The Plant Was The Only Witness


abby_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title The Plant Was The Only Witness
Synopsis It's Abby and Deckard, just with less awkwardness, some smiles, a whole host of yelling, and a request for a manual.
Date June 22, 2009

Village Renaissance Building - Abigail & Leonard's Apartment.

Non-Christian music plays in Abigails apartment - An infrequent thing but it happens. The door open, plastic spread on her floor to protect carpet. Between the events of the morning and the late afternoon, Abigail had hit up a store, somewhere, that sold what she needed for the Coffee Vine to thrive. A bag of soil sits on the tarp, the now blonde, the REAL shade of blonde that she was born with tumbling loose on her shoulders. The tattoo's seen from the tank top and peeking between the cloth and her hair. A trowel is scooping soil it, a bucket for the likely irradiated soil separated from the rest. Abigail… is gardening in her living room.

Deckard is looking better. Better than he did three days ago and better than he did three weeks ago. He's still too thin, skin drawn taut around bony knuckles and rawhide tendon across the back of his bandaged hand when he lifts it to knock lightly at the open door, but he's clean and clean cut. Sort've. …Almost. His hair is shorn short, wiry bristle still weathered grey around the edges in its unruly lift away from his skull, and at some point in the last few days he was clean shaven. By now he's accumulated a few days worth of ash dusted stubble, but the overall effect is a vast improvement over the usual kind of homeless guy in a suit thing he has going on. He even has a new (used) leather jacket and a new pair of jeans. All without bloodstains or bullet holes or gasoline fumes.

What he does not have is any idea why Abby might be sitting on the floor with a plant and a bunch of dirt. Gardening. He eyes her from beneath slightly knit brows, bafflement ill-suppressed by some vague and hazy desire not to look at her like she's a crazy person while he lingers in the doorway.

The movement at the door - more than the knocking - is what garners her attention. Why Flint Deckard, she's putting it into a new home is what she's doing. Trellis attached to the long window box. plenty of room for the chocolate Vine to propagate and expand. The trowel is sunk into the bag of soil and her hands wiped against each other to knock off dirt. "You… you are a sight for sore eyes" There's some sorrow lurking in the corners of her eyes, but there's some measure of joy as well. Happiness. Something.

"Hey." Standard greeting, followed up with another slightly sideways glance over at her bag of dirt when the towel sinks away into it. "You too." There Deckard's brow twitches down again, like the words just kind of fell out of his mouth and he's not 100% certain he's used them in the right context. 'You too.' S'just one of those things people say. When other people say things to them. Lost in his own overthinking, he glances away at a light switch and fails to followup with anything more intelligent.

"Come in, close the door. I'll turn the music down and make you some swamp sludge" After she washes her hands of course. "I don't smell gasoline so I guess that means you're not bathing in it anymore" She's happy. The sadness still chases the corner but the happiness that's there is really there. "Have you had anything to eat yet or should I make you something? I haven't eaten yet either" Off towards the kitchen she goes, barefoot and jean clad.

Hollowed out head stooped into a distracted nod, Deckard steps in and turns to close the door behind himself as instructed, watching her pad by and away from her dirt and plant collection in mild silence. Rather than follow her into the kitchen area, he lingers at the door once he's turned the lock, right hand fidgeting unconsciously at the bandaging bound crisp around the left while she does her thing. His eyes flicker back to the plant, which refuses to make an excuse for itself. Then his eyes flicker down and his fidgeting shifts over onto his watch, which is altogether less likely to start bleeding if he pokes the wrong spot. "I haven't eaten. …Who told you about the gasoline?"

"You can come into the kitchen Flint, I won't bite. Pastor Sumter did when I heard him talking yesterday with Frita about needing to get rid of the couch." She bustles about, getting out lunch meat, popped rye bread into the toaster between chopping up fruit and measuring out a tan powder into the blender. SMoked meat on rye it seems, from the smell that comes from the microwave where the meat heats.

"It's your turn to meet with Delphine Flint. She'll set you back to sorts, right and proper as god intended you to be" Called out from the kitchen.

The plant has nothing to say other than to hold it's flower buds tight and cling to the white strips of wood.

Sumter. Annoyance hardens at the lines around Deckard's mouth, about as unsurprised as he feels he should be. Both southern baptists, both terminally concerned with the well-being of people they aren't. They probably gossip like old ladies about conflagration and bake sales. One last dubious look spent on the plant's scattered situation on the floor, he turns to trail his way into the kitchen after her, there without really being there with her, so far as things as physical distance and easily distracted line of sight are concerned. What an interesting toaster! He reaches to flick at one of the settings, probably to the rye bread's imminent detriment. "I dunno who that is."

"The woman that Helena knows. Who's fixing what Tyler case messed up. I met with her this morning" The reason for the happiness maybe? "I was told that you wouldn't let her tend to you until she tended to me. So now, you can be tended to" The meat is heaped onto the toast, layer after layer as a smoked meat sandwich should be. "Mustard?"

"Oh. …Great. So — that's it? You have your Jesus powers back now and…" can resume saving the world one bullet hole at a time? The trail off is awkward, as Deckard's have a tendency to be. It's hard to follow the thread of this conversation and sandwiches at the same time. Everything is so offhand. He looks back over at her a little more directly, apparently incredulous of her presence here in the kitchen as opposed to leaping around in circles or healing the blind at church or — whatever it was that she did with it before other than fix his liver damage.

"I don't. I never will have it back. She could only fix my hair Flint. Apparently…" His plate is turned just so, the sandwich aligned in some invisible adherence to sandwich alignment that Abigail has.

"Apparently, I shouldn't have had a gift in the first place. I'm not gifted genetically" That's the easiest way to put it. Instead of saying 'hey, so, yeah, I WAS Jesus touched, and totally a miracle worker' Blue eyes meet blue eyes. "She tried. She turned my hair back to blonde. I am the way god made me and intended me to be Flint. Now it's you're turn to be the way you're supposed to be."

"…" says Deckard, who looks like he isn't sure he's heard properly. Or like he's sure he hasn't heard properly. He stands where he is and eyes her, shoulders angled down beneath the stiff lines of his brown coat to make him look even taller and narrower than usual. "That doesn't make any sense," is what he says first, reasonably confident in what little he does know about the way things work with this stuff. He read the book, after all. "I still have it."

"She's says.. that I'm not evolved, I'm not gifted like you, or Helena or Cat or even her. There was nothing to fix" Abigail still watches the other man, waiting for the yelling, or the further disbelief. "You still have it. I don't know why Flint, but she says that I shouldn't have had it in the first place even. I shouldn't have been able to do, what it was, that I did" Her own sandwich pieced together, and the blender button hit so that all the ingredients for the swamp sludge come together with protein powder to help him out.

"It really was God's Gift"

"Maybe she's lying." Why is he the only one who thinks about this kind of stuff? Still, Deckard lacks conviction almost before he's hit the word 'lying,' — belatedly aware that he might unwittingly be stoking some kind of false hope that shouldn't be false. He doesn't persist, brow taking on a surlier hood when he turns his head down to squint at the floor, frown distinct and face shadowed to the tune of the blender motor churning next to them.

"I'll find out. I'm going to go to the station later this week. Ask to take the test" Red or Blue, it'll tell whether Delphine is lying or not." The off button is hit, and the contents of the blender settle down. Minute later they're poured into two glasses. one for her, one for him. Hmmm fruity goodness that looks anything BUT fruity.

"I don't think she is though. Pastor Sumter gave me a vision. She was in it" She starts then, telling him hwo it went from start to finish, ending with a glance to the vines that can be seen outside the kitchen, waiting to be finished with and settled into their new resting place in her room.

"No point," Deckard decides after a long moment spent listening to the blender while it winds itself down. He's still frowning despite himself, eyes clear and cold when they cut back over onto Abby from the counter he's taken to leaning against. "As long as I still have it, there's something for you to get back. We just have to find the other guy — "

Abigail looks at Deckard, concern coloring her features. "Flint. What if.. I can't get it back. What if the reason I didn't get yours is that… I couldn't?" Had that occurred to him? Why had everyone else who'd come in contact with Tyler case gotten an ability switched for another and here she got nothing. Parked in her seat at the table, the 70's dining set beneath them.

"You don't know." Ok, now Flint's getting mad. Poorly suppressed anger lifts and squares at theh bony brace of his shoulders, increasing his volume like a vulture flaring up over a high quality corpse when he pushes off the counter towards her. "Jesus Christ, Abby — you can't just sit here and pot plants for the rest of your life and not try because of what you think one of Sumter's visions might mean."

"No, No I DON'T know Flint. I don't know Anything. I don't know why what she did worked for Cat and not for me. The only thing that changed is that she turned my hair back to blonde" her anger flares in answer to his. "What am I supposed to do Flint? All I can do is sit and pot that plant. Is pent the first week Flint running all over the city, sleeping at safe houses and combing the streets for Tyler Case. Did you know that? Then I sat in church and going over my life and trying to figure out why it was taken away from me, what I could change in my life to make him happier." Abigail turns in her seat to face the approaching man. "What do you want me to do Flint? Run around on Staten Island helping you look for him?"

"I didn't know because you didn't tell me." Apparently having forgotten his own knee jerk response, which involved a lot of hiding under rocks and brooding out of easy contact, Deckard shows no signs of being inclined to back down. He builds merrily upon the rickety scaffolding of hypocrisy he's already standing on, bony hands clawed open at his sides, compelled by an unconscious need to wring the life out of whoever's fault this all is. No answer for the last, which. Might as well be a no.

"How am I supposed to TELL you Flint Deckard, huh? How am I supposed to tell you when you're not around and getting a hold of you is hit and miss? When I have to blow a hundred bucks and down half a bottle of little pills just to come out to you on that Island. Or when you do show up, your two steps from unconsciousness and when you wake up, I'm already gone because I have school. I've done everything I can think of to try and get it back. I've had to sit and watch a cop that I know, who's stuck his neck out for me and tried so hard to make things move forward with bringing the people who kidnapped me in for justice get gunned down behind the bar. They thought I was turning my back on them Flint. Even worse, they didn't like at all that I wouldn't file a report or give them your name."

"I've even contemplated calling Mr. Caliban, the man who works for Mr Linderman to ask for his help in finding Case"

The flat of Deckard's chest rises and falls fast over and under gusts of blunt frustration forced out through his sinuses in the place of an automatic retort. Money spent, respect lost. Chilly resentment is quick to overtake a glimpse of something scuffling and feeble and hurt in the way he looks at her, intensity clocking in at absolute zero before it diverts itself. Back to the blender.

"You should have known better than to go to the cops. Did you think the wheel of Justice would turn over for you because you're pretty and blonde? They only care about their own. The ones that don't get fucked." He's moving for the door, then, 'cross the opposite end of the table. Nevermind swamp sludge and rye bread. "If you want to crawl in bed with Linderman next, be my guest."

"I know the wheel of justice doesn't care for me. Same as they only care about pinning you down so they can slap you in chains and haul you off for things you haven't done so they can close open cases. Don't you walk away from me Flint Deckard. Don't you dare run from me." A palm comes down on her table, the flat of it making everything rattle on the table.

"I didn't GO to them. They came to my bar. Someone SHOT a cop outside the bar and used me to lure him. I'm not looking to jump into bed with Linderman either." Abigail's chair scrapes against the floor as she pushes it back and heads for him.

"Grow a spine Flint Deckard, when it comes to me. Instead of running away when I open my mouth. I don't expect to get anything because I'm pretty and blonde. I don't expect anything that I don't work hard for. The same as you."

Deckard flinches at the rattling jump of flatware away from the table at Abby's hand, progress for the door effectively halted there, though he doesn't round on her until she's up and coming after him. He's a big guy, wilder-looking than usual when angry — the severe jut of skull bone at his brow and the ridge of his cheek cut with stringy muscle at the back of his unshaven jaw.

Now would be the ideal time for a reprisal, but he just stands there and looks unhappy with her instead, a hint of a lean of forward movement aborted into more frowning.

"So damned busy getting unhappy with me and telling me that I need to fight harder for what I lost and you can't even deign to take care of yourself. Want me to jump into bed with Linderman? Do you really? Because I'm sure I can. I'm sure that I'll make a very sympathetic figure to him and his organization. Benevolent healer has her ability ripped away from her by another one. Unable to get it back and is forced to restart her life in a different fashion. Think of the publicity and spin he could get on that. I'm a goldmine for his charitable front"

The plant is still, as always, the silent observer.

"Say it. Say whatever is sitting on the edge of your tongue. That I'm not not cutting you any slack? That I'm not bending over backwards to get it back and instead trusting a man who's own gift has proven right twice now. That I'm some little uppity religious bint who deserves a big wake up call? Get it off your chest Flint Deckard, because I already stood up to Fedor Ibragimov when he had a few choice things to say to me. You should know, you picked me up off the floor and fixed what he hurt"

"I was…just — " Crosstalk. Hopelessly lost in the flow of her tirade. The more she goes on, the more he loses steam, virulent irritation lifting away in a winding furl of exasperation that fails to find anything to catch on and cling to on its way out of his system. His posture manages to stay the same at least, intimidation wrought into the iron cage of his understructure at the mercy of cables of wiry muscle that are intent upon not letting this go.

When she seems done again and there's space for him to talk, he opens his mouth and closes it, teeth flashing white while his brain tracks aimlessly around in search of some kind of valid argument or crushing thing to say. There's nothing. So, brows tipped up in vaguely hopeless apology, pretty much the only thing he can say for himself is, "I…It's kind of hot when you're angry." There's a shrug contained to the blue of his eyes. Sorry.

"I'm hot when I'm angry…" That seems to make the blonde stop what she's doing, that whole being angry, spitting image of her mother when she's chastising/verbally beating up on her husband. Hands drop to the side. "What did you just say?"

She doesn't really expect him to repeat it, does she? The side of his face already buzzing unpleasantly in anticipation of having a hand-shaped red mark imprinted across it, Deckard eyes her a little sideways, one brow twitching to edge out the other in the height of their respective lifts.

She heard him, she just.. well yes, she was expecting him to repeat it. "I yell at you, and you tell me I'm hot when I'm angry" Her mouth opens and closes, much like his did earlier only in perfect imitation of a koi fish that is lurking near the top of the water in the hopes that SOMEONE will give it food. Then a hand does go up, only not towards his face but pointing towards the kitchen. "Go. Sit. Eat. Or i'll get even more hotter"

"I'm not hungry anymore." So there. More solid now that he's discombobulated her, for all that he still lacks perfect confidence in unfamiliar territory, Deckard stands up a little straighter. Making progress in a direction that has nothing to do with anything is still progress.

"I don't care if you're not hungry anymore. You look like a walking scruffy skeleton. You need to eat. I made it for you, and good manner and hot blondes dictate that you eat what's on your plate and your plate has a smoked meat sandwhich."

The plant still watches. It'll win an Emmy for best support character.

"Please" Abigail adds on, in an appropriately nice and pleading tone

"I don't care if you don't care." A step forward grants him the height advantage necessary to loom. So Deckard looms, brow level and jaw set. "I have a spine, Abigail. You think you're the first person that's tried to tear me down and order me around for my own well being?" For all that it's an open-ended question, he doesn't leave much room to answer before he's stepping back again. The door is still his goal. "If I wanted to lie down and die — give up — I would have done it before now." He pauses just long enough to look her over there, eyes hard. "This is how I live. I don't need you cramming sandwiches down my throat every time I come by or Teo rubbing my cowardice in my face because I haven't fucked you yet to know that I'm a screw up. When I need help I ask for it."

"And yet you keep coming by and letting me cram sandwiches down your throat. You came by today for something, if it wasn't the sandwiches. And Teo has no say in what action goes on between my bedsheets or lack thereof. You're not a screw up Flint. Your a man who's dealing with the hands that life has dealt him. If you want to bed me then you can ask. But I'm sure it's not cowardice that keeps you from doing it. You are most decidedly not a coward flint deckard. You had the balls to tell me i'm hot when i'm angry and I remember the sound of your voice over the phone when I told you I was hurt. And cowards don't loose eyes when they go looking around brothels for wayward healers and get caught"

A sigh threads its way out after a puff at the slats of Deckard's ribs, dreary and dragging after that earlier ruffle of exasperation in the lines around his face. He's not listening. Not completely anyway, head tilting away before she's finished, chill eyes focused elsewhere. "I'm surprised you remember that much." Less than flattering in delayed observation, he scrubs his unbandaged hand up over his face, scruffing at sandpaper stubble and close-cropped hair with little care for the added disorder mussed along in the process. "As long as I have your ability, there's a chance we can get it back into you. Okay?"

"I remember asking you if you would sleep with me that morning too Flint and I remember you telling me that you would, just not tonight." Flint" her mouth twitches, preparing for the sure to come Blast for what she's going to say. "If you get the chance first, to get yours back, take it. If you want it, take it. Don't wait, don't say that you won't until I've been helped. I won't think any less of you or be angry. I've accepted that if I'm not going to get it back, if I can't get it back, that I.. can't. I'm still useful without it"

Nothing again. Deckard makes himself look at her despite the irritation that clouds heavy over the hood of his brow, impatience lining harsh through the muscles wired up the sides of his neck past the collar of his jacket. "You have faith that everything is going to be fine. After all the shit that's happened."

"Adam Monroe called me God's Job" She says it Jobe, not job. "Even in that god awful room beneath all the flip skirts, I had faith that you and Teo and everyone else that I knew, that I sent Richard Cardinal to tell, would find a way to get to me. Matthew Parkman was there too. He's homeland. He made sure to tell me that everything would be okay when Richard managed to get near him. He's a telepath" In case Deckard didn't know.

"I have it written on my skin Flint. Faith is the light that guides you through the darkness" Abigail lifts the hem of her tank top, the line of latin that runs vertically up her side. "Would you rather I had despair and fear? That I hid in my room and never came out. Would you want to sleep with that woman? Would you come in the early hours of morning and heal my wrist even though it likely didn't need it, if I .. not Abigail of the never ending faith? Would you want me then if I didn't have faith that at least in your hands, in you experienced and big hands, God's gift is doing good. I don't harbor a thread of love for you in my heart just because you have it. I harbor it because I like you, in all your flows and all your little hidden nooks of good in you. Because you let me iron your shirts that one time, and you don't take advantage of me when a lesser man might have"

"Flint, I have faith in you, even after everything"

"No." He wouldn't rather she have despair and fear. The rest Flint leaves of with a distant shake of his head while his eyes sketch over the translated script running up her side, less sure of things that haven't transgressed for him to know how he'd handle them one way or the other. Both hands back at his sides, the left twitches and resettles when the shirt goes back down. Back to just standing there like a fence post again, rusty barbed wire and mesquite and weathered grey edges. Not necessarily in disbelief. Resignation, maybe. Acceptance regardless of whether or not he agrees with her.

"I'll always be here Flint. With a sandwich and a a glass of something for you, a place to sleep and whatever else you need. Because.. that's what .. That's what you do for folks that you have a place in your heart for. Some day, some day you'll understand that" That slender hand is outstretched, offered up to Deckard, palm facing towards the ceiling. "Come eat flint. Please. If only to make me happy and shut my mouth. Cause lordy lordy I talk you up one side and down the other and I know you hate it"

No comment one way or the other about her talking, which is probably wise on his part. No reach for her offered hand, either. But Deckard does turn for the kitchen, and does recollect his sandwich, and does drop himself down into a chair at the opposite end of the table to frown down at it.

Without word, Abigail does the same. Sinking down into her seat and letting the sandwich take up her attention as well. The plant is disappointed that there's no more fireworks and only the solitary black feline resident of the apartment to keep it company now. A glance now and then over to him as she starts to eat her own sandwich.

Deckard pokes at his sandwich like a seven year old, blandly disinterested in bread and meat alike. Eventually he tears a piece off and puts it into his mouth when he realizes she's glancing up at him, but he's not exactly making fast work of it.

"So Teo is calling you a coward for not sleeping with me?"

Likely not the question that he was wanting her to ask, but Abigail does, taking healthy bites of her own sandwhich.

Brows lifted, Deckard hooks his thumb up after a piece of bread caught fast in his teeth and just kind of Looks at her across the table. Does he look like he has enough dignity held back in storage to make something like that up?

"Tell him, next time, that Abigail says to shut the fuck up and worry about his own bed, instead of yours and mine. The lord will put you in my bed when it's time for you to be in my bed and not any sooner from Teodoro Laudani interference" There's a beat. "Whenever we get the real Teo back."

There's a conspicuous beat of silence across the table at that, through which Deckard stares a little unnervingly, like he thinks she's said something crazy. Which she kind of has. Impatience makes another showing at the rankle of his nose and in the knot of muscle at his jaw, but he prefers tearing another piece off his sandwich to arguing once his gaze has dropped back to his plate.

'What did I say wrong now?" There's a soft sigh. "I'm really not good at talking to people. I'm much better praying. Maybe if I started talking in prayers, I wouldn't get such looks from people"

"Getting colder," Deckard dictates helpfully from across the table. Playing with his food would be easier if he had a fork. As things are he has to rest his head in the same hand he was just picking through his sandwich with.

She tries to hold it back. The laugh that wants to burble forth when Deckard tells her that she failing. Her lips twitch in some threatening smile before the back of her palm is pressed to her mouth and she looks away even as her shoulders shake with the unvocalized laughter.

Deckard isn't so worn out that he can't manage a sliver of a smile himself, bandaged left hand back to prodding his sandwich all to pieces while he watches her laugh. Maybe things aren't so bad. Despite the fact that they really kind of are.

The laughter dies away, in it's own time and naturally. The crusts of her sandwich left with a smear of mustard on her plate. There's an urge to eat some grapes that are in the fruit drawer of her fridge. "Give me a bit. Before you ask me, what I asked you that night when I got blue hair. I need to balance my faith, and my upbringing with.. things. I've made enough sweeping changes in my life of late. I want to make sure that I wouldn't, that I won't regret it"

"Okay." Okay. Fingers drummed once across the table, Deckard looks her over without sign of disappointment or relief or — anything. He's difficult to read as ever when he scrapes back his chair and levers himself up out of it, still set on not eating a sandwich he isn't hungry for. "I'm heading back to Staten."

"You want me to come visit at some point? Pastor Sumter is thinking of taking the outreach group there, what with all the fire" If he's not going to eat it, then… It's being bagged up, slid into a ziploc bag. Takes her a moment to open a lower cabinet and get a grocery bag. In goes the sandwich, as well as a couple cans of breakfast shakes and a crapload of energy bars. "If we find Tyler case Flint, if he can give it back to me. What is he going to give to you? He switches people. I didn't get your vision. What if you end up with nothing? With our current situation reversed?"

"Then…I…will have to stick with getting women naked the old fashioned way." Brows tipped up at a familiar angle, too innocent to be innocent, Deckard holds out a hand for the grocery bag even as she's still stuffing things into it. "I dunno if you'll want to visit. I'm moving out of the Lighthouse."

"Long as you meet me at the dock and it's not in the rookery, I think that I could do it. That and like, maybe another half bottle of my pills" The bag is tied twice, the loops slid over his good hand, a glance to the other one, the bandaged one. "Hit up Little Italy. Scraped Knee clinic. Tell Chuck that I sent you. I guess you're having a hard time turning it in on yourself. He can heal it." It's understandable. "If you still want to .. deal with me and my naïveté in all things bedroom… well.. I suppose that they really do make manuals"

She starts heading for the door, past the plant which silently cheers for the arrival of the occupants again.

"Better than it was." The hand in question is tested and flexed without any terrible wincing or squirts of blood, five fingers all there and the right color as opposed to black and swollen on the border of a big, raggedy bone-flecked hole. "And not the only thing that was wrong with me." Which is an awful nice way of saying he had another bullet hole in his side that is no longer there. "As for the nasty, most people figure it out without having to go to a library first, but if you're really worried, there's always the internet. Thanks for the food."

"I am not going to ask Alistair to show me some sites on -" She cuts herself off. "I'm not going there. You're welcome." Up on her toes she goes, dropping a kiss to the corner of Deckards lips. "Stay safe Flint. Call. For whatever reason"

Deckard is dry and scuffy and whiskey scented, head turned away after the kiss rather than before, as might have been his preference. "Sure." He'll — think of a reason. Eventually. Maybe. A hint of an awkward linger later, he turns to head for the door less angrily than he did the first time he tried to leave.

And Abigail sinks back down to the tarpaulin on the floor before the planter. Dishes can wait till after, the Chocolate Vine has been patient and shall be rewarded. The trowel is eschewed in favor of her bare hands, scooping handfuls of soil from the bag into the trough. He's leaving her as he found her. Barefoot, hands in soil, the tip of the wings visible where her tank top and jean just don't quite meet.

Gone more quietly than he came in, Deckard leaves the door open behind him when he slips out, as it was when he found it. A few steps down the hall later, on second thought, he paces back to hook a hand around after the lock, which he turns himself before he tugs it closed and heads off.

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