Wanna Talk About It


deckard_icon.gif elvis_icon.gif

Scene Title Wanna Talk About It
Synopsis Does Deckard wanna to talk about it with Elvis? The answer may not surprise you.
Date February 24, 2008

Staten Safehouse

After days without more than a couple of hours sleep total, sleeping pills might be considered overkill. The fact that Deckard's been passed out for some thirteen or fourteen hours by the time the next afternoon might lend credence to that theory. As things are, he's been awake for an hour or two, now. Long enough to shower and retrieve his emergency-washed clothing. Brownish stains blotched across the left side of his suit and up his sleeves resembles water damage to an old wall, echoed in a marginally more bloody shade in its bloom across the collar of the white dress shirt half-buttoned beneath it. He's sitting on the side of a simple bed, a copy of yesterday's paper open over one knee and a bottle of water open on the nightstand next to him. He looks like shit. Even moreso for the dark dampness of his hair and the fresh white bandaging that hides the cavern of his left eye socket from sight.

Now few have accused Elvis of being stealthy, but really she can be when she's like breaking and entering or something. This would be something. She slips in the back way, in the manner Teo would have prescribed but its been a day since she chatted that shifty bastard up. "Hey Deckard!"Comes her holler, with duffle bag in one hand and her own backpack in the other. This all admittedly felt a little like the sort've thing she would be doing for Conrad, but this was like business and shit. So she moves through the safehouse quietly enough, peering about for Deckard. "I brought treats, Teo said you got your ass kicked."

Elvis's voice is familiar, as familiar people's voices have a way of being. Her hollar prompts a hand up to Deckard's temple, then down over his jaw. Hoo boy. He could probably stand to shave. Some sandpaper scratching later, he flips the paper closed and tosses it onto the bed next to him, not bothering to stand. If Leah was here earlier, she's gone now. Running errands or in another room or doing secretive Leahish things that it's probably better nobody knows the details of.

"Hey." Not the most enthusiastic of greetings, maybe. His voice is rough in his throat, dry grass over dry grass when he forces himself up onto his feet and glances to the bag. "Yeah." He did. Get his ass kicked. He looks it, pale and sickly, though the only visible damage is under the bandaging on his head.

Elvis wanders on yonder, smiling widely. She was thinner than she should be, and too pale but she's alive. "Hey you jackass, Teo said shit'd gone sideways. "She sets her backpack down, and drops the duffle bag before kicking it over to you. It smelled like, mexican food. "I got you some carnitas, and some clothes, and a twelve guage, and a pistol."She nudged her backpack with a boot, as she looked Deckard over. "You want me to change your bandages, need some painkillers?"she had plenty of both of course.

"Thanks." Deckard's kind of lacking in the department of conversation today, slouch-shouldered and more rumpled than usual. There's only so much an iron can do after you've deigned to sink-wash a decent suit. Especially when you're lazy to begin with and feel even less like ironing than usual. Scruffy chin leveled down after the bag, he takes his time in stooping after it and slinging it up onto the bed, careful not to crush his paper in the process. "Painkillers would be nice."

Elvis unzips her backpack with a sympathetic nod, to produce a small plastic vial"Just take one every eight hours, and eat first. They're for dogs, but they're really awesome."She leans over to set them carefully on the bed opposite the bag and paper, before slumping back against the door frame. "Wanna talk about it, or you wanna hear about my machineguns?"

A hazy nod granted the concession that the offered painkillers are for dogs but 'really awesome,' anyway, he doesn't seem particularly put off by it. He's probably paid to take worse at various points in his illustrious career. At least these are free.

"Tell me about your machine guns," is less blunt than it could be in the way of evasive maneuvers. Deckard unzips the duffel as he speaks, shotgun retrieved first. Chamber checked, he leans it up against the dresser before performing similar inventory on the handgun that follows.

A beat up old Ithaca and a scuffed up M1911 are far from luxurious, but both appear to be in good order and both are of course loaded. There four spare mags for the .45, and a box of shells in buckshot. Elvis's own collection perhaps even, but she's not saying.

"I have the stash in the van, another stash in another van thats for phoenix and then a stash for myself. I can start building as soon as we secure shopspace, which theres no shortage of we just need to find someplace secure. Preferably, we could both use it as our own super secret safehouse if we had to. I can make Macs right now, but I think I can make Ak-47s too. I just havent had the time to try yet, between work and me getting my ass thrown into the fucking river thanks to Kazimir I've been a little out of sorts."

Deckard listens without much reaction in posture or expression. The M1911 is pushed down into the leather holster coiled up next to his water, then he turns to drop himself back down onto the bed to see about the food, all in relative silence while Elvis goes on.

"As soon as we secure shop space," echoed at a mutter, he pries at a doggy bag without tremendous enthusiasm. Odds are his guts have had a little time to shrink. "I told you before that I could move some guns for you on the street, but I've never really been interested in opening a shop. Now less than ever." That last bit falls back to a mutter again, and he lifts a brow after the open pop of the t'go box lid. "If I decide to stay here, I'm going to have to lie low. And selling machine guns by the van full is not low profile."

Elvis just smiles "I dont plan on making machineguns the whole time Deckard, I want space to build shit and the ability to turn out a shit ton of money when I need it. I want someplace safe I can put my shit, and where I can hide when the fuzz is after me."she doesnt seem too bothered by how out of sorts Deckard is, she just maintains a weak little smile. "So how bad is it, under all the bandages and shit?"

"I can try to find you space, but it won't be owned by me. And any time you start talking in shit tons, you're going to get the attention of the competition." Plastic wrapped utensils drawn out of the bag, Deckard pops them open and sets to poking at the box's contents with a plastic fork. "The fuzz isn't going to stay out of here forever. We're too close to Manhattan geographically and too close to too many terrorist attacks chronologically." Poke, poke, poke. A knife eventually joins in the effort, and he cuts a little ways, clearly procrastinating. "Could be worse."

Elvis rolls her head from one side to the other"Can I see it, all wrapped up like that its pretty bad not knowin."She dips her gaze to unzip her jacket at least. "Yeah but by the time they realize somone else flooded the market, we'll be done and doing something else. I can get the space myself, I just didnt want to act without you. We're in this together right, we deserve to share the risk accordingly."

A deep breath is dragged in, then kicked out through his sinuses. Still a little stuffy. Deckard's fork hand lifts to pass the back of his wrist over his brow, but he keeps his one-eyed focus down on the styrofoam box, even when his jaw works and his teeth show a little around a couple've things gone unsaid. Eventually he decides on a simple, "No." Silence seems likely to collect awkwardly after that, but he resolves to take a bite and chew it, which is something, at least. "I'm considering early retirement, Elvis. I appreciate that you're angling to include me in the profit margin, but if I keep up the way I have been, I'll be dead before the year is over."

Elvis shrugs "So change, you do shit all alone and it took this long for someone to really fuck your shit up? This is why we have gangs, and mafia and shit. You cant do the rambo thing, and expect to remain intact."She dips down for a cigarette, before reaching out to offer the pack and lighter to Deckard. "I'm surprised you still have your fingers, toes and nutsack intact."

"People in gangs get killed too." So do people in terrorist cells, for that matter, though Deckard doesn't care to expound upon the issue. His head is shaken at the cigarette, and he resumes the cutting, forking, and eating thing with a not hungry lack of enthusiasm. "I need some time to think."

Elvis nods softly"Minor detail"or so she counters, its a great argument she's got there. "You know Deckard, we're not friends exactly but I'd like to think we might be after awhile. This machinegun thing or not, so would you allow me to offer you an opinion thats somewhat rough?"She's asking, which should probably be your first clue.

Chewing with approximately the same drive and deliberation as the average horse, Deckard eyes Elvis a moment across the open top of the to go box, weighing. Eventually he lifts a shoulder and looks back down to the food, bandages rustling against the knit of his brow. "Hit me."

Elvis lowers her voice just a tone or two. "If you honestly thought you could be a criminal, and not get fucked up you really need to consider the relative wisdom of your decisions up to this point. I've been shot, stabbed, beaten, run over, thrown off bridges, left to freeze to death and nobody in phoenix would so much as lift a finger to come looking for me. Your tougher than I am, old man. Your a whole floor above me, so don't you get no funny notions bout quittin. The danger is the same now as before, now you just know the nature of it. Now you know the weight of things, and besides. We have to get Abby back, and save the world, and yaknow like make a shit ton of money."

Deckard's tongue wraps up around his teeth, prying after a stuck piece of beef and putting off a retort for a couple of seconds while he mulls. The fork and knife are dropped down into the box, which is closed, then tossed after water and holster and gun. It's still a little while after that before he actually says anything, jaw clenched hollow in its set. "I didn't get into this business to make a shit ton of money. I'll take your advice under consideration all the same. Thanks for the guns. And the Mexican."

Elvis frowns just a touch finally. "Why dont you let me make you a proper eyepatch for that, instead of runnin around like the invisible man? My dad, had his eye torn out by an industrial meathook and like six hells angels. This is hardly anything worthy of hiding away, being angry about yes but its just an injury. One I'm sure abby can fix, or maybe even that rich prick could fix you. I'll help you until then, because you deserve a helping hand just as much as I do."

"I'm having some issues with infection." Succinct in an unpleasant kind of way, Deckard scratches at the back of his head, damp hair lifted into further disarray in the process. "I'll lose the bandages once I've had someone who knows what they're doing look at it. Abby's still missing." Lest anyone forget. "In the meanwhile, it's nice of you to offer, but I should be fine with this stuff for starters. I'll give you a call if I need help learning how to play tennis again."

Elvis sighs "Dont be such a fucking prick Deckard, Theres a fresh change of clothes at the bottom of the bag."She mumbles, snagging the drag handle of her backpack before rising to her full height and slipping around the corner. "Call me when your less of a bastard, I'm willing to wait."and boom she's out of there. Hopefully before Deckard doesnt even have time for a witty retort.

"Why can't you love me for who I am?" Deckard calls after her, not strictly witty, but definitely cynical in his nasal delivery. Once she's all the way gone, the long lines of his face take on a few darker shadows in the form of a suppressed grimace. He reaches for the dog pills. Hopefully the few bites of Mexican food he downed while she was up there with him count as 'eating.'

February 24th: Inarticulate
February 24th: Learn By Imitation
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