Were You


martin_icon.gif odessa_icon.gif

Scene Title Were You
Synopsis Odessa stalks Martin to his home where she attempts to seduce him. Nothing at all goes according to her plans.
Date March 16, 2010


Martin Crowley's Apartment

You can tell a lot about someone by their home.

You can also tell a lot about someone by internet stalking them, finding them at their work and then following them home on the subway, and sneaking into their apartment while time is frozen around you. It's not to say that Odessa Knutson is a stalker, no, she's more of a psychopathic obsessive than a stalker per se.

Martin Crowley's Brooklyn apartment clearly is a rental, and likely came furnished. He gave up a lucrative career in Chicago to move out to New York and investigate inappropriate conduct within the Company, or so the paperwork Odessa helped herself to in his bedroom in his closet says. It's amazing what people just leave lying around, like a .45 caliber Company issue pistol with hollow point ammunition in the kitchen by the stove in a drawer, or the dossier on his coffee table for Sylar with the full photographical rap-sheet of his known murders.

Crowley's apartment is post-modern in design, everything is either black leather, polished chrome or glass. A full wall of picture window looks out to the river and the snowy city beyond, a balcony on the opposite side of the glass accessible from the kitchen. It's a nice place, as far as Brooklyn goes, but it doesn't look like Crowley lives here so much as works here.

When he comes home, it's to the cold and sterile furnishings with every surface shiny and unwelcoming. Even the lighting in his apartment is pale white instead of yellow, those god-awful energy saver bulbs that suck out the color and life from the world. Keys go on the counter with a crash, and Crowley's bespectacled form is loosening his tie and headed to the refrigerator in the open concept kitchen, replete with black marble counters and induction heating stove.

He fails to notice the blonde sitting on his couch.



The singsonged soprano coming first from the living room, and then the bedroom proves that the blonde doesn't stay put for long. She never does when she can use her ability for her own amusement. It surely doesn't take the man long to react. After all, Martin Crowley is still a Company man. Her reflection stares dully back at him through the steel surface of the refrigerator. By the time he turns around, she's disappeared already, nothing but a giggle left in her wake.

"Did you know," Odessa muses from her recumbent pose on Martin's couch once more, "that there are distinct advantages to not existing outside of secure government servers that require passwords that even technopaths have trouble cracking? Being a respectable member of society is a drag."

Lips painted a shade of gold twist upward into a wicked smile. Her legs cross at the ankle, covered by thigh high boots of shining black patent leather, leading up to the hem of a minidress of yellow chiffon. The layers of semi-sheer fabric disappear momentarily between an underbust corset to match the boots, reappearing to attach to a similarly black collar piece around the woman's throat.

"You poor man," the temporomancer laments, "you must lead a terribly unfulfilling life."

A sharp breath is drawn in as Martin finally lays eyes on Odessa, a panicked yelp crossing his exaggerated features as he springs into motion, diving towards a drawer in his kitchen and slinging it open with a snap of one hand, but what awaits him in the drawer isn't the chromed .45 Company issue semi-automatic with gas vents and that nicely textured grip but rather a hot pink Post-It note that reads:


Martin's heart sinks into his stomach, face pales, and when he looks up towards where Odessa is still smiling at him it is over the top of his glasses, tongue flicking out to wet his lips and both hands very steadily rising in the universal sign of please don't kill me. "O— Odessa, per'aps we got off on the wrong foot, yeah? We— " Martin's eyes flick to where his landline phone is, then back to the blonde. "Clearly you've got somethin' important an' interestin' t'share, which is why you're 'ere, so— allow me t'fully indulge you…" There's nervous laughter, so much nervous laughter.

The uninvited visitor holds up the assistant-director's cell phone, waving it once before it simply vanishes from sight as though the whole set-up had been for a magic trick. Perhaps it will reappear behind Martin's ear. "Don't be stupid," she murmurs when he glances toward the landline. A ways down, the cord is snipped cleanly. "I already took care of the phoneline."

Odessa sits up on the couch just enough to lean forward and pat the cushion on the other end. "Come, and sit. If I wanted you dead, you would be. So, until the time that you find yourself bleeding out somewhere far less cosy than this, why don't you just trust that your death currently serves me no purpose? In fact, quite the opposite."

Shamelessly, blue eyes roam up and down Martin's form. "Take off your coat. But leave the tie. I like a sharp dressed man." She smiles again. "And I like it when you laugh."

"It's cute."

"I'll stand." Martin tensely states, offering a too-late smile before turning halfway towards his refrigerator and opening up one side of the double doors, withdrawing a bottle of chilled vodka from within before closing the door with one foot. He keeps his eyes on Odessa the whole while, screwing off the red cap, dropping it to the marble counter with a clicking tick, and then just taking a swig from it because this isn't a time for glasses, no sir.

"What d'you want, Knutson?" There's a furrow of his brows, and Martin's lips press together tightly, as if he's trying so very hard not to say something he'll regret for a very short period of time. "Today's— not a good day for games." There's a crook of his lips, downturned to a frown and brows furrowed, looking put off more so than an insane time manipulator in his home would impress upon him.

"You don't even offer any to a guest?" Odessa's lips turn downward now, a small pout forming on her lips when she realises that he really isn't going to come join her on the couch. "It's fortunate for you, I suppose, that I'm not here to play games."

Smoothly, the blonde rises from the couch, stilettos soundless on the plush floor. "I want you, Agent Crowley. You see, I've been giving things a lot of thought since you happened back into my life, and, well…" Odessa tips her head to one side and smiles almost bashfully, "I always had a bit of a crush on you. And I asked myself, Self, why don't you go for it? I mean, we're both…"

She simply disappears. Fancy that.

"Consenting adults." It should really come as very little surprise that her breath is washing over Martin's ear. "We don't have to have some sort of horridly tense alliance, do we? We can be…" A finger trails down the man's spine slowly. "Friends?"

A chill runs down Martin's spine as Odessa slithers up behind him like some sort of snake. His neck tenses, jaw sets and in a sharp breath as he turns around, pinned between marble top counter and a psychopathic stalker with a crush. Crowley's wordless as he watches her, eyes wide and glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose to rest in a place where they are most ineffectual. The bottle of vodka is lifted again, another small sip just to wet his palette so he can try and form words in the shape of a response.

"I— " Martin's brows furrow as he breathes out vodka breath towards Odessa unintentionally, " — don't date outside my species." It's probably the most tactless way to say thanks, but no thanks from one person to another. It's been a very tactless day for Martin Crowley.

Odessa circles around Martin slowly - not that he's aware of this at all, since he's frozen in time as she does it. This is more difficult than she had expected it to be.

Narrowing her eyes, she reaches out to push Martin's glasses back up his nose with great care. Then, she boosts herself up to sit on his counter. A wave of her hand, and time resumes once more. "You really know how to hurt a girl's feelings, don't you? I'm Evolved, Martin. Not a space alien." Or a pet of some sort. "I'm still a woman," she insists, resting one hand on the man's shoulder to guide him to face her. "There was a time when you thought I was just a girl, like everyone else did. Am I so different now than I was then?" The answer to that is obvious.

"Don't you ever want a little companionship? Don't you ever wish your bed weren't so cold?" Knees part, and yellow chiffon first pools between and then is pulled taut. Predatory blue eyes watch prey's movement, watching his face for tells. Gold lips again pull into a pout, begging acquiescence.

There's an incensed look on Martin's face the moment Odessa insinuates that, and he slams the bottle down on the counter, looking down at her with a glowering countenance that is not often shown on Crowley's face. "Get out." He orders in wavering tone of voice, eyes beginning to glass over as he slips away from between her and the counter, "Get— out of my home." He's repressing his English accent, trying to sound less British and more American, something he does with often failing capacity. Martin moves just a few paces away, bringing a hand up to his eyes, fingers brushing over them before pinching at the bridge of his nose.

When Martin looks back at Odessa, it's a broken man that stares at her. "Kill me or get out of my home, right bloody now." A vein impresses out of his forehead, face flushes, his jaw gives a tremble. Whatever it was Odessa said, it struck a nerve.

It's not something one often draws from Odessa, but Martin Crowley has done just that.

"Martin… I'm so sorry."

A genuine apology.

Odessa slides down from the counter top and fights the urge to step forward and try to comfort. "I didn't mean to- To hurt you." She tips her head upward slightly so she can peer up at the man. Her voice comes in a whisper, "Forgive me. Please." She doesn't make any move to advance, or to retreat.

"No you're not." Martin growls out, brows lowered and a creased line cutting up his forehead, lips downturned into a scowl and face red. "You're not bloody well sorry, you're sorry you ain't going t'get what you want!" His voice raises, ringing off the walls. "Sorry's knowin' tha' the one bloody thing in your life got turned t'dust in Midtown because you weren't good enough as an agent!" Both of Martin's hands curl into a fist, he lashes out, slamming his hand against the closed front of the refrigerator.

"Sorry's not 'avin enough of the one good thin in your life t'bury t'fill a bloody hat box!" His eyes glass up again, jaws clenched and shoulders heaving in strong breaths. "You don't know a bloody thing about me! You don' know nothin' about me an' what I want or why I do anythin'! So just leave me alone!" Another slam of the refrigerator, this time leaving a tiny divot in the brushed aluminum front.

Odessa closes her eyes against the pounding of Martin's voice, poised as if to take a blow, if it comes to that. She holds still, waits. When it doesn't come, she opens her eyes again and shakes her head.

"You're right," Odessa admits in a meek voice. "I didn't do enough research. Were… Were you-" Married? No, that isn't fair to ask. And surely… Surely she would have known. "I'm sorry. I swear, I am."

She could say she understands on some level what he's feeling, but that wouldn't be true, would it? Everyone grieves differently. Every profound sense of loss one experiences from the void left when a loved one is taken from them is different. "Love's a bitch," she concludes. An understatement. And then they die.

"I don't see you leaving." Martin grouses, staring steadily at Odessa. "What— did you think jus' because you upset me tha' I'd just break down an' tell you my whole big sad sobbing bloody life story? Go to hell, Knutson, don't you 'ave a job you should be doing?" Killing Sylar, he means to say. "I put you on tha' case for a reason, an' I expect you t'get th' job done if Sawyer an' her three ring circus of a partner can't." Tension cuts unflattering creases across Martin's forehead and mouth, neck muscles constrict when he swallows, he is the picture of discomfort.

"Get th' bloody hell out've 'ere before I reconsider th' offer I made you." Martin's hand lifts slowly, motioning towards the door. "You don't know me, an' I don't frankly care for you to. We 'ave a business relationship, an' I want you out of my personal life. Don't come back 'ere— not unless you want our business t'be done, an' then you'll never know about yer mum."

Tension settles in the lines of Odessa's face, like she can't quite decide the correct course of action. But when does Odessa ever decide upon the correct course of action? "I won't come back here," she promises. She may even mean to keep that promise.

Perhaps when it comes down to it, Odessa's ultimate act of apology is to do Martin Crowley the courtesy of allowing him to watch her departure.

Staring over his kitchen island as he watches Odessa move to the front door, Martin's brows furrow together in silence. He glances down at the bottle of vodka, staring at the clear liquid inside with a crease of worry at his forehead and a tired stare coming over his eyes. Once she opens that apartment door and steps out into the hall, Crowley breathes away his tension as a sigh of relief as the door slams shut. But there's no real relief, not even as he finally moves away from the island, headed towards that wall of clear glass that overlooks the ruins of Midtown across the water.

Martin stands there, watching the snow fall, his reflection mutedly shown in the glass' surface, arms folded across his chest. "Sarah…" he says quietly, leaning forward to rest his brow against the glass, eyes falling shut and lips downturning into a frown, jaw trembling again and shoulders hunched forward.

"…m'so sorry."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License