Participants:
| Scene Title | Rainchecks |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Caliban escorts Abby to the valet. |
| Date | February 22, 2010 |
The gala for all intent purposes is likely considered a success. The casino and hotel now open, the hoity toity of New York and further descended. But the time has come, and Abigail's had about enough of the large event that she can take and her feet are sore as can be since being put into heels. Jacket fetched, the peacoat a contrast to the lighteness of the dress and as promised, when she was ready to go, she let security know so that they could get a hold of Caliban on his attached at the hip radio.
And he came, like promised even if it's only to walk her to the Valet so that the hybrid SUV can be fetched by someone and off to the side for privacy. "Thank you, for, you know, being my missing date" She offers up with a nod of her head and a gracious smile. 'Which by no means, is meant to be rude" realizing that it very well could come off as that. "I mean, it's a Linderman affair and you're his PR rep and so, you know, you're working so it's all good, and sorry, for Magnes. He's gets a little.. like " Abby lifts her hands with her clutch, making a motion with her finger saying crazy as it circles. "But he's a good guy, just… There's a pedastal involved" She looks up at the other man, toes scrunched beneath the hem of her dress and then a look around to the hotel proper. "It's really beautiful"
One hand placed protectively on the small of Abigail's back, Caliban leads her through the lobby of the Corinthian, all white marble and gold accents. They leave the coat check behind them and the small crowd waiting to exchange their tickets for their furs and other winter finery. He himself is without a jacket except for what's part of his tuxedo, and this does not provide him with much protection from the blustery February weather when the pair steps across the threshold and out into the cold.
The rain has at least ceased. "It used to be called the Ansonia," he says. "Grandest hotel in Manhattan. William Stokes built it in 1899, hired an architect named Paul Duboy to draw up the plans, and when he was sued by one of his contractors, claimed that Duboy was in an insane asylum in Paris and had been making commitments concerning the project in his name. We acquired the property a few years ago."
"Whatever name it will go by now, it's lovely, and i'm sure, as lovely as it was in it's glory days before it was acquired" Abigail answers back, looking waaaaay up to catch a glimpse of the facade before back once more to her quasi date. "I hope the night won't be too long for you. Beyond the curfew I'm sure. But then, it is a hotel and you can just take a room and spend the night" She could have done that too, but she'd rather hightail it home, sleep in her own bed after the escapades of the previous night. "You wanted to talk about something?"
"I share one of the penthouses with Logan," Caliban says, and he pats his the front pocket of his tux to produce a muffled jingling sound. "A gift from Mr. Linderman. I've decided to make a game of it and see how long I can get away without telling him, assuming Zarek doesn't ruin my fun." Leather loafers crunch through ice, leaving shallow footprints in the snow. By morning, they will have been covered in a fine dusting of white that obscures both their tracks.
But back to business. "When we were in Ryazan, and you were speaking with Kozlow in the hospital room— you mentioned that you knew people who might be able to hide him from the Vanguard."
"I don't know whether to pity you or to pity him, for having to share it. Be sure to short sheet his bed for me will you?" she's found some amusement in that. "Penthouse though, I'm impressed" But not surprised given who he is.
But business, and she listens quietly, blue on blue. Walls were thin in Ryazan and it was no surprise that he'd heard her. "I did, and I do" She carefully answers, the mood slightly changing from date to work. "Can I ask why you are asking?"
"A young woman named Colette Nichols came to see Logan and I about a friend of hers who'd gotten caught up in some trouble around Midtown," Caliban says, his voice carefully neutral. "Pastor Sumter. We agreed to provide whatever assistance was necessary, and I want her people to know that the offer still stands should they need help again in the future."
"Ahh, Joseph" Lips press together, rubbing back and forth, lipstick the kind that supposedly won't fade or rub off and they don't. "Annnd Colette. Always Colette getting in trouble" Sounds like she' very familiar with the young girl. "Would that be you're assistance, or is that Mr. Lindermans and the Linderman groups assistance?" Because there is a difference. "They're called the ferryman Robert, you can't tell me that in all your dealings, you've never heard of their name?" Her voice dropping down to appropriate levels for quiet private conversation.
"Mine," Caliban clarifies. "I've heard rumours, of course. Speculation. Conspiracy theories, really. I wouldn't have believed any of it if I wasn't familiar with Staten Island and the dealings that go on there." His tone matches hers, their exchange inaudible to anyone except the woman walking alongside him thanks to the ambient noise. It's otherwise a still night in New York City, and if it weren't for all the traffic on the street outside the hotel, even whispers would not guarantee their privacy. "I'd like you to pass along another message for me if you could?"
She's playing messenger a lot lately, but it's not something she minds. "It seems what I'm doing of late, but to whom you want it sent, might be tricky. With Kozlow, I've had to curb my participation because I don't want them getting hurt because of me" Which in a way confesses that yes, she's part of them. But really, little wonder given who she was and that she healed everyone supposedly. "The second one?"
"There are certain individuals under Mr. Linderman's protection. Some of them are registered under the Act or have family members who are. Abilities that should probably be classified above the highest tier due to their inherent nature. Others are vocal opponents of the Petrelli administration and this country's involvement in Madagascar." The valet stand has come into view, and Caliban takes this as his cue to slow down even further, buying the pair some extra time in which to converse before they draw too close to continue on the present subject. "I'm beginning to worry that there will come a time in the near future when they'll need to be moved."
"I can't promise that they can get them all Robert. The same as I could only promise to Kozlow that I could try. I can't work miracles anymore just.. I'm only someone who shovels food to the various places, and I come stitch people." Her hands have turned palm up, ticking off on her fingers what it is that she does.
"But, if the time comes… I am sure that the ferryman Robert, would not turn their backs. They don't, on anyone who sincerely is in need of help"
"I'm not asking you to promise anything." Caliban moves his hand from the small of Abby's back to take her wrist, stopping short of the stand to allow another couple to briskly pass by them and claim the next available valet for their own. He doesn't even glance at them when they pass. "I understand that there's a hierarchy in place and you're at the bottom of it. In any case, the situation has only begun to deteriorate. We aren't quite there yet. What about Laudani? Harrison? Do they work with the Ferry as well?"
"I can't tell you, Robert, who else works for the ferryman, except myself. No more than you could tell me who it is that doesn't publicly work for Mr. Linderman and do the not so nice things, other than I know you on occasion do so. Please don't ask me that. But what I can promise, if that day comes that you only need to call me, and i'll make sure that someone knows and that they will try something" Her own hand comes down on his around her wrist, fingers settling around his. "Laudani and Harrison are not Ferry. I'll give you that because you are Robert Caliban and you came all the way to Russia with guns for me"
"Very well." And, at least for the time being, Caliban seems satisfied with that. "Thank you, Abigail," he says, leaning in to brush his nose along her cheek and jaw before planting a kiss at the corner of her mouth. It's a chaste gesture, though it isn't clear whether he makes it because he feels as though she'll appreciate or if he has some other more inscrutable motivation for resisting the urge to draw her into him.
He directs his gaze over the top of her head toward the valet stand and hooks her arm with his. "I am, of course, going to insist that I take you out for dinner at some point during the next week. Do you prefer Italian or French?"
"I'm so busy. As much as I would say yes, and say that I have never ate in a French restaurant, I'm now a very busy paramedic beside Peter Petrelli and my parents are in New York starting tomorrow. Our teleporting acquaintance is going to help me get them here and put them in the Dorchester at Liz's. I can make sure that Momma burns can get taken care of better than Lafayette could, and I'll feel much better with them close, it'll put my heart at ease"
The kiss is appreciated, turning slightly to make it almost full on the lips and her hands tighten a fraction around his wrist. "Can I raincheck? I apologize, I'm not trying to avoid anything Robert. I really am not. Just Kozlow showed up last night at Eileen's and it's my parents with everything. I don't think I'm going to even be at the bar."
Caliban's brow furrows, blue eyes darkening to a more solemn shade at the mention of Kozlow. Or maybe that's just a trick of the light. He lowers his gaze to her hands — both of them — and studies the shape of her fingers in meticulous silence as if trying to determine how they're put together. In reality, he's attempting to discern whether his gut reaction is the correct one, and he's determined not to let it show on his face. "I don't have to tell you to be careful, do I?"
She got a manicure for this shindig, palest pink, slightly pearled so that it didn't detract from the dress. She follows his gaze downwards with a nod. "I have someone trailing me, ninety-nine percent of time. I don't know what they do about the ambulance but I'm being careful, as careful as I can be and I'm sure Agent Parkman will sequester my arse somewhere if he gets too nervous. What more can he do Robert? He burned my home, my parents are here with me and they'll be safe as can be in a place that even SWAT would have a hard time getting into. There's really not much else that I can do and I'm not about to start carrying around a gun"
"I'll think of something," Caliban resolves. "If not a gun, then a taser." Which assumes she doesn't carry one already, but she isn't carrying one now that he can see, and as he looks her over from the top of her head to the pointed toes of her shoes, he bases his assessment on his current observation. He's walking again, his one large hand clasped tightly around both of hers in a manner that would suggest possessiveness if he wasn't allowing her freedom of movement.
Taser. She hadn't thought of that. The proverbial lightbulb turning on above her head. That and her clutch is tiny and bejeweled, big enough for ID's and lipstick, money and her cellphone. "I'll carry one of those. I have no objection to a taser." Just handguns, and he's heard that before in a land far far away and just as cold as here. She starts a moment, the gentle tug at her hands kicking her into gear. She looks behind her and around, in case there's a familiar face and worried. There's careful steps through the slush and snow, a wrinkle of her nose when errant snow hits her toes and makes her speed up. At least her car will be warm when she gets in it. "He hasn't come for you yet Robert?"
"Kozlow?" Caliban inquires. There are only so many people that Abigail can be talking about. His face adopts an expression of visible distaste, mouth rumpled around its corners. "No." And his tone suggests that he'd very much like to see the Russian try. They finally arrive at the valet stand, and the man behind the counter, bundled up in a winter coat bulkier than any of the guests in attendance this evening, gives Abigail an inquisitive look with eyes on her hands in search of a slip.
"Robert, I need my hands, or a hand, unless you want to get my ticket out of my purse yourself" She coaches gently, a glance down. "Or unless you want me to take a taxi home or call one of Mr Linderman's vehicles to send me home. There's a great many ways really, to make it across town" There's an apologetic look to the poor valet. "It's number three twenty eight, green Ford SUV" In anticipation of the Lindergoon letting go, or getting the ticket himself.
The valet gives Abigail a nod, lifts a set of keys off the hook in front of him, shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and sets off in the direction of the parking garage at a brisk jog.
Caliban has, incidentally, let go of her hands at her request. He puts them in his pockets, too, arms stiff and jaw rigid to keep himself from chattering against the cold. "Sorry."
"Heavens, Lord on High" She's digging through for the slip of paper before sliding it to the little podium the valet stands as. "You're freezing your arse off Robert, and then Mr. Linderman will be very upset with me, when you should doing other things that this. "It's not like I can cure pnuemonia anymore, you need to get back inside. I've a cold before, they are not fun" A cold. Up on her toes she goes, this time planting a kiss in his lips, quick as can be before going back down to the flat of her feet. "Need to wash this concealer off my back and get into slippers and pyjama's. Lord I don't know how you do this all the time, I really don't Robert. So many people and the noise. No wonder Mr. Linderman sends you. Go, before you freeze more"
Grudgingly, Caliban looks over his shoulder in the direction of the hotel's doors and the steady trickle of people passing in and out. More of the latter than the former at this hour, but there's always someone whose idea of being fashionably late involves showing up as things are winding down.
He'd know. He used to be one of those people.
"I'll wait," he resolves, and he does. Less than two minutes go by before the valet pulls up to the curb behind the wheel of Abigail's SUV. Leaving the vehicle to idle, he pops open the driver's side door, swings his legs out and levers himself up just as Caliban is moving to press a ten dollar bill into the palm of his hand. A tip.
There will be no complaint that Caliban is tipping. Not after she coughed up 300 dollars to walk around 3/4's of her time here by herself, or on Huruma's arm and the last quarter, smiling on Calibans. She takes the time though to poke her head into her car and peek behind the seats, and then in turn into the very back in case someone might have opted to hide back there, and when she's driving pop up and garrote her to death.
She's watched too many movies with Leonard that have left her clining to the former soldier. But satisfied with her safety and the key in her hand, she's gathering her skirt, sliding into the drivers side and very quickly, slipping her feet out of the heels. Sensible flats in the passenger side seats are quickly popped on. "Thank god, I can take those off. Really, i'm going to tell Teo, that he gets smaller heels for me next time" Looking over at him, not about to close the door on the man.
"Thank you Robert, for a wonderful night. Now go back in, pay attention to the others who need it and make sure you still have a job come morning yes? I promise I'll leave a message on your phone when I get home if it will make you feel better"
This time, Caliban does not put up any resistance. He's seen Abigail as far as he can. With a nod, wordlessly, he turns and heads back toward the entrance, coat tails trailing behind him.