So You're Done Now?


abby5_icon.gif deckard3_icon.gif raquelle_icon.gif

Scene Title So You're Done Now
Synopsis A Mexican Breakfast leads to use of ability, skinheads, hookers, piercings and abandoned food.
Date January 19, 2010


Good Morning Mexico!

The sun is climbing and there's bacon, Eggs, toast and coffee being cooked round the fire by Abigail who laid around in bed(cot) and eventually got up. Bathrobe open, sash tied back, ugg type boots, short sleepset on and hair wild and flying here and there as she flits from pan, to pan, to pot. Settled into a routine over the last while that was only interrupted by a day out in wherever the hell she was in the desert before she came back short 3/4's a box of shotgun shells and red eye'd.

"BREAKFAST" She yells, in case anyone's not conked out close enough or up and near enough to smell the coffee beans percolating or the bacon sizzling.

Raquelle is laying on his stomach, wherever he's settled down to sleep with a pillow over his head and his blankets half way down his legs as he sleeps in a pair of boxers and his…boxers as he's got his piercings in though and his hair somehow isn't all messed up. At the yelling he grumbles softly. "SHUT UP WOMAN." He rolls over with the pillow still over his head.
ORDER: It is now your pose.

For a man who's spent the last month going to sleep and waking up whenever the hell he wants, the adjustment to there being such a thing as "morning" has not been an easy one. Deckard's slow to roll out've his cot and slower still to appear in the doorway in the jeans he slept in and an undershirt, rough-wrought tattoos doing little to detract from the white trashiness of the image of him standing there squinting against the white morning light. His short, scrubby hair is mussed to one side and his beard is growing back in at a grizzled shadow, greyer and so lighter around the chin and sideburns than it is everywhere else.

He's barefoot to make things worse, but smells passably decent once he's separated himself from the doorframe and dragged close enough to the fire for it to matter.

"Oh good, you're awake" No perkinees or cheer, just a hand towel being used to protect a hand as a mug is produced from her stash and coffee poured for the older man in the camp. "Raquelle, get your arse up off the bed and come out. You need breakfast and time to digest it before I call Elias to come take you home. So up, come on, up and at em or i'll have Flint bring Chopazo over to eat your hair"

The two other cups are filled with the dark liquid that probably taste okay seeing as it was made over a fire. "Can you watch over the bacon or are you ot awake enough" She needs to focus on something and food is something, feeding people is something she can do. Beats sitting around crying.
"~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~" Pretend that is a stream of Japanese swearing as Raquelle rolls out of bed, tats, piercings in nipples and navel…but no make up so his freckles are exposed. He makes his way into the area with the foot and narrows his eyes as he looks from person to person and he reaches out blindly. "Coffee." A pause as he points to Deckard. "Sit, I still have to bitch you out." Then he rubs a hand over his face and scratches his chest.

Is Flint awake enough to watch bacon? He looks unsure, but sits himself stiffly down in a ratty old desk chair at the fire all the same. He's quiet once he's there, which is likely no surprise to anyone — just like Raquelle's nipple decor is not a surprise. He's seen it before.

Bare feet stretched towards the low-burning fire, he ticks chilly blue eyes over onto Raquelle at news of imminent bitching and slouches lower still in his seat. All he needs is an RV and a warm beer in hs hand, seriously.

"Oh holy lord, I did not need to see that, put them away Raquelle, just.. please, put them away" She didn't need to see the chest jewelry. How on earth people even thought of doing that much less going through with it, she'd never been able to fathom. Led her to wonder that if that was pierced was the- Her face is quickly turning scarlet and she's averted her eyes upwards, coffee cup held out in front of her for him to take.

Raquelle's eyebrow raises slowly as he studies Deckard thoughtfully. "…oh sweetie, goodness." He shudders before looking back to Abby, looking a tad confused as he reaches out to take the cup of coffee with a wry smile. "Put /what/ away sugarmuffins?" He looks around warily and just shrugs his shoulders, sipping from his cup of coffee. "You been up cooking for the menfolk?" An amused twinkle in his eyes.

Toes curled and brows lifted for Raquelle's study and ensuing reaction, Deckard hardly changes in posture and expression save to scrub the back of his wrist over the narrow set of his jaw. /Sugarmuffins./

He's on the rougher end of the tattoo spectrum himself; only the black serpent wound around a cross on his right shoulder looks to have been professionally arted and inked. The faded blue eyes set in under his clavicles are rudimentary at best — the 666 at his shoulderblade darker but uneven.

"Your chest Raquelle oh lord strike me down. Bacon which is gonna burn and eggs" Abigail shows Raquelle her back so that she can tend to the food that Deckard watches, two forks wielded in a manner as to work as a spatula and turn the strips of meat over so that they don't crisp too much. "Flint's tattoo's are bearable" THe 666 one at least, since she normally doesn't see it and her own she keeps hidden for the most part this morning. "Do you need me to not be here while you're yelling at him and go pack for you? because you are going home. you need to be home with your girls"

With all his tats and piercings, Raquelle really doesn't /think/ about them most of the time. He frowns in a sip of coffee before lowering the cup. "…and here I thought you were the debauched professional! Oh honey…" He just laughs softly turning to head out of the room. "Nah, I think he can handle an audience to our conversation - and I'm going home when you go home sweetie. I already made that clear!" He calls out over a shoulder as he goes to find a shirt and some pants.

"I've been thinking of getting mine done," quipped casually across the fire and splayed toes once Raquelle has departed to find a shirt, Flint scratches his chest and stretches long, wiry muscle bunched and knotted on its way to stringing out in lean lines through his shoulders and forearms.

His head lolls lax against the chair back once he's done, blue eyes cutting over Abbywards with an animal kind of clarity. It's a look she's seen more often in her nightmares than in person, but as quick to pass as it is to register.

"I have no say over what you do with your body flint. It's not like I own you" She points out as Raquelle retreats to cover up and spare Abigail the option of only looking in specific direction. "I'm going to go back to pink one I get back to the city, after I make good on my promise to go with Robert to party" She's satisfied with what the bacon looks like and they're plucked off the skillet one by one to another plate and put up on a stump to be kept out of the sand.

"If you want to get those parts of you pierced, then may the lord bless you in your desire to, he alone knows you won't get me doing that at all" Eggs are dug out of a cooler and cracked one by one into the pan with the grease to start frying them up.

"Pink WHAT?! Girl you BETTER not he talking about your HAIR!" Raquelle shrieks from wherever he is, stumbling back into the room, wifebeater on and he's still zipping up and fastening his jeans as he manages not to spill his coffee. "What the fu-" Oh right, he sighs and looks over to Deckard and then back to Abby and then back to Deckard. "So! Talking time." Chair is found, body is parked in said chair and he crosses his legs.

Loooong pause before he starts off cheerfully. "So! Why are you such a dickhead lovely? I know I haven't been able to get your packages to you, I still have all the bags of stuff in my office though."

"Gosh, I'm lucky you're so supportive. And glad you're going back with pink. I was thinking of shaving my head and growing in a full beard too." A dry bit of bark or pebble or something is nicked up off the ground at Flint's chairside with paired knuckles and he flicks it into the fire. The little spit of sparks it encourages out've the main crackle isn't all that different from the way sarcasm flicks through the coarse drone of his voice.

It doesn't get any better when Raquelle comes back over, either. Despite the fact that Flint looks right at him, the question is ignored while he folds his arms across his chest. "Do you think people'd notice more that my ears stick out if I was bald?"

"GOing for the skinhead look, nice Abigail mutters under her breath. The spatula creeps under the side of one egg, testing it's solidity as Raquelle squawks his way back. "Maybe. I haven't decided yet. At least in new York, it won't be a big fat target for the Vanguard to shoot me" She's not satisfied yet and hunkers down near the heat to watch over them. eggs are tricky on open fire. Time to sit and listen to Raquelle lecture and flint.. probably let it in one ear and then out the other.

Raquelle takes a calm sip of his coffee and he tilts his head from one side to the other, just staring at Flint with a distant expression. "Not if you got more piercings in your ear. But you'd look like an overaged skin-head." He lifts his shoulder. "I don't believe you've got the body for it though sweetie, I'm sorry. You've certainly got the jackass personality though."

He distractedly comments towards Abigail. "If my girls start asking for multi-colored hair, it will be your fault." Ignore the fact that Raq himself dyes streaks in his own hair depending on his mood. He waves a hand vaguely and sighs softly. "You know when I first saw you, I knew you were a bastard but I thought to myself…he has a very nice ass and he looks like he needs help, if I didn't think his stubble would leave carpet burns all over my bodies, I'd tap that."

"I dunno. Skinhead and hooker hair seem like they'd go together really well." That Deckard can speculate such without the barest flicker of irony to betray the exaggerated knit of his brows while he turns the mental image over in his skull is maybe a testament to just how accurate Raquelle's initial impression of him was. There's a scrtch scrtch scrtch at the sandpaper bristle in question, but the blunt scuff of his nails freeze in place before there can be a fourth scrtch.

Brow still knit (in honest bafflement, now) he looks Raquelle over sideways and after a long and uneasy pause, elects to look out at a random whirl of dust and sand in the desert instead.

There's a broken yolk. Broken yolk at the fact that Flint just called her a hooker. Okay, he alluded that the haircolor was one appropriate for a hooker, not that SHE herself was one. She'll eat that egg, won't inflict it on anyone else. "I'm sure that your girls won't be begging for pink or blue hair anytime soon raquelle, unless I buy them the barettes with the fake hair attached to it

"Mmm, most skinhead and ho combos I've seen have this horrible habit of domestic abuse too. Sad thing that, always smacking their bitches." Raquelle sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes. "And the girls will beg for pink or purple or red hair I'm suuuuuure Abby." He calls out.

Then his eyes go back to Deckard. "So you're nasty, you smell like a perfumed pig, you're rude and we've covered the asshole thing. But you're the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met. You're still alive and you managed to get an angel to do things to you she isn't even allowed to know actually exist! Hell she dragged my ass out here to the land of Spanish Hookers and Tequila to find you even…goodness…"

Flint's expression goes from distracted to dark as pitch in about the same amount of time it takes a piece of paper to blacken against a flame. His brow hoods, his jaw hollows out and the only thing he's even remotely making frigid eye contact with is the tongue and flick of the fire over white ash and red coals. He says nothing.

"He already apologized Raquelle. I don't think though, that, this is all moot. We've made up as much as we're going to make up" One egg, a second egg, they are flipped off the pan and put onto a plate. Toasted bread, bacon, fork. They all follow suit and soon enough, with a thump worhty of an unhappy female and one that doesn't give testament to her couple years waiting tables in the Nite Owl, Flint's been served his breakfast on his lap - still on the plate.

Raquelle's is next, egg a little more carefully transferred and breakfast assembled with a bit more care but not that much more then passed over. "We had our fun, I think the ride ends here and it's time to get off"

It is a funny thing how Raquelle's gift works, a slow trickle of emotion emerging from a central core feeling like tentacles, groping blindly for a target or another source of emotion and feeling to either caress or violate in totally appropriate ways. His eyes never leave Flint, studying his face as he speaks, his tentacle monster of an ability swirling around his words. "But I think you know that."

He hears Abby, he really does but he's focussed on Flint with a distinct lack of emotion. It is questioning, it is uncomfortable but there is a /need/ there, a need to know. A strong desire to know…tinged with a hint of anger. "So you're done now? You're not going to keep running games and unknown thoughts and feelings past her? Gonna concentrate on helping folks that aren't you now?" He takes a deep breath and then pinches the bridge of his nose and looksdown at the breakfast offered.

Raquelle's eyes never leave Flint, and Flint's don't leave the fire.

…Up until somewhere around, 'keep running.' There they tick up on an ice slick swivel, glacial blue cold enough to burn in its unblinking pass across Raquelle's face. The lines carved in stark around his mouth have nothing to say in the way of good news or humor and there's a static, prickling energy bristled down into the tension strung taught through his neck and shoulders.

The answer (inevitably) is, "No."

Meanwhile, receptive empathy is not required to determine that the anger coiled and compressed in his wiry person is about a second away from launching him out've the chair and ruining everyone's breakfast in a single fell swoop. He doesn't even seem to have noticed that he has a plate sitting in his lap.

Crack goes an egg against the side of the pan then into the grease where it starts to go from translucent to white. Abby raises a hand, forefinger scratching at her nose and her lips tight. "I'll stock you up on supplies and we'll head out soon. Get out of your hair" Leave whatever Peso's she'll have leftover for him to buy more alcohol with. The heat means the egg cooks fast and she's long since ignored her coffee in favor of concentrating on feeding the other two.

But then, somewhere between flipping the egg and Deckard's No, She takes the pan off, away from the fire and onto the dirt so that food doesn't burn and stick to the pan as she nods. "I'm gonne go, see what I can shoot for dinner" Hmm live food! "If I'm not back before dark…" There's a shrug of her shoulders as she scoops up her cup, heading off to the building she's claimed as hers and the tents with her clothes. Shotgun.

Raquelle scratches his cheek as he trembles a bit before taking a deep breath and just nodding slowly. "Fine then." He swallows and looks over to Abby. "You be safe, ok? I'll even do some cooking a little bit if need be. If you're not back before dark, I'll get some flash lights…" He follows Abby with his eyes before looking back to Deckard, he takes deep breath. "And you don't have crabs, right?"

Deckard's feathers are slow to smooth once they're up at a haggard ruffle, but he manages enough restraint to remain seated, which is probably best for everyone's structural integrity. He continues to glare even once Abby's imminent departure has registered in the back of his mind, though — too direct and too unblinking to be interpreted as anything other than a sudden and pressing desire to see if Raquelle knows any karate to go with his Japanese vocabulary.

It seems like a long time (and probably is) before he asks, "Do you?" in return, fork stabbed down into eggs with unnecessary force.

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