Beastly

Title: Beastly
Time Period: August 23, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Flint has manners enough when mean girl Luna rides in.

Since Algernon's disappearance, Luna hasn't been by. Not all her own fault, of course, there's been things going on that required her presence (maybe), her attention (sort of), and the kind of comfort only she can give. It's the middle of the day, ventures to the Rookery always require this timing, when the factory workers are gone and the militia men don't bother to give her notice.

A tabby cat in the middle of the road is frightenned off by the tring-a-ling of the bell on her handlebars. Her bicycle wobbles slightly as she veers around it, definitely not an expert at riding but better than the average Dornie citizen. So much better than horses. The basket in front is loaded with fresh buns from the oven and a few books. Gifts for her dear friend, ones that she knows he'll appreciate.

When she finally reaches the apartment he's claimed, her bicycle is set against the rail and basket emptied. Then she leaves it. It's safe enough, even in this area of town; only because by stealing it, one would cross the man who paid to have it fixed. She's still looking at it when she knocks at Fletcher's door, books and buns held in one arm, leaving the other free to rap on the wood to awaken everyone in the building.

"Fletcher~," she sings, trying to lure the man out like a siren to a sailor, "are you in? I've brought presents."

Fletcher~.

It's a while before anyone answers the door. And the man who answers it is not Fletcher.

Flint is a great deal larger, for all that he's cut from the same rawboned stock. His skull shows through his face more than it should and his eyes have a shrill quality to them in the afternoon sun.

He looks like he just woke up despite the hour, dusty grey hair scruffed to one side while he tries to blink the blur out of his inspection of her. The shirt he's wearing was probably black, once upon a time. Now it's an uneven grey, cuffs turned back from the thick bones in his wrists. He is also wearing pants.

This time.

"He's not home," he gravels, once he's had a decent look at her. Frowning. He looks like he frowns a lot.

Her clothes are new. Bright. The satin weave a little too shiny in the afternoon sun. Probably not doing much for the state of his blurred vision.

She's not wearing pants. Mostly because she never does.

The large man is inspected as she is, Luna's head pivoting up and down opposite to the motion of Flint's, until she's done. Then she raises her eyebrows expectantly at him, while raising the gifts of buns and books. "Why not? Where is he? Who are you? Are you one of his new little friends?" Not little, bigger, older, probably older than Algernon even.

Then, "I'll just wait for him." And she weaves to the side, possibly trying to get inside, around the man blocking the door.

The door isn't open all the way. The section that is open is occupied by Deckard, who doesn't move save to bristle stiff when she feints. Unsettled. Frowning harder than before, now with an added tinge of mistrust. Why are fancy people always barging into Fletcher's place?

"He's not home," he reiterates, awkward now that he's bowed up on someone half his size and carrying a basket of bread. Maybe she didn't understand.

The 'little friends' thing blows over without catching at his ego. Probably he doesn't have much of one to aggravate. "He didn't say you were coming."

"Well of course he didn't, he didn't know I was. If he'd known I was, he'd've made sure that he was home to receive me." It all makes sense, at least to her. "He's always quite happy to see me," she pauses there, tilting her head to consider this obstacle. "Luna Owens? I'm sure he's mentioned me, we've been quite close in the past." Her free hand is held out toward Flint, to accompany her self introduction.

Her other arm sags a little, the books and bread starting to weigh on her. She might have packed them better or left them in the basket had she known she'd be carrying them for too long. Instead of dealing with the indignity of dropping everything to the clapboards, she shifts her shoulder slightly toward Flint. There's a small hope that he'll take her ever so subtle hint and relieve her of the burden.

It's a good instinct.

Unfortunately she's jinxed it by offering a hand to shake at the same time. So despite the fact that he's looked automatically to relieve her of the basket, he's caught up in a quiet loop of social confusion where he neither shakes or helps for several seconds. Ultimately he looks back to her face for a hint and opts to relieve her of the bread. The basket is shifted over into his left hand. Thus freeing up the right to shake after some further hesitation. Finally. His hand is broad and square and rough across the palm. He doesn't hold on for long.

"Oh," he says. Still looking at her. Oh.

No. Doesn't know the name. Or doesn't remember.

Furrows start to bite in slow between his brows. Maybe this is rude. So, "…yeah," he lies next. Basket. Bread. Large retarded man apparently living in Fletcher's apartment.

He still hasn't moved to let her in.

"You're a strange man, aren't you? What's your name?" It's caught her by surprise already that there's a face in Dornie that she doesn't recognize. Then again, she's been a little out of the loop on quite a few things. She looks behind her to make sure there's a railing on the little balcony and then backs up a pace, giving Flint room to join her if he wishes. Since he still hasn't let her in.

Luna nods toward the bread while shifting the books between her arms to give the former load bearer a bit of a rest. "It's fresh, I brought it to share but if he's not home, I might as well share it with you, aye?" She smiles, this is a bit awkward. "Do you read? These books that I brought are quite good, little mysteries. My Duncan has been giving them to me one by one but I've finished these already. I thought Fletcher might enjoy them, they're not his usual fare… but I quite like Miss Nancy."

"Flint," says Flint, a shade more honestly than usual. Possibly he feels bad about taking so long with the basket. Or for not knowing who she is and then lying about it.

Also she seems nice. Burglars don't bring bread.

His face isn't readily recognized within Dornie because he's been careful not to show it much. His rough description may be more notorious. In any case he seems mostly harmless in an unusual kind of way. Like poking a stick into a burrow and having a groggy porcupine shuffle out into the light without ever having seen or heard of one.

What could go wrong.

He follows when she steps back, although in such a way that he's still between her and the door, should she suddenly make a rush for it. Meanwhile she is talking about books and liking Nancy. He watches her talk and thinks about how maybe that's how she gets on so well with Fletcher instead of talking back.

"That's a lovely name," Luna replies with a smile, because it's true in her view. She was named after a thing too, the moon. "It's quite a pleasure to meet you, Mister Flint, I'm afraid I haven't heard about you." At least not by name she hasn't, Flotsam Man might have been mentioned a few times in her presence but he doesn't look like one of those. He's wearing pants.

Rather than making a rush for the door, she moves to the edge of the steps, taking a seat on the topmost one and patting the space beside her to invite him to sit too. "I'll share a bun with you, if you're hungry." Meaning she is. "They're made fresh from my ma's, she runs the inn down on the waterfront. I'm sure you've heard of it, everyone has. It's the best place to drink and be merry in Dornie."

Deckard doesn't sit down. Not quite that friendly, even if she did bring buns and Nancy Drew. He grunts acknowledgement of the loveliness of his name. Not interested. Maybe even a little coarse in a muttered, "You probably have."

He does hold out the basket enough that she can take back one of her buns if she wants, though. Later if he remembers maybe he'll give himself a pat on the back for his own thoughtfulness.

"I've seen it," he says of the Inn. The outside of it. Apathetic until detail flickers into realization and he appears to have a sentient thought when he looks down aside at her: "Selkie blood."

Luna does want, it's a constant state of being. Right now she wants a bun. Since they're still fresh, she plucks one from the basket and gives the man a close lipped smile of gratitude. It might be the last time he sees them pressed together as they are. She's a talker.

"Yes, selkie blood! My great gran was a selkie, the loveliest woman to ever live in Dornie, you know." There's a pause, likely assuming that he'd fill in with some compliment or something but she doesn't press for it. Continuing on before the pause impregnates and becomes an awkward silence, Luna tears her bun in half, offering the bottom to her host. "You should really go in one day, bring Fletcher. We could make it a grand time. Do you know Leonard Hightower? The veterenarian? He plays his fiddle there sometimes, it's great fun."

Although Flint's focus has shaved down into a more calculating kind of interest in the wake of recognition — Luna is correct in her assumption that awkward pauses are likely to languish without her assistance. He's still looking at her somewhat narrowly when he receives the offered half and steers a corner in past his teeth. Chewing. Staring. Chewing while he stares.

At least he keeps his mouth closed.

"I didn't know he played fiddle," is an indirect admission. He hasn't finished chewing yet when he makes it. His eyeline veers away at least, looking out over the street. Bad part of town.

"He's quite good," Luna professes, not as polite as Flint because she swallows just now. "Not like some fiddlers around these parts, like kitties yowling in the night. Horrible." Especially for someone that likes cats, which she does.

She follows his gaze down to the street and wrinkles her nose before looking up at him. Still standing. Like he's trying to make her nervous, or stand guard over her. "The streets are quite ugly here, aren't they? I'm glad we're picnicking though, my little ride is safe as long as we're watching it, I think." She points down to the bottom of the stairs where the bicycle rests against the rail. "And we can see if Fletcher comes up the road, I do hope he's wearing shoes today, I couldn't imagine running barefoot in this part of town." Her eyes shift from one side to the other looking for secret listeners before she leans toward Flint and murmurs, "Sometimes, people just wee in the street here."

Flint stands because he doesn't feel like sitting. All other consequences are purely coincidental; the slope of his shoulders is neutral and he doesn't loom.

At his base are a pair of bare feet, which he glances down to when she comments on the state of the street. Not so off-putting that he can't take another bite of bread once he's thought about it, apparently. Of course people pee in the street. People pee everywhere, from the smell of things.

"I dunno when he's coming back," is what he says instead, less at ease when a passer-by cranes a look around after the odd pair of them. "Maybe you should come back later."

She chews slowly, thinking about that suggestion for just a bit.

"What if you get lonely?" Means no.

Stuffing the rest of her half in her mouth, Luna's cheek pops out to one side, only to grow smaller with a few more gulps. "I could use a drink, does he have wine in there? I'm sure he does, I think I brought some around last time I visited." Which might have been too long ago, it could be gone by now. She's never known the mage to be conservative, at least with the drink.

Seems a little late to be worried about loneliness in the scheme of things. Deckard doesn't look convinced. In fact, he doubts openly, furrows written in around a push of his brows and a downturn at the corners of his mouth. This sounds like femanine wiles.

Also like an attempt on Fletcher's cache of booze, which he's (to date) been careful not to touch. Pissing in the street is okay but he'd rather not sleep there.

"He doesn't drink anymore."

Flint says so a little flatly after he's thought on it, gate dropped at the first twinge of suspicion. Back to staring at her again while he chews off another lump of bread, less friendly than before.

"He doesn't— " This little tidbit seems to just shock the words right out of Luna. Blinking a few times, she turns her head out to the street and just stares, dumbfounded. Impossible.

Slowly, she gets up from her perch on the stair and takes a few steps down. "I can't remember if you said where he went. Did you? I might just meet him, wherever he is." Suddenly, she's just not certain if Fletcher is still among the land of the living. He'd have to be dead to quit drinking. That much, Luna Owens is quite certain about.

Dogs can smell fear and one of the little mongrels down at street level begins to bark at the woman. Causing a jump. Nerves. "Get away," she hisses at the mutt, kicking a foot out toward it without actually touching.

Back to Deckard. "I'll come back tomorrow," is both a threat and a warning, "please tell Fletcher that I've been here, aye? I'll bring back the books."

"Dunno."

Dogs can also smell werewolves, which may have something to do with this one skirting off quick when Flint bites off a harsh "Hey," down the steps to shut it up. He smells a little like wet dog himself, last bit of bread pushed into his mouth while he watches it scrabble off down the street. Luna's soon to follow, he's gathered, a breath held too long pushed out slow through his nose.

Answering doors is very stressful. "I'll let him know," he says.

Once down at the bicycle, Luna places the books back in the basket and grips the handlebars. Getting on is a little more difficult, especially in a dress, but she manages eventually, and looks up at Deckard again only after she's resting a foot on one of the pedals.

"Be sure to," she calls up, because she'd hate to have to escort militia people here to start some sort of investigation. Or maybe she'd take the case herself, she could be more like Miss Nancy. "I'll be back!"

Tring-a-ling

The bicycle bell is sort of like a wave, rung twice as she slowly wobbles around in a circle. The dog braves a chase at the tires, which causes her to nearly fall to the side. Nearly. "Get away!!" she yells, veering toward the mutt with intent to hit it, maybe. She doesn't like dogs.

It's clear when she looks up that Deckard's slowed his chewing to watch her bike-mounting efforts with a vacant kind of curiosity, like he isn't 100% convinced that he isn't hallucinating all of this. Taking the last few months into account, it's not as unlikely as it should be.

He swallows once she's up, a glance to the rest of her bread dismissed post cost-benefit analysis. Which he is capable of. On the broadest of scales, at least.

Then she's off trying to run over the dog.

Still on the stoop, Flint remains long enough to see what happens, nose wrinkled. Mean.