Participants:
| Scene Title | Somewhere Between Pointless And Offensive |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Ghost brings Bella Sheridan's demands to Abigail |
| Date | June 16th, 2011 |
'Language.'
But the Ghost never properly curses. "She's already dropped the name of one of the scientists involved deep with the modification of the virus," he says, resting his hip on the counter as he watches the pale column of faucet water rush down past her hand, into the kettle. It's been awhile since he and Abigail had a talk, but his manner concedes neither the lack of familiarity nor a need for it. The very self-possessed get that way, and even with puns on his ability aside, Teodoro is very self-possessed.
"And she'd like a couple pieces of paper thanking her for her service to the Ferry. One from you and the rest of the Council, one from Francois— who made the original deal with her. I pointed out it was just paper, but I guess it's to modern psychiatrists as teddy bears are to kids." He opens the cupboard he knows their fat jar of tea bags is inside of, pulls it down. Offers it to her.
"You didn't bring me something pink for my birthday"
She heard every word that he said. Of Bella's name dropping, demand for letters of commendation or whatever it is that will mollify the psychologist in her hiding. Make her co-operate further. Her fingers tighten around the handle, keen eye measuring out the amount of water, a sharp turn when it's at the level that satisfies her southern sensibilities in all things tea kettle.
"And what service, exactly, has she done to the Ferry other than dropping the name of someone that we on the council still don't have the name of?" Water shuts off, reaching over to drop it gently onto the stove and fiddle with knobs till a flame comes to life after the combination of gas and igniter work to make it so.
"Other than take some of our members and use them as guinea pigs" Abby turns so that she can rest her hips against the counter, reach over to take the teabags from him and set them down. "Lets see, what else… oh right, she gave birth to the guy who is responsible for this. Yeah, no, pretty sure his last name is Sheridan. He's got the same hair, should know, I've seen it up close a few times when he was handcuffing me to a car. Seems he inherited a bunch of stuff from her"
Abby bites down on her lower lip, opting to cross her arms, shift her weight back, get comfortable.
"Can I have papers too Teo? I'd like one for my service to the Ferry. I think I deserve one too and I've done a far, far, far sight more than some woman who's sitting in the midst of a bunch of kids has done"
Quiet, no trace of anger, scorn, all quiet and polite like. "Eileen deserves one. Rest of the council too, and more than three quarters of what we have left should get one too, if we're just passing them out to anyone who's looked in our direction"
The old specter stares at her for awhile. He recognizes this, of course, the chagrin and loathing of a woman who's so mad, so sad, because she already knows what she [probably] has to do. "I don't think she can be held accountable for giving birth under unknown circumstances," he says, "but the rest is somewhere between pointless and offensive, yeah.
"I don't think she meant to make an insult. She brought back Tamara Brooks, and she helped get Teodoro back. The hyb— the one upstairs, with Francois now. And me. She helped them infiltrate the facility where we were being held, pushed through some paperwork, stomped out a few alarms. I could be dead if she hadn't, and the other ones almost definitely would be." There's a specter of a smile at that, filtering algid and pale into his eyes, mirthless, very old.
"You can have papers too, miss." Teodoro shifts his weight back, and there's a genial shift of movement through his shoulders, a generous shrug. "They only represent the deeds, and you've done many."
Okay, so Bella's done a lot more than Abby knew or was aware of. But in all fairness, Abigail's interactions with the woman had been relegated to the time that the woman ventured into her shop unknowingly or when they've met regarding passing paper products the man who was in her care.
The man that if you go by what Calvin is the product of, is in her care if a far different way now.
"I don't want papers. I've had papers and they mean very little to anyone. Just ink arranged in a pattern that may or may not be useful, usually aren't. If she truly wanted to help Teodoro, She'd help instead of making demands while in our hospitality whether Francois arranged that or not." But she does know the inevitable. The woman wants a thank you, on paper. A chance to latch onto, to cling to some form of civility in what is probably a life far removed from the luxuries that she enjoyed prior to being dumped into a house full of children.
"She just wants papers?"
"I told her it was stupid," the ghost offers, vague reassurance. He shrugs again. Teddy bear. "But yeah. She rescued Tamara, and she helped me. The mes."
A grimace at that. One's sense of self should not be complicated by so much dispersion. "She just wants a piece of paper that says she did. That it's remembered, acknowledged. She isn't asking for promises, policied protection, or even a frame and lamination for those letters.
"The P-O-I she dropped was Dr. Elvira Blite, an Evolved who is— was— in the employ of the Institute, with the ability to manipulate virii and infect people through touch. Sounded like a trust fund brat with a side of intelligence she refined at the Ivy League and a couple sociopathic tendencies. Possibly, Sheridan could relate. I don't know exactly how good that intel is just yet, but she's committing herself to our care, full control over where she goes, so I'd pin it at a seventy-five percent probability it's as true as she knows." A beat. "She made no promises either, far as what Blite absolutely can or can't do for us. For Francois.
"I thought the lack of promises was promising," he admits, finally, pushing the jar of teas closer.
"Francois isn't in a state right now to be writing papers. And I'm not going to speak for him and I'd rather that he not be approached with regards to signing his name on a piece of paper while he's got high fevers and is bleeding with every breath. If he pulls through, then you can broach the subject of whether or whether not he should be writing a thank you note for Bella Sheridan's endearing and enduring service to the state of terrorism. Because that's what it'll be. It'll be her noose should the government ever see them"
She glances to the kettle, no whistle forthcoming though she can hear water simmering within the confines and sets about to getting down teapots and mugs in preparation for it's inevitable noisy state. "I'll write the one for the council. If it'll make her happy and hopefully… help us out further in a more.. defining position" More public positions.
"She want it on letterhead too? I don't think we have any of those. She might have to be happy with the back of a bottle label" Now she's just getting grumpy about it all. Weight and worry of the ongoings upstairs, impending trip to another country that she doens't know the language of and doubt that her fledgling Russian or fairly well rounded Italian will do her any good. Or the girlchild left in the Terminal so that she gets the proper attention paid to her. The myriad of other things that sit on her shoulders like the proverbial birds on telephone wires, making lines sag in the middle with each body added.
"Sorry, I'm taking it out on you. I take a lot of things out on the lot of you" All three of them. Has she hurt this one? She knows that she's hurt the one that's upstairs, lied to him back in last winter. Wait, was it that one? There's too many sometimes, to keep track of. She lets her hands rest on the teapot, gathering her wits about her with regards to how to do it proper, the way that Eileen likes it. Means a little hot water in the pot, get it warmed up and prepared. Loose tea, not bags. Is there loose tea? Is there herring?
The Sicilian's eyes go crescent-shaped. "Oh I'm sure he deserved it," he answers. "Or it couldn't be helped, or something. Tactical objectives sometimes mean having to lie or present the truth a certain way. Any operative knows that, and it can take the burden of truth off the ones who didn't need to carry it.
"Don't worry about the letter from Francois," he says, and he reaches out on something akin to impulse to touch the woman's arm, stooping to peer over the kettle and the blossom of blue flame opened up underneath its base. He's pulled his hand back in a moment, obliging to open the cupboard further, divulging the other teas there are available, in their cartons, in their cans. Regarding herring though—
If Abby's looking for fish, they're out of luck. Of course, the hybrid upstairs had looked more than obliging to fullfil any grocers' orders they could conceivably need. "Or the letterhead for anything. Figure you have enough to cope with, with this trip, and the fact you'd probably sooner smack Sheridan upside the head."
"Bella Sheridan doesn't much rightly enter into my mind at any real given time Teo. I have far more important things day to day that suck up everything like my daughter, my former husband, the Ferry as a whole, my parents that I haven't seen in over a year or talked to in half that. Francois, you, the other you's, whether anyone else has caught this, whether Heller's behind me, how long my money is going to stretch, how am I going to raise a little baby in this world. Bella Sheridan comes in very low on the totem pole of my thoughts and worries, save for wondering if she can still prescribe anti-depressants or Lunesta. Both of which, if she's parked in the bay house, I highly doubt"
Francois has billions of things of tea, she knows this, she's seen it, partook of it. Loose is not immediately seen and she doubts that Eileen will fuss over that. Not when they're in a house with honest to god air conditioning, and hot-fucking-running water. But the touch has thrown her for a bit of a loop, unused to people doing that these days, little touches to her arm that aren't baby induced. Which means she looks to it, not in discomfort but more surprise. And in the next moment, carries on, covering his hand to close the tea cupboard. All is good, they'll do with orange pekoe.
"He never deserved it by the by. Nor did you. The lot of you don't deserve me going up one end of you and down the other for all the times you have pulled my lily white arse out of the fire" No pun intended.
Of course, such statements about how she isn't thinking about Bella ever indicate to some degree that she does think about Bella sometimes, but Ghost understands about ventilation. Sometimes it means you just have to hiss and snarl a few insults to someone who, in a just world, would have been faced with a policied and structured punishment then you'd never have to look at them again. Instead, Bella has scars in her leg that another Teo put there, a brain full of paranoia's and bitter resentments, and her sins are recorded only in the memories of a dozen other murderers.
Ghost remembers caring about that sort of justice, the lack thereof.
"You're my friend," he hears himself say, slowly. "There's a future where you were happy and I couldn't stand it. I don't think we should talk about debts, anyway. That isn't our style, is it? It's not like we get paid for this. Any of this. You look well," he adds, sounding a little abrupt, maybe even embarrassed, except that this Teo's the one who never gets embarrassed. He did just barge in on her tea-making with news of bitch psychiatrists, though. But she reminded him: they are friends. 'What they deserve' answers to no definition except the ones they make for themselves. "I'm glad."
"I'm sleep deprived, on the run and getting divorced. You're being nice" But it earns him a kiss, to the cheek and in the seconds that follow, a wrap of her arms around him so she can squeeze him tight. Ghost, even when he was marauding around in Teo's body, upsetting mayoral sons and firey birds, was treated the same, like Abby. With the understanding that he'd get the fuck out of that body at some time and give it back.
Which it seems thanks to the institute, he did.
Ten seconds, possibly five, is how long she maintains this infrequent contacts, pulling back with a soft sigh and purse lips. She really actually, doesn't let her mind wander to Bella. Once in a blue moon if that. "I'm assuming that you've already gone and looked up who this Elvira blite is and already done the math as to whether it's more practical for the woman to meet her maker at the end of a gun or try and get her to fix what the youngest Sheridan has done?"
The kettle starts to whistle and she flips up the stopper so that it can go a minute or two more and not disturb those upstairs.
There's a shake of the older Teo's head, and not because he didn't want the kiss on his cheek either. He's fetching sugar and cream now, assembling them in neat procession beside the jar, an almost military decorum to the three vessels. "It wasn't hard to figure out where her cover ID and the wild projects she's really been doing diverge. She went to my alma-mater and she's misregistered.
"I think the cost-effectivity of recruiting her help or knocking her off is math that probably needs to be done in person. Not much chance she could do much to stop this current epidemic at this point. Comes in waves, and this tide's already in, isn't it? But I'll put out a little notice, so the Ferry can go and meet her if it wants. I'll be there." He squares his shoulders, doesn't bat an eye or pout or any theatrical reaction at Abby's understanding of his tendency toward casual killing.
Doesn't confirm it, either, but that's probably neither here nor there. His phone rings suddenly, but he doesn't reach to get it, standing at the counter over her tea, in his thin kevlar and dark sweater, probably more guns and unimaginable weapons than she has fingers on a hand, that last sentence afloat in the air. I'll be there. Belatedly, he quirks a smile at her.
Steam billows out of the mouth of the kettle, gurgling it's plea to be taken off the heat. Blue, meet blue, as it has many times before but she's the one that breaks away first, turning to the kitchen implement, gesturing to his phone before lifting it off the element, gas turned off with swift motions.
"Go answer it. We'll still be here. I'll let Eileen know, give the council a heads up, not the whole of the Ferry. Just the Council" Some things… are need to know and this is one of those. "I have tea to make, off with you"