Unorthodox Teachings


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Scene Title Unorthodox Teachings
Synopsis Joseph said to help him. Joseph probably didn't think that Abby would have to resort to certain methods of teaching in order to get FLint to learn how to turn off Abigail's healing that he possesses. This is why Abigail does not drink.
Date May 26, 2009

Lighthouse - Kitchen

From the outside, the Lighthouse looks as if it has had better days. The massive tower rising out of the house has fallen from its former glory. It is no longer a shining beacon, guiding wayward ships in from the lost harbor — though some may argue its purpose now is even more admirable. In its current state, the lighthouse seems to be in disrepair. Though upon closer inspection it all seems to be in the details. The paint has chipped away, leaving a discolored patterns of grays, whites, off-whites, and more grays. The occasional graffitti tag is here or there along the large building. One would notice that the doors, the windows, and the integrity of the building are all quite sound and newly repaired. The lighthouse has just been left with the look of abandonement.

Inside is a completely different story. Upon entering the main door, one will find a completely furnished and cozy arrangement. A spacious living room lined with two large blue sofa's, facing each other, a coffee table between them and several large bean bag chairs have been planted in the room. Shelves have been hung on the wall to display various different pictures of the occupants. A large bookcase is against the wall, holding a large variety of books from Dr.Seuss to the Bible, and even a copy of the Qur'an. The living room is focused on the fireplace a small black fence encloses it, the wood stocked on the bricks in front of it.

Connected to the living room is a kitchen, complete with a large rectangular table capable of seating around four on each long side and two on each end. A sink, a stove, an oven, a microwave and two refrigerators complete the look. Several low and overhead cabinets line the kitchen. At the edge of the kitchen are a pair of doors, one leading to a bedroom and the other, which has a padlock on it, leads to the basement.

At the back of the living room a glass sliding door leads out into the backyard of the Lighthouse, but just before it a staircase leads to the upper levels of the structure.

Do you know how much money it takes to Get to Staten Island? A pretty penny. It also took a few leanings over the side of the boat and throwing up, not from being on the water but more because of the destination. A pair of her pills and a whole series of panic attacks before she's standing on the door as the light is finally being sucked from the air, a hurried and loud knock on the door to the Lighthouse. Please let Brian answer, or Deckard, or someone, please, please, jsut so she can get inside.

Deckard hasn't been awake for long. Maybe an hour, at most. Long enough to shower and get dressed and drag himself up into the kitchen in blue jeans and a wrinkled dress shirt left open over a somewhat less wrinkled but-probably-in-need-of-a-decent-washing-anyway undershirt. Dinner has already been had. A sullen glance at his watch confirms as much even after a peek in the refrigerator yields no sign of any leftovers.

For a minute or two, he just stands there. Younger voices pipe up occasionally from the living area around the corner. Laughing, gossiping, talking about the second Transformers movie. He didn't know there was a first Transformers movie.

Eventually he leans to drag a banana out of a bowl of fruit left out on the counter, still peeling when there's a knock at the front door. After a minute or two passes and it doesn't seem likely that anyone else is going to get it, he drags his way over in socked feet to work the lock without bothering to glance out through the peep hole first. It's been over a month since anyone thought about attacking the Lighthouse, and he's tired.

Maybe that's why there isn't much of a reaction when Abby appears through the crack of the door, framing a look of dull surprise on his long face until he moves to slowly swallow the lump of banana in his mouth. He's been fighting again. A few scuffing scrapes mar the ridge of his right brow and cheekbone; his knuckles are bruised. "…Abby?"

'Sweet merciful heavens just let me in please, before I have another panic attack. I already blew a good hundred dollars and more getting out here" Strained, spoken bullet fast as the former healer looks from side to side as if expecting any moment that James Muldoon or John Logan might suddenly appear from the darkness and snatch her away.

If this was a trap, it'd be a pretty ingenius one. Deckard works his jaw against a bit of banana clinging between his molars, but no amount of staring is going to expose her bones to him, and she's in a panic. Eyes flickering mutely aside, he relents and steps back to allow her entry.

Safety. As much as it can be safe. It should be safe, I mean, there's kids here right? She's never been here before, and so it's strange, to hear the kids elsewhere in the house as she slips in, letting Deckard close the door behind her. "I don't think I'll be going back to the mainland tonight, will Brian mind if I stay here? do you think? Is it safe.. to stay here?"

Deckard does with a flat press of his free hand, which then fall to snap the lock over with a familiar twist. The deadbolt follows out of habit, though whoever used the door last left it undone. "They seem to think so." The kids, apparently. He tips his head vaguely in the direction of the sound of their voices, already turning to pad back into the dark of the kitchen. The uneaten half of his banana sinks into the freshly bagged trash can with a neat sift of plastic in passing. "There's a Brian upstairs if you want to ask him. I doubt he'll care."

Abigail doesn't trail up the stairs in search of Brian though. It's towards the kitchen behind Deckard. She's uneasy period, on this Island. "I came.. to see how you were. How you're.. dealing with my gift" Visibly trying to force herself to calm, trying to run through the tricks that Dr. Yee had been teaching her to gain control of herself.

Past her initial appearance here, nothing Abby's saying seems to illicit much in the way of surprise. Deckard meanders on away from her, veering away both from the table and the padlocked brace of the basement door when it seems clear that she doesn't intend to visit Brian long enough for him to shake her.

He looks decidedly gloomy in the murky grey ambiance of the unlit kitchen, shoulders sloped down at an angle, scruffy head hangdog when he trails to a stop near the low hum of the refrigerator. "I dunno. Fine."

"Have you been able to turn it off? Or is it still on all the time?" Abigail asks, quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the kids in the lightouse. Not that soon enough they would want to know who the stranger was. "Can I help you? With it?"

There's another quiet, "Dunno," this one not entirely truthful. It's kind of a pain to be forced to heal the guy you just socked in the head while he's pressing your face down into the pavement and trying to smear it around. Asshole. Deckard scrubs a hand up over the bridge of his nose, fortunately not broken, and shrugs a beat later, like an awkward fifteen year old in the principal's office. "Maybe I won't have it for long."

"How'd you turn on your vision?" the Red head asks, leaning against a counter, arms wrapped around her upper body. Trying to control her breathing.

"It was just…there. A reflex. Like walking, or lifting a finger." Things nerves and muscles take care of on their own, without direct input for every miniscule adjustment. "Maybe at the beginning it was different."

Abigail frowns. She'd had.. prayer, always. to work it. "Have you tried… praying?" Yes, laugh Deckard. Laugh away, but Abigail looks utterly serious.

Deckard doesn't laugh. He just looks uncomfortable. The same hand he'd lifted to his face rises again to scrub awkwardly at an itch somewhere in the greying scruff of his hair. No, he hasn't tried praying.

Great. "Try?" Abigail answers. "Or have you tried turning it inwards? To work on yourself instead of on someone else?"

More awkward silence. Too bad Tyler Case didn't have cause to relieve him of that particular super power. Deckard's eyes wander over to the trash can he dumped his banana into, briefly considering whether or not dragging it out again might be worth it in terms of him having something to do with his hands. In the end he decides against on account of there being no telling what else grubby little hands have already tossed in there and is left to look back at Abby accordingly, very nearly apologetic in a sorry-I-ate-your-rug kind of way.

"I hate this" Abby lays it out on that table. "Really. I do. So many people rely on me and I can't do that for them anymore. It's nwo you who has it and you'll just… do.. nothing with it. I can't send you to the hospital to help on Thursdays. I can't give you my homeless people's locations, because you won't go check on them. Pastor Sumter is convinced that this will do you good and yet…" In two days, he hasn't tried to control it? "I hate it. I really do. It's unfair. It really is. Btu I'm here, like he told me I should do. That I Should help you. So here I am on the island that makes my heart stop, and… "

And…? Blue eyes fix clear on hers across the kitchen, quietly attentive. He doesn't yawn or sigh or fidget. He stands there and listens until it seems like she's finished, letting the trail off lapse into the encroach of still more silence before he manages a muttered: "It isn't mine."

"I know" Spoken softly. "It was mine" Key word Was. "Now it's yours. Now it's.. up to you to do with it as you please. I won't tell Gabriel, anyone, that you have it" She offers up. "Can you sit Flint? I can try and teach you, how I worked it. See if it can be done without prayer. At least teach you how to turn it off and on"

Reassurance isn't necessarily interpreted as such. The line of Deckard's mouth, already flat, adopts an even more impressive level over the steady rise and fall of his chest, one tattooed eye peeking blindly out from beneath an exposed collar bone. But he does turn, and he does make his way over to the table to lower himself down into a seat across the opposite side of it.

Which Abby will take as a yes please. Even though he's not verbally saying so. "You can feel it on right now, yes?" Over to him she looks, hands clasped on top of the table. "You should be able to. you would know, it's a …" Same as he's never needed to define his ability, she's never had to really define hers. " Just.. Imagine a light switch, only that right now it's turned to on. That the gift is the light switch. Concentrate and .. flip teh switch"

Confirmation comes in the form of a vague nod, still uncomfortable and still closed. Something's there, but it doesn't feel very much like a switch, and after a minute or so spent staring dimly at her hands clasped on the table in front of him, he…lifts his brows, skepticism mingling with tired resignation. "How long did it take you to turn it off?"

"Four years" But in her defense, she'd been a teenager. Puberty freshly hitting her and she'd.. let things progress normally. It just happened to her. "If it doens't happen Flint, then, maybe it's not how your.. supposed to do it. Try doing it like you would have done, with your eyes, only, instead of turning off the vision, your turning off the healing" She's trying to help, no matter how utterly jealous and angry she is, not at him, but at the situation, that he has her god given gift.

Four years. Well, that's not such a long time in the scheme of, say. …Eternity? Deckard pulls in a long breath, slight lean straightening out away from the table while his own hands lace and unlace long across the surface between them. He doesn't look all that hopeful. He doesn't actually look all that interested, either. "Abigail…"

"Yes?' Comes quietly. Smallish. She'd not dealing well with everything. Not at all.
"Why are you here?" When you don't like to talk much, you have to fit as much complexity into as few words as you can manage. Flint peers at her across the table, brows pressed low, thumbs lifted in faint question.

"Because i'm supposed to help you. Because.. I know hard it is to live with the gift. Because …" Because she needs to help. Because he's someone she can help. "Because i'm lost and… this.. is.." A path? A way? Something? "It's the only thing I know how to do"

Now Deckard does sigh, eyes dulled of most of their clear color in the dark. They cut sideways, back to the cabinets, then down to the table again. All around the room until Abigail is all that's left. "This isn't helping."

"Then what will?" Abigail proffers up helplessly. Funnily enough.

The eyebrow that creeps up there is quick to fall again, back into a knit after reproach turned inward with a scowl. As the most immediate answer proves not to be all that helpful in itself, Deckard is left to tap his fingers hazily against the table while he attempts to think up something better. IE, more appropriate. Unfortunately, the more appropriate answer is also more offensive. So he has to think of something better than that. And this is starting to take longer than he might have hoped. "…Maybe if we talked less."

Talk less. She can do that. Really. She can. But she's nervous, scared, stomach roiling and no ability to fix that. So she just nods, getting up to see if she can find a kettle, or a tea pot, or, if last ditch attempt is needed, to nuke some water while hunting for a cup of tea.

There are probably kettles and tea bags and other things of that general nature lurking in various cabinets, though none of it is stuff Deckard knows the location of, and he no longer has the ability to cheat. Sandpapery face pushed into his palm once she's up and away, he sighs again into the rough of his hand before offering a muffled, "Want a drink?" He could use one.

Want a drink. Her parents gave her sips as she was growing up. Medicinal. She knows for a fact that many a bottle of milk had a little bit of butter and a few drops of whiskey it when she was a baby. Tea, or alcohol. She's pretty sure that when he says drink, he's not offering the non alcoholic variety. "Sure"

Ookay. Deckard scrapes his chair back from the table so that he can join her over at the counter, one hand lifted to disengage the child lock on the corner most cabinet. An ancient looking bag of flower is dragged off the back of the topmost shelf, well out of reach of any kid not industrious enough to climb up onto the counter first. And in the bag? Inevitably, a bottle. One whose level has gone down about half an inch on its own since he last squinted at it.

Whups. Time to find a new hiding place for the upstairs bottle.

The bag follows the banana into the trash can to be replaced with glasses typically employed to dispense more innocuous fluids. He is not stingy in how he pours.

Last time she drank with him, there was shirt ironing involved, and Teo interrupting at the end. There's no Teo. She knows for a fact that he's off doing business, that Sal's alone. So in a bright pink cup that one of the girls around this place uses, Abigail waits till Deckard is done pouring and picks up her own before taking a seat. Less talking. Less talking, more drinking? Drinking, in an orphanage, on Staten Island. May the good lord strike her down and Dr. Yee will have plenty of fodder come Thursday.

So it's with little fanfare that Abigail attempts to imitate the man in the kitchen with her, and also her father at the times he's inclined to be drink and takes a brisk gulp. Which turns her face red as she hastily tries to gulp it all, the burning going alll the way down into her stomach.

Deckard trails behind at a slower pace, milk glass in one hand, whiskey in the other. He sits himself heavily down before he takes a similarly sized swallow with…approximately no reaction. A squinting wince, a rankle at his nose. That's about it for the burn raking down the back of his throat on its way down to party with half-digested banana. He's good at being quiet, so. The silence that starts to settle past the clink of glasses and bottle doesn't actually unsettle him much more than the whiskey.

Only she wishes there were some shirts that she could iron. And the sounds of the children elsewhere in the house where presumably Brian is starting to get the younger ones all settled in to sleep. Silence in which Abigail is making her way through her glass of whiskey at an expected rate for her. And with the appropriate clearing of her throat. But no talking. Absolutely no talking. At least for now. But there is that pleasent warmth and the blurry edges of her being after a bit.

"When I said…less talking," Deckard mutters in the midst of a refill, first for himself, then for her if she'll accept it, "I didn't necessarily mean…no talking." Just to clarify. And review. "Not that I mind," is tacked on as an afterthought about the time he tips the bottle back. No talking at all is fine too.

"Dunno what to talk about. Not like we have much in common" Abigail points out. She pushes her glass over, it's ready for another refill. "Got any shirts to Iron?" Less hunched shoulders, that's for sure, she's loosening up. Conrad would be so proud. The under aged drinking and the loosening up. <Insert quip about pulling the bible from out of her ass here>

"We both…"

They both…no. They both…nnnno. They don't have very much in common, do they. Deckard tips a brow up again, bottle tipped neck to pink cup in classy, classy fashion to tip her off again before he starts on his second round. "We both helped save the world and didn't get thank you cards."

There's a finger pointed up towards some corner of the ceiling at that. 'We did. That's right. You in a… boat? In a boat, and me, on a bridge. Which was then in the water, and then I spent the night in the arms of a sociopathic twin.. who's not really a twin, while both of us were naked" Holyshijustdidnotsaythatoutloud.

"…" Yeah, she did. Deckard pauses in the middle of the sip he was taking, feeling compelled to give the matter some amount of thought, as might be expected. Hmmm. HMMM. The edge of his glass hovering just under his nose, he takes his time before finishing off with a longer swallow and, "Was she hot?"

"I dunno" Abby answers. "Kinda wasn't paying attention and I'm not into girls" She points out. "More focused on not dying of hypothermia after having killed a mass murderer" She red cheeked, both hands covering that small pink cup, holding it and the whiskey it contains, close.

"You don't have to be into girls to know if they're hot, I mean." Just logistically speaking. He keeps on considering, brows at an open tilt once he's polished off glass #2 and clanked glass to glass to keep himself going. Pretty quick on the intake, even for him. "Harder to make an argument for hypthermia."

"I'm not exactly the kind of girl who walks around going "Ohh she's not a nice butt. Oh look at those…" There's a gesture towards her own chest area as she can't even bring herself to say it. "I guess she's hot, if you like skinny blonde's" Half her whiskey is gone again, still nursing what's left in it.

Abigail's impression of 'that kind of girl' is endured with the beginnings of an ill-suppressed smirk. Or smile. Smirlk. He can't quite look at her while she does it either — it takes the chest gesture for him to lift his focus up off the table again. "You're a skinny blonde."

"I'm a skinny red head" But she was a blonde. "Teo says you love me" the word love is dragged out and more 'luhv' than anything. Abigail peers into the bottom of her glass, swishing the bottom of it around and to make the alcohol climb around the sides. "That's why you kissed me" Yup, she's past tipsy now, thanks to her medicine and the whiskey

"Red head," Deckard allows, only one hand caged around his glass while he watches her. There's a tangible fall around his face when she takes it there, brows easing down into a surlier, more recalcitrant knit. Awkward.

"It's okay. It's kinda.. flattering. I mean. In a way. I guess." Loose lips sink ships. Abigail shuts up though. Going right back to occupying her mouth with the rest of the alcohol in an attempt to shut up. Because awkward is Awkward and … "Sorry"

"S'ok." Except it isn't. Not really. The shadows that've sunken into his face in the last minute or so aren't budging and it seems like it's a long time before he moves to reach for the bottle again. His glass is still half empty, but. That's not really a reason not to refill, is it?

Save there's a hand on the bottle, or at least one comes over his. Not a care that the ability is on or off. She's got liquid courage running through her blood and a little other cocktail of chemicals, but it's enough that she's up on her feet and coming around the table towards him.

Dumb instinct pushes Deckard up out of his chair when she stands and starts coming 'round the table, right hand still on the bottle as a brace. Wha? Did she hear one of the kids crying? Is there another zombie guy? Did Brian catch them drinking in the kitchen?

No crying kids, Brian's not caught them. At least, not yet. No zombies peeking in the windows. Nope, no emergency. No late night phone calls that say hey can you come heal. It's just Abigail skirting around the table and then, just like that, settling herself into Deckard's lap and pressing her lips to his, much in the same fashion all those weeks ago when she was fixing him up in the safe house. The night Teo'd left them alone. Only this time, she's initiating it all.

…Oh. He's puzzled for a beat, pushed back down into his seat by her sit, her whiskey breath on his at close range. If this is as trap… His heart throws itself retardedly against the back of his sternum, like it intends to cross the few remaining inches between them alone. Without the rest of him. And at first, it seems like that might be the case. The top half of him hesitates as one of his hands takes initiative enough to resettle her on his lap, and soon enough, he's kissing back, tentatively at first. If this is a trap, oh-fucking-well.

Not a trap. But there's the pull on her/his ability. Straight for her tongue, some to her thigh. She's not done this kissing thing much before. It's not that hard right? It's not a trap Flint Deckard, but it is some strange weird attempt to get him to get a handle on the power he's now in possession of. One hand latching onto the back of the chair and the other to his jawline.

It should come as no surprise that Deckard has done plenty of kissing, and probably plenty of kissing with people who — have not done much kissing. The pull of her tongue past his is a distraction though. One that seems disinclined to yield to persistent ignorance alone. The hand he's pushed up cold under her shirt isn't helping matters, the bother enough, in fact, that he breaks early, nose turned down and away into a reflexive effort at the curve of her neck instead. Unfortunately, he can still feel her tongue in a most un-kinky, un-warm and fuzzy fashion. A gruff gust of frustrated breath is turned down into her shoulder before he makes it any further than that. This isn't fair. It's hard to concentrate. :(

"You want more, your gonna have to learn to turn it off" She knew what she was doing. There's let it come naturally or force it. Arms encircling him, keeping him close. "Like a light switch, it's all a light switch, just flip it to off" One hand scratches gently and rubs at the back of his neck and head, still housed on his lap.

"You're teasing me," …would probably pass for accusation if he didn't sound happy about it. If not happy, amused. If not amused, then at least trying not to sound frustrated to the point of anger. It's a dangerous boat to rock when you're in a crazy man's lap. Still, he is very clearly putting some effort into the idea. He's still at her shoulder, quiet for the ten or fifteen seconds it takes him to get back to a muffled, "Okay. Okay." OKAY. Maybe it's off now. He feels — the same. So does her fucking tongue, as it turns out. This time he's hardly touched her at all when he turns his head, frustration steeling out the line of his jaw and lining taut through his neck.

'Then turn it off, like you'd turn off the vision Flint. Or i'm just going to keep sitting here and your just going to get more tired and there's not going to be any more kissing" A pause, her face shifting down and arching her back out so she can try and meet his eyes. "And no more whiskey. Till you learn. What if your stuck with it. Forever? You won't last four years of not knowing how to to turn it off" She shifts in spot, doing the start of that thing that Chastity? Charity? Someone with an innocent sounding name taught her at the brothel.

Holy shhhi —

The beginnings of a snarled response ease abruptly, as does most all the tension in his face, hooded brows drawing up into a faint lift over the gentle slack of his jaw. His eyes roll closed. "I might." Last. His argument comes at a murmur, but really, the first few days of this no control thing are actually going pretty well as of about five minutes ago. NONETHELESS. He forces out the breath locked in his ribs as steady as he has a mindset to manage and tries again, patience returned in highly convenient and likely extremely short-lived force.

When he opens his eyes midway through the intake of his next slow breath, he looks a little muddled. Like maybe he actually found something.

"Hold onto it. Don't let it go, practice just holding it" Abigail breathes out, noticing the look on his face. Hopeful. Please dear god let this work. Not the most orthodox of ways to get him to learn it, but… some people take unorthodox ways of doing it and even with the alcohol in her system, she knows that she's done something very much un-like herself. "Then just.. hold it." She's waiting for the warmth and tingle that surrounds her tongue and that sliver of her thigh to die down, to go away.

"…Okay," Deckard hazards, now at a mutter, one brow down while he holds onto — nothing. Nothing but something. It's not the same, but it's there while he sits awkwardly still and looks like he's afraid he's going to fall off a fence if he so much as sneezes. He's playing freeze tag with himself, the warm fuzz is fading, and Abby's in his lap. Weird day.

"Just keep trying" Abigail whispers, staying still on said lap, the scent of her soap, all grapefruit and such, mixed with the days exertions. "Come on Flint. I have faith, you can do this" The much younger woman murmurs. She's not shifting in his seat, just sitting still, rubbing her hands on his shoulders, kneading them. "I have faith"

Deckard is trying. He is trying with all his twee, ice-blackened heart, both to sit still and to focus on what he's supposed to be focusing on. It's hard. To focus. With everything. Never mind the fact that some idiot kid to wander in here at any second and ask unfortunate questions.

…Whatever. He was kind of thinking about retiring anyway. That's the mindset that lets him lean back in with clear intent to pick up where he finished off, the only buzzing warmth that's left the whiskey's fault rather than his own.

There's a broad goofy, alcohol induced endorphine'd smile that springs to life on her face, moving both hands to cup his face even as he's leaning in to kiss. "You did it. Feel it. Can you feel it? I can't. Flint.. you turned it off" Her nose pressed to his, glee at the fact that he's done it.

Smiles and glee are admittedly nice, but not what Deckard was looking for. He eyes her at close range, blue to blue, scraping out a dull read in the dim light. Then the ridge of his brow dips down against hers, sparing him eye contact while he busies himself swallowing down a rankle at his nose and holds his breath. There may be counting involved.



"Less talk"

But Abigail sis still smiling, nose to nose, grinning before she shifts up, Kiss his forehead, revel in the lack of healing being done to her. A kiss to either cheek, little butterfly chaste kisses, before she finds her way back to his lips and stubble with a soft, contented, boozy sigh. Whiskey prominent on her breath. "Owe you another kiss"

It's difficult not to be mad. Less difficult, maybe because she's in his lap, and touching him, and warm, and has whiskey breath. He winces against chastity, even in the form of kisses, scruffy chin tilted up again with some measure of hazy willpower he probably doesn't deserve to have left.

"Brian's gonna come down. He'll get mad. He doesn't want me on the island. He's tried to keep me off it. Can I stay in your room. Just for tonight. I brought enough money to get off of here. Brought enough pills too so I won't be waking up, middle of the night. Maybe. Possibly" She won't lay bets on that. "Maybe if I drink enough it'll be fine. I won't" Blue eyes still locked and searching his own ones. That don't glow. Strange to not see them glow, or obscured by sunglasses. "Please? You won't Mollycoddle me and .. you.." You'll what, he'll what. He has her ability, and being close to him, give it back to her, sorta. Somewhat. Maybe by osmosis. Her fingers tighten on his jaw, just a little but not so much to be painful. "I'll be quiet"

Deckard doesn't look happy. His eyes are hard, chilly blue distant in its natural sheen. There's a sputter of feeling returned, shared warmth that hazes in and out like a pirated television station until he leans back from the grip she has on his jaw and levers a hand up beneath her leg to start pushing her off. "No more drinking. I'll change the sheets."

"You'll change the sheets. No more drinking" Echoed. "I'll teach you tomorrow how to heal yourself. So you can fix yourself up" She can take the hint, even as far into her cups that she is. Off his lap she slides, a hand to the table and no longer on him. "I'll get my bag"

"Super," muttered without tremendous enthusiasm, Deckard rubs a hand up over his face once she's disengaged. If he'd managed to glasses to her every one, he might care less. As things are, he has to drag himself up out of his chair, and he doesn't bother picking up either (mostly) empty glass. Just the bottle and the cap, which he screws on to free up a hand that he can use to jangle after his keys. To the basement.

The small duffel bag, dropped in the doorway is picked up. Just enough in it for a one night stay. So when he's to the locked door, she's taking up the glasses and depositing them in the sink. Run some water and turn them over one by one. Domestic habits die hard. But she's not talking. Just quiet. Back it seems to awkwardness, dulled only by whiskey.

The padlock is unfastened and lifted away, presumably to be relocked at some point from the inside. For now, he turns enough to glance over Abigail, bag and all, then sets on down the creaky steps, right hand passing blindly over the wall to his right for a light switch along the way. It's probably going to to be a long, awkward night.

Likely. With flannel head to toe pink floral PJ's that he can't actually see beneath for once and a redhead who is decidedly be a blanket hogger. When she's not awake from the nightmares that being on Staten inevitably will bring, alcohol or not.

The hangovers though.

Those will be the bitch.

But Deckard can make it all better. Because the candy man can, cause he fixes it with love and makes the world go round.

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