The Hell, Ivanov?


abby6_icon.gif felix4_icon.gif ziadie_icon.gif

Scene Title The Hell, Ivanov?
Synopsis Abby stops by, and they still don't get around to discussing robots.
Date January 28, 2011

Hamilton Heights: Felix's Apartment

It's a pleasant, airy apartment, with pale hardwood floors and high ceilings. The front door leads into a little entryway with a coat closet on the right and the door to the miniscule kitchen on the left. It then opens out into a living room crammed with bookshelves - there's barely enough room for a plain entertainment center and a dark green couch. Beyond that a short hall leads to the bathroom and two bedrooms, the second of which is more an office and spare room, judging by the desk and the weight bench stored there.

Overall, the decor is spartan at best, with little by way of personal touches. The only decoration in the kitchen is an antique icon shelved high in a corner, where the Mother of God smiles benignly at the infant on her lap. A blue glass vigil lamp burns before it. Over the doorway to the back hall is hung an officer's sabre; no mere trophy, it bears the mark of long and constant wear. There are a handful of posters and prints - mostly landscape, though a few are fencing-related.

One of the few disadvantages to being a speedster is that you almost never have any body fat to spare. Which is why there's a very miserable Felix just emerging from the shower, as if applying hot water from the outside will cure that almost permanent sense of chill he has in winter. He's long since abandoned any pretense of formality with Ziadie - you live rent free in his spare room, you have to endure the sight of Felix in the kitchen making dinner in his dark blue bathrobe, steel gray silk pajama pants, and cosmonaut pinup t-shirt, what little hair he has spiky and disarrayed with damp. He's humming something to himself - an off key version of the Russian national anthem.

Ziadie appreciates being fed food really, too much to care, and come this evening, he's actually been back in longer than Felix. The humming elicits a grin, but Ziadie's been telltale-ly grumpy these past few days — taking ibuprofen for his shoulder, and trying not to drink so much because of it, seems to do that. So the older man sits at the bit of a kitchen table, with some paperwork in front of him, very slowly working on filling it out. He's not right handed.

A knock at the door, likely not a common occurrence in the Ivanov abode, announces the arrival of someone asking, nay requiring, attention. Whomever chooses to answer, to glimpse through the peephole that serves as one of the extra barriers of protection for residences will be greeted by a familiar face, if more familiar to one than the other as Abigail waits on the other side, bare hands holding to the strap of her messenger bag, staring down at her feet as she tries to knock off some snow in the hallway of the apartment complex.

No, not common at all. Fel's expression is even more ferretish than usual, as he sticks his head out of the tiny kitchen with his already long eyes narrowed. But he doesn't ask Ziadie to get the door. He's reflexively reaching for the gun in its holster, which is hanging off the coat rack….but then he realizes it's Abby, and blinks for a moment. He opens the door without hesitation. "Abigail," he says, tone a mingling of surprise and pleasure. "Hey there. Come in."

Ziadie turns around, watching Felix, and is if anything more surprised than Felix is to see Abby. It's written all over his face, and he glances quickly between Abby and Felix, and then back again, and then picks up the glass of water, trying vainly to use water to diminish the hangover he's experiencing.

In she comes, because standing outside where you're a wanted felon, not smart. When the door closes behind her, a sort of blinkered attentioned span, she doesn't notice the older man who's trying to disappear into his water glass.

"Felix, why is there an older black gentleman trying to give me your number" She fishes about in her pocket, producing said square of paper, offering it up. Her toque is pulled off, blonde roots hidden by virtue of L'Oreal again.

"You know how to get a hold of me, I don't know why you told him who I am, and why you had to have him give me a card so I would come ask you about the robots in midtown"

Fel is…at a loss for words. The eyes just narrowed are now rather large and owlish, though at least he doesn't wear glasses anymore. He jerks a thumb mutely at Ziadie, who is currently out of sight in the kitchen, and raises his brows.

"Th' hell, Ivanov?" Ziadie's tone is querulous, pushing a little fun, but nothing more. Not truly annoyed. In fact, if Ziadie has a temper, or anything, he hasn't shown it so far in the time he's been staying with Felix. "You know everyone, it'd seem."

And there's a head, peering past Felix, body arcing and bending to look over to where the nigglingly familiar voice has sprung from till two brown eyes are peering around an archway and gaze landing squarely on Ziadie.

Abigail straightens like a whip, surprise and shock on her face before she's repeating, this time a little more slowly to make sure that what she saw, wasn't some figment of her imagination. Nope, black man, old, sitting in Felix's kitchen.

She straightens again, looking to Felix with an expectant look. What is he doing there?

Bemused Felix? Bemused. "Abigail, let me present to you Mr. Ziadie, formerly of the NYPD. Currently staying with me as he gets back on his feet again. This is Abigail…Caliban," The hesitation is clear. There's almost a record scratch noise. "How -do- you two know each other? Because to the best of my knowledge, I haven't mentioned you to him in any way, Abigail."

"Chance, Ivanov, more 'r less," Ziadie says. He sets the water down, staring at both of them, then rubs his head. "Chance, talked 'bout th' damn robots a bit but 'n she got all skittish and ran off." There's a brief raise of his eyebrows. Anything more than that as to how they met is left up to Abigail to tell Felix.

"Martha Ranier not Abigail."

Her new name is supplied, with a whack to Felix's arm by the back of her palm. A heat to Abby's cheeks, she steps in a bit further so that Ziadie isn't seeing just one half of the pair at the door. "Felix doesn't know everyone, I'm the one that knows everyone Mister Ziadie" That she got skittish and ran off, there's really probably no surprise there given than the former blonde is a wanted terrorist and for subverting the registration system and people trafficking.

And now Felix blushes, like an altar boy discovered sipping the communion wine. "Right. Ranier," says the Russian, literally scuffing a foot. The fact that he's in slippers only adds to the effect.

Ziadie just raises an eyebrow again, glancing back and forth between the two before picking up the pen and leaning over the paperwork, finishing whatever he was at when Abigail knocked. "Right then." The older man is a bit short of words, tonight, and his fingers drum restlessly on the table. A shrug. And then the resulting wince indicating that yet again, he'd forgotten about his shoulder enough to use it.

"Right" Well. This is really awkward. "Is he.. your.. you know…" She knew he'd been with Teo, but she'd just never really figured Felix for a lover of… black men. Forgive Abby, she's from that far south, and some things, just never really change. Black men, white men, together, it's just not normally done back home. That and Felix, well.. Felix just never really seemed the type. That and the man was frankly old.

He was pink before. Now he's edging towards beet colored. Ziadie has -not- been told about Felix's extracurricular activities, though departmental rumor was always mentioning his supposed queerness. Sometimes the closet isn't big enough, and things slip out. "No," he says, with a teeth-gritted, exaggerated gentleness. "He's an old acquaintance. A guest. He knew me back when I was a young turk in the NYPD."

Once more, Ziadie raises an eyebrow, this time entirely directed at Felix. Like anyone else, the former sergeant had heard the rumours. He'd also been too bitter in his grief for his wife to pay them any heed. But he doesn't say anything, at an apparent loss for words at the moment, just purses his lips and picks up the now nearly empty glass of water.

Oh. Not out of that closet yet with this man. "When you were a jerk and not half starved greyhound getting shot all the time and expecting me to pull your arse out of the fire then" She adjusts her messenger bag, she too scuffing at the carpet with one winter boot. "So… uhm.. so he's been giving out your phone.. number… and.. he knows about… robots"

Felix blows out a slow breath. Breathe. Must breathe. Not blow a blood vessel. Well, the rumors are true - he was living with a detective not too long ago. "He's welcome to give out my number," he says, slowly. "And sit and take a load off. I'm making dinner." The tone is kinder than the blunt words. "Yes. I'm still a jerk, but back when what I am wasn't public knowledge." In any sense of that phrase.

"You were more 'f a jerk then," Ziadie says, offering both of them a small smile. He'll spare the younger man the stories, not that he can remember most of them through the fog of alcohol withdrawal at the moment anyway. Fingers drum on the table again, and Ziadie leans on his arm. He bites his lip, biting back whatever he'd thought of saying.

Should she stay for dinner. "I'll miss curfew and I can't afford to be caught out on the streets to hightails it back to the other side" Abigail points out to Felix. Unless he ends up driving her, but even that is questionable with check points everywhere and that would be a test of her registration.

"What.. are you having?" As if that alone might swing it in his favor. She looks like she could stand to eat. Not rivaling Felix gauntness, but it's there. Sharper cheekbones, thinner jawline. And then there's Ziadie. "You should be icing then heating your shoulder. Ibuprofen for swelling and pain. They make these patches, thermacare, that you can just put on your skin over the affected area and it'll do wonders"

"Stay the night," Fel says, easily. "You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the couch, and I'll drop you where-ever you like tomorrow morning. We're having pasta. Italian stew, of a sort - it's supposed to be soup, but I always end up dumping too much stuff in it for it to qualify anymore, you know?" He flicks an amused look at Ziadie. "Glad to hear I've improved," he deadpans.

Ziadie nods to Abby's words, and nods in Felix's direction. "He 'lready's practic'ly insisted on the ibuprofen," he says. And Ziadie is taking it, it's just the not drinking that goes along with it that's making the older man grumpy. A pause. "He cooks well, y' know," Ziadie says.

"I don't think I've eaten his cooking Mr. Ziadie. We met too often patching up holes in him than eating his cooking. But.." She's not comfortable here. She's not comfortable with Ziadie. "Uhm, I'd gladly take some in a container and eat it when I get back to where I'm staying, if that's all the same to you Felix. It wouldn't do good for you to be caught with me here"

"I have carte blanche where a lot of things are concerned, but I understand. Do you want me to give you a ride?" Fel's voice is calm, even if his expression is almost wistful. "And of course, you can take some home." To Ziadie, he asides, "Thanks." It's sincere, rather than teasing.

Ziadie listens, turning the empty glass around idly with his hand, though that's done well in from the edge of the table, as if he's liable to drop it by using his right hand to do so. "You do."

"A ride would be near divine Felix. I've done a lot of walking" Her hands still toy with the strap of her messenger bag. "If Mr. Ziadie doesn't mind. Richard offered to dig up a car for me but I'm not gonna drive something stolen."

That makes Felix laugh - and his laugh is surprisingly fullthroated and almost piratical sounding. Strange, considering how he's built. "Gimme a minute, and I'll change." He's not driving her across town in his bathrobe.

The older man raises his eyebrows slowly. "Too cold t' go out in your nightclothes, Ivanov?" Ziadie asks, with half a grin, getting up from the table to refill his glass of water.

"He'd freeze in a heartbeat and I don't think he'd want me to heat him up" Abigail nods as Felix states he's not driving in his bathrobe. "take your time. Please. Don't hurry because of me" Finish cooking, finish chatting with Ziadie. "I'll just get myself some tea"

He said a minute. He meant it. Damned speedsters. A flurry of motion, and Felix is back, but now in jeans, flannel shirt, boots, and jacket.

"No, freezing'd be bad," Ziadie says, downing half the glass of water, and cursing under his breath before leaning on his hands once more. There went acting like he didn't have a hangover.

No tea. Maybe she can convince him to stop for coffee along the way. She digs around in her pockets, bringing out gloves and toque, pulling it down around her ears. "Mr. Ziadie" She murmurs, dipping her head to the older man.

He'd buy her a five course meal, if she asked. God knows he owes her more than he can ever repay. A worried glance at ziadie, but no comment, and then Fel's opening the door.

"Drive safe out there." Ziadie's glance darts between the two. "Take care, Ms. Ranier."

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