So That's What The Hair's About?


abby4_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title So That's What The Hair's About?
Synopsis Someone doesn't like Pink Hair in the least.
Date October 24, 2009

Somewhere In Staten Islands Greenbelt.

The group has forged ahead, back out of the greenbelt to the edge of nature and return to the life of the city. Joseph is safely with the horse and Robin so Abigail hangs back, walking with flint to catch up stragglers and send em ahead. Rain falls around everyone, the dampness in the air lingering and heavy in lungs.

"Joesph's doing good today. We got him on stuff to help, he's been a couple days clean. He'll like this stuff. Thank you for helping him, the whole… bathroom thing. Help him see the light"

Cap drawn down low over his brow, masking scruffed hair and overlarge ears from the creep of cold and wet that's fogged thick into the brush on either side of the path ahead. He's slowed his pace down somewhat to account for her shorter legs, and for the most part seems content to stay focused ahead on the occasional shape of a kid tagging along at the back of the line. He hasn't said much since they started walking, and doesn't say much now, near shoulder shifted up into an ambiguous shrug for status update and thanks alike.

Right, damnit, she promised no talking. But satisfied with the shrug which was more that she expected to even get, Abigail lapses into silence beside Flint, her own hands digging into the pockets of her wool coat and burrowing her chin down into her scarf. Pink hair vibrant between the pale hues of hat and sweater.

Now and then though, her steps veer, hip bumping into his as if it were some game to her. See what she can do, how long she can do it to get a reaction out of him. Furtive looks only further cement this if he's paying attention after a bump and curl of hot breath out into the air.

The first time it catches him off guard enough that he staggers a step or two sideways and looks over at her as if he suspects she might be having some kind of motor malfunction. He's more tolerant once he realizes it's intentional, passive progress in a forward direction until five or six bumps have gone by and upon detecting the rise of a seventh, he stops short, letting her own momentum carry her where it will without him as a buffer.

Momentum is a bitch and it carries her three stumbled steps in front of him, rain boots clomp clomping through the grass as she crosses into his path and emerges on the other side. Hands come out of pockets, one thrown out in front of herself in case she might go down and the other snagging a sapling.

But Abigail doesn't fall, just utter's a laugh as she gains back her center of gravity and looks over at Flint with a smile and narrowed eyes in slim hopes that he might crack a smile. Kids are far enough ahead they aren't seeing or aren't paying attention.

Three seconds later she's pushing with shoulder and body in an attempt to veer him off the trodden path and partaking of the frivolity of the afternoon. Channel that inner child Flint. "If there was only snow"

No smile. No sign of any inner child, either. A subtle lift at the corner of Flint's mouth when she looks back is all she's likely to get, even if he looks reasonably at home in the cold and grey with the fog and the rain and the onset of fall. He's well suited to his name out here, as washed out as the setting, grey patched in light on either side of his chin and eyes pale.

"So it could be even colder?" inquired without heat when she comes back around to start pushing, he crosses one foot over the other to move lazily over in the direction she's pushing — only offering up enough resistance to keep their pace from crashing off into the brush at a tumble.

"So I could shove a snowball down your back and watch you howl as it melts. I like winter, without the cold. I come from the south Flint." No smile, so she gives up, easing off on the pressure. Such a dour man and it doesn't bother her. it's just been a really long time since she's seen him smile.

"What do I need to do, to get you to smile?" SHe settles into place beside him instead of pushing and bumping, adjusting her mittens (yes, mittens, no fingered gloves) and hat before glancing over at him. "I like it when you smile. I miss it. Tell me what to do to make you smile again"

"I smile," is the inevitable defensive response. One that's pitched smilelessly through the patter and sift of light rain through leaves fading brown in the trees overhead. If anything, he frowns when he says it, brow knit and eyes tracking after her sideways in a narrow, speculative line. "Is this what the hair is about?"

"You smile so infrequently, that to see it, is like an eclipse and you need special tool to regard it face on and you cherish it for ages to come" Abigail glances forward, a hand sliding up to the aforementioned hair and running her hand through it before she contemplates looking back over at him.

"Yes and no. Lemme guess, you don't like pink?" A lock of it is grasped, puled outwards towards him as if it were some tentacle, had a mind of it's own and was threatening to attack him. "Pink is better than blue, and it'll, or it will help distract Pastor Sumter from staring at the needle when I have to hook him back up to an IV." The 'hair' threatening still stands, Abigail waving it still as they move. "I'm thinking purple next, what do you think?"

Breath funneled out into a sigh that would be undetectable if not for the foggy haze built up to drift along with it, Deckard stops walking altogether. Given that he was moving pretty slow to begin with, it's not as stiff of a gesture as it could be, but there's a dragging, baffled gravity to the way he looks over at her again, face long and hands stowed deep in his coat pockets.

"I think you're starting to freak me out. I mean — unless you're auditioning for a spot on Lazytown, in which case I apologize."

"Lazytown? That a … television show?" There's a purse of lips as what she had started as a small joke, a small bet and something fun is summarily squashed under Flints heel. "Okay. I got my answer" What he thinks about it. She ceases walking not long after he does, turning her back to the people further up ahead and facing Flint. "What else is doing that? So I know what to stop doing. Then maybe Francois will stop rearing his head when I prefer and want you with me"

How does Deckard know about Lazytown? Probably best not to think too hard on it. He doesn't veer off when she turns around to face him, eye contact cool and level for the length of time it seems like he might say something. Then the fix of his gaze falls away, first down and then sideways back after the path.

"So either you're too embarrassed or don't want to tell me, or there's nothing else that I'm doing that's freaking you out" Abigail's pink tongue darts out to lick at her lips, causing her to dig into her messenger bag for some chap-stick and slather the cherry concoction over her lips. Back to not talking. Flint Deckard's preferred method of communication. That or berating. He's so good at berating. "We should go catch up with the kids then. So I can get Joseph back at the station"

Already flat mouth thinned out all the further at the deductive process associated with discerning the intent behind one of his silences, Deckard nods once after another long delay. They should catch up. In fact he's going to — go ahead and take the lead on that himself, with a glance up and a turn of sloped shoulders out for the path again, damp twigs muffled in their cracking underfoot.

Run Flint Deckard. Run.

Abby just sinks hands into her pockets and remains where she is, watching the taller of the two of them stride off. When he's out of sight and she's left alone in the woods brows furrow downwards, eyes squeeze shut and she sighs softly/ "Stupid. So stupid" Eventually she joins them, catches up herself with the rest of the ferry field trip and none are the wiser to what happened in the woods, or they think it's something else entirely.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License