Participants:
| Scene Title | Saggy Tits |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Between miracles, Deckard and Scotch have a conversation in the hospital waiting room that consists of more than grunts, which is kind of a miracle in itself. |
| Date | October 11, 2009 |
Twenty minutes spent holding the hand of a creepy little unconscious bald kid selected for this by someone with a better head for public relations, and Deckard asked no questions. He didn't ask for a name, or why him, or what kind of cancer. He didn't say much of anything else either, beyond his initial introduction as 'Mike Burrows,' despite whatever name Scotch might've already been given prior to meeting up at the hospital.
The kid's all better now, if waif thin and still brittle to the touch. Nothing a few happy meals won't solve.
'Mike' looks like he could probably use one himself. Only one down and he's more worn down and closed off than he was when he got here and offered his hand and suggested they get started. Currently on his feet in the hospital waiting room — sparsely occupied at this hour of the morning — he stands a short way apart from a cluster of chairs littered with dog-eared magazines and squints sideways at a National Geographic with an almost naked native on the cover.
Eyes are focused, not so much on Mister Burrows to his left, but at one sign in particular. Its red, a lovely circle pattern with a slashed out cigarette in the middle. A grunt and Scotch who merely introduced himself as 'Jim Jones' a joke he found rather hilarious, though the smirk after his name seemed to just get even odder looks. Apparently for those that do not know his calling- it is not nearly as amusing as he thought it was. Still Scotch remains seated with his coat drawn over him. The bigger, the easier to hide things in, at least things that won't be necessarily picked up by a metal detector.
Fingers tighten and relax, before he begins the tedious chore of popping his knuckles. All of them from the fat ones on the tops of his hands, to the smaller ones in each finger. Eyes trail finally back over to the 'resting Mike' and then back away to monitor the hall. The silence allowed to roll on a little more, before finally the Texan clears his throat, and mutters: "You should see their swimsuit edition.."
"I've already seen more than my fair share of leather hot water bottle titties," is probably the closest thing to a complete sentence Deckard's uttered since he's been here. His own coat is brown leather and battered if not particularly bulky. It hangs off the wiry frame of his shoulders a size or two bigger than it probably should. His blue jeans and the rumpled dress shirt he's also wearing aren't much better, but the alligator hide cowboy boots fit and they're the important thing.
Magazine abandoned in favor of squinting sideways at 'Jim' over his shoulder, Flint eventually turns himself around enough to size him up in earnest, chilly eyes raking around from head to toe without following any readily apparent pattern or flow. "The boss bird have some kind of brainwashing operation going on in the south that funnels you people up here?"
"I spect more boys have before they reach the age of eighteen." said back, before he's offering a grin back to Deckard, still Scotch doesn't let it linger-no it shortly falls off and goes back into the neutral scowl he's worn most of the day since being with the man. He won't argue though, the silence has been welcomed, even if a slight bit unnerving at first. A roll of his shoulders as he's given the look over and Scotch just stares back, flatly.
"Nope." answered after a moment. Given the pause one might expect the southerner to be spitting his dip into a cup. However he has no dip, and no cup, so there will be no spitting antics today. "It was divine luck or providence. Seems they found me through someone at my church. And here I am." well that explains Phoenix "However, I was sent to New York to run a mission after the Bomb went off. Not the best job to have, lemme tell you.." Well after the radiation levels went down-you know what he means. "Not like I chose to come up here.." a rub of his face before he's staring down into his hand. "How about you?"
"Christ."
It's muttered so genuinely and automatically that the irony inherent in the word's use can't possibly be intentional. Suddenly the full of Deckard's focus is drilling in cold through the younger man's skull — he looks like he must be fifty at least, himself — skeptical condescension rife in the flat angle of his mouth and the glass-splintered squint of his glare.
"I was an illegal arms dealer. Then I was a homeless murderer until someone got all morally offended on my behalf. Now I work at a bakery. …But I'm thinking of quitting. I liked being homeless better."
"Died for your sins."
Okay, that came off his lips too quick, but then for a pastor Scotch really doesn't talk like one, unless you count that little thing he just pulled out of thin air there. A look back up though at the older man who keeps that staring going, as for Scotch he's in his mid thirties, but could easily pass for his later thirties as well. After a moment, he nods
"Charming…Have to say though, this suits you better than the murdering part.." A shrug "But, you know to each their own." a look over to his coat and he fusses with a sleeve, before looking right back to Deckard. So the staring is a little unnerving-though the look Scotch gives back is simply that scowl and a faint bit of unamusement.
"I was in the marines for a bit. Did my stint in Kosovo, was ushered out as a Lance Corporal." so yes he knows how to shoot people-and mainly due to the fact bringing a gun in here would land them into worlds of trouble-he didn't bring his. "Got the calling shortly after while finishing college-and Boom. Here I am." a kiss of his teeth "Folks say they never understand the Pastor part."
Brows hooded after the unexpected correction, Deckard can't force himself to bristle over it. He's tired, he's still too thin, and try as he might to maintain some sense of attitude in the faint downturn at the corners of his mouth — it doesn't bother him that much.
He's settling back on his figurative haunches in a way, chilly glare fixed where the rest of him edges into the same comfortable silence he's lurked in since they both got here. "I was bullshitting you. About being a murderer." The rest, apparently, is true or inconsequential enough that he's not interested in working up the energy to make further corrections. Given that it looks like it takes some effort for him to get his bony hands down into his coat pockets when the air conditioning cuts on, probably not much of a surprise.
"I wouldn't worry about the people thinking you're weird. If Kosovo wasn't enough to make you question your faith, a year in New York with these people will probably do the trick."
Scotch then finally seems to mutter something along the lines of 'fuck it' or it could be something else, might be hard to tell once the Air conditioner cuts in, but he's got his hand searching around in his pocket, before he's coming out with a slender piece of gum, as opposed to a nice cigarette. "Who says, I don't question it enough as is already?" says McCoy, before he's popping it into his mouth, and placing the wrapper back in a pocket to be careful. A faint face, but that's lost as he chews a little more.
"Oh." replied back, still it doesn't feel earnest. And the reverend now takes his turn in keeping eyes on Deckard. Though his blue eyes seem to hold a little warmth to him-despite the chill the seems to be the other's specialty. No words about the state, or thinness- okay maybe one crack- "For working at a bakery you look like a crack addict." No offense there, hopefully. But then, Scotch has never been known for delicacies. "You know what-Mike-" a pause "I think I like you." in a chummy way.
Who says? In the end, Flint shrugs in the beat or two before he finally looks away to trace over a line of green crayon scrawled across the wall over a crappy play area designed to entertain kids that aren't here. Thank God. It's the latest in a long series of lazy gestures that aren't conducive to conversation, and doesn't hold any promise of evolving into deeper dialogue. Especially not once a muted commercial has caught his interest flicking bright across a TV on the other side of the waiting room.
He doesn't say that he likes Scotch back. By the same vacant token, he takes no outward offense to the idea that he looks like more like a crack addict than a baker, which is true anyway. When he does speak, it's some six or seven minutes later and simply to say: "I think I'm ready to head back up."
The Pastor nods once, before he's shuffling to a stand. Taking time to continue chewing his gum slowly, till fingers are moving to take the wad out, as he walks back over to the chair he had occupied, sticking it along the hard surface, away from sight. A lick of his teeth, as apparently whatever he was chewing, lost its flavor. There's a fain flickering of his eyes as he glances back from the healer to the television, content to simply stand there in silence. A lot like sentry duty in the past.
"Yeah. I like you." finally added as if the man needed the reassurance, which rest assured he probably didn't. Nor does Scotch usually even speak up like that-so it could be considered a compliment. "You're honest." or something close to it. However, when the call comes to move out, McCoy does go to look down the hall before nodding. Now his turn to play silent.