Shut Up, Go To Sleep


abby3_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Shut Up, Go To Sleep
Synopsis Deckard plays fetch and heal, chauffeur and fields questions. He also very much behaves himself when Abigail is quite obviously not. In as much as Abigail would behave when drunk. Man deserves a gold star for effort.
Date June 15, 2009

Confucius Plaza - Xiulan's Apartment

All is quiet in Xiulan's home. The door open a crack, no pets squawking, no others in the apartment talking, just the sound of the TV on low. The place looks like two girls had a drinking part in there. Scotch, Whiskey, Vodka. Orange juice carton and a coke bottle with the dregs. Nail polish bottles. On the couch is Abigail, once Deckard deigns to make it further in. Xiulan and Hiro disappearing, leaving the blue haired defunct healer in the present time laying on the couch and watching TV. Bag of frozen pea's on her wrist, couch cushion under her head, bottle of advil on the floor beside the cold pizza. IT's too early in the morning for anything other than morning news, or infomercials. Abby's favoring the latter.

The door is open and Deckard doesn't have x-ray vision anymore. It's probably for that reason that he winds up nudging through the crack with his gun drawn, muzzle aimed blankly down at the floor. He's silent in his creeping encroach, as career criminals have a way of being, footsteps tracking soft beneath the muffled drone of the television and the blue head seated in front of it. There's no sound at all as he edges closer, eyes hard and hollow jaw sunken in its set when his reflection in the TV screen goes to raise the gun. "Who are you?"

"Drunken Abby. Hung over Abby. Left… in the present time Abby. Dooooo" She drawl it out like it's the end of the world. "oooomed to never go and time travel like Magnes or now like Xiulan" She's got a hello kitty tank top on and borrow one of Xiulan's short short PJ bottom that barely cover her butt. She even has her usual tattoo's except now, now there's added big giant folded angel wings that disappear beneath the back of the tank top. Abigail turns towards the sight of Deckard bearing a gun and she brings her own weapon to bear with her left hand. It's big. It's Russian. It's not Fedor.

It's Xiu's AK-47. And it's not a shotgun so frankly, she doesn't know how to use it. Safety is still on. "And you. You came. But she's not on the roof" There's a bright smile that suddenly lights up on Abby's face, bright enough to match her hair as the gun is dropped to the wayside and the full bottle of whiskey os grabbed and proffered.



"…Holy shit." The words just sort of fall out of Deckard's mouth from behind his slackened grip on the semi-automatic, the lax, open hang of his jaw accentuated by patches of grey more distinct than usual grizzled in on either side of his stubble collection. He's increasingly overdue for a shave and the excess bristle isn't doing him any favors age-wise. Brows twitched down into a delayed knit, he lowers the gun the rest of the way and peers at her, then at the rest of the room while he nudges it back into its holster under his jacket. "Nobody else is here?"

"Hiro came, took Xiu. I walked through but I was in the hallway, she was poooooooooof" The whiskey bottle is waggled by the much changed blonde, but it's her and not some doppleganger. "Come on! Sit down! Did you know that that knife can cut through steel" She gestures with the pea laden arm towards the TV. "I promise, I stopped drinking. Gross my heart and hope to die stick a needle in my eyeeeeeeee"

Electric blue hair. New tattoos. Blue toenails. It all registers in the same fog of slogging, automatic suspension of belief that also tends to be applied to things like time travel and possession and the coming apocalypse these days. Hazy in his distraction (it all still takes a few seconds to sink in, despite everything) rather than move immediately for the couch, Deckard sidesteps over to the nearest door in the apartment's interior, nudges it open, and moves on to the next and the next until there are none left. The apartment is empty, leaving him alone with Abby and Hello Kitty and an AK-47. And peas. A sideways glance to the TV and Abby's amazing steel cutting knife later, he paces for the couch.

"Told you no one was here" As he settles for the couch, so does she, slipping up, gun put on the floor, to curl up on the end and watch him. "Arthur can't find her now, Richard should be happy. I'm not. She left my hair blue and I have wings on my back and my head is gonna hurt, and… and you don't look happy Flint" The bag of peas are resettled as blue hair comes in contact with the sofa back, eyes that are just barely shades less vibrant than her hair settling on the scruffy older man opposite her. How was the trip!"

"I don't understand half of what you're saying." Matter-of-fact, likely in hopes that she won't remember anyway, he turns to sink himself down on the couch next to her, ridged, poking bone and wiry muscle welcoming cushions in the place of all the standing up and running around and car jacking he probably had to do to get over here in any kind of timely fashion. "It's okay. The trip was fine — I have a car, so I can take you home. Let me see your wrist."

Good dog. Sit. Roll over. Show me your paw. She doesn't seem to care much that he's caught nearly nothing of what she's said, just leaning her head and side against him and his shoulder. Pea bag unceremoniously dumped to the floor so he can look. Bruises like fingermarks around her wrist, where Fedor manhandled her and put her in a lock. "He thinks he's evil, the worst evil. But he's not. He just pretends and threatens" Her cheek rubs up and down against his shoulder, looking up. "Can you fix it? If you can't, I can visit urgent care"

Too worn out and comfortable with Abby in general to be particularly put off by close contact, in a great show of tolerance, Deckard doesn't so much as twitch when she leans into him. Rather, he reaches down for the length of her forearm just short of the bruising at her wrist, left hand winding there while the right tests and presses at the bones beneath the swelling. It probably hurts despite the numbness from the cold peas, but the healing process has already started, murky warmth making a presence of itself beneath and eventually over the worst of the pain. "I don't think it's broken."

It's around her tongue as well, which makes her run it against the top her mouth like it's strange. "You make it feel diff - " There's the tiniest thread of a whimper when he's pressing and checking, but the sluggish warmth is making it disappear, making it all just a soon to be alcohol ravaged memory. "You make it feel different" chatty Abby is becoming quiet Abby as she watches, watches the bruises melt away into just what her wrist should look like. "Thank you Flint"

The lukewarm buzz of Deckard's healing touch recedes sluggishly after his hands start to withdraw, leaden and stagnant against the cooler air of the apartment. He's doing a lot of sideways looking at her hair in the meanwhile. It's really, really blue. Her thanks gets a shrug, slack and removed while some guy in a blue shirt chops onions and carrots and garlic on TV.

She wriggles her fingers, Turning her wrist this way, that way, smiling at how much better it feels. It did feel better. The goofy grin is back and Abby turns, getting up onto her knees so she can swing a leg over his lap and plant a kiss square on his lips. "Thank you!" Forget that he's quite possibly got the ability turned on and outwards. 'Thank you Flint!" One hand comes up, the right hand, to run through his hair. "Whiskey is yours. See, unopened! Not like Xiulan will need it!" Her face half obscured by blue hair. "You're a good man Flint Deckard. God has a reason for giving it to you. You'll find it. You'll find it and when it's time, he'll give you back what you should have. I have faith, yes I do. So does my Dah" She rests her forehead against his, nose to nose, looking him nearly cross eyed in his eyes. "Xiulan says I should just sleep with you. That I don't need a manual. Would youuu like a woman who needs a manual?"

Deckard grunts. All told, this is probably a subdued kind of reaction to have for a twenty year old with blue hair swinging over into his lap, but he can't quite make himself feel surprised. He's seen her drunk before. And he listened in on her conversation with Xiulan on the phone. She's touchy feely, he's — mired somewhere between being vaguely uncomfortable and too tired to care, meeting the kiss with a twitch of a smirk and the run of her hand with a lax tilt of his head. Nobody else is here to see or remember. He can afford to be affectionate. As close to that as he's likely to get, anyway, blue eyes shadowed chill in the sink of their sockets and lean face long when she tips her forehead to his. Her ability filters across contact in an uneven series of brush and goes, instable and unfocused. "Yes. But not tonight."

"mmmmhm not supposed to till I get married, it's a sacred thing." Her hand slides down to stroke along his his cheek and he's spared, thankfully, what happened on the chair in the lighthouse kitchen. "Xiulan said you would. Xiulan's always right. I Like you like this. Not barking at me. Looking away. Mad." There's another kiss, still high-schoolish in nature. "Victor's going to hate me" Singsonged when she pulls away so she can move again, still on his lap but settling her head into the crook of his shoulder and neck. "But I don't care, I don't love him and he's trying to one up. You shouldn't need to one up your date. You don't try to one up me. You just try to protect me. You do a good job Flint. I love you for that. Always looking out for me even when I don't deserve it. You really are a good man" Eyelids lower over her eyes, eventually hiding that shade of blue from sight.

"Nothing sacred about it. S'just. Sex." Religious philosophy with Flint Deckard. Left arm lifted behind her shoulders so that he can squint past her at his watch, he forces out a whiskey-tainted sigh and shifts himself beneath her as if to stand, scruffy, hollow face turned away from her hand when the line of conversation finally begins to broach his temporarily expanded comfort zone. "We shouldn't stay here. I don't know what's happening or who's after who. Come on."

"Okaaaaaaay" Said out on a sigh. She doesn't care. Xiulan's with Hiro. She's safe. Just Richard now to try and reach. "Scooter's at home. Can you carry me? I'm too tired and your warm, and you smell nice. You smell like Flint. Or maybe I smell like Flint" It's Abby who smells like whiskey, never mind that he might too. "I have blue hair Flint. She forgot… she forgot to change it back" It's all spoken on a yawn as she refuses to budge from her spot on his lap.

"Yeah." He can. Probably. Exhaustion measured out in the back of his mind, Flint's slow to move again, as reluctant as she is to get going. It's insanely late and the couch is comfortable and she's warm too. "Could be worse." Could be…pink. Or a rainbow. His brows lift there, not in favor of the mental picture that provokes in the time it takes him to successfully work an arm up under her knee on the same side. Getting the second one hooked on takes some extra maneuvering, but soon enough he's able to lever himself up, abductee and all. "Seen the remote anywhere?"

Remote! She twists, the black thing on the couch and she hits all the buttons with an unwieldy fist till the TV goes silent. She can come back for her stuff when she's sober, really. Stone cold sober and trying to remember what she did. Till then, she settling back down in his arms, working hard to keep herself from touching bare skin. "You eat at my place. Air bed in my room. You can have it, I'll have bed, Claire takes couch" Claire's likely already taken off without her religious babysitter to keep an eye on her. She suddenly giggles as she closes her eyes, for no good reason but it tapers off.

Deckard's arms are about as gentle and comforting as the metal prongs of a fork lift, all rangy muscle and bone beneath the barrier of his jacket once the TV is off and he shifts her around to make balancing easier, if not actually all that easy. He doesn't actually carry live people around all that often, difficult as that may be to believe. "Sure." Whatever. Odds are he's tired enough to pass out at the first open space he touches on when they get there, Abby angled sideways as they slide back out the front door. "You going to puke before we get in the car?"

"Noooope. Did that already. 'fore you came" She's past the point of caring whether she's comfortable or not. Please, no pictures, She'll be embarrassed enough when the alcohol is gone. She's light as a feather, and not soaking wet. No helmet or jeans or messenger bag to cart along. "Home Flint. Please take me home. I'll love you even more if you do"

A wince shutters down into a hard blink at that news — nothing like being kissed on the mouth by a chick who's puked in the last couple of hours — but there's no audible complaint. Maybe some relief. Maybe some indication that he only managed to dodge that bullet because he forced himself not to reciprocate. "We're going. Stop talking. Go to sleep."

"we're going, I'm stopping, I'll sleep" And she does, or well, not until her blue haired persona is ensconced in whatever vehicle that he's jacked for this trip with her seat belt on. Hello Kitty is coming home with her, and if her father saw her now, he'd disown her. But it's reciprocation, for when he came to her at her home. She can be embarrassed later, for now, for now she's going to sleep, because she's safe"

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