dantes_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif miles_icon.gif pam_icon.gif teo_icon.gif

Scene Title Schaedenfreud
Synopsis Teo meets Miles at Exotica to discuss matters of recruiting only to find that he's using and abusing Deckard's body. He is not pleased. Not to be deterred, Deckles informs Pam that he is actually a murdering arsonist psychopath after all and that's just how he is so she shouldn't hate on him for it. In light of this line of behavior Teo decides it might be wise to take things outside, so they do, only Deckard manages to @boot Miles out of his body right about then and the clusterfuck squares itself with the addition of one really angry man and two guns. Once that little disagreement has been sorted out at gunpoint, Teo drags Deckard off to take the bus home, only to be pursued by Dantes all the way into another scene that I will post later. Whew.
Date December 9, 2008


It's the middle of the afternoon — yeah, they've been there ALL night long. Deckard that is, and Miles whom is secretly possessing him. He has a beer in each hand, a cigar inbetween two fingers on his left hand, and a cigarette between two fingers in his right hand. Sitting all laid back and lazily in a steel chair, right infront of the stage. He mutters to himself, as to not arouse any looks from the other patrons,"You enjoying the show, old man? Are ya? I figured you'd like a little entertainment while I totally desicrated your body with all this junk, not like you were looking in all that great of shape to begin with. But anyways. Just hope your liver doesn't give out too soon." And then he lifts both bottles of beer, taking a drink from one and then the next.

Deckard, aka Miles, waves his hand to one of the ladies walking around,"LAP DANCE! RIGHT HERE!" … Miles smirks, speaking quietly to himself,"You impotent son of a —… Hey baby! That's right. Shake that bootaaaay!"

Another early evening shift. A few lucky subway connections finds Pam stepping into the Exotica earlier than necessary, backpack with all her strippin' stuff over her back. She cuts a very strange figure in here, what with being covered and such. She looks way too wholesome, which is perhaps why she's hard to recognize when she's actually working.

Fucking A. This is what Teo gets for agreeing to meet a body-snatching Evolved when he's short on however many pints of blood. He, uhm. This is what happens. He— ends up at a strip club. Every… single… time..? His brow plowed down between his eyes with consternation, the Sicilian stares up at the neon sign only faintly silhouetted against the sun filtered through its screen of cloud-cover. This is unbelievable. He puts a hand through his hair, rolls his eyes at himself and proceeds inward, stops when he finds a backpack and safari blonde in the way.

"Excuse me, signorina," he says, edging around as he cranes his head in search of a suit in the middle. There's one. It's shouting, but hard to hear over the music— as had been the voice on the phone.

Miles notices the woman as she enters, he smirks a bit and whispers to himself,"Hey, what do you think about that one eh? She's kinda cute, in a wholesome kind of way. Miles reaches into his jacket, having disregarded the old one, he's wearing a brand new leather jacket now, he reaches into the inside pocket and pulls out a cell phone to look at it for a moment, then tosses it out onto the table infront of him, disregarding it.

Miles then turns his attention back to the stage and he stands up, reaching out to put a dollar bill into one of the stripper's undergarments… aka, thong. "Woooo hooo. Look at those things bounce!"

Pam turns her head as she's addressed - wait, TEO? She sighs a little. It's like they all wind up here at some point or another. He possibly doesn't want to be recognized here, so she just steps out of the way and glances toward the stage. Asshole alert. Wait. Is that…? Pam purses her lips, looking indecisive for a moment before weaving her way through the tables and people toward Deckard. "Mike?"

Between the previous 'now' and this 'now,' Teo's jaw swings loose on its tether and doesn't seem bound to clamp shut anytime soon. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Physically, his mouth falls open for only a brief moment before he manages to shut it, effortfully, and begins clumsily to assess that sigh and disclaimer:

"I don't normally come— I mean, not that there's anything wrong— I'm here to meet—" An asshole, apparently. He blinks comically and swivels his head to track Pam moving toward Deckard before he sees Deckard himself and almost double-takes almost fast enough to give himself whiplash. His stream-of-consciousness switches language tracks to fluent scatology. Jamming cold hands into deep pockets, he begins to follow the unlikely stripper to what he might guess is the fugitive-of-justice and Messiah turned possessee. His expression could be termed bleak.

"Dude.. She's coming over here. Does she know you? You sly old dog you, that's awesome," he says just loud enough for himself to hear and then he turns his attention toward Pam as she approaches and smiles broadly,"Hey, sweetheart. Good to see you again. What're you doing here?"

Deckard spins around to face Pam as he greets her. Mike huh? Well, we'll go with it. Deckard spreads his arms out wide,"Can we get a hug or what?" He smirks a bit mischievously. "How're you doing?" Miles doesn't really know what Teo looks like, so he's not sure what to think when Teo approaches too, he just gives the man a funny look momentarily before turning his attention to Pam again.

Pam folds her arms across her chest, eyebrows going up, up, up. "Mike! What the hell are you doin' here? I saw the news article —- I don't really believe it, but this is a stupid place to be!" A pause. "You didn't really, did you?" Brow furrowed, she purses her lips again and watches his face carefully. "I didn't call you in."

Teo can't be entirely sure if he would ordinarily feel somewhat lost right now, or if his faculties have been limited by recent injury. He posts himself roughly around Pam's left shoulder, a few inches back, and studies the look of confusion on Deckard's face as if waiting for a wink or, the moment Pam breaks line-of-sight, some dour look of 'shoo.'

Not that he's really expecting one. He knows the exact text that Pam is referring to. Deckard shouldn't be out here. While 'should's rarely seem to determine Flnt's behavior, the Sicilian would imagine he's managed to stay alive so long by avoiding mistakes like this.

"I'm Teo," he volunteers in the lull that follows Pam's question. He hesitatesn only momentarily before offering a hand to shake. "Buongiorno. We spoke on the phone earlier. Is there a back room we could use to talk?" This query, he broadens to include the one immediately available employee, and tries on a smile that doesn't quite fit right. Fucking A.

"What? …. News article? Which one? Did I what? What're you talking about?" Deckard tilts his head to the side, a beer still in each hand, he takes a drink of one and then takes a drag off of the cigar in the other. He grins a bit sly,"Oh. You know what? I did it. Whatever you think it is, I did, I did it." He shrugs his shoulders helplessly,"I'm a dirty old bastard… can you ever forgive me?" .. Miles is struggling a bit to not laugh out loud by any means. He then glances toward Teo as he introduces himself,"Oh, shit. Teo! What's up, man? Sure, we can talk in the back."

"You know, I've been waiting days for your asses to get ahold of me, what the hell was taking so long?" Miles asks Teo.

Pam's jaw drops; she looks genuinely surprised as she stares at Deckard. What? Teo's voice pulls her back to the present; she turns around and grabs at his arm. "Teo? Teo, we gotta —- that's Flint Deckard, the arsonist," she hisses.

Teo wants to die. He resists the urge to shoot Miles in the face with a murderous look, telling himself that that smirk, those words, woudln't be nearly so bad if they weren't framed in Deckard's skinny lines and sneering tone. Grabbed, he sort of rattles around in place until he winds up peering into his veterinarian's wide eyes. "He didn't do it. I swear, Pam. He's— he's blacked out right now.

"I mean, look at him." Suit's the wrong color for him entirely, and the leather jacket looks like he'd pulled it off a guy passed out at a bar. Coincidentally. "I'm trying to clear his name." It's a near enough approximation to the truth that he only suffers the vaguest twinge of guilt. He resists the urge to lance paranoid, furtive glances all over his shoulders, and impresses squeamish hope on Pam with his eyes. "Please don't tell anyone. Please. Come on, Porter. Do me a solid, and don't start anything: this is going to take a little time."

The arsonist huh? That's news to Miles. Flint Deckard? So we know his name finally, that's a plus. Miles grins a little deviously at that, shrugging his shoulders helplessly,"Look lady, I had my reasons. Don't stand there and act like you're a saint." Why is he defending this old goose? No clue, but this drama sure does beat sitting there destroying his liver and lungs all night.

Miles looks back to Teo quizzically as he uses his 'real name' and he frowns at that,"Sure, man. But would you mind not calling me that, I'm Flint Deckard" He smirks a bit sheepishly, nodding to Pam,"If you'll excuse us please, we have some business we need to take care of." Miles looks at each hand and then at Pam, he shoves the beer bottles off on her,"Here, take these would you." Miles then moves around them and heads toward one of the private areas in the back of the building.

Pam doesn't lift a finger to take the bottles from Milesard. Teo is given a furious looks. "You're gonna have to explain this —- you're lucky I trust you!" She looks from Teo to Deck again, squinting. "He's acting funny. Shoo. Get outta here before someone calls someone."

"I will." I don't want to. I'm lying. I'll have to think of a better lie before— "Thank you." For trusting him. The notion makes him slightly nauseated. "Grazie, bella," Teo says, nodding his head in agreement at the general absurdity of Flint's behavior. Slinging a brief look over his shoulder at the other dancers and waitresses, he starts to follow Miles into the back. He leaves his acquiescence to the name request tacit, though he'd dropped it intentionally for that tiny jolt of discomfort. He focuses on not tripping over discarded underwear and making his brain think.

Miles pushes the curtains aside and moves over to sit down at the tableless booth. He lifts the cigar up to his mouth, takes a drag, and then he does the same with the cigarrette. He sets the beers on the shelf behind him and waits for Teo to follow. His eyes are bloodshot red, he probably doesn't smell all that nicely right now, like an ash tray that had alcohol spilled into it. He leans his head back on the seat, lazily sinking down into the seat more.
Pam checks the time, makes a sort of 'gleep' noise, and hustles off to the back to get ready.

Crawling behind the curtain, Teo seats himself and locates a cigarette for himself. His lighter takes two flicks to fire up, and he takes a drag, exhales steadily, and inhales from the reek of nicotine — hopefully — instead of the reek of Miles' latest coach. He sets his thumb nail against his jaw and scrapes once, twice, lazily.

"Phoenix." He taps the ash loose from the cigarette with a long finger and squints at the dense folds of the curtain for a moment, before craning his head to peer through the gap. "We exist because people fucking with Evolved pissed us off.

"Homeland Security's a big one. Trying to create tests to detect Evolved abilities, hunting down people who have to conduct illegal experiments on. We don't like hate crime much, either, but that's mostly the PD's area and we leave them to it. There's enough war going around for everybody. We do what we have to to get our work done. Sometimes that means painting logos on train cars, other that times that means making strange friends.

"You're actually kind of wearing a business associate of ours." He flicks Miles a sidelong glance, and wipes meltwater off his shoe onto the floor.

"Ah, well, I suppose it made it easier for you to find me then huh?" Miles grins a little sheepishly at that. He shakes his head,"A political war against anti-evolved huh?" He tilts his head to one side, staring at Teo with a studying gaze momentarily.

He then nods his head and with a tinge of sarcasm he says,"Okay. Well let me go and grab myself a new host right away, Sir." He rises up to his feet, setting the cigar and cigarette down into an ashtray. He moves to the curtain, stops and turns back to face Teo,"You think I care if you're pals with this man? You know, him and his buddy mugged me near Midtown, don't you? So I guess, despite all this 'good' you're trying to do, you don't pay much attention to the bad things that you're 'friends' do, huh?"

Miles shrugs Deckard's shoulders helplessly,"You know, here I thought I was going to be dealing with some sort of smooth talker, but you're as bad as Owen was." He scoffs at that. "His buddy, which, I'd like to know who it was, shot me in the fucking leg..well, shot one of my host's in the fucking leg, I'm a little peeved off about that, and I'd like to rub their faces in the dirt to get even."

Teo's right eyebrow goes up, before flattening again, his expression transitioning from quizzical to unimpressed. "Amico, I told you who he was to me. A business associate. I'm not chasing you out of him, or pretending he's a fucking saint, and I'm not pretending there's anything smooth about taking issue with a troupe of psychotic fascists. I don't know what you were expecting from us. From what I can tell, we saved some cab-driver you were wearing and gave you a phone number.

"If you're under the impression that we think everyone can and should be friends, you've been listening to somebody else for the past five fucking minutes. I didn't assume you cared about shit. You want to prove that you do, I cordially invite you to sit down and try on some Goddamn manners. I haven't shot anybody in the fucking knee, vecchio, but I know more than one who has." His angular features are bent into a scowl.

Deckard's eyes narrow, his brows furrow, then after a moment of silence, he lifts his head back and smirks cockily. "You should get your story straight. Wasn't the cab driver, was the Starbucks employee that almost got his head taken off by some crazy psycho chick. Because you people were slinging around the name 'Sylar' and that Abby girl? I assume you know her, or not, but she's the one that started that whole mess. Yeah, maybe I was in a different host, that was a mistake, but I suppose we've only benefited more from that because now we get to meet you." He scoffs again arrogantly.

"You know, I don't got a problem with you yet, so I suggest we turn this conversation around rather quickly or it could go very poorly from here on out."

"The names' Miles Porter, so what did you learn about me huh? You did look into my past right?" He smirks a little at that, knowing all too well what they'll find. "I suppose you liked what you seen, otherwise you wouldn't be here talking to me huh? Or maybe your looking passed any doubts because you want to be friends?" Miles shrugs his shoulders,"That's fine, I could certainly use some allies, amigos, friends, whatever the fuck you want to call them… but I just want to get one thing straight, I'm not anyone's lapdog, and I don't ask how high when I'm told to jump, infact, I'd probably tell you to fuck off." He laughs lightly at that, smirking impishly,"But anyways… That's why you're here isn't it? To recruit me? That's what Owen was talking about anyways. If you've got other plans, then I suggest you cut the bullshit and tell me what we're doing here."

Air goes through the burning cylinder, smoke curling inside the grille of Teo's teeth before he cuts it loose, opaque, tendrilling toward the ceiling. Miles Porter does want in, then. That's something. "You'll have to excuse me. I was making a racist joke," he answers dryly, far as the cab driver and Starbucks employee go. When the older man — 'older man' — refuses to sit down, Teo proceeds to stand up. Swats the curtain out of his way with one hand, and jerks his head at Miles.

"I don't like that face being in here. Back alley." His footsteps hit the floor solidly, and he doesn't waste a look on any of Exotica's employees before he locates the fire exit, weighs the probability of setting off a fire alarm before he simply shoves out the heavy mechanics of the back door.

Miles turns to follow Teo out of the curtains with his eyes for a brief moment before he shrugs his shoulders and swats the curtains aside and steps out and trails behind Teo. Miles doesn't say anything after that for now, instead he simply follows.

While he follows, he's thinking in the back of his mind that this better not be a ruse of some sort, Miles notices that Deckard has given up for the time being of trying to force him out of his body. He smirks to himself a bit, if Deckard's still paying any attention he's thinking about what kind of 'business' that Deckard and Teo have at this point.

Under that skin, Deckard and Miles was going back and forth for a good long while but why has he given up now? He's starting to feel a little uncomfortable about that, but he shrugs it off, thinking that Deckard is no longer aware of what is going on.

On a scale of one to ten, Teo's worrying about Deckard is about at a three-point-three-three. It would be higher, but there's a finite amount of worrying a Sicilian is capable of doing, and his is currently evenly divided between his kidnapped healer, the pubescent Englishwoman in the basement who sort of has the fate of the world balancing on her skinny shoulders, and the man in front of him. Outside, he recoils faintly from the cold. Watches a stray cat bolt away, and guides the door shut behind them.

He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. "A group dedicated to the betterment of civil rights in America has sent me to check you out." Teo finishes examining the alleyway and returns his attention to Deckard's face. "You have kidnapped a body that belongs to someone we use, and want revenge.

"The latter, I can stomach. Makes sense to me. Some sloppy, trigger-happy asshole douched you over. If he doesn't have the spine to face up, he doesn't belong here. But this?" He points his cigarette at Deckard's chest. "This is the shit we tell the world that it can trust Evolved not to do. So you're going to have to move your line a little bit if you want to get anywhere with your new friends, amico. What are your other options?"

Miles steps out the door, watching as Teo guides it shut, narrow his eyes on the siscillian curiously. His head lowers, his gaze follows that cigarette as it's pointed at Deckard's chest. He lifts his head up, giving Teo a funny look for a moment,"Did you or did you not look into my background? Assuming, by options, you mean, can I go back to my own body?" He laughs, shaking his head. "Seriously? The hosts that I inhabit are my only options, and this.. well, the jackass deserves it. He's a felon as far as I'm concerned, he mugged and robbed somebody for crying out loud. Whose going to care about him? I mean, if you wanted, I could totally advantage of this situation and do something for you that this guy wouldn't do before, but now that I'm in his body, I guess now you see where my potential lies. I can be anyone at anytime, your friend, your enemy, your lover… As far as people know, there is no Miles Porter anymore, only you and your friends are aware of the fact that I am still very much here, figuratively speaking, but there's certainly no way that anyone could ever prove it, unless you have some sort of way to identify a person's soul."

Telepath, pops into Teo's head abruptly. They don't have one of those, though. "Do us a favor, and don't judge of who's worth what. Deckard isn't the only 'felon' standing in his alleyway, unless you Registered under your stri—" He stops speaking, abruptly. Breathes in, breathes out, fingers twitching on his cigarette, feeling his pulse pound behind his face. "I'm sorry," he says, after a moment, reaching up to grate his knuckles over his temple. "Rough couple days. I've been in a shit mood.

"I realize you have too." Underneath three or four layers of clothing, his shoulders square. "I mean: will a coma patient work? Women? Animals? Plants? Can you tell if somebody's willing? Does that ever matter to you? Ever?" Though he's as susceptible to hypocrisy as the next man, he keeps the judgment out of his face this time, allowing intellectual curiosity to come to the fore.

Miles takes on a more serious expression for a moment, then he scoffs at Teo's comments and starts to respond,"Coma patient? If the body don't work, then how you expect me to control it?" He shakes his head,"Women, men, animals… can't do plants. Never really thought much about acceptance, I just did it, and eventually ——" That's when Miles stops talking abruptly, he grits his teeth irritably in a scowl. He then says,"Noo.." The body kind of goes limp, but just for a brief moment.

To the unseeing eye, Miles and Deckard were fighting over control of the man's body again, Miles had let his guard down thinking that Deckard had given up but his suddenly push to regain control forces Miles out of the man's body and afloat into the 'air'. And then Miles' quickly floats away, heading inside, /through/ the door and off to possess another body.

Lacking an unseeing eye, this leaves Teo staring blankly at the older man. And eventually what? "Are you seiz—?" he startles, ditching his cigarette as both arms shoot out to catch the older man's crumpling frame before it hits the pavement and spills loose what braincells the smoke and booze hadn't deprived him of.

There's an audible crack at the sound of Deckard's knee hitting the pavement, but Teo's there to keep the rest of him from suffering the same fate. For a few spare seconds, he's more relaxed than he's ever been, wiry muscles lax and stare unfocused. The latter is the first thing to change.

His irises flare to life, burning blue in the instant before one hand lashes around Teo's throat. The other is snatching after the gun still snug under his coat.

If Teo had his shit together, maybe— maybe he'dve known to reach for the gun hand instead of the one instead of his throat, gone for his own weapon or sent a foot into Deckard's crotch. Instead, he defaults to instinct instead of experience, and his fingers close instantly on Deckard's wrist, his grip weaker than it would have been days ago, his breath jarring to a halt in its column, his feet scraping in a stagger halfway down to the older man's kneeling height. "Smettila!" Barely shaped into syllables, Teo's breath escapes like the last wheeze of air from a knotting balloon. And by the time he's done doing it, there's a firearm on him.

On him, against him, muzzle locked hard into the join of jaw and neck. Pointed up at the brain. Breaths coming in panicked gasps, Deckard drills the gun in with even more force, bony wrist locked into a cold vice beneath Teo's hand. He uses that grip as counter balance to stand with, possessing all the grace of a drunk and very, very angry giraffe once he's actually up on his feet. There is nothing in the way of reason behind the blaze of his glare. He doesn't even make any threats.

But he's really grateful that you caught him, Teo. Really.

A man sitting in the front row of the stage finally rises, he had a wad of money in his hand ready to give it away to the strippers, but after he rises up, he tosses the entire wad, which is somewhere between at least fifty to a hundred ones onto the stage at Pam's feet and silently moves toward the fire exit.

Out stumbles that same man through the fire exit upon Deckard and Teo, whom are locked in a bit of a confrontation. He simply smirks, shaking his head,"What? You going to shoot him? You going to shoot me? It won't do you no good, old man. You should know that by now." He's got a bit of a sniffle going on, repeatedly snorting his nose as he breaths. He's got that same confident swagger as usual and like in the Midtown incident, he isn't afraid of the man with the gun.

Miles pauses just for a moment before saying,"I consider us even now." He snivels again.

It's a different kind of hurt to being stabbed. Ironic, Teo supposes, that this always happens when he puts his arms around somebody. He should stop that. People can comfort or catch themselves. He'll focus on not having weapons furiously rammed into his person.

Maybe tomorrow. Early New Year's Resolution. Obligingly, he kneels. And now his vision's going funny. Colors. The wrong ones. He can, however, still hear and think slow but accurate efficiency. Absurdly, one of the palms hooked around Deckard's strangling wrist shifts to the sleeve of his gun hand, going white-knuckled around the metal— keeping the gun trained away from Miles' new host.

Pam finishes up her song, turning and blinking at the wad of cash right there. Hot damn, someone's gettin' steak tonight! Except Pam is vegetarian, so maybe she just gets a really /nice/ salad. The finishing strut and cash collection occurs, and she slips backstage again. With over fifty smackers!

Phosphorescence doesn't fade, searching and snapping over Teo's face as if he expects to see some wisp fog or dark stain locked tell-tale into the younger man's skull. But there's nothing. Just brain.

How convenient then that Miles should reappear and announce himself in a new form! It takes Deckard a beat to change his mind and his target — his gun hand is wrenched out of Teo's grip so that he can point it at Samuel's instead. Eyes alight and unblinking in the dark alley, he exhales a breath almost as ahaky as the muzzle of his gun. "You would feel it."

Miles doesn't waste any time, cause he's already anticipating that Deckard's anger would be focused toward him upon his 'reappearance', so he quickly snaps forward to reach for the wrist and hand that the gun is in and try to push it upward so he can't fire it on him, hopefully. This may or may not be a mistake on Miles' part, he's not exactly an expert combatant or anything, but he knows well enough to not have that loaded gun aimed in his direction, despite his ability.

One breath of air isn't enough to put color back into Teo's face, but it clears his vision enough to show the reconfiguration of the scene to him instead of wormholing static. Sort of.

Everything's still moving lots faster than him, including Miles. A good thing: Deckard's already wanted for murder. Abruptly, four fingers are hanging from the back of the old man's jacket and Teo hauls himself upright even as he digs his own .45 out from his waistband. Squeezes the muzzle cold against the nape of Deckard's neck. What was originally intended to be verbal instruction comes out in a rattling cough on Flit's collar.

One breath of air isn't enough to put color back into Teo's face, but it clears his vision enough to show the reconfiguration of the scene to him instead of wormholing static. Sort of.

Everything's still moving lots faster than him, including Miles. A good thing: Deckard's already wanted for murder. Abruptly, four fingers are hanging from the back of the old man's jacket and Teo hauls himself upright even as he digs his own .45 out from his waistband. Squeezes the muzzle cold against the nape of Deckard's neck. What was originally intended to be verbal instruction comes out in a rattling cough on Flint's collar.

Awkward. Even with his gun hand forced up at an angle well over Miles's cranium and the left seeking out a knife at his belt, recognition of cold metal against the back of his neck is instantaneous. Deckard freezes save for the ragged edge to his uneven breathing. Hate, hate, hate. Hate. It's all over his face, black and ugly. …Then he hunches over and retches.

Straight down and aside, at least, so. Not onto anyone's nice new body or anything, though the reflexive action might take Teo along with him a few inches.

Miles takes a step back, /just incase/. He chuckles lightly, tilting his head to the side slightly to catch a glimpse into Deckard's eyes, though it might seem a bit mocking as he's smiling as he does so, actually leaning forward a bit. "You feelin' alright?" He smirks at that,"Ah, I'm done. I won't torment you no more, can't really say you did much, you did call 911 after all, so I guess you can't be all too bad. Your buddy on the other hand, who was it? They're next. Unless of course, you've got objections to that, Teo?" He stands upright again, turning his attention back to the other man.

He shrugs his shoulders, glancing back to Deckard,"You know, you should be glad that that's all I did with your body, I could have done much, much worse to you, but I didn't." He extends his hand to the man at that point rather frankly,"I am Miles, either you consider us even now, or you can hold a grudge if you like, but what good is that going to do either of us? So let's just say that we've squashed this here and now, that a deal?"

Pam is sometimes too curious for her own good. And that is why the back door is easing open just a little crack. Just to see if they're out there.

Given Teo wasn't really standing on his own power, he does wind up deducted several inches when the old man pitches down to do his business with the pavement. Disoriented, he is unsure whether he should be thanking Miles for saving his life or beating the smirk off his face. The Sicilian coughs once, twice, sucks down a long lung of air and twists his head to spit on the asphalt over Deckard's left shoulder. The Para-Ordnance hasn't budged. When the words come, they're like shitting gravel out of his voicebox.

"Sh't up, Porter. Wh—?" hack. "Where's your phone? 'Ll call you again abou—t the other man." Hazily, the younger man's eyes teeter past the new gap in the doorway. His grip tightens on the .45. Close the door, close the door. Don't call the cops. Don't call the cops. He thinks stuff at her as hard as he can. Phoenix could probably use a telepath.

Deckard is doubled over with his left hand held out slack away from vomit-range and the right clawed around the grip of his .40. Teo's gun is at the back of his neck. He looks half-dead, or undead, or some weird mix of the two — worse than he did when she saw him last a few minutes ago. His face is pale, the circles around his eyes dark, and the eyes themselves glowing. Which might not have been completely obvious if he didn't choose that moment to tear his eyes off of Miles long enough to stare at the door, and Pam behind it. "Go to hell."

"Uh. I left the phone inside," he responds to Teo. He then grumbles irritably, saying,"And didn't I tell you already that I don't take orders?" Miles withdraws his hand from Deckard after his response. He scoffs and shrugs his shoulders,"By the way, you might want to go see a physician, your body is in bad shape, and that was before our little twelve hour binge." He then glances toward the door intently and moves to grab the handle, pulling it open competely rather quickly, he stands there staring at Pam for a moment. He then smiles pleasantly,"Hey, sugar. Think I can get a lap dance?" Miles then moves back into the club, gently 'pushing' Pam back inside and closing the door behind him.

Pam gasps, hand flying to her mouth. Guns, glowing eyes —- shit! She hurriedly steps back from the door when Miles reaches for the handle, but that still means she's right there, wide-eyed and pale, when he nudges her.

Unfortunately, Teo doesn't have it in him to contradict verbally so he watches the body-snatcher retreat through a bleary stare. Gun's doing all the talking. Fortunately, a dialect that Flint seems to understand well enough. Either that or the evacuation of his stomach contents is doing it.

The grip on the older man's jacket tightens and he begins to ease his strength and weight into winching Deckard upright and shouldering or alternately him down the alley and away from his vomit puddle.

Having solidly established its presence with cold skin contact, the .45 now shifts down to a stubborn poke in Deckard's ribs. Teo would tell him to drop the gun, really, but the last thing they need is a weapon covered in his fastidious fingerprints hanging around for Pam or her co-workers to retrieve. A soup can clatters away from his foot and an errant breeze finally snuffs out his fallen cigarette.

Miles reaches for Pam's shoulder and slowly turns her around and says,"It's okay, nothing bad is happening, just a little misunderstanding is all, and your friend Deckard is well, working out some issues at the moment, he'll be okay though." He smiles politely, looking around the strip joint for a moment before looking back to Pam quizzically.

Deckard doesn't put up much of a fight. A hint of resistance, maybe, in that being forced upright stirs nausea out of its tentative settle at the bottom of his stomach. His knee aches, and there is a leaden drag to his footsteps. No verbal argument, though. He keeps the light of his eyes trained ahead, and eventually over onto Teo when the poke of the gun into his ribs seems disinclined to abate while he's led away.

Pam immediately steps back from 'Sammy's' touch. "You know the rules. And that does not look like okay! What the hell is going on!"

"I'm sorry, but you need to relax, okay? Nothing bad is going on, trust me." He says with a faint smile, letting his hands drop back down to his sides. He stops and just stands there, staring at Pam intently for a moment.

Teo's gaze is ahead, mostly, his profile a wash of festive white and red as they stamp over discolored slush toward the bustle of traffic. He alternately squeaks and cheesegraters out, "Put 'p your gun. Go'n' home. 'Kay?"

"If that's the kind of shit you're scraping off the bottom of the barrel," says Flint, voice cracked dry and rough with the acrid scent of fresh vomit, "you're in bigger trouble than I thought." Nevertheless, his eyes dim and he noses his gun carefully back into place. No sudden movements.

Pam scowls at Sammy; she purses her lips, then nods, quickly. "Alright. I won't say anything." She does not feel as bad about lying as Teo does.

"Smart girl." He smiles warmly at her and then moves into the club, weaving around the tables back to the one he was at previously where he had left the cellphone… which fortunately is still there, he sighs, staring at it a moment, narrowing his eyes on it intently.

He then shakes his head and picks up the cellphone and stuffs it into his pocket.

He then reaches into his backpocket and pulls out his wallet, checking it's contents, he then takes out another twenty and moves over to Pam and holds it out to her. "You did a good job tonight," he winks at her playfully, "You're dancing, that is."

Pam's smile is immediate and glossy. "Thank you, sugar." The drawl comes back, thick as ever in here. The smile doesn't reach her eyes.

'Sammy' smiles back at her and offers a polite nod,"Have a good night, honey. See you around." Sammy then turns and heads toward the front exit and out to the street where he then takes a sharp turn and heads down the street and toward the subway.

It takes Teo a moment to put his own away. A moment too long, maybe, lending the final impression that he was driven to moreso out of necessity for reentry to the public rather than any sort of confidence in what Deckard would or would not do. He sort of wishes he could do longer sentences. The .45 clicks back on safety and retreats out of view even as Teo steps away from the older man and, one-handed, yanks his hood up around his head in some vague effort to hide the colors rotating into his throat.

"I'unno." There's no real strength of opposition in Teo's tone. Despite a defensive curve to the edge of his shoulders, his attention is on the street now, an automatic shift toward practicality. Plotting route to the Bronx, whether a bottle of water — and Tic-Tacs — is achievable en route. "Got you pretty good, Caligula."

"I just spent the last twenty-four hours trapped in my own fucking body because this guy provoked Brian at four in the morning in Midtown," Deckard tells the slushing churn of traffic down the street. Not defensive so much as in mild disbelief. Got me. He's out of it, as much a zombie as he's ever been in the presence of Teo. Drained. "The worse the guys I reported to you did was punch me in the head."

Breathe in. Breathe out. Teo's windpipe can't seem to convince itself it is functioning without actual obstruction, but he's well-aware he wouldn't be upright and walking if it were actually crushed. "What he did tt" One cough. "Di' to you was utterly fucked up.

"I know. 'M sorry. 'M sorry." He swallows the end of that sentence and blinks in the gray of refracted sunlight, The bright quiltwork of a newspaper stand and angles that way, motioning with an elbow because he can't bring himself to take his hands into the cold. They might have bottled water. "But you' rather be dead?" Evian, he can tell from this distance. His hands shuffle in search of his wallet.

No answer. Promising.

Deckard watches the back of Teo's hooded head, slow to fall into step behind him, and disinclined to get too close besides. He hangs back, eyeing the vendor from afar because the vendor is eyeing him in all his fucked up glory. Not that Teo is much better at the moment.

In the end, Teo's hands can live with cold, momentary as it is. Money is transferred and a large round, ribbed bottle of water procured, weighty, oscillating subtly in the flat of his hand. Blundering back over the sidewalk to where the older man hung back, he holds it out to him, the butt end out.

Reeling his head to the left, he spits into sodden snow once more, before jerking a shoulder toward the curb, making suggestion by gesture. Bus stops. They come with reasonable frequency here, in the density of strip joints and bars. Drunkards need lifts home before they roll, frozen into the gutters. Ordinarily, he'd recommend walking: Brooklyn isn't that big, after all, but Deckard doesn't look like he's doing so hot.

"Thanks." Already numb through the pads of his fingers, Deckard takes the offered water without real enthusiasm. If he throws it up on the bus, he's not going to be very popular. Still. He works the cap off and crunches his way dimly over to the bus stop sign. With his five o'clock shadow making a strong comeback already, he might pass for homeless. Of course, the stink of booze, smoke, and barf about him probably helps.

"I'd say that eventually we'll run out of shitty things to have happen to us. But at this point I'm disinclined to tempt fate to think up new ones."

About forty seconds too late, Teo realizes he probably should've taken a pull of water before handing it over to the guy with the mouth reamed in glistening stomach acid. Fuck it. Too late is too late. "No pro'lem, vecchio." Despite frayed wire-work, he makes enough calculations to insert his frame between Deckard and the thickest part of the pedestrian traffic.

Though, honestly, were a squad car to pull up right now he's well aware there's fuck-all he could do about it. Shoot somebody. Bolt. Try not to trip on ice and lose air before he's even taken off. //Tempting fate/. He chooses to think of something el— no. Not Abby, either. "You nee' medical 'ttention?" he asks, watching the oncoming vehicles for the bright yellow numbers.

Forty seconds in, Deckard hasn't actually had any water to drink. He just holds the water at his side, maybe trying to think away the unpleasant turn of his guts that occurs every time he goes to lift the bottle. He's self aware enough to keep his head down, meanwhile. Or he lacks the energy to keep it held at a responsible elevation. Hard to tell.

"Does Abigail do hangovers?" The question lacks sincere interest. It's just something to say, the nasty breath he wastes on conversation conveniently visible enough to be avoided, for the most part.

When sixty seven seconds have transpired, Teo decides it would not be rude to request the Evian bottle. Which he does so with a palm up. Dry and cold, the winter wind is doing nothing for him. "'Eah." He manages to lever the syllable out without distinguishing consonants from vowels. The answer is equally lacking in heartfelt anything, in due recognition of the style in which the question was asked.

Tides of traffic break; a bus comes to the stop, but unhelpfully express. Half of those waiting board, leaving the two unlikely companions standing in the diminished shade. Teo's hood twitches forward a fraction of an inch, slapped by a passing wind.

The overcoat Dantes has on is rather formal, in contrast to the jeans and t-shirt underneath. He's not heading anywhere in particular, but rather wandering, letting his eye be drawn by the various arrangements of neon created to entice the lonely, the bored, and the desperate……but he seems curiously unmoved and remote. Clearly not here for the various forms of negotiable company. The lurid lights make the lines of his face look all the more severe - Sonny's done wonders for his looks, but that grim cop's mask is there no matter the bone structure.

Shoulders sloped down on either side of his bowed and semi-scruffy head, Deckard looks as if he spent the night on the sidewalk drinking. His eyes are red and deep set in dark hollows. He's even more pale and drawn than usual, and he's in a black leather jacket in place of the usual overcoat. He also smells. Whiskey, beer, smoke, his stomach contents. And, once Teo has taken the bottle, he's whistling. Always look on the bright side of life. Doot doot. Doot doot doot doot deet doot.

Uncapping the bottle, Teo manages to put water down the right pipe before hacking short. Screwing the lid back on, he covers the sudden, ruddy flush of his embarrassment by reaching up to tug his hoodie lower over his eyes. Deliberately, he avoids the gazes of the pedestrians and other waiting bus riders. His cheek twitches when the whistled tune starts up, its notes. "W' you'f killed me?" he asks, finally. His tone is light, even with the rasp in, crackling staticky. Even a yes would be acceptable humor, frankly.

Well, it's a bus stop. Apparently Fel's ancient BMW is rusting in the alley in Chinatown, unless Chris has moved it. And Dantes is left with shank's mare. So he insinuates himself in the line, apparently bored with the fleshpots of New York. No sign of recognition when it comes to Deckard.

Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it. Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true. Deckard whistles over Teo's choking, even managing a nod and forced, flat smile for a passerby that turns to stare. Unfortunately being leered at by half-dead junkie drunkards makes them hurry right along their way for whatever reason. Rude.

"I don't know," is the honest answer after that, and Deckard reaches to take the bottled water back. "Would you have killed me?" Cheerfully earnest in turn, he glances sidelong after Teo, only to have his eyes drawn to someone else entirely in the process. Good cheer goes up like an old christmas tree in front of a flame thrower. He stares.

"No," Teo answers, prompt as honesty probably oughtn't be, letting the bottle leave his hand and slosh into Deckard's grip. He wipes his mouth with the back of a sleeve, peeking out apologetically at the after the passerby who is now steadfastly not looking anymore. "Not today. Saturday was bad, though." His mouth finds a neutral line as the bus finally pulls up, churning slush. The right number glows above the windshield.

Not Ed's bus. He remains, letting those getting on file past him, most with the rather zombielike gait of the drunk or very weary. His head's a little bowed, as if he could be numbered among one, or the other. Perhaps the former, by the way he's swaying faintly.

"Whenever he gets in a fix, he reaches into his bag of tricks," Deckard recites hoarsely and for no apparent reason, bottle still untouched. He tips it aside, looking down to watch the unbalanced slosh of water against the label. He's old and really screwed up. Maybe he's just having a little premature dementia. "I bought some pot Saturday, if you want some."

That would be bad. Dementia. Teo needs Deckard to have keen senses and a rational orientation with consensual reality. Doesn't even know why, but that's reasonably in keeping with most of the Sicilian's activities of the past two or three months. He turns his head at him, giving a glimpse of his ashen profile to the assortment of listless drunkards and impatient fat wives behind them. "Hey." A callused fist bumps Flint's elbow. "You go'n' be a'right, vecchio?" he rasps, his earnestness articulate.

The Ghost of Federales Past glances at Teo at that. It's the reflexive look of a cat at a mousehole who just heard tiny rodent feet, even though he himself is full-fed. No comment, before he goes back to his contemplation of the sidewalk. EVen though there are no poems written there, this not being Boston.

"Speaking of Fixes," says Deckard to the wind, head lifting against the breeze to further ruin whatever neat organization of grey and brown hairs that he might have attempted to assemble yesterday, "Ever read Around the World in 80 Days?" A shiver clamps down at the base of his spine and shakes his shoulders, but there is a lazy clarity in his worn-out eyes when he tips his head back at Teo.

As the bus doors fold open, Teo gives the older man a gentle nudge up and in. It isn't nearly the helping hand one would offer some granny with a straw purse, but it gives the punching of Deckard's arm some semblence of practical intent, at least. "No. What's your favorite part?" It takes him effort to treat that answer as a serious one, which the younger man does despite knowing that it isn't. If he noticed the flash of eye-whites out of his peripheral vision, he doesn't let it on, dumping change into the coin slot through nerveless fingers. The line shortens behind him.

Dantes raises his head - with no hood, it's a clear motion. There's something in his gaze as if he'd speak, some strange knowledge, but he says nothing.

"The part where you read it and understand what I'm trying to tell you," Deckard mutters, eyes closed hard, as if against a headache. Dantes gets a glance, resigned, and Deckard finally seems to catch the 'get on the bus' hint. He gets on the bus.

As ever, Teo turns sheepish in an instant. Puts a hand up on the back of his head, scratching ruefully. "Mi diaspace." He refrains from turning around and summarily staring at the iron-faced gentleman who seems to be following Deckard around, despite that he fairly badly wants to. Slots his shoulder in after Flint and tumbles in between the standing passengers hanging onto the railing. He commits himself to silence for the time being, his head slung forward, hangdog, over his shoulder, staring through the window to track the vehicle's progress through the city.

Or perhaps this bus is the right one, after all. And Deckard is being haunted. He's back in the line, last to get on, and thus relegated to the back of the bus, crowded in with a weary family of immigrants. Dantes doesn't continue to look at Deck, though, but contemplates his blurred reflection in the smudged glass, as if trying to divine from the pattern of fingerprints.

Deckard drops down at Teo's side and takes one of the seats reserved for old people and cripples. If everyone's going to call him grandpa, he might as well start with the senior citizen benefits. He studies his own hands rather than watch any of the windows, occasionally glancing up to watch the passengers closest to the door.

Coming on two stops in, though it should be more like four, and Teo jostles his older companion with his knee. There's no real force behind Teo's leg, though he fails entirely to acknowledge Deckard's temporary fragility too. "Your stop, signor," he rasps, peering down at the top of Deckard's peppery head. His face, framed by the circle of his hood, has won back some of its color after the brief bout of asphyxiation and the insidious strickening of the cold. He shows a grin that has enough teeth in it to light even the shade that the density of his own skull makes.

The fetch, or whatever it is, remains in the backseat. Apparently it has some further distance to go. Not even a glance to the fore of the bus.

Two stops in, Deckard is already on the verge of nodding off to sleep. The bus is warm, and almost safe, in a weird way. Body and mind both exhausted, he lolls his head in dreary acknowlegement at the bump and reaches up to drag himself onto his feet all the same. His stop. Fine.

Teo's long fingers spider over the safety railing as he alternately steers and drives the older man on his way, excusing the bumps and shuffles between the intervening individuals with little words, most of which aren't in English. They're there before the door hisses open to unload the latest drove of enervated residents and visitors onto the snow-scudded pavement. "What's his name?" It passes for a salutation, or near enough if you're too far away to hear. And most would be wise enough to stay beyond the radius of Deckard's rancid new aura. Teo would be altogether too young for that, naturally. Wisdom.

Deckard just looks at people he happens to bump into. No apology. The blast of cold air from the open door prompts a flare of his nostrils and a wrinkle of his nose. It's too raw to really be refreshing, but he's gotten used to his own smell. For the others arond him, the fresh oxygen is probably welcome. He doesn't answer Teo's question, or even acknowledge it past a tic in his jaw, followed by a clench.

No imperative, nor threat. Teo looks out onto the open sidewalk and says, "Please."

The dark-haired man in the back of the bus has gone back to regarding his reflection with that rather shell-shocked gaze. No following, no nothing. He might as well be alone.

"Micky." Deckard continues to eye the open doors, but doesn't actually step out. Waiting for a push, perhaps.

One comes, finally, five of Teo's fingers splayed on the back of Deckard's shoulder the moment before an angry Hispanic woman starts to go on about the gringo loco holding us all up.

El gringo loco takes the steps down haltingly to spare his bruised knee the full of his weight on the way down. Then it's out into the cold and the snow, which has started to fall again, however sparsley. His hands go into his pocket and his chin dips, waiting for Teo to catch up and resume steering.

For an instant, it looks like Teo might not. His attention is stretched around the big round peg provided by the irritable woman behind him, between one old mand and the other. The next moment, he closes his hand on the door handle and boosts himself out, dropping onto the slippery sidewalk without apparent regard for the torment he'd put his own legs through, a moment ago. His hands ball and push into his pockets and he begins to walk, his breath expelling near as white as smoke as he glances, once, over his shoulder.

The rest of the little drift of human flotsam just off the bus eddies and slips past the pair. But without the darkhaired man. That stark profile is visible, though the dark eyes are as empty as a statues, still blindly watching that reflection.

"Piruja," says Deckard to Angry Hispanic Woman when she goes waddling past him, earning a middle finger for himself and a flat slant of the line of his mouth for her in return. For shame. "Cold," he observes a second later, because it is. "Where are we going?"

Teo nods his head at the dimming blue of the street, allowing the bus and the creep to retreat from his sight. "Same place, longer walk. Do you need help?" It feels like an absurd question the instant after he says it, but it's sincere while he does, glancing down at his snow shoes half-drowned in meltwater and sand-mixed-slush. Almost as a footnote, though it's more of an explanation, he adds: "I didn't like him." Wouldn't have. He doesn't dignify fat Spanish lady with a glance.

"I like him less lately." Expression inscrutible past a narrowing of his eyes after the bus's retreat, Flint sighs and scrubs a hand over his head, where snow has begun to settle atop pre-existing grey. Mood having taken a turn for the worse, he finally leans into a trudging walk. "I don't need any fucking help."

Obligingly, Teo keeps his distance. He, too, prefers this. "You have a friend?" A street lamp comes on overhead, blanching them both a liver failure shade of yellow.

Deckard flinches against the light, a yawn suppressed into a long drawn breath. "No."

Log has not been spellchecked or anything. Sorry. Will mess with NOT RIGHT NOW BUT LATER.

December 9th: Safe House
December 9th: You're So Vain
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