2007-08-04: Makes Perfect


Desmond_icon.gif Candy_icon.gif

Summary: We reject your reality and substitute it for our own. There's more dancing, for a start.

Dark Future Date: August 4th, 2009

Makes Perfect


It's been said before, but it's worth mentioning again: there's really nothing much to do down here in Candywasteland's subbasement. The options are: eat, sleep, work out, clean guns, do inventory, or read. Desmond has done all of these things and is making his way through the list again. He's down to 'work out'. Thus, dressed in a tanktop that has seen much better days, and jeans that look like they've been through a shredder, the man is currently down on the floor in front of the Gotham street set working his way through push-ups. So far, he's done 93.

Let it never be said that Candy would ever let a war stop her from being fashionable. Today is a little casual, in jeans and a T-shirt with some sort of sparkly, indecipherable word. It probably says 'Babe' or 'Bitch' or something suitable for a girl half her age. But no, that's not the fashion we're talking about. She has a small stack of clothes in her hands, masculine fabrics, and she holds these almost like a waitress with a tray as she walks towards the Gotham set, a water bottle in her other hand. She pauses, outside of his periphery, simply watching Desmond go for a little while, before she tucks the bottle under her arm in order to let loose an exaggerated but nevertheless appreciative wolf whistle.

96, 97, 98 …

Oh, hello there. Being half-deaf, Desmond is unable to detect Candy's approach until she lets out that whistle. He pauses in his workout to glance over his shoulder at her, smirks, then finishes off the last two push-ups before he rolls onto his back and then rises to his feet. Once standing, he flexes both arms and waggles his eyebrows. Why yes, yes indeed he's sexy, he knows. Then, he indicates the fabrics with a wave of one arm and a curious jerk of his chin. What are those?

Candy was never good at charades. Ever. Jaden— Prime would tell you that, should he ever recall it. But somehow, communication hasn't been the struggle it could have been, with the help of a few dry erase boards along the way. She casts him a big grin when he flexes, continuing her strut on over. She holds up the water bottle, shaking it once, before tossing it towards him. "Presents!" she answers in response to his nod. "I totally scored. Who knew stolen goods would make for awesome shopping?" She takes off the top item, unfolding it to reveal that it's a dark blue mens' shirt, offering it out.

Dressing nice hasn't been a major priority for Desmond since he got out of the detainment camp. It's not like he goes out much anymore, so his image isn't a focus (except when he does go out, in which case he's still rather conscientious). He catches the water bottle and twists it open to take a healthy guzzle from it, which is halted mid-way by the offering of a shirt. The former actor seems rather surprised — pleasantly! — by this and reaches out to take the piece of clothing and rub the fabric between thumb and forefinger, testing the quality.

It used to be the case that Candy's vanity was rivalled by very few but Desmond. It's a little sad that she's lost a competitor, relatively speaking, but that doesn't stop her from trying. Candy smiles a little brighter, letting him take the shirt. "There wasn't too much to choose from," she says, slinging what appears to be a short silk dress over her shoulder - that's a different kind of present - so that she can unfold the last item, a dark pair of mens' jeans, which she holds to herself so he can see. "But it was this woman and she and her friends had looted some nice clothes store and were selling it in an alleyway. I guess I have an instinct for finding these people, huh? I'm not sure if these'll fit, maybe Jaden will want 'em if not."

Similarly, Desmond holds the shirt up against himself to see if it will fit. Maybe a little tight, but that only accentuates his fine figure, right? Right. Then he watches the jeans being 'modeled' and— oh hey, is that a little dress? No, he saw that. He perks up considerably, eyebrows jumping up his forehead and a grin pulling at his lips. He points at the dress with an expression that might plainly read, "Want." Not for himself, mind.

Candy raises an eyebrow, and glances towards where she's draped the fabric over herself. "Oh this little thing?" she says coyly, before tossing the jeans towards Desmond. "Can't slip anything by you, can I?" As if all the other things she bought herself aren't stashed away somewhere now. She now holds the dress to herself, cocking a hip to one side as if she were already wearing it. Lowcut in the back and lowcut in the front, it's a shimmery dark green for someone… going to cocktail party on the arm of the real guest, perhaps, but either way, it's right up Candy's alley - if a little darker. But everything these days is a little dark! "I miss having places to go for dresses like these," she says, wistfully.

The jeans are caught easily and Desmond simply holds them for a minute, admiring the not-worn dress quite appreciatively. His approval is not-voiced with a low whistle and an approving nod, which turns into an agreeable, sympathetic nod at that last statement. He really misses tuxedos and cocktails too. If it were a perfect world, he'd wake up tomorrow and everything would be set to rights again for his birthday, but hey, he won't hold his breath. After a moment's consideration, he opens his mouth to speak. What comes out is the usual raspy, breathy, soundless noise he makes when he attempts to actually use his broken throat: "Are you sa— ?" He pauses and clears his throat roughly and painfully, grimaces in frustration, then goes in search of his whiteboard. It's lying not too far away from where he was working out — right next to his shotgun — and he proceeds to write out a message: "Are you saying my clothes are ugly?" The expression he makes when displaying the message is teasing. He knows they're ugly.

Candy bites her bottom lip when he first speaks, grip on her dress twitching a little. It just sounds so painful to her, but the alternative is to tell him not to try, and she's not about to put herself in that position. When she reads the message, though, that look of concern melts into abashed amusement, one hand raising to cover her mouth to muffle the giggle. She raises her eyebrows, and tries a shake of the head. No? Not at all? Honest?

Uh-huh. Somehow, Desmond is not totally convinced. He drops his chin and regards Candy through a raised eyebrow in a Totally Convinced Absolutely I Believe You fashion before he wipes the board and writes in big bold black blocky letters, "LIAR." The board is thrust out toward Candy and he points at the word for emphasis, then, grinning, he wipes it off again and adds, "We should have a cocktail party."

Candy sighs theatrically and raises her hands in a 'you caught me!' sort of way. Sometimes, after a while in Desmond's presence, she can't help slip into bouts of charades-ing, even if she's not the one who needs to. It's either that, or talk enough for the both of them. She replaces the dress back against herself, smoothing the silk out as Desmond writes his next message, and upon reading it, her brow furrows. "We— " Then, her eyes light up. "Yes we should." Because if there is anyone more capable than Jaden at reinventing the world around them, it's his mother. "Can there be dancing too? Or is it going to be one of those super formal ones where people stand around and talk about politics?"

"Pffft!" 'says' Desmond before he scribbles out his new message: "There has to be dancing." Mainly because, well, he can't talk about politics, and really the only politics people would talk about these days are, "SO, how 'bout that bastard Petrelli?" And that gets exorbitantly boring after about a year. Besides, Desmond misses dancing. He misses a whole lot of things. A moment's consideration before he crosses out the previous message and adds beneath it, "You can wear your dress."

For real it does. Candy hates the President too, like any good American, but she'd prefer to open a conversation with, "So, Brangelina, huh?" for once. Odd how that kind of conversation is seriously lacking these days. But dancing, dancing can still exist. That last addition makes her smile, and she swishes the skirt a little absently, longingly. "Of course!" she says. "And I have the perfect shoes. Maybe Jaden'll make us some wait staff too." That last part is said without thinking, because god knows he could use less Dittos, and she quickly shakes her head. "Or not." She points. New subject. "What will you wear?"

… well, that's the question of the year. Desmond doesn't exactly own any formal things, and certainly not anything that would go with Candy's dress. His face contorts into a puzzled and thoughtful frown and he scratches at his cheek with the lidded end of the marker before he shrugs hopelessly. Dunno. Wipewipe goes the board. "I'll find something," says the next message.

Unfair. Two years ago, either of them could have virtually snapped their fingers and gotten their heart desires. Candy, almost literally so. Now look at them. Candy hugs the dress to herself as she regards Desmond, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then, she shakes her head. "You set up the liquor, I'll find you something to wear," she says, and that is her Determined voice. She might have to prod a few Saints into doing her bidding, or she might be able to do it on her own - who knows! This is important, in Candy's world. She slings the dress back over her shoulder, and approaches Desmond, closing her hands over the dry erase board with the intent to take it. "But there's something we need to do first."

Liquor! He can get liquor. He has connections that make the acquiring of liquor quite easy. It's why he keeps a stash: because he can maintain one without much trouble. Desmond grins again, then purses his lips and nods in a 'fair enough' gesture. Then he starts to write something else — but his board is taken away.

… oh well, it wasn't important anyway! Instead, his newly freed-up hands go out to settle on either side of Candy's waist and draw her in, his expression turning into a coy and inquisitive smirk. Oh really? And what might that be?

The dry erase board is set aside, Candy's hands planting themselves on his shoulders as she meets that smirk with her own flirty smile. On her tiptoes, she places a shallow kiss on his lips… before taking one of his hands into her own, forcing it off her waist and lacing her fingers with his. "Practice," she answers simply, then trills out a giggle, tugging at him into a dance step.

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