Wait A Minute, Mister


abby_icon.gif dean_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Wait A Minute, Mister
Synopsis I didn't even kiss her. :<
Date May 11, 2009

Village Renaissance Building: Abby's Apartment

An average middle class apartment, it's populated with decidedly not middle class furniture. A solitary red suede couch occupies the immediate living room, with a battered coffee table and side tables as it's companion. A decent sized TV sits on a cupboard with a stereo, DVD player. The kitchen sports a relic from the 70's, with matching chairs that still seem to be in decent condition. The two bedrooms off the hall are distinguishable from the other, one bearing a gold cross nailed above the door, the other not.

In the corner of the living room is an ornate cage on a bird stand, a blue budgie within it's depths. In another corner is a massive cat tree house, and often occupied by a black cat with a red suede collar. It looks barely lived in, like the owners are not yet investing their effort quite yet to move in.

Momma Beauchamp is back at the hotel, presumably sleeping by now. This late at night and with the flight early in the morning, she's going to rest. Dean Beauchamp is going to stay awake the whole night through and sleep on the plane, that way someone will be refreshed to drive back home from New Orleans. So it is that Daddy Beauchamp has his shotgun out, the one kept by her door, and is cleaning it, making sure that Abby's taking good care of it. Been a while since she fired it, a few months at least. Abigail's refreshing some tea and MASH is on the television but down low so as not to hinder conversation. Out the redhead comes with the hot teapot. "So they say that within the year I should probably be taking my EMT classes for my EMT 1 and then I can get a job with the ambulances, but Ben thinks that I could probably get on with them before, to observe, because of my gift and such" Both are oblivious to what's lurking in the night.

The shotgun was mostly broken down, cleaned, and then put back together with loving care. It's in Dean's lap at the moment as he oils the barrel, talking with his daughter quietly as she chatters on about her life. "Ah can't say that's not a good idea," he approves quietly, "Ah know how much God's gift tires you, darlin'. And there's times when it'd be better to just use your own hands rather than it…"

"There's a doctor, helping me, since the Island. A friend to Teodoro's. I helped him. He put me on a diet to get me back proper, and he's been fixing it ever since, determined that if I eat right, that it won't take so much out of me. It's helping. That's what that all those papers on the fridge are. He's got me on all sorts of Vitamins and the like. He has me come in and he takes my blood and figures out what needs adjusting from there. Another good man."

Crackers and cheese are brought out from the kitchen on her second trip in, determined to stay up the night with her father. "But the point of doing this Dah isn't to use my gift all the time with them. Good Lord knows that they could all use it, but they're convinced I can do better, that i'm smart enough to be a doctor if I wanted to be. But I think an EMT is better. It working okay? I don't need to take it in somewhere?" She's talking about the shotgun. "I think i've only loaded it once. I only got a handful of shells"

Deckard. Deckard is what's lurking in the night. He's not quite in shambles per se. He's on his feet, shabby overcoat hanging off his shoulders at an odd angle, with one lapel flipped under and the collar flapped high at the back of his neck. He's been in a few scraps since Abby last saw him, and is marked up around the face the way stray cats tend to be. Faded bruising, a few cuts here, a scrape across his cheekbone. Above the neck, a recently stitched, now semi-healing red line from brow to temple is probably the worst of it. Below, his left hand is curled stiff at his side, pinky and ring fingers at an uncomfortable crook. Broken, probably, with freshly split knuckles.

He's drunk. Not stumbling around or yelling or dragging along the wall but far from sober when he slouches to a halt at Abigail's door and squints blearily at the numbers there. Are they the right ones? …They look right. He blinks, squints harder, lifts his left hand to knock — then hesitates and lowers it to knock out a dragging 'thunk. thunk.' with the right instead. "Hhhey."

"Ah love you dearly, darlin', but I doubt you could fire…" Then there's that distinctive, slow thump of a fist against the door, and that slurred voice against it. Dean regards the door for a long moment, before one hand reaches over to calmly slide the cartridges into place. Then he pumps the shotgun, once. Ka-chak.

Abigail looks at the door, puzzlement. A glance to the phone shows no missed calls that might be someone buzzing up to be let in and she wasn't expecting anyone. The redhead glances to her father and then to the shotgun with raised brows.

No immediate answer. Maybe she's asleep. Deckard glances a little dimly to his watch and the fuzzy lines around his mouth draw down into a slack frown. It's not that late. Impatience filtered out into nasal sigh, he glances once down the hall before he deigns to try to peer through the door. Abigail, check. Old guy with a gun, check.

His brow furrows on a short delay. Wha — that last thing. The old guy with a gun. That's supposed to be him. His scowl tugs still deeper. There are a number of socially responsible actions he could take here. Trying the doorknob probably isn't on the list. AND YET.

The doorknob rattles, and Dean Beauchamp's on his feet in a heart-beat. The older man steps along over towards the door, shotgun at his side as he calls through it roughly, "Ah think you have the wrong room, sir. Take yourself somewhere else an' sleep it off." A pause, and he peers through the peep-hole.

"Whats he look like Dah?" Abby whispers to her father, parked on the couch and not moving. Her heart picking up a couple beats or two. Muldoon? Logan? Teo wouldn't be rattling doorknobs and making weird noises"

Deckard looks tall, lean, scuffed up and scruffy. Shaving hasn't been a priority for the last week or so, and the dusty grey brown of his hair is bristled. It's the way his eyes flick up to fix on Dean's approach through the door that's unnerving, though, pallid blue tracking to the hollow sockets rounded into Daddy Beauchamp's face. That and the way he readjusts to squint one eye at the peep-hole a second or two later, calculating as well as he can through the boozy haze his brain seems to be shrouded in. "I don't have the wrong room." His glare skips to Abigail's skeleton as if to doublecheck that it's actually her. "You have the wrong room."

Dean's lips purse in a scowl as he leans back, taking a half-step back from the door. "Middle aged guy," he reports gruffly,"Kind of scruffy. Brown'n grey hair. Real blue eyes." A look sidelong to Abigail, the shotgun hefted up, "Anyone you know, darlin'?"

"Flint." Which means, dean, your daughter knows him. "He's…" Harmless? No, not harmless. The redhead heaves herself up from the couch and heads for the door, sidestepping her father to start undoing the locks. "Just a moment Flint."

"Okay." Just a moment. He can wait a moment. Deckard watches her over to the locks, tired bafflement struggling for dominance over pricklier annoyance at Gunman's pre-existing presence here. His right hand lifts to feel blandly over the bridge of his nose, then through his increasingly unkempt stubble collection. "My face is numb," observed to the door at a mutter, he keeps right on staring at Dean, unblinking.

As the locks are undone, Dean takes a step back; the shotgun leaned to his shoulder, his expression stony and clearly disapproving of whoever this drunken fellow is on the other side of the door. Somewhat flatly, he asks, "Friend of yours, Abigail?"

"He's a friend Dah" taking in the appearance of the man with a roll of her eyes, making sure to keep herself between her father and Deckard - more precisely, between Deckard and the business end of the shotgun. "Come in. I'll have him make some coffee Flint. I'll.. fix you up. I presume you came to be fixed up?"

"Yeahhh, fuck off. I'm a friend. Dah." That last syllable bitten off with a lazy bare of white, white teeth amidst grizzled scruff, Deckard doesn't seem as bothered by the shotgun as he probably should be. In fact, he's already started tipping his head to check out Abigail's posterior assets whilst trailing along in her wake before his short term memory catches and stumbles over what he just said. His brows twitch towards each other; he looks up at Dean again, long face at a stark blank. Dah…d?

Dean Beauchamp is a good ol' boy from the South - a church-going man, and a gentleman, despite his distinctly blue-collar roots and job. He's never been one for brawling or fighting, but he's had to break up enough bar skirmishes in his time to know what one does with someone acting, and smelling, like Deckard does right now.

Let's not even mention the fact that he knows full well the man was staring at his daughter's derrier. He's a better man than to seek retribution just for that.

"Pardon." The shotgun remains resting on his shoulder — but his other hand reaches over as Deckard tries to walk past to follow Abigail, in an attempt to snag the back of the scruffy fellow's collar with one hand grown strong from plant work, "Ah think you should clean up a bit first, mah good man."

Deckard smells…like an ash tray. And whiskey. Mixed together with a ghost of cheap cologne. There's a warmth to his stink, familiar in the way that distinct aroma of certain scuzzy bars is familiar to him. But smelly is smelly, and drunk is drunk. He staggersteps sideways to keep his balance when he finds his forward progress hindered by a strong hand at his collar. His balance threatens to teeter further out of alignment until he reaches to brace his intact hand flat against the nearest wall, inevitably leaving a wide-splayed grey print in its wake. Whups. There's a rattle when he pulls his arm back in and narrowly manages to avoid knocking over a lamp. "I wasn — I wasn't…fhhh…" Going to do anything. Only looking. Only looking!

Speaking of looking, his head lolls a little to the side after a splash of red while he just kind of stands there in Dean's clutches and tries not to look worried. He's failing. "…Nice couch."

"Mmhm. Do me a favor, baby girl, and turn on the tub? Your 'friend' needs to sober up a bit, ah think," drawls Dean Beauchamp, without a hint of amusement or approval anywhere within a ten mile radius of his expression or manner. One hand on Deckard's collar, the other reaches over to carefully set the shotgun down against the wall before reaching for the drunk criminal's shoulder to begin 'escorting' him rather forcefully in the direction of the bathroom.

The lords name is being invoked a great many times right now. Abigail darts ahead with a mumbled 'sorry' to the evolved man in her fathers grip. Down the hall to the bathroom and then the sound of water being turned on, adjusted, readjusted for maximum comfort of the soon to be unwilling occupant of the room that is made for personal hygiene. She rummages below the sink for Al's toiletries kit, sliding it to on top of the counter, and ensuring there's towels for Deckard to use before out she pops, away from the door.

"Sorry…?" Oh. Oh. Mmmmmnnnoooo. Once the water is running and Deckard starts to figure out where this is going, he goes a little rigid through the shoulders, spine stiffing beneath the wrap of Dean's knuckles at his collar. His forward momentum is quickly losing ground to his desire to not go…where they are going. He doesn't feel like taking a shower right now anyway. Nevermind having to take one with Abigail's dad. "I don't think," he muffles a quiet belch, leaning still more of his weight backwards into the beginnings of a twist away, "this is a going so well. Maybe tomorrow would be better—"

"Ah'd stop fighting, if ah were you," Dean observes in a low, grim rumble of voice as he leans down ever so slightly closer to Deckard's head as he pauses in his attempts to drag him along, "Because the other place that I'd be tossin' your drunk carcass is out the window. Ah'm sure the fall would sober you up right quick."

What floor are they on, again? Ah, he'd be fine.

Third floor Dah. That'd be the third floor. Abby's a paragon of mortal embarrassment, but she obeys her father in mostly all things. But the look on Deckard's face, the red head moves forward, try and place herself between her father and Deckard, worming her way in there. "Dah. Dah, you can't do that to him. He just digs his heel in, please, let him go. Honey Dah, not vinegar" There's a glance at the man at her back, Deckard, and eyes that shift towards the bathroom. Get in there. he doesn't have to shower, but he needs to get in there. For his own protection you know.

Okay, the bath is one thing — maybe he smells. Maybe that's understandable. Threatening to toss him out a window is just rude. Where his resistance was mostly a passive desire to stay out of the bathroom before, it bristles into something surlier against the growl at his ear. His scruffy head turns, blue eyes bloodshot, teeth bared out in a thin line, whiskey thick on his breath across the top of Abby's red hair when she pushes to intervene. Deckard doesn't actually say 'try it' but the foul-tempered dare is there all the same. He can barely focus enough to give Mr. Vinegar the stink eye, nevermind zeroing in on subtle cues to hide in the bathroom. He doesn't wanna go in there.

"I've dealt with worse'n you at the downtown bar, boy," Dean replies with a rough snort of breath, firming his grip on collar and shoulder to haul the man in the direction of the bathroom with strength born of years working on the line, "One way're the other, I'm soberin' you up before we have a little talk about language around my little girl."

"DAH! Stop it! He saved my life Dah!" Abigail keeps herself between the pair, not budging, a head shorter than either man, but she's still there. 'Dah, he saved my life. He was there on Staten Island. He helped people find me. He's.. He's saved me before that too. He's.. Leave him be Dah. Please." Abigail looks up at her father. "Please Dah. He's my savior."

There's something about being called boy, though Dean can't be much more than, what, ten years older than him? If that? Deckard is hauled, and despite further dragging resistance, there is no violence. Yet. Abigail's right there going on about Staten Island and this guy seems kind of hard core and that really is a nice couch.

It's entirely possible they're within well less than a decade of each other. Dean doesn't seem to care at the moment, though, as he works on hauling towards the bathroom door. Abby's words bring a pause, though, glancing over with a tight frown—then he shakes his head, noting dryly, "I'm not hurtin' him none, Abigail. Just going t'sober him up a bit." A shake of his head, and he goes back to his task of getting the drunken reprobate into the bathroom before he decides to fight back.

"This is my House Dah" Abigail reaches up now, start to pry her fathers hands off of Deckards collar and shoulder, insinuating herself futher between them and bodily. "This is my house Dah, and you will obey my rules. You will not forcibly shove my saviors into the bathroom to sober them up" Finger by finger is being pulled away. "You will go to the kitchen and make him some coffee. I will fix him and see if he needs help, but this is my house Dah. My house, My rules. I love you, but still."

"S'not a house. …More like an apartment," Deckard's eyes lift to the ceiling. He's reasonably peaceable again, resigned to whatever's happening with Abby still in close quarters. Maybe he's forgotten where they're going.

That rather firm demand does pull Dean up short, and he looks down at his daughter for a moment… and then, with a snort, he shoves Deckard roughly to one side, letting go of him. "If this's the sort of 'friends' you have now, Abigail," he states rather flatly, gaze steady on Abby's face, "Ah think me'n your mother were right in forbiddin' you to come to this modern Babylon. Seems like you've forgotten what decent folk are like."

That said, he turns, striding towards the kitchen at a steady pace.

Abigail looks like a hit puppy. Her fathers words. But at least he's giving up on dragging flint to the bathroom and that leaves the two of them there in the hallway. Abby's shoulders drop and she doesn't much look at flint right this moment, just closes her eyes.

Whump is approximately the sound Deckard makes when he hits the wall, fortunately not quite face first. His head bounces off the drywall in the process, but his skull is thick and he's too inebriated to notice if it hurts, even if he is a little squinty and dazed through the process of steadying himself again.

"Just tell him I'm…the janitor. And if he kills me it's a breach in contract." It doesn't seem to occur to him that the jigs already up.

Dean vanishes into the kitchen. Presumably to make coffee.

"I"m not going to lie to my father Flint Deckard" Abby hisses. Bad enough that she just ordered him away. Abigail reaches for his hand, the lord prayer murmured even as she's doing such an act. Flint came for healing, one presumes. He's going to get it even though she's at the teary eye'd stage. "He wasn't.. he wasn't going to kill you. He was going to shove you in the bathroom"

"Why not?" Deckard's hand is warm. It's also dirty. Aside from the broken bones in his hand and some weirdness deep in his sinuses that registers like a burn well on its merry way to infection, his damage is pretty standard. Bruises, cuts and scrapes. The mess inside his brain needs a different kind of help to sort out. Somewhere in the midst of all this he finally notices that she looks kind of sad, or maybe like she's about to sneeze. A muttered, "Sorry," seems like a good idea, followed up with, "I'll go sit in the bathroom."

"No just… just .. okay" She keeps her hand on his, careful after realizing that it's the injured hand. switching to holding his wrist. bathrooms not far at all. "Just sit on the toilet" the lid is down. "I'll take care of you. Dah will make the coffee and there's Al's room if you need a warm place to stay Flint" THe healing doesn't stop, even as they go.

Clatter clatter. Cabinet slam. Gurgle goes the machine.

A long-faced nod passed off in avoidance of risking further stupidity from the lock of is his own jaw, Deckard moves after her, using the wall for support as he goes. Smudge, smear, smudge. Smudge. All the way into the bathroom to end in a muffled, "I could just sleep in here." The floor looks kind of comfy, actually.

"You can sleep in Al's room. This is my only bathroom and when I get up in the middle of the night, I'm not going to use it while your on the floor" She's working to concentrate on mending he bones, carefully adjusting one here, there, physically with her other hand as she perches on the side of the bathtub. "Try not to upset my father please. I already just made him think that I'm a no good loose woman by asking him to back off and they're leaving tomorrow and …" And she's never talked to her father like that before.

"I don't have any whiskey for your friend's coffee," calls Dean's voice rather dryly from the kitchen, "So I'm afraid he'll have to take it black."

Thunk. Ceramic rattles and clanks under the sudden drop of Deckard's weight against it. Fortunately, the lid is indeed already closed, 'cause he sure as hell didn't check to see if it was first. An unconscious wince is about all her manipulation of his broken hand gets out of him. That and a few flecks of dusty white flaking out of the blood they'd dried into. "You aren't loose." He'd know. Christ. Brows tipped into each other at an awkward angle, he looks sluggishly to the door at the sound of Dean's voice lifting through it, then calls back: "S'ok, I have some!"

Of course there's no whiskey. Abigails not the one to keep alcohol in the house and until Alexander returns, there won't be any. Al's the one old enough to drink. She's about to tell her father not to worry before Deckard speaks up and there's a very deep frown that appears further on her face. "I'm not loose, but to their standards…" Abigail points out. "I'm living in sin, with a guy they don't know, they think i'm dating Teo, I haven't told them that I work in a bar" the last part hissed out to him. "And then here you are, stumbling drunk into my door and swearing at my father and me telling my father to go away and make coffee, so what do you think their standard of loose means Flint Deckard" Her shoulders hunched inwards, one hand lifted to wipe at her eyes, and then wiped her hand on her thigh, she reaches up then to lay a palm at the side of his face. "Right now? Right now I'm an embarrassment to them. To him."

The response to the call from the rest of the apartment is a crack of a ceramic mug encountering a counter fast enough to be heard out there. Fortunately, not fast enough to break.

Wow. That's a lot. Deckard listens, distracted enough to squint an eye shut at the crack of mug to counter. Living with a guy, dating Teo, working at a bar. Oh. Wait, not working at a bar. They don't know that part yet. Uuuuh. Chilly blue eyes drift back over to Abigail, soft under alcohol's smothering influence. He almost looks like he might be about to say something comforting, or responsible, or affectionate with her hand on the side of his bristly face and his brows knit. He sucks in a a slow breath, faint frown made more distinct by the fuzzy lines around it while he looks into her eyes.

"Teo's gay."

Then he smiles a little. Like. They couldn't tell? As if he knew all along and Teo regularly scampers around with a glittery purse slung over his shoulder.

"I know Teo's gay. Teo also likes girls. Teo swings both ways Flint. But don't tell my parents that. They're not as… tolerant." People call Abigail intolerant, they haven't met her parents. "Little bit more" Palm pulled back from his face now that there's no marks left on the man. "You really do need a shower though. I need to apologize to my Dah. Don't.. don't tell them that teo's strange between the sheets, and don't tell them about the bar.. or… or details about Staten island" Abby's mind wracks over and over. "Or about Pheonix or… Okay don't tell them about anything."

A mug in either hand, Dean walks along out into the living area once more, thumping them down atop the coffee table and calling out flatly, "Your guest's coffee is ready, darlin'."

"…Seriously?" Both ways? Wow. Deckard's brows knit a little further, as if that seems unfair somehow, but he doesn't argue. The harsh angles of his face turn into her hand before it falls away. Then he's just a drunk guy sitting on a toilet and frowning to himself.

"I'll stay in here." is like an agreement. Sort of.

'There's towels" She points behind her. "There might be some stuff of Al's that fits you. Washing machine is just outside in the hall.. uh… I'll go get your coffee" Abby mumbles, still in slightly submissive mode due to her father. "Lemme know if I missed anything and i'll… try and fix it" THis way too he can put some whiskey in his cup without her father going ballistic. "I'll be.. out.. there. Call if you.. need anything" The redhead slips up from her seat, heading for the bathroom door

As he waits for someone to come back out, Dean collects the shotgun from where it was laying against the wall. Which means that, as Abigail comes out, she'll see her father walking back across the room with the weapon in hand.

Deckard nods again, likewise disinclined to put up a fuss now that he's been sat down in here on the toilet and basically told to behave himself. Hands twined together between the wide splay of his knees, he yawns and tips his head back to squint up through the ceiling.

Shit. Father has the shotgun. Abigail purses her lips as she walks over to her father, her hands closing around the shotgun in his hands. "Dah. He's not once hurt me" Lie. "He's a good man. He's got troubles, but without fail he's gone through hell to help me. He lost an eye for me Dah that I had to grow back. I'm sorry you don't approve of him, but I owe him life, and I owe it to him as a good Christian to see that I extend every measure of friendship to him. I'm sorry that you don't like him, I don't expect you to like him, I don't expect you to like how he treats me when he's drunk, but that's the facts. That's life Dah, and.. that's my life. It doesn't make me love you any the less, nor will your opinion of him make me treat him any the less than the man in need of help and some positive attention"

As she closes er hands on the shotgun, Dean looks at his daughter, silent as she speaks. When she's finished speaking, he asks rather flatly, "An' exactly how does he 'treat you' when he's drunk, Abigail?"

Holy shi—. Deckard squeezes his eyes shut, twists his head down from what happens to be going on in the bathroom upstairs, and nearly falls off the toilet. There's another quiet clank and thump, then silence. Two things nobody needs to see together from below. Ever.

"No different than when he's sober Dah. He's not my Beau, he's just.. a man in need of a friend and to know that he's worth something to someone, and not.. lost and cast away by the world and forgotten" Her hand relax on the shotgun. "Your baby girl owes her life to him, and it's a debt that can't be ever repaid."

A step over, and Dean's settling the shotgun back where it belongs. "That doesn't mean you have to let him treat you like less than you're worth, baby girl," he says quietly, still clearly displeased, "Ah'm not going to sit here an' let him treat you like some gutter whore."

"He doesn't Dah. I promise. I swear on the bible, a stack of them Dah, he doesn't. He's just.. Maybe you should head home. I can call downstairs and the car will be waiting. I need ot see what he's gone and done to himself now, get him settled into Alexander's bed"

Dean pauses for a moment, his hand resting on the cabinet's edge for a moment before it falls. "Ah see. Well, then, ah'd hate to bring strife to your house, Abigail." That said he turns, stepping over and leaning down to brush a kiss to his daughter's brow, "Ah'll see you in the morning."

'I'll see you in the morning Dah," Abby murmurs, closing her eyes at the kiss to her brow. Guilt just stabbing her through the heart. "I'll call down and let them know your coming, give momma kiss goodnight for me."

"I will. I love you, darlin', an' your momma does too." A step back, and Dean heads for the door, a faint smile twitching to his lips before he's turned away, "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't let your… friend give you any guff, hm?"

"I'll bean him upside the head dah if he looks at me funny, I promise" Abigail murmurs before heading towards the bathroom to see what Deckard did to himself now.

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