he shrugs a shoulder again rather than pursue it. Dismissive as usual. "Probably just…" something else. A failure at finishing his own sentences, he glances to the flash light, sniffs, and goes back to studying her as if he's forgotten anything else he was going to say. "Everything okay with you?"

"She was the woman who pulled us into the same dream" Abigail twitches a bit, remembering how that part of their communal time together went. " Maybe it was a bad burrito? You know what they say about spicy food" Helping him come up with excuses. "I'm okay" She looks away, peering into the darkness beyond. "Feeling inferior, stupid, like I should have kept my mouth shut and probably shouldn't have come here. Cat's pretty good and Helena's pretty good at making me feel like that. Like I should be back down south and shelling pea's instead of.. stuff"

She swivels her eyes back towards Flint. "You want to go have dinner, or something Saturday?" Her hands tighten around the strap on her backpack and the flashlight, nervous in asking the question. This is not Milwaukee. This is not random roller coaster of emotions. "You can say no, it's okay, I'd understand. Bullet proof armor plating for cars and all that."

Oh. Her. Recognition fades in and out with a nod of acknowledgement for his placement of the name and more distraction than he was already parsing through with the addition of that memory on top of everything. He's quiet then, aware of the way her grip cinches a little tighter. Kind of like the wiry muscles in his neck etching taut past the straight sit of his jacket collar.

Deckard squints one eye, opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Looks at a rock.

God, she shouldn't have said it. She should have waited for him to make a move, should have waited for him to show up at her door, if he'd ever show up at her door or until someone else show'd up half dead and In need of so much healing that flint was called and she would be there to take care of him after. She glances towards the rock, away, the dark, then the rock again.

"The rock doesn't screw your brains out in that really awkward never done it before, god give it to me again fifty times over, eager to please kinda way Flint" There's the heat to her cheeks that comes a bit more often these days instead of a lack of blood rushing to her cheeks.

"What are the chances of .. the two of us relaxing like we did in Milwaukee before you know who barged in?"

Does Deckard make moves that are not directly influenced by his pants region? It seems increasingly doubtful; the way he's adopted the recalcitrant slant of a backwards lean, brows hooded and jaw tucked to neck in a furrow of loose skin and grizzled stubble when he finally forces himself to look back at her.

Even without the spectral light that used to make them so distinct, his eyes are awful blue. They're also a little hunted at the moment, focused on her because she prompted him to stop being a pussy and not because they actually want to be. At this moment. In time.

"I don't…I dunno…" mumble mumble. He's still trying to flinch away, long face turning hazily aside where the rest of his focus really can't afford to. Meanwhile his right hand splays and lifts to poke vacantly at his own slatted ribs and chest. "It wasn't that awkward." What are they supposed to be talking about oh no.

"I ever said that you're pretty adept at making me feel like an idiot too? Not like them, just, in this whole other fashion. Like, I'm .. not stupid just, not anywhere near your level" Level of what, she can't quite say. Because she doesn't quite know. She looks up while she burbles out the words, shaking her head and looking around with a bit of a strange smile on her face. The flashlight is the victim right now, swiveling it along the wall to point towards the ground, changing the shadows and trying to be kind to his eyes.

"Like I'm just.. Like everyone else in this city is just so far ahead of me, and I'm just gonna keep plodding along and hope that I catch up. And I caught up. Just this tiny itty bitty way"

"You're fine how you are." Not quite as romantic as, 'I like you the way you are,' but Deckard says it quick and automatic enough that there seems to be some truth behind it, which is progress. Or something in the region of progress while the light glances off the near wall and traces over his boots before skimming back up into his sights again. He stands where he is like a rusty, lichen-chewed fence post, hands fallen back to his sides and head dipped.

"It's not a race. If you want to screw around we can." There is the unmistakable beat of an unspoken but, then a twitch up at his brow: "But I can't do…dinner, or." That stuff.

"That was why I said 'or something' Flint" Oh so quietly the woman opposite him says lips pressed together in a 'oh crap, i shoulda stated the obvious' sort of fashion.

"Oh." Narrow jaw gone temporary slack out of its hollow lock, Deckard exhales something that looks a whole lot like relief slithering out from the uneasy chill in his chest. Both brows lift this time, then re-knit themselves ahead of a swallow. Great!

"You'll show, or you won't" And the darkness of the tunnel isn't getting any less dark and there's going to be others who are going to exit from the foxhole proper. Likely yelling about who's the better vigilante/ferryman/savior of New York's evolveds. Abby doesn't want to be here when it happens. So she maneuvers those few steps forward to go up on rubber toes of her shoes to brush her lips to his. The flashlight beam illuminating chins and stubble and folds of clothing.

Likewise aware of imminent interruption with the straggling departure of everyone else still in the Foxhole, Deckard is brief and a little awkward in meeting her halfway. What if someone sees? There are a lot of people he'd rather didn't. Especially assface. :(

There are no creepy tunnel makeouts tonight, in any case. A bare, conservative touch and the scuff of him moving past to pick out his own way. Eventually a flashlight beam marks his progress in the opposite direction.

If a train leaves the station going at 60 miles an hour, and another train leaves the other direction at 82 miles per hour, when do they meet up?

Saturday it seems.

Abigail waits, makes sure that he's well on his way before she's taking off, sneakers marking her passage in the dark tunnel with the flashlight.

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