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Synopsis Elisabeth and Deckard exchange thoughts on the impending end of their world. Abby eventually joins them and the topic shifts onto where they fit into what's happening and what they should do about it, if anything. Deckard has a suggestion.
Date April 17, 2019

The Dancing Boar Tavern

It's still early in the evening when Deckard finds his way into The Dancing Boar. The tavern is only lightly populated as a result, hard wood, quiet atmosphere and warm lighting better tuned to his age these days than Old Lucy's. Also, it's a lot easier not to drink to excess when there aren't women dancing on the bar pouring shots down people's throats.

Fresh off the clock, he's still neatly dressed and (mostly) put together, with light pinstriping to break up the ashen grey of his suit and a fine dusting of sandpapery salt and pepper to break up the otherwise clean line of his jaw. An ID badge still shines in its plastic casing at the left breast of his coat and the passably professional disorder of his sooty grey hair might pass for intentional. Briefcase braced onto an unoccupied bar stool, he squints a little blearily down at his watch, worn out enough that he doesn't notice the first request for his order across the bar surface.

Elisabeth has been on the clock today — there was a break in one of her cases and she had to be at work most of the afternoon. On the way home, she stops off at Delilah's bar to check and see if the lady will have time for a play date later in the week, but she doesn't spot the owner. Instead, she spots a rumpled Deckard. And she slides onto a stool next to him. "You're looking far more tired than usual, my dear… what's on your mind?" Because, you know, time travelers MIGHT be, but it could be something completely unrelated!

"Oh, you know. Sociopathic house guests and the end of existence. Sorry," the last is for the bartender, and he finally takes a seat himself, tie worked loose around his neck as he settles, "beer's fine. The usual." He's not too rumpled, really. His suit is still neatly pressed enough that he can't have been physically running around. It's the shadows around his eyes that are the real detraction.

Elisabeth grimaces in sympathy. "For what it's worth," she tells him quietly, "I've been told that if the end of existence comes because of this… we'll never see it coming. It will be both painless and merciful." She orders a glass of white wine from the bartender, and then nudges him. "Seriously…. you okay?"

"You can't see it coming? I can." Plainly conversational for all that the subject at hand is technically the end of the world, Deckard lifts his brows over at her while a chilled mug is stumped down onto the bar at his right hand. "I'm fine. Just busy. Preoccupied. Whatever. How'er things with you?"

Elisabeth grins a little bit and shrugs. "Yeah, well…. Carpe diem, Deck. Enjoy it all." She takes her glass when it's thumped in front of her, sloshing some onto the bar. "All right, I guess, for a woman who has to explain to her seven-year-old son that his father's come back from the dead," she murmurs to him, enclosing them in a bubble of silence to be able to talk openly without all the crap going on around them.

"You could just tell him he's an uncle. I mean," Deckard pauses another beat, bony fingers ticking all the way off to seven before he reaches for his beer and fails to finish the thought. It's probably insensitive to suggest that someone's kid is going to blip out of existence soon along with everything and everyone else. "Carpe diem," is what he says instead, rough voice lacking tremendous enthusiasm.

There's a shrug and Liz says quietly, "I think that's exactly what I'm doing. He knows what his father looks like and who he was, Deck. And if I took away his one opportunity to speak with him and ask whatever questions boys want to ask of their dads…. I wouldn't forgive myself for that, and if he ever found out, Cam wouldn't forgive me either." She glances at him. "He's got all of us…. he'll be okay."
Deckard looks dubious, further comment on the subject staved off by the flimsy pretext of him needing to reach over for a toothpick to pry some non-existent piece of nothing out from between his molars. He's quiet for a while, beer nudged away a few inches with the back of his knuckles when the level starts to dip a little too quickly. "I guess I should be glad I never got around to raising any."

There's an indelicate snort from Elisabeth's corner. Yeah…. right… he's only dating Abigail and spending much of his time at her place. "If you think so," is all she says to him. Because whether he likes it or not, he's putting in time as a parent. Maybe not full time, but … She sips her wine and says, "In the meantime…. what's your opinion on sending them back? Pro or con?"

The already flat set of his mouth thinned further at the snort, Deckard gives her another sideways look, barstool creaking beneath him when he shifts his weight back a few degrees, then forward again. "I dunno." Which is a lie. Chest lifting over a muffled sigh, he pushes a pair of coasters together into the beginning of a loose roof shape, edges tipped up towards each other until they remain standing on their own.

Elisabeth just laughs at him. "Are you ever going to stop being a crotchety fart, Deckard?" she asks him mildly. The answer, she figures in her own head, is 'of course not,' but you know… it's all good. She swallows a sip of her wine and just says, "Tell me something NOT related to time travel or kids that you did with your day. I need to get my head out of all this for a bit. What kind of fun did you have today?"

"I'm not crotchety. Just…" something other than crotchety. The absence of a more appealing alternative descriptor does little to save face in the face of his own defensiveness. Brows twitching into a surly knit, he flicks over the beginnings of his own coaster house and finally reaches back for his beer. "Maybe I am crotchety. Could be worse. I could be a cop." Which is a crotchety thing to say, really. He takes another swallow of the stuff, glass clinking back to wood again without excessive force. Must not be that annoyed. "I…violated the privacy of multiple unwitting civilians and carried a gun around New York City illegally. Also a taser." His knee nudges up at the briefcase still lying flat across the stool next to him.

Now that they're not talking about the travelers anymore, Elisabeth has dropped the bubble that separated them from the rest of the crowd, and she chuckles at him. She's used to his ways by now… mostly more bark than bite too. "Hey, now that sounds like fun. The violating privacy part, not the illegal weapon. Sheesh. Don't tell me shit like that!"

The trip from Brooklyn hadn't been that bad and Deckard forewarning her where he'd be, since she's not to found at home - despite being on vacation - had pulled into the boar's and was coming through the door. Looking for Deckard so they can catch some quiet time, that didn't involve children or aforementioned time travelers. Elisabeth it seems is just the bonus. She doesn't head over to where they're sitting, not yet at least, stopping at the bar to get her drink first.

"Why not?" Malicious innocence twines Deckard's fingers together on the bar ahead of him when he turns his head to look at her in full for the first time, blue eyes clear and curious once they've skipped up away from her legs. "Are you going to arrest me, Officer?" No sooner are the words out of his mouth that he catches an Abby-shaped individual stepping up to the bar in his peripheral vision. At the very height of subtlety, he suddenly sits up a little straighter. Whupsie.

Elisabeth merely rolls her eyes at him. "Don't tempt me, mister. It's not my jurisdiction anymore, though, and you're a pain in my butt, so … just don't tell me you're doing that kind of shit, willya? I'll tell Bax, you keep that up," she smirks. "Let him arrest you."

"What did he do this time?" That's Abby heading over to park beside her man friend. Because he's too old to be a boyfriend and he objected to significant other. "How are you doing Liz?" Orange juice in her glass, and not with something extra. Just a plain orange juice.

Brap. Deckard utters a semi-muffled belch once he's reached to drag the aforementioned suitcase off Abby's stool before she sits on it, which is utterly becoming of the expensive suit he's wearing, really. "I dunno. Elisabeth says I'm a pain in her butt, but I think everyone knows I prefer the pink to the stink." 3/4 of one beer and he's already loosened up enough to be obnoxious.

Shaking her head at him, Elisabeth merely says in a deadpan voice to Abby, "He tried to feel me up." Abby will know Liz is absolutely lying — if that were actually the case, she wouldn't be teasing Deck, he'd be on the floor with Elisabeth's 2.5-inch pointy high heel in his back. She grins at Abigail, though, and says, "Hey lady. Good to see you taking a few minutes to relax too. How're things holding up at your place? Deckard's all freaked out over the extra sociopath in the living room."

"I shuffled the kids off to my fathers. Though Natalie was back at the house a few days ago. Daycare wouldn't take her, they said she was sick. But yeah. He's doing good with you know who in the front room" Though with Norton there, there was less a chance of them being fried in their sleep. Deckard's smart mouthing isn't unnoticed but it's not chided either. It's a tavern/bar. It's a given. it's not society and rich people and lots of policemen.

Tease dropped like a hot brand, Deckard works his jaw and fights the impulse to give Liz a dirtier look than she's been on the receiving end of thus far. Ffffff. "I'm not," assured more evenly instead, he falls quiet the way he has a habit of doing and pushes his beer aimlessly over the increasingly damp bar surface.

There's a snicker when Abby speaks. "They sent Nat home? What the hell? I mean…. not like they don't know who you are and exactly what you can do!" she comments incredulously. "That's bullshit," Liz opines, and then just rolls her eyes at Deckard one more time. "But sending them to your dad's is a good idea. I'm actually going to send Cam to my father's place uptown for a few days…. once he meets Norton." She'll stop giving Deckard shit now, cuz well… he looks to be straddling the line. It's no fun to pick at him once he gets mad.

'Rules. Even with a healer for a mother, there's still rules" She glances at Deckard after a sip from her OJ. "He's not. but he's hanging around the house even more right now, depite the strangers" Abigail shifts so that her thigh is flush with Deckard's, hidden discreet PDA. "How was work? Both of you"

Odds are, Elisabeth is right and something has Deckard spooked. The shadows that were around his eyes early this morning are still there and his patience is rarely as quick to wear through these days as it just did. He takes another sip of beer anyway, nodding dimly to the offer of another round from the 'tender while he lets the tension stored up in his leg go slack against Abigail's. "The kids whine when I use an overhead projector." Not exactly an in-depth summary, but the tip of his brow that accompanies it is telling. Another perfectly normal day at work. It's the home stuff that's gone weird.

Taking a long sip of her wine, Elisabeth tells Abby, "Oh, work was the usual. I had a break in one of the kidnappings today, though — It's looking like a parental kidnap, which means the kid's probably all right, at least. Now we've just got to locate her." In truth, she hates working the kidnap cases, and Abby knows it. Even now, too many times the outcome is not good. "Someone the father knows bought tickets to South Africa, so we're following up on it." She smiles at the two and says, "I do need to head back — I promised Cam that I'd take him out for dinner tonight. Thanks for the confab, Deckard," she tells him easily, sliding off her stool and patting his shoulder. She leaves money on the bar to cover her wine, and tells Abby, "I'll pop my head in tomorrow before your shift and let you know how it goes, okay?"

They're always complaining about the overhead projector. One hand comes to rest on Deckard's leg near his Knee, a slight squeeze and rub, more soothing and comforting than anything sexual. She can't read him as well as he can read her, but she can tell when something is off. "If you need me to heal, let me know" but other than that, Elisabeth is just nodded to, letting the woman make a break for it. Her attention after that is on the Orange Juice, and the man beside her.

"Any time." Polite now that he's had a couple of minutes to cool it, Deckard frowns faintly at news of the kidnapping, more unconsciously empathetic than he'd probably like. The world manages to be a crappy place even when it's about to end. No real surprises there. He watches Elisabeth out, fingers uncurled and lifted into a lazy farewell while his beer is replaced. Theeen he looks over at Abigail. "How've things been with you?"

"Dealing with being out of the loop. Gabriel knew apparently. But then, Gabriel and I are not part of that little society so" So no surprise. Her free hand comes up to twist at her orange juice straw, look over at him. "I can have them set up in one of Cat's places. If it will make you feel better Flint. I have no qualms doing that. It's your place too."

"Do you ever feel like you missed out? Being on the outside?" It's an earnest question. One that bypasses the idea of Gabriel knowing entirely. Of course he knows. Christ, half of New York probably knows by now. Chest puffed around another sigh, he manages a half-smile, however hazy. "I don't. I mean — I used to. I guess. Help save the world, get swept under a rug until you're useful again. And it's fine. They don't have to go. She was just being…"

"I do Flint." It's truthful. "But I also half chose to be on that outside, and they half chose to put me on the outside. You know me. I have to do what's right. What's right meant not trying to keep secrets. What was right was healing those who needed it, not those they dictated would need it. Hippocratic oath." her hand rubs his knee. 'What's brought this on?" and she's just being… What was Elle being like? "Do we need to go somewhere private to talk about it?"

"I tried, for a while." A few months, anyway. "Not very well." Ten years worth of crappy nostalgia isn't enough to kill his smile, but it does put a bitter twist on the end of it until she moves her hand again and he wakes up some. "Just a lot to think about, Abby. Everything's fine. Carpe Diem."

"Seize the day" Murmured. "They would argue that you got a great deal out of being an outsider with the group. The medals and fame" It's a weak counter argument and she doesn't support it. It's just Abby trying to be fair. "We can always tell them that what we've done is enough, and all that we'll do." That they won't be party to being used only when convenient. Not like she benefited from the fame - not that she even tried to either. "What did Elle do?"

Not that weak, really. It's one that Deckard's reluctant to touch on at the very least. He wouldn't be where he is now. Dead or in a dead end job, back in a pawn shop somewhere he'd run less of a risk of being recognized. What's a little bit of torture and lost sanity when you're successful in the big scheme of things? "Teo isn't Phoenix," is all he has to say in the end. "I hardly know these people. I'm just some…creepy old guy you're living with who happened to spend a few nights on a boat."

"And you think that they couldn't have found someone if they tried hard enough, to come do what I did? I'm sure Daniel Linderman for the price of their souls would have come and done it. And Teo was part of that, back then. And the gathering at the Dorchester is even more evidence that we are and shall never be Phoenix direct. We're just… " Abby fishes for the right word. "Tools for the job. And you are not some creepy old guy who's living with me. And you.. I don't know what happened on that boat exactly, but there had to be purpose to you being on that boat even if it was just as distraction" Another squeeze of his knee, gentle. "Your my old man Flint Deckard. And I barely know half these people either."

"It was Rico. I…appealed to his better nature. Or something. God knows. I still don't." Left hand scrubbed up over his face, Deckard drapes his right hand over the one she has at his knee. It's still cold from his glass and tense with what they're talking about, but it's there in a sort of. Effort. Which sometimes counts for something. "Hana let me out of the brig, Teo and Brian showed up with guns. Rico blew up his own ship." For all that he's had ten years to talk, this could well be the first time he's sketched it out in even vague detail. "Teo was shot in the head. He fell." To his death. Except not really. A distant frown turned down onto the foggy glass of his hardly touched second beer, he runs his tongue over his teeth and looks over to her again, suddenly disconcertingly direct. Gauging.

"Want to go to Vegas?"

So that's what happened. Why Teo was the vegetable that he was. "Did you ever think that really, that's what you were there for? To appeal to his nature? What better at that time that for him to see someone who everyone was writing off as .. something not good, going through with the conviction of helping to stop the end of the world" The hand on his hand stills, not in terror but in curiosity. "Vegas" She knows why people go to Vegas and it's not usually for the gambling.


"I don't know. Teo said something along those lines. I guess it makes sense. Edward…fucked me over." But it's a long story and a lot of people have fucked Deckard over and he does not seem all that inclined to elaborate in the face of certain other things they have to talk about. Like the fact that she said yes. Uhhh. His jaw slacks open a little, one brow pushes down. "Seriously?"

'Dad has the children. Trask can manage sparky, Isabelle doesn't need babysitting" Abigail holds up her left hand, devoid of ring. Like it's been for the last two days. "We can catch a flight out there, we can stay the weekend, or not" Abigail answers him, surety on her face. "We're terrible for each other Flint, utterly terrible. But at that same time, we're perfect for each other. How many times have you pulled my rear out of the fire? And how many times have I saved you from almost certain death if not sepsis"

"Okay." Okay. They are going to Vegas. And she has saved him from sepsis a fair number of times. More than he cares to estimate. When he can't think of anything to say, he just reaches around for his wallet and fails not to look pleased with himself when he asks after the tab.

"Eileen will die" That's abby's other words, but there's a smile on her face too as she looks over at him. There's a dart in, her hand taking his chin and directing his face towards her before she offers up a soft kiss on his lips, perhaps just a little more than is proper for her to ever do in public with him. "I'll meet you at the car. I'll let my dad know we'll be out of town for the rest of the night and maybe a little longer."

The kiss is returned in kind. He's had a drink; fatalism is gradually rooting itself back into its old digs in the shady realm of his motivation. It matters less who's watching and what they'll say when a quiet Armageddon is creeping at your back on soft padded paws. Nothing too risqué, granted. The automatic rove of his hand up the inside of her thigh falls away when he catches himself and the bartender clears her throat approximately at the same time. Heyyy. Both hands go to the task of flipping a credit card out of his billfold while he nods. Car, dad, rest of the night, Eileen is dying. Okay!

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