Participants:
| Scene Title | Your Capacity For Forgiveness |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Teo and Abby talk over hot cocoa after checking in on Kozlow |
| Date | April 25, 2010 |
Ferry Safe House
There are no stars tonight. There haven't been for months now, if Teo isn't mistaken. He's far too simple a man to let such subtle poetries of his environment really thorn into his mood from day-to-day, but when the thought actually strikes him, it's hard to squirm it out. It's a nagging sort of annoyance, peripheral if not superficial, a cold, bold underscoring to the other shit that's been happening lately.
Back door got stuck, for instance. He's been trying to coax the hinges free again for half an hour, but the lubricant isn't taking, and the metal seems so misshapen by temperature flux, age, and abuse that it's a minor miracle it hadn't broken down five months ago, rather than thirty minutes. Stronzo. At least the front one still works. "Abby," he says, his voice muffled from the flashlight handle clenched in his teeth.
Abby would be one of those things, too. Not 'shit' herself, naturally, but burned so bad Teodoro thinks this is the last place she should be. Checking in on Sasha's injuries, helping clean up after his big stinking pile of slow-healing, sweating, sick bastard self. The kettle is on the hot plate, and he brought a packet of hot chocolate mixture, but he does not think there are enough powdered instant drinks in the world to salve the girl's hurts.
"All right, back there?"
"Peachy" Angrily spoken and accompanied by the thumps that announce she's making her way back to Teo after dealing with Sasha in the basement with the bucket. Now to deal with Teo in the front with the hot cocoa. It's like some fucked up game of Clue only she doesn't have a candlestick. She didn't like what she saw in the basement in the least and the scowl on her face is evident when she comes into Teo's sight.
"You can see bone Teo. What are they doing to him? Lord in fucking heaven, he's going to get a worse infection and he's going to die. They need to pass him over to Matthew and soon. I can't do anything for him down there and no one else will. He's going to kill himself and there's no justice in that"
Fingers clutch the strap of her messenger bag to her crutch as she rounds physically on the Sicilian to see what he's making and then head for a chair to sit before he makes her. "His wrist is broken. From the cuffs, they need to sedate him, antibiotics, or he's going to do far worse"
Teo is making…
…a mess of the door hinges. Ergo, after a moment, he gives up, screwing cap back on lube's wrinkly tube and trampling back across the rickety wooden floor. He tosses it onto the counter's chipped surface, underhand, and scrapes to a halt by the kettle just in time to switch off the hot plate before its flutey whistle shatters around a hysterical keening. The packets of cocoa powder is coming out of his coat the next moment, each emptied out neatly into the sturdy, simple mugs set upon tile. "I don't know what they're doing to him.
"Think Catherine went to see him, and interr— negotiation is Liz's schtick," Teo settles on a word. Squints down to make sure most of the brown powder went into the mug, caking on the walls and mounding at the bottom, before he hoists up the kettle to fill. "Is he outright suicidal, or holding himself hostage? Can you tell?" It isn't the most contrite thing Teodoro could have said, but he does say it, even as he lifts up the mugs of chocolate and brings them over to the table. Slides Abigail's over to her. Her mug has a duck on it.
"He's doing Violence to himself. Cat went to visit him?" Who only knows what happened there. Liz hasn't come near him that she knows of but maybe if she did, she could use her ability to calm him. "I don't think he's suicidal, not yet, but he's very much like.. like a caged dog Teo and at some point, who knows what they will do to get out. Get liz to come, try and talk to him, use her voice. Unless she shouldn't come so that she can have plausible deniability"
There's a soft sigh, lowering of shoulders that imitate Teo's and are sunk beneath layers of clothing to help keep warm. The cold is making her ankle ache, ligaments and muscles healing, protesting the cold and moving around. Slender fingers creep forward to cover up the cheerful duck with it's yellow sleek features to deeply inhale the aroma of the liquid. It's almost on her tongue to ask for another cup to be made and proffered to Sasha. Maybe later. Surely Teo's got a spare packet.
"Thank you, for letting me stay upstairs. Al's taken off without much of a word. Probably another week and I can go back to my place. Peter's been taking care of Pila and Scarlett for us"
Teo's features go slightly blank at that. If it weren't for the misleading grind and bunched tissue of his gutted cheek, they might have gone blank entirely, but there's always that permanent leer, exaggerating even the faintest line in his brow. There is one, of course. Creased through with concern, hard thought. He kicks the chair nearest to him out, hooks it with an ankle so he can sit, sniffing down at his own mug.
It does smell good, carb-heavy as proof against the winter. Some variety of confectionery drinks that adds condensed milk powder to the thin stuff of basic flavor. He would rather be smelling that goodness than sniffing forlornly in the cold of so many absences. Alexander's, of course. Deckard's, too, though that one is altogether harder to explain.
"I'll take that under advisement, tesoro. Give Liz a call tomorrow, get her to see him," he offers, finally. "And it's non problema— about the brownstone. Really." His eyes flit up at her, and he tries a smile on. Fails to succumb to insincerity, warm showing on his bearded face despite the faded light of the dingy bulb overhead. "I'm not used to living in a house anymore. Not enough people clomping around behind the walls, too much closet space, too few persons' clothes to fill them. I sure as shit wouldn't mind if you stayed longer."
If Teo'd even have the guts to explain what's happened to Deckard. "You'll get used to the house. you're already used to sharing a bed, so.. Maybe you can think of something to do with those spare rooms. Help Francois make his library, maybe… a room for his medical things, to tend to the hurts of those who come over instead of at the kitchen table or you could buy more than one sweater, and switch them out."
There's a forlorn glance down to the floor in the direction of where Sasha might be chained, instructions left with the caretakers of the Russian in how to deal with him. There will be sedatives in his future and her bottle of pain killers will be left for him to be given. She's got others at said brownstone.
"I know you wouldn't mind and neither would Francois but the moment it's safe to go back to staying above the bar, I'm going back. I don't like the Rivage. Maybe because I haven't made an effort to decorate but… It's just… not me" The same as Cat's place just wasn't her. Above the bar though, she loves it. "It's beautiful though. Very beautiful and I'm grateful and thankful Teo, for the tea and the taking care of me. Once the snow stops… I don't want to wear out welcome Teo. I'm not the easiest person to live with and the two of you, you need your space to yourselves, get to know each other better"
Her fingers toy with the cup before lifting it to her lips so she can blow over the surface and take a sip. "I'm thinking of asking Elias to take me to Las Vegas. Try and find Robert"
The Sicilian's long hands lattice a loose diamond pattern around the circumference of his cup, his fingers cross-crossing over, making a net that would remind him of the mesh of refractions on the surface of seawater if his fingers weren't grubby, scar-notched, coarsely-textured and darker despite his winter's pallor than the stuff the vessel was made out of. Her fastidious kindness to himself and the Frenchman in question puts a wan smile on his face that doesn't nearly begin to even out the axis of his distorted mouth.
He doesn't ask about that, though. Or— even thank her, though it's there in his eyes with a bleakness more reminiscent of the frosted-over facades of the other houses in the neighborhood than anything native of Teodoro's face. Winter is bullshit, is probably the reason. Probably. Aloud, however, what he does wind up asking is: "Do you love him?" With a slight lift of his head, ragged hair raking his brow before the shift of inertia sweeps it out, back an inch.
"That would be a silly thing Teodoro Laudani, to love him after two dates and a beating. I like him, and I need to know what happened. Need to know what I did. If it was me, or if.. it was something to do with his ability. I don't love him." She still loves someone who last she knew was kept in the basement of the Garden. "I am intrigued and want to know him better. Now, I don't know and need to know"
Toes are wriggled in their respective captivities at the promise of Vegas and the not so inclement weather. "I can escape the cold and who knows what. Maybe.. take in a show or two. At least I won't be here to get eaten by polar bears or bombarded by penguins" She's been reading the news of late. "Not like I can do much else. I can't work, the bar is closed, so the options remain to either stay up on the third floor and sulk, get depressed, and sing soft kitty with Francois when he comes to help me, or I can… try and do something, get a tan, maybe visit my parents and see how the house is coming along"
There's a faint grimace ridging through Teo's nose, nothing that mocks her, but self-denigrating in that tired, offhanded way that gay Catholic boys get when they've fallen stupidly over themselves for other boys over far less than two dates and a beating. On the other hand, Abigail has better taste than he does. Who's surprised? "Fair enough," he agrees, after a moment. "Might be more fun if you went home. Or took a friend to Vegas, but I don't know who you'd be inclined to hang out with, these days.
"I'd almost say Peter, but he's taking care of the kids." A separate, fleeting pang of terror at the possibility of the Petrelli's irresponsibility costing him a bird— but he isn't hypocritical enough to act out on that particular sentiment. He's been a terrible birdkeeper. It's a cold revelation, how bad Teo is at keeping a lot of things, but Abigail— he's never really tried.
Always knew better than to try, he'd say. Twenty-three kidnappings in. "That reminds me." An unwanted but not stray thought on a moth's furry wings, snaring in the mesh of a butterfly net, a doleful pest in place of a prize. "Can I ask you— uh. Pardon the self-aggrandizing. It isn't fishing for praise. Not exactly. Uhm. Cazzo." The blunt of his pinkie nail scrapes a thin line of rawness down his jaw, between beard strands, before he's folding it around his mug again.
"What did you like about your Teo?" Tea Oh.
"My Teo?" There's a frown, turning into a scowl. "There is no my Teo. They are one and the same now. You're still the original, but with that fifty percent more sicilian!" On sale, this week, $13.99. Get two while the price is right. Put one in your cupboard when you run out of the first due to death.
"I can't believe you're asking me that Teo. What do I like about you? I like that…" What does she like about him, them. "I like that no matter the time of night, or the day, if I call in a panic and crying like a waterspout, you are there. Rain, snow, sleet, hail, you're my angel Teo, and you don't hesitate to find me no matter what and try to help, no matter how misguided the attempts may be" Her fingers cup the mug, tug it closer to herself. "But that's just one of the things. There's a great many things that I like and Love about you. There's just too many others to list"
Teo almost laughs partway through the girl's response, maybe because of its indignation, maybe because he hasn't met his quota of chuckles today, or because— his chocolate is hotter than he thought it would be and it's like a fish gasping at the hilarity of being boiled alive.
'Heat' means violence and impending bloodshed according to some English colloquialisms too, you know. It's applicable on a number of levels. "Don't sell yourself short. As guides go, God isn't a bad one. Not always the kind one, but I think there's dumber shit to operate on than principle. Not that I don't tear my hair out. Not that I won't. I guess I have enough hair to spare." Teo's voice trails off for a dilatory moment, and he adjusts his brows around a lopsidedly comic squint, glancing left, right, up, at the ragged off-blond frame that he's been growing mangily out of his head these past few months.
Enh. "Sorry. I didn't mean offense. I just don't feel either of them, a lot of the time. Which is probably deliberately self-deceiving." Teo raises his sleeve cuff to scrub his cheek, drying off a nonexistent squirt of drink and a grin slivers out, crooked, too young for his face never mind the arithmetic combination of his souls. "I do all the same shit. Shooting people, looking."
"You're still Teo. Just.. like Jessica, and Niki, and Gina all rolled into one. You're not an imitation of him, you're just… There's more than one of you and really Teo, I still love you, and I'd still love you if you were my Teo from the timeline that no longer is. I loved you then and we're all still the same people, just different paths"
She looks down into her cocoa, wrinkling her nose. "Time travel is just very confusing" How many times has someone said that before? How many times right to Hiro's face? She knows she's said it at least once to him. "Variations on the same. That's what you are. A rose by any other name is still a rose and a cigar, is sometimes just a cigar"
There are no words in any language Teodoro knows that can properly circumscribe the entirety of his feelings on this subject, or what value he assigns to Abigail's answer. His eyes go slightly crescent-shaped on his face, above a smile that lacks nothing for warmth despite that it doesn't stretch any wider than basically even on his aquiline features. "Your capacity for forgiveness appalls me," he announces, pushing his chair backward.
And maybe that reminds him, too. Teo pulls a rough-knuckled hand out of his jacket, and flips two spare packets out of his pocket. Yellow foil, brown cursive and cartooned depictions of mugfulls of dessert drink steaming on the front. Nutritional value printed in small, sans-serifed navy letters across the back, matter-of-fact in its assurance that the carbs aren't for the faint of heart.
"I'll wait," Teo offers, pulling his feet up off the floor, now that he has— apparently— met his quota for 'sitting normally on a piece of furniture' for the day. "I'd wager Kozlow would spit it in my eye if I brought him anything."
"It doesn't appall you Teodoro. You admire it in me, and wish you had that capacity" He knows her too well, and while one packet is tucked away to be given to him later, the other packet is mixed into water and a fresh mug. Not too hot, she doesn't want him to burn himself with it and by the time she'll make her way there with the hot cocoa it will be lukewarm cocoa. But it's a drop of humanity and kindness to be given to Skoll despite all that he's done to them. She'll wait long enough to see if he'll drink it, or break it and try to hurt himself. Either way, soon enough, the two of them will be on their way home, back to the West Village.