Participants:
| Scene Title | That's A Really Nice Couch! |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Daddy's gone and it's just the two of them with coffee in the bathroom. |
| Date | May 11, 2009 |
Village Renaissance Building - Abigail & Alexander's Apartment.
Abigail's father has left, and it's taken the wind out of Abigail's sails to have sent her father away. To have had the conversation that she did with her father. So it is that the redhead is in the bathroom, Deckard slumped over on the toilet to the left and leaning against the counter. Coffee in cups out of accidental spilling range and a cold cloth being wiped and pressed to Deckards forehead. "he's gone now Flint and If ixed that bump. You can come back to the living"
Much as Deckard didn't want to into the bathroom for an impromptu bath, he doesn't seen overly interested in waking up. His rumpled head lolls slack beneath the cloth's press, the ridges hardened into his face blanched pale around darker hollows. He looks more sickly asleep than he did when he was awake, until…
His eyelids flicker and slit open. He's still drunk, drowsier now that he's had some time to spend unconscious. There's a stiff pain in his neck, his back hurts, he's — where the fuck is he? Another hazy blink later, he's very, very suddenly up on his feet with a knife in his hand. Where did he even get a knife? And why is he looming over Abigail with it? AHHHH.
Knife. Knife, knife, knife, knife, knife. Abigail's back is against the other wall the moment he has it out, warily watching the man while still holding tight to the washcloth. "Your safe Flint" Ever so quietly spoken, nearly a hushed whisper. "My Dah's gone. Your safe. No shotgun I swear"
Breathing hard past clenched teeth and a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the washcloth, Deckard glares right at her. Focus is hard to find and harder to keep. She's as distorted in color as she is in black and white. Fortunately the voice is harder to misinterpret. A few ragged breaths later he glances down to the tub he almost went swimming in a little bit earlier. Her Dah. The bone white of his raised hand slackens, then opens. The knife drops with a metallic clatter, leaving him to look woozily back at the open door. Just a bathroom. Just Abigail.
She moves her foot, even though it wasn't too close. More reaction than anything to the falling knife. "I shouldn't have woken you up like that, i'm sorry. I brought.. coffee, you hit your head I think, on the wall" She reaches over, lifting one of the still steaming cups upwards in a motion of peace offering.
A dismissive shake of Deckard's head later, he sinks slowly back down onto his prior post. Fortunately the toilet is still stable enough to support him despite all the jostling it's been through tonight. "S'fine." The hand he lifts to feel over the side of his head for evidence of a sore spot eventually roves to splay over his face instead. It stays there for longer than it probably should, leaving dirty tracks where grime clings to sweat when he finally reaches for the coffee instead. "Thanks."
"You're welcome Flint" Abigail answers quietly still, releasing the cup to his grip and taking her own. She's going to settle in across from him, feet close enough to almost touch. Blue eyes tracking that grime, sweat, every little grain of dirt. Fingers grip the handle of her mug, lifting the cup up to hover under her nose. "That was my dah. Dad. Father"
"He seems nice." Too washed out to bother with sarcasm, Deckard resorts to lying badly instead. His hair is graying out again at the fringes where false color has had plenty of time to fade. Otherwise he looks pretty much the same as usual, give or take a little dirt.
"He loves you too" Because shotguns in faces mean love. Right? Her lips are in a firm line. "You weren't bad off. but.. thank you, for coming. To let me fix you. I know how much…" It hurts your pride? You hate it? what? Forget that he had to be drunk as a skunk to do it.
"Think so?" Skepticism taints bland at the muffled lines around his mouth, further masked by a lift of his mug. His collar is still pushed over in a weird direction from all the dragging around Dean was intent on doing. "I was just…in the neighborhood. Ssso." He swallows, then swallows again with a furrow at his brow. Strong coffee.
"Oh" Just in the neighbourhood, stopping by. Though I'd get a fresher up on the health pot. "He's right. You need a shower. Al's stuff is in the kit there. There's fresh towels… I'll try and find you some clothes. If not, Al's bathrobe is there and you can wear that to.. while your clothes are washed, since, you might want to wash them" Abigail doesn't move though, remaining where she is.
"Yeah." Oh. "I wanted to…" trail off ambiguously while sitting on a toilet. Hmm. Bathrobe. He squints after it dubiously, like he isn't entirely certain he wants to camp around in a tent another dude's been hanging loose in.
"You wanted to?" Abigail prods verbally, waiting. Patient as a stump it seems.
"I dunno. Maybe watch TV. …I don't really watch TV." Nice couch for it, though. His brow knits still harder while he leans back to a shoddy rest against the tank behind him. Why is he so fascinated with the fucking couch? It's red. And a couch. "I didn't really think. About it." The sentence breaks up while he tries to think about it now, mouth pressed thin with the effort, only to go slack again after another sip of coffee. "Just. You know."
"Take a shower. I'll find you something to wear. Then you can.. sleep on the couch. Watch TV. just.. you really need to take a shower Flint" Abigail starts the getting up process, leave the man alone. "You want something to eat? I'll be up for a bit more since I just angered my Dah and disrespected him for you"
"Okay." He can shower. Hopefully he can shower better than he can sit on a toilet. Deckard manages to look glum all the same. Like he could have known some old guy with a shotgun in her apartment was her dad. That kind of thing happens all the time without benefit of family involvement. "I don't feel great." That is, anything he deigns to eat at this point he'll probably have to taste twice.
Abigail pauses at the door, turning to look at him. "Do you.. need help?" please don't need help. Not help getting into the shower, in taking a shower. "I can make some tea, toast. I think I have some saltines too"
Deckard is busy balefully eyeing the shower stall when the question sinks in through the side of his head. Slooowly his head turns back to her. Sloooowly his brows lift, and the corner of his mouth hooks into an almost smile. "I don't need help in the shower. I meannn," the syllable drags out, "nice of you to offer."
