Some Drink to Remember


abby_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Some Drink To Remember
Synopsis Deckard and Abigail meet up again, in a bar where he expresses his feelings… in a language she doesn't know. drugs + booze don't mix.
Date August 4, 2010

Bar somewhere near Financial District

Some bar, somewhere in New York. Between handing over Kasha and her first official night free of the infant, Amato's abrupt and possibly unhappy departure and a weight of so many things that were already on the blonde's shoulders, a night of drinking was in order. Or well, one or two. Anti-depressants make alcohol work faster than it should, and the one beer that she's already nursed has left her tipsy, or maybe that was the two shots of tequila, and sitting at the bar with her palms around a second and her last.

Susan ball, Teodoro missing, Francois in his state over his missing boyfriend, Peter and his further erratic behavior and an increasing self belief that she won't be able to have her own kid make for a slightly morose abby at the bar, fingers picking at the beer.

leaves her a target for an asshole who's oh so conveniently slithered his way onto a stool beside her that was empty, casually leaning onto one elbow adn looking over to his little group of buddies and a thumbs up. Easy pickings, or so they think.

Some bar, somewhere in New York.

It's the second one Deckard's been to tonight. With any luck it won't be the second one he gets kicked out of.

Humidity's thick enough in the street for the orange and purple city scene smudged at Flint's back to be unusually foggy to already bleary eyes. When he bumps in through the door, that is, an off-balance cross-step-bump-into-the-frame played off with an unconvicing that was totally on purpose lift of his hands that nobody heeds because nobody cares.

Sunglasses and field jacket aside, he's familiar through the stark cut of his profile and a resilient layer of grizzled scruff, wiry hair buzzed down too-short and shoulders lax. Blockier than Abby specifically remembers of him, maybe. Healthier. More robust.

Which may come in handy once he's gravitated to the region of her new friend's shoulder to tap. tap. tap. there the way people do when they aren't fucking around.

"Listen, jerk, I don't need you parking your rear here and thinking that you can jus-" Abigail's turning in her seat, a slump of shoulders at attempt number three in the short time she's been here. She's not deaf to the bets that had been going on nearby, and her words die off when her attempts to dislodge the guy are pre-empted by Deckard, tapping on the guy's shoulder. "Oh Lord"

This. Will. Be. Interesting.

GQ, or almost GQ, looks Deckard down, then up, rolling his shoulder to shrug off the tapping. "Listen old man, go take your shit elsewhere, the seat is taken. Go see if the bartender will serve you on the other end" His buddies sneer and laugh from their table, consuming their alcohol and waiting to see how this pans out. Abigail swings glassy blue eye's between the erstwhile Romeo and Flint. One she knows, the other… is some little guido wanna be. "Flint, he's not worth it" Quiet enough for only the two of them to hear which only puffs out the other guys chest. Not worth it.

Abby's not the only member of the old guard taking pills these days. Flint's reaction is decidedly low key: he sizes Guido up, draws in a deep breath and…nudges open his jacket lapel to reach for the slightly mashed box of cigarettes snugged therein. Exposing in the process the shiny silver gleam of a Homeland Security badge and ID card in a wallet he palms open purely for benefit of Guido and Company. His jacket hides the wallet from Abigail. His fishing around for cigarettes masks the movement until it's flipped shut and he has a fresh smoke in hand.

Amazing what a little flashing of something white, blue and official looking will do to discourage things. Maybe he really doesn't wanna mess with shit, maybe he's evolved and un-registered and doesn't want to have to get hauled in and take that test. Whatever the reason, bam just like that, Guido is heading back out of the Beauchamp orbit and back to his little puddle of grease.

And ABigail's sighing, figuring that he flashed a weapon of some sort instead of really hunting for smokes and starts pulling cash to cover her drinks, sliding it to the bartender. "And a very merry good evening to you two. Did you just happen to crawl into the rock I'm hiding under or are you stalking me?"

Brows at an unkind level over the matte black of sleek sunglasses, Flint watches the younger man's retreat without blinking. Allll the way over there to the other side before he finally sinks down into the neighboring seat's previously-occupied warmth. He adjusts his sit once he's down, cigarette lit up in spite of the law — but he's not the only one. In fact, the ashtray he reaches to draw over in front of himself could stand to be emptied.

"Whichever makes you happy," gruffed flatly off for Abby's benefit, he orders, "Miller lite," and near immediately sets to scrubbing his thumb under his glasses and on up into his eye socket.

"Tonight, probably very little. I'm in a bar, alone, am I not? About to pull a taser on them if he didn't leave me alone" Not a gun, but a taser. "You miiiiised me the other night, you wouldn't laughed your arse off. Well no, you woulda stared, without that…" A gesture to his eye's behind their shade. "Woosh went all my clothes, burned riiiiight up and I had to go streaking across Staten Island with Eileen, like some little baptist fairy" Not the reason for her enjoying her last beer, even as Deckards is delivered and Abby slips some money over for it.

"You know, I have friends missing, I have.. who knwos what happening with the Ferry, my partner and friend, well, he's out doing who knwos what with who knows who really, and I'm moping over a baby that's not even mine."

Abigail looks over, tilting her head to the side, reaching over to try and lift the sunglasses up so she can see if he's really looking ot looking.

"I'm here," pointed out without obvious offense, Flint is in control of his facilities enough to wrap his hand around the base of his beer and close his eyes before she can fumble his glasses all the way off. Condensation smudged free by callus and pad alike is already well on its way to forming a ring against the bare bar by the time he opens his eyes again — this time with no hellish glow to temper mild bafflement at her expense.

Clothes burning up, steaking with Eileen. Missing friends and partners and babies.

Flint sips his beer.

"Are you sorry?" She's still holding his glasses, forefinger touching the bridge of the plastic, not quite leaving it yet. "I mean, are you sorry you pulled the trigger at all. What there any part of you that at all said maybe I shouldn't do this. Maybe I should just turn around and leave?"

She oblivious to the mental modifications that have been done to her former lover.

She pulls her hand back, letting it settle around her own bottle. "And now you're here. Did you know, that since that happened, I haven't slept with anyone. Lord, I could kill a flock of sheep and if I didn't know it would hurt him, I might just go find out where he lives and love his brains out" Whomever He is. Tip goes the bottle. "Do you ever want kids Flint? Do you ever sit, wherever it is that you sleep now, and.. think about procreating, of having kids?"

To her first series of questions, Flint — has no answer. In part because he isn't sure what, specifically, she's asking him about. In part because of all the things it could be, none of them are subjects he's all that interested into discussing while he has a pretty good buzz going. He just looks at her, which is arguably an improvement over not answering and not looking at her either, brown bottle tipped at a sideways angle for a second pull longer than the first.

At least past knitting his brows at the second line of questioning she pushes forth, he has resolve enough to shake his head dimly on the subject of children and whether or not he wants any. Negative. Probably not a very good idea.

"I don't think he'd want any. Not anymore. Ever… wonder just, wonder, what would have happened if the one thing that made you who you are, if that one point that set the path to where you are now, if you didn't do it? Would you redo it again?" There's a soft hiccup, back of her palm covering her mouth as she jumps just that little in her seat. "Sorry, pardon me. That was rude. I don't think I can have any anymore. I mean, go into labor and… woosh" Her palms come up, imitating a nuclear explosion, some of the alcohol making it's way out of the bottle abruptly. "Yeah, congratulations, it's a flame"

Deckard's quiet, "I dunno," is a long time in coming. He's had a lot of those points. And is probably ill-equipped to be having this conversation in his current state, just like she'd probably benefit from a little self-imposed reticence for once. Right hand back at his face, splay of bony thumb and forefinger across the ridge of his cheekbone and elbow braced against the bar, beer in his left hand near her, he watches her wonder and dither and nuclear explode without having anything deeper than that initial dunno to contribute.


He leans to bump his head into a lax rest on her shoulder instead, nose turned in and beer breath warm on her neck. As comfortably affectionate as he's ever likely to get. « I dunno what you're talking about, » sounds a lot nicer in French, coincidentally.

"I don't know what you just said" Too past tipsy and slightly into drunk to care that he's doing what he's doing, one hand reaching up to swing across his back, hand onto his head and to scratch her fingers through him hair like one would cat. Up tilts the beer bottle, drinking some more despite that she really really shouldn't, that what drugs are in her system just don't mix well. She won't up and die, but… inebriation is not something she's used to or fond off, and she's already passed her car keys over.

"Oh Flint, I miss you"

It's opined against his head, pressing the side of her nose to his silvering hair. "I really do. If Corbin can forgive you, then, I suppose, somewhere, I can forgive you. The lord forgives all in the end. Forgiveness" Another tilt of her bottle after it's clinked against his. "I forgive Teo, I don't forgive him being kidnapped. Nope. I'll beat his butt to dust" Another nuzzle before sighing. "You want children? I don't think Robert wants another child."

The short-shorn bristle of Flint's buzz has more in common with a terrier's wiry coat than a better kempt cat's. Her fingers rake furrows into dusty brown and grey and the grip he has on his beer slacks with a recession of lingering tension from the space between his shoulders. He doesn't return the sentiment, meanwhile, but he does lean more of his weight over into her. Silent assent all the way until she starts on the subject of forgiveness and the scruff around his mouth prickles alongside an unseen frown.

It doesn't take long for him to sink back after that. His right hand finds its way back into a slack brace at the side of his skull and he nudges his beer far enough for it to start lining out a second ring of condensation for itself on the bar.

"What happened to Teo?"

"Stupid boy. Got himself taken by the institute" A wrinkle of Abby's nose. "I think, I think they're gonna try and get him back" The next spoken very quietly. "Messiah and Francois. I dunno why on earth they wanted Teo other than maybe information." Still she scratches at his head, the familiar sensation, only thing better would have been the whiskey. "I think.. I think I'll join them. He came for me, I can help now. I have a taser and I know how to use it"

As if it's a conspiracy that she has a taser or that having one is far better than everything else. "And I turn into fire. Wooosh, gone is me, and i'm just fire instead"

Flint tolerates ongoing contact because he's drunk and it feels alright. And mainly because it's Abigail. He's slouched and centered back in his own seat, the bridge of his nose dislodged from her shoulder so that he can sigh claggily out into open air instead.

Only a matter of time before he's steeped enough in his slouch to have his arms folded slack on the bar and his jaw buried there instead, next to his sunglasses. "I didn't know," is arguably a poor excuse for not offering his own services. Especially given that he does know now and doesn't appear to be in any real hurry to run out the door guns blazing. If he even has any guns. "Why Francois?"

If he thinks this might make for a weird followup, he gives no outward indication. Mainly he looks kind of distant and unhappy and tired. Why Messiah? Why The Institute? Why does she keep talking about fire?

"Because Teo and Francois are in love" Luuuuuuuuuuuhv. Drawn out, but not in such a way as she think it's stupid or doesn't like it or is jealous. "Teo is Francois's and Francois's is Teo. Some day, Robert and I will be like that. When I have things under control. Maybe some day, maybe some day I will be… I'll be happy."

And tears start.

"I miss her Flint. She kept me up at night, but I miss her. She's not far but… I liked having a baby and when she slept and all curled up against my chest and sucking away on her sukey. I want.. I want to have babies some day and now.. now I can't because of what I did" Or has at least throughly convinced herself that she can't. "You don't want kids. Maybe it's for the better that we parted. You seem better. Doctor Sheridan doesn't seem to experiment on you and she passed my letter to you. Lord flint, I wanna just take you back to my place and just… and just…"

Beer bottle is abandoned, only one mouthful left in it anyways, and she wipes at her eye's, easing herself off the seat.


Something like cagey old irritation cinches into crow's feet before Flint can squeeze his eyes shut hard enough that all the lines look the same. Brow hooded and jaw clamped, by the tame he rolls his eyes blearily back open again, she's crying. About a baby.

Which is something else he knows nothing about and makes zero sense accordingly.

More resentful frustration blends in where irritation left off — a gradual bleed that stiffens out his narrow jaw and sinks at his eye sockets while she gets to her feet. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know anything. It's not the same.

Tip for the bartender and some to cover Flint's possible future drinks, the last mouthfull pulled at as she tries to find steady feet and settles for kicking off her shoes instead so that when the bottle is empty and put down, she's scooping them up in her hands, tossing them into her bag. "I'm going. Before I do something stupid like try to get you in bed and screw up everything with Robert because of a libido." Tears still slowly making their way down her face, there is a kiss dropped on his cheek and arms wrapped around him.

"You were good for me. You did bad things, I can't forget them, but you were good for me, like she was. Maybe someday I can repay you for the good you brought into my life." She misses his cheek, grazing his ear instead, but able to squeeze quite tightly with a shuddery sigh. "Taxi time"

« You left me. In the desert. » says Flint, quiet at her ear. Dans le désert. Now being a poor time for accusation, he hides at a bilingual remove when he kisses back, slow and reserved through the warmth of it against her neck. Reciprocation without real temptation. Probably. « With a homosexual Frenchman. » Français homosexuels.

Tip aside, the bartender lingers warily, like he is not entirely sure what is happening or whether or not he approves until Deckard lets unholy light retake his stare and he decides he has more important things to peep. Orders to take. Glasses to clean. Like, over there.

"I remember," in English seems ambiguous after so much muttered French. "You'll be okay."

Some words transcend language, they just don't transcend drunken. She could fire back that he left her in New York while he went to that desert but all she hears is french. She rests there, listening to him with eyes closed, as if trying to imprint the words with a sigh that's drawn out. "I'm going to Russia again. Then I'm going to find out what Susan did, and where Clark and Damon are, and I.. I… I am going to accost robert and love him to death." A squeeze of him, one last time, then she peels away, heading towards the door with her bag tossed over her shoulder.

None of those names ring bells. Save maybe for the much touted 'Robert,' who doesn't ring any Flint wants to hear.

Shoulders rolled once she's pulled away, the former graverobber turns his silver-patched chin enough to follow her out with his eyes. Out the door and across the curb before he places an order for something harder and resettles himself back into the roost of his own arms.

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