Participants:
| Scene Title | Twitterpation |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Raquelle and Abigail make the trip to Staten to find Deckard. It's going downhill till Raquelle starts singing. Then there's groping, staring and eye contact. |
| Date | May 30, 2009 |
Staten Island - Coast
The coast of Staten Island is as much of a presence as its inland, with rivers that invade right into its heart as well as cutting off the circulation of transport from the rest of New York City. The coastal regions reflect a lot of this borough's rural nature, with rough shores and plantlife, broken brick, and general abandonment. The harbors are left to the devices of those that freely come and go, a conspicuous lack of official presence - a number of them notably overrun by the developing crime syndicate, but there are still quite a few, particularly on the coasts nearest to Brooklyn and Manhattan, that are accessible to the lawful public.
Another trip to Staten Island. Only this time she brought Raquelle with her. So he was subjected to her hanging over the side of the boat and loosing her lunch, and if asked why, he was told about what had happened here. Amazing at all that even wants to step foot on here. But she is, and when the boat lands, she's off it like a flash, lingering beside the dock until she's sure that Logan or Muldoon is nowhere to be seen and gesturing towards their destination. The Lighthouse.
Mid-afternoon and Deckard is out on the beach, shoulder-holster and accompanying revolver brown and black beneath the flap and billow of his dress shirt in the breeze. Sleeves rolled white to his elbows, jeans loose, cigarette poking slack from the corner of his mouth, he looks about as wind-ruffled and casual as he gets short of lounging around the basement in his boxers.
The Lighthouse is visible over his shoulder in the near distance. It looks to be in greater disrepair than it actually is — unlike the rusted hubcap he's currently nudging at with the toe of his boot, half buried in dirty sand. It's about as useless as it looks.
Raquelle has been as supportive as possible, offering some sparkling water from his messenger bag to Abby and rubbing the small of her back and patting her back and if allowed he would have french braided her hair out of her face to avoid any pukey hair by now and he sighs softly. "We didn't have to come here sweetie, honestly." He assures her more than one time.
But here they are and off they are walking, Raquelle wears a black dress shirt and a pair of black jeans, docs on his feet and a black trenchcoat, stylish and practical thrown on over it. A pair of secret agent type sun glasses over his eyes and his hair stylishly combed and styled, tiny silver studs in his ear lobes, fingerless gloves on his hands and nails painted black (DUH). But he has his messenger bag resting against his hip as he walks along.
French braided indeed! But they did have to come. Abby's determined that she's not going to let the stupid Island get the better of her. Baby steps! A warm peacoat on her shoulders and hands in her pockets thanks to the weather. But the target is not at the lighthouse but he's at the beach and they're going almost right by him till she notices. With a nudge of her elbow to Raquelle's ribs, she gestures with said elbow and her chin in Deckard's location and alters her course appropriately, jean clad legs starting over the tall grasses and such on the ground.
The hubcab turns slowly over at the direction of Deckard's boot, exposing a pair of small crabs underneath. Left to blink dumbly in the bright afternoon light, they clip their claws and scuttle one way, then the other before finding suitable shelter in thicker vegetation a foot or two away. Flint watches them go in dim silence, smoke drifting out of the corner of his mouth with the push of an easy breath.
Slow day.
The hitch in his step isn't evident until he's wandered a few steps down the beach. It shortens out his stride on the left side and drags a little at the smooth swing of his gait, but only until the scuff of incoming footsteps reaches his ears on the wind. Any uneveness is gone by the time he turns himself around to squint at the pair.
Raquelle's baby blues are well hidden by those sunglasses as he looks in the direction of Deckard and raises an eyebrow slowly. "Mmhm…well I suppose we all have different tastes, I mean my honeybear looks like a ying yang sign gone wrong…not like I can judge…" He carefully rests a hand on Abby's shoulder and continues to follow after her, whispering softly. "Don't be shy on my account."
It's not like that. Really. really. But Abigail's matching eyes with Deckard as he turns and looks at them and with a soft sigh, though it's visible from where he is in her shoulders, Abigail shuffles forward, dispersing sand in her way till she's nearer to Deckard. "Hey" Her hands are still sunk deep in her pockets. "Raquelle.. wants to… interrogate you. I think he thinks we're … you know…" her head goes from side to side. "With each other, in the… not quite.. biblical sense"
Abigail and a Guardian Angel. One whose absence of omniscience is making itself abundantly clear over the last week or so. Whatever puzzlement Deckard might have initially projected upon seeing them together is quickly and efficiently turned over into wary annoyance. He takes half a step back from Abby's approach, unconscious physical distance enforced by muscle and bone where the chill blue of his glare doesn't seem to have a problem pressing on in the look he shifts between the unlikely pair. If the cold is bothering him, despite the sinking hollows beneath his cheekbones and generalized absence of meat on his bones, he doesn't look it. Odds are he's been out here for a while already. "The hell does he care?"
Raquelle just gives Abigail a look at that introduction. "Thank you Foxy lady for that lovely little intro, have you ever considered being an MC?" He's sarcastic in a very loving/caring way, winking even though nobody can see with his sunglasses on and all. Then all his attention goes to Deckard. There's a long pause. "… well well well…" He sniffs the air and purses his lips thoughtfully. "How's the shit going?"
"I don't know Flint. maybe because I've healed his kids and we've both been taking care of the pastor and" And he knows that I sorta like you. The step back makes her stay put where she is, a look thrown to Raquelle that is sheer confusion as to how to take it. Her cheeks are slowly turning red and not from the cool air.
"Shittily. Our mutual friend caught up with me a few days ago," Deckard snipes right over Abby's head, clear eyes and grizzled stubble bristled with just a twinge of entirely unfair accusation. Where were you? Where was anybody, for that matter. For her part, Abby gets a faint scowl, which is probably also unfair, but he's looking increasingly cornered despite the narrow strip of grassy coastline that stretches on and on behind him.
Raquelle mmhms softly to himself, pulling out a small bottle of vodka and then a cup, you know the small ones with a lid. "You two feel free to talk like I'm not here okay? Young love is a beautiful thing." He holds up the vodka and the cup. "Oh right, do you have herpes or genital warts by any chance? When is the last time you had a blood test? And here's some vodka…I need you to drink the whole bottle in in about 5 minutes to pee in this here cup."
"Which Mutual friend?" She takes the sniping, she's figured that she'll probably be grumped at and yelled at. She's partly to blame for him having her ability and him his own. But then there's Raquelle firing off all the questions that you'd expect a father or a proposed sexual partner, instead of the friend of Abigails. No. No, this is not happening. Mortification reigns supreme as the red head whirls around to look at Raquelle. "Serious? are you serious?" Abigail jaw dropping to the ground. Not literally.
Which mutual friend? Excellent question. So excellent that Deckard declines to answer where Raquelle doesn't either, hooded glare fixed hard on the production of lidded cup and bottled vodka. 6'2" and wiry, he doesn't move to accept either item. He doesn't move much at all actually, save to tip a sideways look down at Abby at closer range.
Raquelle lowers his offered items with a quirk of an eyebrow and a look to Abigail. "Honey, I'm always serious but fine, I get it. I'm crampin' your style…you two are /shy/ about things here." He turns his back to the two, rolling his eyes and unscrewing the top of the vodka, sniffing it and taking a deep breath, humming softly to himself.
"I have no Style Raquelle. I don't know about this … this… shit." she points out to him, cheeks flaming red. There's a glance to Deckard and then down and away.
"Nothing to be shy about." On account of there being…literally…no thing. Shit or otherwise. So goes the unspoken implication anyway. One last frowning up and down look later, Deckard steps stiffly around Abby for Raquelle and his vodka, flicking away his cigarette as he goes.
"Naughty naughty language already?" Raquelle tsks and smirks, waving his vodka bottle around a bit. "Ooo, what's this…a snickers bar, well damn it is." He gasps and turns to look over his shoulder at Deckard. "See, your man has it right, nothing to be shy about. We're all family here." He spins around gracefully and offers the bottle of alcohol to Deckard and the snickers bar to Abigail. "Come now, play nice or Daddy Raqi's gonna end up having to spank you both. Come and get your treats."
The snickers bar is declined by the former healer, just hunkering down and face Raquelle and Deckard. Of course he's going for the alcohol. There's something mumbled to the older man as he's going by, probably hard at all for Raquelle to hear and could very well have been hard to have been heard by Deckard even.
You whisper "I like you" to Deckard.
"No you don't," muttered back at Abby within more generally audible range, Deckard takes the vodka in his right hand and the Snicker's bar with a crossover of his left. He is dishearteningly flat and even in tone and expression, long face a hard-carved blank while he fumbles one-handed with the candy bar's plastic wrapper and declines to look at either of them.
Raquelle is content that somebody at least took the snickers bar and he just looks between the two, back and forth and forth and back before holding up one moment finger and pulls out his final gift…a bag of disposable razors and a can of shaving cream, both set down near Deckard's feet before he steps back a few steps and looks between the two, back and forth and forth and back, turning back around to look away. "I'm not looking, I promise."
"You're telling me that I don't?" Abigail eyes narrow, little slivers of blue before she reaches down to the shaving cream. The cap is popped and with a shake the red head stomps on flints foot, bringing her foot down, regardless of whether he's holding onto a thing of Vodka and the snickers bar. The shaving cream tab is depressed too and pointed at him. "You don't tell me how I darn well feel Flint Deckard. If I do like you, then I do like you. I hate you too, but I like you too or else why would I come out here twice you … you darned grizzly buzzard"
Having successfully stripped the top end of the Snicker's bar, Deckard nips off a bite and chews while he watches Raquelle disperse the remainder of what he has to offer, peanuts and chocolate crunched thoughtfully into oblivion. Razors, shaving cream. Vodka. Divine intervention. "What are you?" is kind of a weird question to actually ask of a person in the course of an otherwise relatively (for him) lucid conversation, but he asks it anyway, eyes narrowed on Raquelle's turned back.
Then Abby's stomping on his foot and there's — shaving cream. Everywhere. Already less stable on his feet than the norm, he goes down onto a knee in the sand, right hand held out to keep vodka tilted upright even as he's blasted in the head with a mess of fluffy white, through which he can kind of sort of hear Abby's indignance. The hell.
"What am I?" Raquelle looks over his shoulder and tugs his shades down a bit to look over those as well and peer at Deckard and his lips part before Abby goes off on Deckard and he cringes. Oh yes…he's seen this before. Aunt Lindy, 3rd pregnancy, can of coolwhip and a rolling pin. Poor Uncle Yavus, he had to get stitches.
"Whoa whoa…whoa…" Raquelle spins around fully now, removing his shades and eyeliner rimmed eyes narrowed in concern before he just tries to think, tries to think, tries to think and then bites his bottom lip before opening his mouth…
"Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-" And he holds that note for a sinfully long time really, it is up high though and well controlled and his own gift wraps around it like a nice winter coat, snuggly and warm and filled with seductive sexual healing or something. Hell, Marvin Gaye is powerful okay?
"-been really tryyying baaaby, Tryin' to hold back this feeling for so long
And if you feel like I feel, baby? Then, c'mon…OH! C'mon…"
Well he didn't know what else to do!
Abigail's bent over Deckard when he goes down, still letting the foam just roll out of the can, face pinched and angry. But with Raquelle's song and his ability coming into play, her finger gives up on the tab. Just standing over the man, panting softly, shoulders moving up and down before she tosses it to the side. She doesn't right get it that it's Raquelle who's shuffling her from angry to something else. It's all good and soulful and.. Abigail sinks down to her knee's, dragging an honest to god hanky from her bag and reaching over to wipe the shaving cream off Deckards face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry Flint, I flipped out. I shouldn't have done that. You just… you get me all… twitterpated"
Deckard's candy bar lies abandoned in the sand by the time the shaving cream onslaught has trailed off to its blessed end. A rough swipe of his freed hand is enough to clear away the main mass of the stuff before Abby's hanky comes in with the assist. Rather than wipe his hand off on his own jeans, he opts to use the front of her shirt and coat instead, any groping that occurs in the process purely incidental. Or not. He is kind of a creep.
The stuff clears off easily enough anyway, wiping clean where it doesn't have a tendency to cling to the coarse bristle at his jaw or in his wiry hair. Raquelle's song has neatly quashed the volatile rise of his temper, leaving blue eyes baffled and distracted once they're clear enough to see through. So distracted that he doesn't seem to notice the other man is actually singing. Or he does notice and just doesn't have it in him to snarl accordingly. "It's…fine." Twitterpated? The lines over his forehead crease in a little deeper when he refocuses on her from Raquelle. …Really?
"Let's get it on
Ah, baby let's get it on
Let's love, baby
Let's get it on, sugar
Let's get it on."
Raquelle continues to sing softly and soulfully, occasionally snapping his fingers and swaying his hips a bit. When you sing Marvin Gaye you have to feel it. Granted if 'getting it on' actually was happening, Raquelle would probably be beating somebody with a hermit crab. But for now, he sings, watching the two carefully, very carefully and it is almost as if the volume is turned down slowly as he sings softer and softer, relieved that Abby isn't cutting anybody with a razor. Whew. He just shrugs at Deckard. Awwww, Twitterpated. Abby really IS a Disney princess in disguise.
No, there's no 'getting it on' happening, But there is swatting away of the hand as it feels her up and leaves away deposits of white fluff in it's stead. Abigail 'It's not fine" A soft sigh as she offers a hand to help him up, the hand not occupied by the vodka mind you. 'i really do, I really do but you just.. oh you get me just so twitterpated and loopy and.. I don't rightly know half the time how to behave around you. Shut up. Not talk. no shut up. Feed you whiskey. Shut up. Feed you more whiskey. And now with you having my ability…" Well. obviously now is not a shut up moment as hand flutter over him to try and get rid of stuff, neaten Deckard up a bit.
Nose rankled at the swat, Deckard accepts the offer of assistance with as much dignity as he has left. Not very much, really. He still has shaving cream in his hair and down the front of the t-shirt under the white of his button down, and he likely almost drags her down with him when his leg doesn't want to take the weight until he's had a chance to settle it over a little more carefully. Tolerant resignation absorbs both rambling and fluttering efforts to clean him up around the edges. He is mellow. Mellow and more than passingly interested in the shaving cream mess at her chest, if the downward tip of his eye line while she does her thing is reliable indication. It should probably come as no surprise that his system opts for a more literal translation of Raquelle's choice of song.
Raquelle finally trails off, taking a deep breath and pressing two fingers to his temple as he slips his shades back on and nods slowly to himself as he hmms softly. So glad things tend to linger as he turns his back to the two once more and idly smooths down the front of his coat. He just barely keeps from going Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww so cuuuuuuuuute!
Tug here, smooth there, straightening the various articles of clothing on him. Her flingers flick off a little bit of shaving foam without looking back at Raquelle. The shaving cream down her front is somewhat paid attention to, in as much as she can flatten her palm down and wipe it all away before glancing up towards Deckard once more, blue eyes searching blue eyes. No trace of any luminescence in either of theirs. "Hi"
"Hey." Hi, hey. Eye contact is a rare phenomenon for Deckard lately, steeped in prickling, bristling, combative unease whenever it does occur. But, BUT. For a few precious seconds, it's almost laid back while Raquelle's singing trails down into a milder hum. The corner of his mouth tugs sidelong, nearly brushing up into the beginning of a half-smile or smirk before he moves to step around her again, stooping for the remaining groceries Raquelle brought as he goes. If he doesn't intend to use them himself, odds are he can sell them off on someone else for a few bucks.
Raquelle chuckles softly to himself and runs his fingers through his hair, nodding slowly to himself. He may not know if Deckard has herpes, but for now…that can wait.