The Barflies and The Healer


abby_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif hagan_icon.gif

Scene Title The Barflies and The Healer
Synopsis For want of something to do, Abby heads to work while tired and her two favourite barflies are there. Another small world, that ends in two people sleeping and the third, wide awake.
Date December 20, 2008

Old Lucy's

Deckard hasn't been here too long, and he's looked better. Granted, he's also looked worse. The obstinate creep of a five o'clock shadow is early. Then again, so is he. Perhaps for lack of anything better to do, it's early enough that there's still warm light filtering in through the windows and occasional crack in the door, and he' here cracking peanuts with his right hand and nursing a beer with his left. Not actually eating peanuts. Just cracking them.

Carck goes the door. a cold, tired, indifferent Abigail stamping off snow at the door before venturing in further. DEad to the world for the most of the night, a nap at the hospital at elisabeth's bedside but now she's here. She's needing to do something, anything, other thank think about the events of the night before, the blood spilling underneath her hands as she saved the one officer. Even her hair isn't done up properly like it usually is as she trudges, literally, past Decakrd to presumably duck in behind the bar for the back room.

No turn when the door cracks. It's happened a few times already, more with staff than patrons, given the hour. Deckard keeps on keeping on, pressing his thumb obnoxiously through the husk of — oh hey, that was Abigail. His head turns after her, things like doors and walls serving as a poor barrier between him and her actions while he's in cheat mode. No blood and guts for him, but he doesn't look like he's slept either, and his usual reasonably-put-togetherness has deteriorated back into the leather jacket and jeans status quo.

Through the wall she walks around the back room staff area. Jacket hung up, switching out shoes, the little things needed to be done. All with a slowness that will likely come to bite her in the ass and cost her tips. No studying today. She need the tips, needs something to do with her hands. Hair pulled back with a banana clip and makeup applied to try and hide the shadows under her eyes, the blonde comes back out. Deckards seen, but she doens't quite pay him attention yet as she kneels down and yanks two cans of redbull from the cooler beneath. Pop goes the first tab and she's tilting it back, gulping the cool liquid with very little care for taste while making her way to Decakrd. "Afternoon" she's working to get every drop.

Deckard's brow hoods after her reappearance, washed-out eyes regaining some of their naturally wan color. He eats the peanut he was in the process of demolishing, shell dropped carelessly back into the bowl. "Afternoon." He chews, glancing over her again while he grinds his way through his next helpless peanut captive, then tacks on, "You okay?"

'Tired" understatement. She doens't pop the tab on the other red bull yet. She cleans up his shells instead, her slender fingers sweeping the brown pieces towards the bar and into her waiting hand. THe cross around her neck has a new addition, a small diamond ring. "Thanks for asking. Need me to do your shirts yet?" She less chatty today and turns to deposit the shells into a wastebasket.

"Is anyone…not okay?" There is a fishing quality to the conversation that isn't made more casual by the fact that he's staring at her. At least until she starts sweeping up the mess he's made and he takes note of the ring. It takes him a few seconds to puzzle over that, but says nothing on the subject. Rather, he eats another peanut. One of the ones he's already shucked. "If you want."

Hagan shoulders open the door and stamps his feet as he enters Lucy's. "Fucking bloody fuckers it's cold." The Irishman rubs his hands together and moves to stand by the nearest heater before even looking around properly. A few people give him looks, but he doesn't seem to care. He'll be somewhat human again once he can feel his fingers.

'Nope. Think I got everyone I could" Obviously, or she wouldn't be here. 'Everyone else will have to wait till thier places that I can get to them. LANGUAGE" She hears the swearing and it's barked out. Her eyes lift to spot that Hagan's the perpetrator and shuts her mouth again. Now the tab's popped on the second Redbull. "I'll come tomorrow. Just hang them up over your chair, if your not going to be there, i'll get them to let me in and do them" Abby crouches down once every drops wrung from that can, and fetches something from beneath the counter. Palm sized and long. wrapped in paper with peguins in winter gear all over it. "Merry chrsitmas. I've been storing it here in case you came"

Twisted around on his stool to squint at the latest entry, Deckard drums his fingers once around the base of his beer while his Irish counterpart stomps and curses. It takes a moment for his memory to roll over in its beery haze, but eventually, he mutters a distracted, "I know that guy," to Abigail, only to turn back to her and see that he has a little penguin package waiting for him. His brow knits, surprise limited to the stark carve of lines around his mouth when he reaches for it. "Thanks."

"Abigail. It's a bar. If we were in church, I promise you I wouldn't swear." Hagan's tone of voice is as flat as a pancake. He's not back to his usual self, despite the slightly more colourful entrance. He tilts his head at her. "You look beat. What happened?" Deckard is given a look, but the fact that the man seems familiar might just be attributed to him being a regular.

"Fair enough. Your right, it's a bar" She answers Hagan turning pour him a cup of coffee and slide it in front of him. "Long night. No more, no less" That's all she's speaking on that issue "Flint, hagan, Hagan, flint. Introducing yet more men that I know to each other. Don't beat the crap out of this one Hagan please. I actually like him in that flea bitten dog sorta way that follows you around" she's so bright and chipper today. She leans against the back of the bar, a deep breath and looking around.

Hagan has the disadvantage of having distinctly floppy hair and a distinctly Irish accent. Both distinctlies combined with mention of beatings prompt the 'click' Deckard was hoping for, and the wiry man sits up a little straighter, penguin package still in hand. "Conrad and I tried to start shit with him once and he pussed out." Charming as ever, Flint snorts at the memory and reaches back for his beer. "Do you want me to open it here, or…?"

Hagan squints at Deckard when Abby speaks. And then the other man jogs his memory for him. "Right. I remember you." Normally he'd have a snappy comeback, but instead he just moves from the heater and sits down where Abby set the coffee. "Thanks," he murmurs, then takes a sip. It's not that he's quitting the drink, he's just dialing it back a little.

"If you want, or wait till christmas, up to you" Abby answers the leather jacket scruffed man. She looks to Hagan then, blue eyes settling on him. "Sorry about last night. I'll make it up to you. Today or tomorrow. Your choice, still no strings" Abby grabs another glass, filling up another drink for Decakrd. "So everyone knows everyone. I feel like i'm the center of a little social circle"

Deckard nods and tucks the package into his jacket pocket, already back to eyeing Hagan while he tries to piece out what kind of exciting adventures they might've had or not had. Fresh glass, fresh drink. He doesn't bother with polishing off the old before he reaches for the new. "Telling people my name is a really good way to get me sent to the pound, these days."

"You look like sh…crap." Hagan changes his curse mid-stride. He probably won't be able to curb that very often. "We'll do it another day. I don't want you to pass out partway through." Annnnd the innuendo continues. He swallows a mouthful of coffee and eyes Deckard again. Again, an insult is on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason it doesn't leap off and strike Deckard. He hasn't quite been himself lately.

'Then what am I supposed to call you? Albert? John? Winchester Elton the third?" It's nto spoken snarkily, just an honest question. She's only known him as Flint deckard. "I know. Makeup's not hiding it. I should be somewhere else, but I can't stand sitting around and I need the money. School's not gonna be cheap" Her southern drawl is thicker today. "Can you make it another day or two?"

"Steve. Mike. John is fine. I don't care — just." Hagan is eyeing him. Deckard eyes him back harder than before. Staring contest, though Steve Mike John Elton the third likewise holds his tongue in the presence of Abigail. However tenuously.

"Yeah, that's fine. Whenever." This to Abby. Hagan breaks off his consideration of Deckard to stare at the beer ad hung behind the bar. Fortunately, he's saved by the bell. Er, chime. His phone rings. The Irishman dismisses himself and heads to the corner to take the call.

'Mike" Abby settles on it. "How'd that guy tunr out when he woke up?" Hagans got a nod as he takes a call and her voice is low enough for just their immediate area.

"Good as new." Glass lifted in a lazy sort of 'cheers' gesture, Deckard swallows it on down and reaches into hi jacket after a smoke, briefly exposing the strap of his holster in the process. "Mike's a good choice."

"Mike" Abby murmurs. Hagan's eye'd and his conversation before she turns it back to deckard once more. "Think i'm gonna go to college. Become an EMT. If it's possible" She studies the shaggy man, looking for his reaction both visual, verbal and physical.

"College is good." Not the most profound statement of all time, really, but heartfelt. As much as anything Deckard ever says is. He's back to watching her rather than trying to listen in on Hagan's conversation, study slightly more reserved for the change in subject matter. "Any thoughts on how you expect to pay for it?"

"Keep working here. Tips. Student loans. people with no money go to school all the time. College isn't the same as university ro medical school. I think.. I could swing it. Your thoughts?" BEcause to some degree she does value his opinions. She shouldn't but…

"If you keep it small and local, sure. Community college, or whatever. Should help you in the long run even if you don't want to become an EMT and heap suspicion upon yourself by never losing a person that wasn't already DOA." More familiar cynicism making a return there, he finally fumbles out a cigarette and lights up, shrugging a shoulder once he's tucked box and lighter back into his coat.

"Less suspiscion than fixing bruises with judicious application fo bandages and massaging hands" Abby counters. "

"Making that decision on an individual level is still less of an ordeal than having to deal with spooked coworkers and random idiots on the street who think their balls will drop off from exposure to your inhuman touch." Big muffled speech from someone who has just pushed a cigarette into his mouth, but Deckard manages it deftly enough.

"Why would thier.. umm. you know, drop off if you touched it?" Abby raises a brow at Deckard thanks to that comment.

"They wouldn't. But they don't know that. Because…they…are…stupid." The last spaced out carefully to make for easier understanding, Deckard filters smoke out of the corner of his mouth in a steady stream and tugs the cigarette away to replace it with his beer.

Hagan snaps his phone closed and moves back to the end of the bar. The Irishman drops back into his seat and sips his now-cooled coffee. He resumes staring forward, giving his own reflection in the mirror a distasteful look.

"Oh" Her brains just not working. Something to do with his eyes, she's sure of that much. "I shouldn't be here. I should be sleeping. WHy did I come in here again" There's a look to the door leading out and the storm that rages beyond.

"So that you make money and go to college," Deckard reminds, if not with patience, then a certain kind of distracted resigation. Distracted because Hagan is back. Smoke stuffed back into his mouth, he gropes around for his wallet.

Hagan is cutting back, not cutting out. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He looks up to Abby. "Go home, for god's sake. Get some bloody rest."

'Can't go back to my place. Not until I know it's safe. I shouldn't even be here" But she nods regardless ot hagan's words. "Don't beat each other up. Please. Can you wait until after christmas to give each other marks?"

"Christmas is for giving," is Deckard's flimsy argument for doing it sooner rather than later, but he's not about to leap off his barstool with a knife, so. Instead he flops a five out onto the bar between Abby and himself and yawns.

Hagan takes a draw from the cigarette. He motions towards Deckard. "What, him? I barely know him. And I got bigger things to worry about. Like what to get my ma for Christmas." He coughs, then taps the cigarette in the ashtray.

'Gift certificate to a Spa" Abby answers Hagan, a weary smile. 'All women like to feel pampered and relaxed. Do that and I bet she'll be happy. Will give her an afternoon away from your father and make her feel beautiful. Surely they have those in Ireland" Abby pops into the back with a "You can give me the gift of not beating up my friends till after Christmas"

"You're friends with everyone. If I wanted to get you that I'd never have any fun at all." Hagan gets a sidelong 'don't waggle your hands at me or I'll break them off' look, but no more aggression than that. It is really shitty outside. The bar is warm and there is beer. Deckard is comfortable enough where he is.

Hagan barks a bit of laughter. "My parents divorced when I was 16." He ignores Deckard's look. "Abigail. If you're still working, give us a pint, hm? It's late enough now." He pushes the coffee away.

Abby pops her head out and derails her getting ready to bundle up and forge through the storm to the the safehouse again. "Fine" Coffeee cup is exchanged for an empty glass and fills it with the appropriate alcoholic beverage. Down on a bar napkin it goes, pushed in front of hagan. "Day after christmas. Binge. Enjoy it. I'll fix you up after. Before the new year. Mike, I don't want a present from you, don't give me one. Just enjoy yours. I'm gonna go try not to fall asleep in a snowback" and with that, the ring bearing blonde makes her way to the back hopefully undisturbed. THe five dollars on the counter taken and slapped into the till.

Deckard scratches the back of his head and lifts his brows, but that's it. Somehow it seems unlikely that giving decent gifts is a talent he possesses in abundance anyway. No point in arguing. Ash tapped off the end of his cigarette, he watches tip to till and goes back to his drinking in silence.

"Keep yourself out of trouble. Don't hurry on my account," Hagan takes a draw from his own cigarette, then a sip of his pint. Ahhh. Vices. "And Merry bloody Christmas if I don't see ya." Oh, so cheerful. Another slight glance is given to Deckard, but it's fleeting.

Smoke in, smoke out. Familiar process, although one that's cut off a little shorter than usual by Deckard snuffing out the half-smoked cigarette in his own ash tray when he's decided he's had enough of it. Now that Abby's gone, he drag the peanut bowl in close again. Back to making a mess, with occasional glances lifted to the wall that separates the bar from the back room. "How do you know Abigail?"

Hagan taps his cigarette and occasionally glances towards the TV that's running the weather channel. "Mmm? Oh. From here." Mostly. "Too nice for her own damn good, isn't she?" He eyes the door. "Fucking weather. I hate snow. Rain has no business being frozen and white."

"It's probably going to get her killed," Deckard agrees in grimmer fashion, snapping through another peanut shell and tipping the exposed goodness out onto the bar surface with a few others just like it. "I don't mind it. When there's less of it. And I don't have to walk through it for hours."

"I walk everywhere. Or take cabs. No way in hell I'm driving in this city." Hagan looks out the door again and makes another disgusted face. "So. Why the fuck are you here anyway? And I don't mean this bar. I mean this city." He takes a pull from his pint.

One more peanut corpse flicked aside, Deckard sets to eating what he's managed to liberate thus far one at a time, which gives him good reason to be slow about answering. Not very interested in the TV, he eyes the door to the back room, apparently staring at nothing at all. "Originally I came on business."

"Yeah?" Hagan makes a huffing sound. "Me too. Bloody contract is what keeps me here." He follows Deckard's gaze towards the door. "I don't think she's coming back out. Or she went out the back way."

"She's asleep." Matter-of-fact, the older man dusts his fingers off across his opposite sleeve before he presses them back around his glass. "Deal went south, for me. Now I'm stuck here."

"I sympathize," says Hagan. He gives the door another curious look, then glances momentarily to Deckard. But he's not going to ask questions. Truth is, he doesn't really want to know. "Anyone who's here by choice should have their bloody head examined. Did you hear about this shite with the new President? Gas main my arse."

"No you don't." Even more blandly matter-of-fact, Deckard occupies himself with brushing particles of peanut shell together with the side of his palm, into a neat pile, which is then pushed more carelessly over onto the the floor. "Only a matter of time before 'gas' blows his fucking head off his shoulders. The guy doesn't eat meat. He's probably fragile."

"What? He doesn't?" Hagan exhales a cloud of smoke. "I'm glad I don't have the responsibility of voting in this feckin' country. Doesn't make any sense anyway." He coughs a little. His solution? drink more beer?

"Vegan," the word trips of Deckard's tongue with a certain measure of digust, further confirmed by the wrinkle of his nose that follows. "I can't vote either. If I hadn't been otherwise occupied it might've been worth it to hold people hostage until they voted otherwise, in retrospect."

"Vegan? What's the fuck's a vegan?" Hagan only knows two food categories: fried and boiled. And only one seasoning: salt. "What were the other options anyway? I didn't pay any bloody attention."

"New York Independent senator and some hardass black Republican who hates everything except guns and Homeland Security." Peanut mess thusly cleared, Deckard leans forward to fold his arms across the bar surface to rest his chin upon them in turn. "Lose lose situation. At least the senator was pragmatic."

"At least the citizens can pretend they have a choice in the voting. I just hope this new president doesn't want to deport everybody." Hagan swallows most of the rest of his beer. It's replaced soon enough. "If he even lives to get sworn in."

"Oh no. He loves you people." Brows knit into a look that's supposed to be reassuring, Deckard sighs into the sleeve of his jacket. "Immigrants, the poor, the evolved, queers. Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore." Voice muffled into his sleeve after his sigh, he tips his head forward a few degrees, annoyed. "Nobody in politics is that virtuous."

"No shit. It's creepy." Hagan motions vaguely to the back room. "She's bad enough. And she's not running a country." He leans an elbow on the bar and squints up at the TV weather again. "Suddenly glad I decided to stay in this shithole. Otherwise I'd be sleeping in the airport right now."

"I'm pretty sure there's something wrong with her brain." A glance to the back room offers no direct confirmation of as much. Still no interest in the TV from Deckard, past what he can hear from the lowered volume. "Liberals all think they're saints, but they never really do anything to help these days. And he's almost on the extreme side of things. He's either got some serious dirt on him somewhere or he's as crazy as she is." Nothing on the subject of airports, but another glance to the back room is suggestive of his wondering if there's room to spare.

"I'd rather have inaction over Republicans. Then again, I'm European. Your version of right-winging it is all a little extreme. And this is from a bloody Catholic." Hagan waves down the bartender and puts in an order of fries and gravy.

"Don't worry. I hate them all equally." Blunt statement of fact. Deckard eyes his beer, decides he can't be bothered to sit up enough to grab it, and remains a slouching lump on the bar.

Hagan is a bit curious about Deckard's lazy slouch, but he doesn't really care that much to ask. Besides, that would be letting the other man know he's curious. So he just shrugs and awaits his fries while eyeing the weather network.

Likewise, Deckard seems content to fall quiet, watching the back room and the current bartender with varying levels of disinterest. With the patron count as low as it is at the moment, no one seems particularly inclined to complain when he starts snoring, either.

Once Deckard falls asleep, Hagan is tempted, so very tempted to go over there and do something juvenile and embarrassing. But he resists. Instead, he just asks for the volume on the TV to be turned up.

December 20th: Hear the Music
December 20th: Misplaced Trust
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