Participants:
| Scene Title | Until There's Nothing |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | In the wake of a dinner date gone wrong and the exposure of their impending doom, Abby and Flint attempt to regroup. |
| Date | April 21, 2019 |
Queens - Outside the Gray Household
Dinner. Died.
That's what happens when one half your host goes intoa precognitive trance for how many hours and you have to snap him out of it. Black paint still on hands, Abigail and Deckard have made it to teh car parked down the block. Abigail leans against the hood of the car, raising brows at Deckard.
Keys clutched slack in his right hand, Deckard is slower to draw up around the car's opposite side. Rather than open the door straight away, he squints back at the outline of the Gray house, still visible under the freshly lit glow of the nearest street lamp. Then he leans to mirror Abigail's settle against the car, shoulders and back stooped until his scruffy chin is balanced over the fold of one arm.
"Well" Abigail glances over to her now husband. "Best. Dinner. Ever. Really. I mean, who else can say that they got to watch the infamous Gabriel Gray loose control of an ability. Nor Eileen so speechless" Her blue eyes tear away from Deckard and towards the house down the row. "I feel more embarrassed for them because he's embarrassed."
Brows tipped up in lazy acknowledgement of the novelty, Deckard turns his head enough to follow her gaze down the street without lifting up away from the hood. It's plenty dark enough now that the light in his eyes would be visible if it was there. As things are, there's nothing. Clear blue is shadowed dark beneath the hood of his brow when his attention flickers back onto her sidelong.
"I suppose it goes without saying that A. A black painting by a pre-cog is not a good thing and B" B makes her look back over at him. "That you know what it meant because you were turning them to face each other before Eileen even told us what to do" Her hands stay closed around the purse on her lap as she waits for an answer from her stoic husband.
From Deckard's side of the car: still more silence. The sky is a pleasant mix of tropical violets and volcanic oranges closer to the horizon, with stars already prickled bright into the darker stretch of canvas to the east. It's a nice night, really. The breeze is cool and dry, the air comfortably warm while he watches her. "Are you sure you want to have this conversation?"
"Are you asking me if I'd rather be ignorant of what that black canvas means? Or do you mean, what you tell me is going to a fight and being that were are freshly married, do I really want one so soon into it?" She joins him in looking up at the sky. "I don't want to be ignorant. I have walking dead people living in my house and so far, all I know is that "they're consulting Peter."
"Probably both." Uncharacteristically optimistic in having hoped they might somehow avoid the subject entirely until it didn't matter anymore, Deckard turns his face down into the brace of his arm. The fresh band of platinum at his ring finger remains exposed, highlighted by a glancing smear of orange from the nearest lamp. He's procrastinating.
Abby says, "Do you want to be in the car when we fight, or would you rather we be out here so I can decide whether to go back in and ask Eileen to use her phone so I can call a taxi?" Aka, you're not getting out of this so easy. "Come on Flint. What could it possibly prompt us to fight about? Really? Wait, let me guess, the world is ending, yet again, and we're all going to hell in a hand basket. Or wait, the Lakers are going to win whatever it is that basketball plays for at the end of the season""
"The O'Brien," is muffled into his sleeve. Flint doesn't actually follow basketball, but. It's one of those things. That he knows. For whatever reason. Grey hair well on its way to ruffling back into a more natural state of disorder, he keeps his face down, self-collection eventually terminating in a steep sigh. When he finally lifts his head, it's only enough to resettle back into its previous position, chin to elbow crook. His eys are still dark. No cheating. Maybe he doesn't want to see. "It's really ending this time."
For real this time. "No amount of shoving my hands in parasitic ghost jumpers is gonna stop it?" It's a fair enough question. "Does it have to do with Helena and the other others suddenly… appearing?" She's even toned for now, waiting.
"No." No amount of healing is going to stop it this time, for better or for worse. Deckard is calm in turn — maybe even too calm. Resigned. There's a sadness to the slouch of his shoulders and the droop at the corners of his mouth, but no panic, or fear, or desperation. "They know what happened to themselves, now. They won't let it happen again."
'They're not going to wipe them before trying to send them back. Will they" Abby queries, more to the sky, if you were going by where she's looking but it's obviously aimed at Deckard, even as she leans back enough that she's laying on the hood of the car.
"You knew. Friday. Didn't you?"
"I don't know." Probably not, though. It seems like it'd be a cruel thing to do. And if Teo has any say… More detailed thoughts on the reasoning contained to a tilt at his brow, Deckard swallows against the tension in his throat, chilly eyes following her lean down and back until she's settled. He still hasn't moved much. "I've assumed this is it for a while, now."
Now it's Abigail's turn to fall silent. The dew point hasn't been reached yet, but if they keep laying here like that, they will soon enough. Lips pressed together in thought, not in anger, pals resting flat over her purse.
When the silence seems likely to stretch, lurid blue light finally creeps its way through the rings of Deckard's irises. The sheen of its reflection lines against lamplight's more oppressive orange across the silver of his ring and thick-banded watch. She watches the sky, he watches her.
"So they are our phoenix members. They are not just from some other timeline," She looks over at him, the telltale glow from his eyes. 'Are you looking at my chest, or my heart? Or the house behind me?" She's oddly calm, eyes blinking slowly in the evening air.
"I don't know. If there were alternate timelines, it wouldn't matter that they're here." Lines etch their way flat across his brow, filling familiar furrows right to left. "I can see everything," given in murky answer to the second question, he drags himself back and upright.
"Of course you can." It's not flippantly said, just an observation. Reluctantly she peels herself up from hood of the car, straightening herself, getting ready to slip into her side of the car. "Well. What do you want to do. And how soon is Armageddon? Do we have an ETA? Because if so, then our house guests are going back to their owners and we're taking the kids and we're going to just.. go have fun."
Night is falling quickly now, long shadows fogging into a more singular darkness in the pit between lamps the car occupies. "I don't know. Nobody's told me anything. I just…" figured. He shrugs, chin dipping towards his chest while he turns keys over in his hand one at a time. "I'm happy here. I don't want to do anything."
"So we'll keep going, one day at a time until.. there's nothing. Till there just, black" Abigail murmurs, waiting for him to unlock the door. She stares down at the handle, purse over her shoulder. "Did you ask me to marry you flint, because there's.. no future and you were scared, or did you ask me to marry you because.. you really wanted me to marry you?"
"I asked you to marry me because I love you," Deckard tells the keys, even honesty simultaneously illustrative of his motives and secretive about the actual answer to her question. Intelligent enough to realize she probably won't miss as much, he glances to her across the car before he looks back down to push the right key into the lock. Click.
"Look at me when you say that Flint Deckard. You didn't marry the car keys or the car door." Abigail's head is visible over the roof of the car, waiting. She wants to know if there's deception, ulterior motive. It's the first time he's ever said the L word, and he said it while staring down.
Deckard looks sideways first, back at the house, long profile lit orange and blue by the neighborhood's glow and his own. A few seconds pass before he actually makes himself look back over at her directly, mouth not quite open enough to promote the passage of words.
"You can tell Victor, that I'm fucking you, in a room full of hoity toity people and cops, but on a street with no other soul, just your wife, across the car from you, you can't tell me to my face, and not to the door, that you love me?" There's a silly little grin on her face as she pull son the handle of her own door, laughter bubbling up out of her chest. "You are a piece of work Flint Deckard, but you're my piece of work and I love you none the less. Lets get home so I can wash my hands and we can make love like Armageddon is around the corner."
There's self-loathing apology in the exhalation Deckard forces out of himself, about as effectively non-communicative in the absence of an easy, 'I'm sorry,' as he is with the 'I love you,' thing. "Goddamn it," is what he says instead, rough voice fallen to a barely audible mutter once it's clear she isn't mad. He has it too easy sometimes. Maybe he's finally getting some compensation for all the years he didn't. The rest gets a nod, and with a deep breath drawn in to steel him out, he drags open the door so that he can drop himself down into the driver's seat. End of the world sex! Woo!
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