Starring:
Summary: Fisticuffs. They come to them. Bekah watches on in resignation. Men.
Date It Happened: February 21st, 2007
Fisticuffs
Central Park
It is February, and therefore cold. A much trodden-upon litter of snow and ice makes Central Park more white and grey than green in the fading light of late day — which we all know is when the crazies come out, police precinct or no. One such person of dubious sanity is Hector, who crunches over long-dead grass and ice in his shabby overcoat and shabby boots, scruffy chin occasionally lifted to the sky as if to mark the time despite the cloud cover. If the below freezing temperature is bothering him overly, he doesn't seem to show it.
Bekah is dressed warmly, but she's also moving along well. It may be freezing outside, but that's no reason to put off a run. Instead, she's bundles up for it with warm pants, a coat, hat and gloves. She's sticking to a path, cleaned off to a decent extent.
Central Park is a hub, and one of those spokes are dog owners and their canine companions. Lachlan Deatley is out and about this evening, accompanied by his two Dobermans and a third dog — a large mixed-breed hound — on leashes. The hound is obviously one of his charges, as he continually murmurs to it: "Heel. Stop pullin' the bloody leash, ye bastard." His crass remarks are spoken gently; he shows nothing but friendliness toward the exuberant year-old mongrel, and it seems to be doing well under his care — that is until Bekah starts approaching. Suddenly, the hound begins baying wildly, lunging at the end of its leash toward the jogger. The Scotsman scowls and immediately steps off to the side of the path, keeping the dog well in-hand despite its desperate attempts to charge the woman. "He'll no' bite," he calls over the racket the mutt makes, and then to the dog: "Put a bloody sock in it!"
At the sudden baying of the dog, rumpled head tilted back and somewhere up in the clouds, Hector stumbles and nearly falls over in his sudden, /urgent/ need to back way the hell up. One arm extended nearly to the ground in a last minute scrabble for balance, he straightens with evident irritability to tug at the threadbare lapels of his coat. "This is a park for /people/, you know," he calls helpfully, voice harsh in the grating cold, "not /wild animals/."
Bekah doesn't seem to afraid of the big dog. She rolls her eyes over towards Hector. "He's on a leash!" She calls over before she steps forward and offers her hand out to the dog, even though it's encased in a glove. "You're a pretty dog, aren't you?"
Pretty? Sure. Over-enthusiastic? Definitely. The hound's backside jerks from side to side, his tail wags so hard, and he immediately shuts up to snuffle eagerly at Bekah's outstretched hand. In stark contrast, the two Dobermans sit on their haunches, flanking Lachlan and remaining calm and quiet. Hector is given a cold glower by the Scotsman on the other side of the mongrel's leash. "He's no' a wild animal," he growls. "Dunna get yer knickers inna wad." Some people. Lachlan looks to Bekah, and his expression becomes a little less harsh. "Sorry 'bout tha'. He's just a bit excitable, tha's all."
"Could've fooled me," is growled foggily in return, if mostly to himself, and Hector dusts bits of slush from his hand once he's run out of ways to straighten his coat. "Careful he doesn't bite your hands off with his pretty teeth." Further muttering on the subjects of fleas and plague may or may not be audible.
Bekah rolls her eyes again as she reaches around to scratch the enthusiastic dog's ears, if he'll let her. "Is he a young dog, still? Young anything seem to be overly excitable." She notes. "I love dogs. Too bad my schedule would be hell in having one of my own."
"Yeah, he's no' very old. He's no' mine either; 'M just trainin' 'im." The hound in question is more than happy to submit to the attention and does his level best to wriggle right up to Bekah's legs and sit on her feet, tail going a mile a minute. Once again, Hector's comments earn him a glare, and this one lasts much longer than the previous one. It's also a lot less friendly. "Ye got a pro'lem?" Lachlan inquires tersely.
"I might if I didn't think I'd immediately be devoured by your hellhounds." Stiffly upright, now, hands at his sides, Hector glances to the dobermans — somewhat less concerned by the hound now that it has proven itself not to be a vicious killer. For the short term, anyway.
"Yes, because obvious this guy is a vicious killer." Bekah says of the mutt she's giving attention to. "I'm sure that he's going to be a fun one to train with all this attention."
The Dobermans in question remain quiet, one of them staring impassively at Hector while the other attentively watches the interaction between Bekah and the hound. Bekah is, of course, in danger of being adored to death. The only danger the mutt poses is that of slobber on clothing. Lachlan scowls at Hector, casting a quick glance to Bekah when she speaks. "M'dogs are no' hellhounds," he grunts creatively. "Yer a sorry excuse fer a man if yer more scared of the dogs than she is." See, it's insulting to Hector's masculinity because Bekah is female, nyuknyuk.
Hector bristles, if in a rigid sort of way that really only involves some hardening about his expression and, perhaps, a short drop in temperature. "Foolishness hardly equates to courage, /Jockie/. Just because your mother allowed dogs to eat at the table doesn't mean you should feel free to inflict them upon everyone else."
Bekah sighs. "Yes. Because these are obviously scary dogs. One of them could only hurt me by licking me to death, and it's quite obvious to a thinking person that the other two are very well trained." Bekah notes as she crouches down to keep giving scratches to the dog without getting knocked over by accident.
It's not really the dogs Hector should be worrying about. The Dobermans remain quite still and composed, though they do become a bit tense as the Scotsman holding their leashes grows less and less thrilled with the Englishman. The ethnic slur causes Lachlan's jaw to clench. Hard. Hector just Crossed A Line. "Hold these," he grunts to Bekah, handing the three leashes to her. There's not much room for argument. Then, the Scotsman starts to close the distance between himself and Hector, hands clenched into fists. "Wha' was tha' ye just called me?" he questions in a low voice. It's not so much asking for clarification as it is a challenge: I /dare/ you to say that again.
The closer one gets to Hector, the more evident it becomes that he is quite probably homeless. The supposed black of his overcoat is patchy with light spots where murky puddles have dried or dust has settled, and it looks like he's been wearing the same grey suit for the whole of winter, at least. He smells like a seedy bar, and looks approximately as hospitable for all his proper posture and English pomp. "Jockie, I think it was," he replies in the meanwhile, brows lifted and expression endlessly polite for all the he glances aside to Bekah. He looks somewhat unsure of her ability to actually hold onto all three dogs. "Or was it Sheepfu—" we will assume that he does not have an opportunity to finish this statement for one reason or another.
Bekah takes the leashes. She's in good shape, and only one of the dogs seems likely to try to tug away. That one is getting subdued by petting still, so she's good, for the moment at least. She shakes her head with a sigh as the homeless guy continues the insults. "Idiot." She mutters under her breath.
There is no opportunity for Hector to finish that last statement, all right, because Lachlan's fist soon becomes embedded in the Englishman's gut. It's a fast, powerful strike, and while he's by no means a professional pugilist, the Scotsman has obviously seen his fair share of brawls. Who cares if he's homeless? Beating up the homeless is fun. When the blow falls, the Dobermans — who have been remaining quiet and still — get to their feet, heads up and ears erect as they watch. They make no attempts to get involved or even pull their leashes. The hound, however, leaps to his feet and begins baying again.
"Hff—" That is the sound of all of the air being pushed out of Hector's lungs in one large, stale coffee-scented blast. The older man staggers back a step and hunches, one hand going immediately to his gut while he attempts to regain his breath. The instant he does, he charges into a tackle, all bones and angles and wiry muscle. Fiiight!
Bekah shakes her head, kneeling by the excitable dog to try to keep him calm. "Come on, guys. Don't do anything stupid that I'm going to have to stitch up! I'm off duty!" She nearly whines with a shake of her head for the fight. "Nothing more stupid than a fight, huh?" She comments to the mutt.
/Whump!/ Lachlan can't keep his balance in the face of such an assault, and he goes down on his back in the middle of the path. By tucking his chin, he manages to avoid bouncing his skull on the ground, but the impact is still enough to wind him a bit. "/Fffuck/," he hisses. "Get the bloody hell /offa me/!" This is accompanied by a second attempt at a punch, though this one is lacking in direction and power. It could hit anywhere on the right side of Hector's torso. The hound continues to bark up a storm, excited by the activity. When the two men go down, he surges forward in an attempt to run to them, yanking at his leash with all his might.
Hector is busy trying to drive a bony elbow down into Lachlan's sternum while his other hand snatches after the one that isn't punching him in the side. He is quick, for an old guy, and his hands are like ice — cold enough to burn when his teeth bare against the thump of Lachlan's fist into his ribs. "Do you enjoy beating up on the homeless?" At least, that's what it sounds like he's said through various gruntings and growlings while he vies on for position. "—Hardly stupid…"
And ask the hound surges forward, so does Bekah. She loses her grip on his leash, but not before she's been yanked down in the path. When she straightens up, she grumbles about the tear in her pants and the blood on her knee. "Can't heal myself. Oh, no." She mutters under her breath before she rolls her eyes. "Men." She states, loud enough for it to carry over the fight.
The elbow in his sternum causes Lachlan to wheeze softly, and when he feels the biting frost on his opposite hand, the Scotsman cries out. His struggles regain new fervor, and his free hand begins to attack Hector's side with more ferocity and vigor, seeking out a kidney or a similarly soft spot. Getoffgetoffgetoff! The freed hound adds to the din of the struggling men by bounding around them, baying as loudly as his lungs will allow. The Dobermans don't attempt to follow, but they're clearly agitated. They pace and watch the fight with perked ears, whining softly. One of them lets out a single bark.
Something sensitive is certainly stricken, for Hector rolls off swiftly after another hit to his side. He 'fwumps' back into the slushy grass with a hoarse cough, and simply lies there for a second, staring at the darkening sky. Then, /then/ he realizes that one of the dogs is loose. If he was spry before, the quickness with which he finds his feet under these new circumstances is even more impressive. Particularly considering the energy he's putting into cursing Bekah's inability to follow simple directions as he does it.
Bekah looks down to her knee for a moment she lets out a nice cuss word and then after a quick glance around, she ties off the leashes of the other two dogs to a nearby park bench. They're not pulling her over two. There's a nice cut on her knee, and well it's not serious, it's bleeding annoyingly. She gives a quick smirk at Hector's reaction to the dog and then starts off, either to get a bandage or a cop. Who knows?
Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow! The hound seems more interested in making a lot of noise than actually attempting to attack Hector or Lachlan. The Scotsman, in the meanwhile, remains on his back for a moment or two as he catches his breath. Then he rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself to his feet. He's not done with Hector yet. He charges for the Englishman again, this time aiming to a fist for the man's jaw or cheek.
Busy watching the braying dog and attempting to calculate just the right moment to make a break for it without losing any of his limbs, Hector manages to completely miss the fact that Lachlan is up again until he charges. His head turns sharply back to the Scottsman just in time to catch the punch square in the temple, and…ding ding. A white static buzz clears to reveal that he is staring blearily up at the sky again. He blinks.
And /stay down/. After Hector drops, Lachlan staggers back a few steps, panting and clenching his now throbbing left hand. God/damn/ it, now he remembers why punching people in the face is a no-no. After a moment's pause, he glances around and notices that, hey, Bekah's gone, the Dobermans are tied to a bench, and the hound is loose. "Shut yer bloody piehole!" he snaps at the noisy mutt, who promptly goes silent with a soft whine. The dog slinks over to his side and sits, promptly rewarded with a small pat to the head. The Scotsman returns his attention to Hector. "Ye done?" he growls.
A spidery hand lifted to check his temple, it finds no blood there, and falls back into the snow. Brows knit, Hector squeezes his eyes closed before his head tips lazily towards Lachlan, salt and pepper dusted liberally with flecks of ice by the time he finally pushes to sit himself up. "Quite finished. Thank you."
Good. Lachlan sniffs, then reaches up to wipe at his nose, which seems to have started running in the snappish cold. He grunts, then takes up the hound's leash and moves to the bench to retrieve his own dogs. Without another word, he sets off back down the path, nursing a few cracked knuckles and bruises. Bloody Englishmen.
Hector remains sitting for what seems like a long time, with legs stretched out long before him and hands curled loosely into the cold ground. When he stands, it is more carefully than before, and only so that he can drag himself over onto a nearby park bench to limit the ice melt soaking into his coat while he recovers. Scottish ruffians.