charitable

who: mickey and december
where: the boardwalk
when: noonish

At this point Mickey was drenched. He’d been recruited to help down on the Boardwalk, setting things up against the flood, dropping sandbags around where they could, boarding up a few windows and carrying things away from the water line. All of it would have been a decent bit of work if he wasn’t having to do the whole thing in the rain. His hair was plastered to his face and dripping in his eyes as he tried to reinforce another spot, despite the fact that he had to keep pushing the wet locks off his forehead.

December was less than happy about the weather situation. In reality--she was less than happy with her entire life. She headed out of her shop--which there was a lot of water in, and splashed outside into the downpour. She looked left and right and saw some guy piling up sand bags against her building. "Nice day, huh?" she offered, voice raised over the noise.

When he glanced up he couldn’t see anything, having to take a moment to push his hair out of his face before her registered the girl in front of him. Looking up at the sky, he shrugged. “Could be warmer I think,” Mickey said with lazy grin, reaching to move another sandbag. It was harder than it should have been given that it was already soaked, but this sort of manual labor he excelled in doing.

December definitely noted that he seemed to be lugging those things around with relative ease. She also smirked at his comment. "Yeah, definitely could be warmer." she agreed. Even if it was unseasonably hot even with the torrential downpour in progress. "So, this shit really gonna keep my shop from getting fucked over?" she asked. “Or is this just bullshit to make people feel better, that won’t really do anything?”

The language had him looking back at her, curious expression on his features. He was used to it, having heard it at the garage, but not from someone like her who looked far less greasy than a wrench monkey. “It’ll help,” he said looking back at his handiwork. “It’s not perfect but it will help.” He reached for the next sandbag, setting up more of a wall. “Really your best bet is to move things up high or out if you can.”

"Yeah, because I've got anywhere else to put things..." December scoffed. "Nope. Thankfully my living area is upstairs, and most of my equipment downstairs is in cabinets and such. Just wondering. Guess I'll find out if I get swept away in the night." she said. "You work here? I don't think I've seen you around before." she said, stepping back out of the rain under the eave of her roof--not that it protected her perfectly. But she did make an effort to light up a cigarette, in the hopes it didn't get doused immediately.

Mickey situated the last of the sandbags and stepped back, ducking under the eave as well to try and shaken the worst of the rain that fell in his face. “No I don’t work here. I work down at the garage in the Sprawl. But I’m sort of the guy they call when something needs done.” Today it had been stacking sandbags. “Do you need help carrying things upstairs? Might not save everything but it’s a start.”

Arching a brow at him, December eyed him skeptically for a moment. "Seriously? You're...what. Volunteering?" she asked. "In this?" She made a gesture towards the weather, a crack of thunder seeming to rattle her bones as she did so. "Are you nuts or something?" She offered him a puff on her cigarette.

The thunder had him wincing but that was about it. Mickey was fine with this mess. “Someone had to help. Might as well be me. Anyone else wouldn’t have been able to tell you that it might help. they wouldn’t have done it right.”

Since he didn't take the offer, she took another drag of her own. "'Someone' usually equates to 'someone else'." she told him. "So you're just some genuine, good semaritan?" she asked. "Weird." Shrugging, she dropped her cigarette into the water at their feet. "Well if you want to bring things upstairs for me, I won't turn you down."

“Apparently. The church going type even,” Mickey said with a shrug of one shoulder. Which was apparently weird. Not that it surprised him. He was starting to get the feeling that people just weren’t good anymore anyway. “Lead the way then,” he said moving aside to let her pass, even if it meant stepping back into the rain.

December flinched slightly at the mention of church. She didn't comment on it, though. She didn't do churches. She didn't go anywhere near them. She instead turned to head back inside her shop, where she had one thing she definitely needed to be moved. Cerberus, her metal dragon Eric had made for her. She didn't want him to rust. "He's got to go upstairs first." she said, pointing to it. "Careful--he's got sharp edges."

“He? Oh.” Mickey hadn’t been looking up right away, too focused on trying not to walk with a painfully obvious limp and it wasn’t until he was standing in front of the giant thing that he realized what she was referring to as ‘he’. Though ‘he’ was rather fitting. “Wow.” It was an impressive sculpture and though Mickey wasn’t big on art, he was good with how things were built and that had him pacing the thing, inspecting it for both how to lift it and what it was made out of.

Smiling, though there was a sad undercurrent to it, she nodded. "Nice, isn't he?" she asked rhetorically. "Someone made him for me. He's got a brazier in his mouth, he looks even more impressive when that's all lit up. I just don't want him to rust, though. So he needs to head upstairs for a little while."

“Stunning really,” Mickey said, obviously impressed. It was a little haunting, not something he’d want in his place, but the construction was flawless. That much caught his eye. “Upstairs he goes then.” It took a moment to find the right hold but eventually Mickey got it, lifting it up enough to start it up the stairs.

December opened the door that led to the stairs up to her apartment, and headed up ahead of him so she could get some more candles lit. The power was definitely down right now, and it was dark enough outside that the stairwell was pretty dark itself. Setting a candle at the top of the stairs so he could see better, she cleared out of the way so he could put her baby down when he got there.

It wasn’t an easy move considering the statue was huge and the stairwell was darker than he would have liked, but Mickey managed, setting the dragon not too far from the top of the stairs and slowing to catch his breath. He might have reconsidered offering to help if moving an almost life sized dragon had been on the list.

"Thank you." December said, pausing to actually light up some of the coals in the brazier. It would help light the place, and it might have been hot out, but being soaked to the bone wasn't something that kept one warm. "It's appreciated. I'm fairly positive that I wouldn't have been able to carry him." She was a small thing. And while she wasn't a weakling, she did have her limits.

Mickey looked at her then the statue then back to her again. “I’m certain you wouldn’t. Not doubting your strength, but it’s taller than you. The leverage would have been off for stairs. Across the room though, that would be a different story.” He offered her a teasing smile then started down the stairs again. “What’s next?”

She laughed a little, smirking. "Whatever, smart ass." she said, though it wasn't harshly. Then she bounded back down the steps and started throwing a few things in boxes, handing them to him as she took another. "My inks are in glass bottles, so they'll be fine." she said. "You got any tattoos?" she asked, thinking if she had to guess, she'd guess not.

Mickey was fairly certain no girl had ever called him a smart ass....even though instead of being insulted he just grinned at her. Taking the box he frowned at the question, finding it odd before looking up and fully realizing what she did here. Then it seemed like a completely logical question. “One,” he explained, shifting the box to one arm and tugging at his soaked sleeve, enough to show off the rose on his forearm.

Surprised, she inspected the work. She took longer with it than someone who wasn't a tattoo artist would have, really eyeing the detail and lines in it. "Looks good." she told him. "Wouldn't have pegged you for a tattoo guy. What's the story with it?" she asked, heading back up the steps, bringing her box with her.

In a way, Mickey appreciated the attention to the detail of the tattoo. He was fond of it, liking the detail in it, but not many people saw more than just the flower. “Am I not the tattoo type?” he asked as he followed her, pace steady but back to the lumbering limp. “I had a sister, Rose. It’s for her.” Rose wasn’t someone he spoke of much, but few people actually asked the meaning behind it. Since she asked, she actually got an answer.

"You're a guy helping out a total stranger in the middle of a flood and not getting paid for it. And you're mr. churchgoer. Those two things don't usually go with tattoos." December noted. Then she nodded slightly, watching him. "How did she die?" she asked. He'd said he'd 'had' a sister. Not too many meanings could go along with that statement.

“So only deviants get tattoos. Not the military men who risk their lives all the time or police officers or firemen?” Mickey asked, skepticism in his tone. He wasn’t one to judge a book by it’s cover or in this case, initial actions of good. “Flu. I was a kid.”

"Most people think so." December said. It was true. Tattoos were for soldiers, sailors, and deviants, for the most part. Your average people didn't have them. "And soldiers, yes. Sailors too. Police officers, not so much, firemen, not really. At least, if they're getting them they aren't getting them from me, and I'd notice. I deal with a lot of cops. People look at me like I'm nuts for having tattoos. And piercings." She didn't have all of them in today, so they weren't as obvious, but still. "It isn't exactly main stream." Maybe one day, but she didn't think she'd live to see it. "Nice to get ink to remember her by, though. I approve."

“Do you think it’s true? That it’s that limited?” He wouldn’t have expected that from someone, but perhaps, since she was peddling the craft, she only saw that in the way of clients. “People look at me like I’m nuts for helping out in situations like these for free. Doesn’t matter who you are, someone’s going to wind up looking at you like you’re nuts.” He smirked a little, showing her no ill will in his comment. “Glad you approve. I thought it was fitting.”

"You said you work in the Sprawl? You probably see more tattoos than is sort of indicative of how many people actually have them. People get tattoos in prison. It's not like your average house wife or banker or some shit has tats. It just isn't done. People think it's marring God's work or something equally as stupid. But it definitely isn't common." she told him. "And I actually go for people looking at me like I'm nuts. Keeps most people from coming anywhere near me." Which was true. She went to the hall and pulled a towel out of the closet there, throwing it in his direction.

Mickey caught the towel with ease, running it over his face and hair. “You’re right, I’ve seen the worst of the worst with them. Though the prison tattoos aren’t done in a place like this,” he explained. “Plus I was mostly wondering what you thought more than anything else. I highly doubt it’s going to become a regular thing and I’m sure if my mother knew about mine she’d try to take it off with a carving knife.” Thankfully the woman was dead. “You work putting ink on people’s skin yet don't’ want them near you?”

December eyed him again, arching a brow. "...do you think I'm an idiot? Prison tats are done in prison. Of course they aren't done in a place like this." she said, wondering just how dumb he thought she might be. "And if you're wondering what someone thinks? Ask. Giving the run around and trying to come at it from weird angles just makes you seem kinda shady. Like you're trying to manipulate or something." she pointed out, getting a towel for herself as she ran it over her hair. She didn't sound offended by anything, more just stating her mind. "And I mark people, give them scars of their own choosing, so to speak. That's different than being near someone. And it's a different setting. They aren't here to talk to me and get to know me, they're here for a specific purpose. It's different than your average conversation." she explained. There was a level of separation to it. Unless it was the one she'd given Eric. But she was still trying to avoid thinking about him and what she was thinking about him.

He couldn’t help but chuckle a little at the idea of being manipulative. He’d never been manipulative in his life. “I apologize,” he said after a moment, even if she didn’t sound offended. “I’m not a fan of being judged by how I Iook, or rather how I walk. That’s where we differ I suppose.” Mickey didn’t tone it like her way was wrong just different. “Isn’t that more intimate though, knowing what scars people choose? Adding them to their bodies?”

"In a way. But if that's the only thing you have on someone, you only have one piece of the puzzle. Some people will jabber on about their design and why they're getting it. Others don't say a word then just pay and leave." December said, shrugging. "It's like reading a single page of a diary, but not getting any more than that. It's one small shard, with no context." She set her towel down on the table. "I noticed the limp. What's that about?" she asked.

He nodded understanding that. He hadn’t shared anything with his artist at the time either. “It’s a rather potent shard though don’t you think?” Mickey asked. When she questioned his leg he looked away for a half a second. “Birth defect. Just a little off.”

"Depends. Some people just pick a design off the wall, after all." she pointed out. Every tattoo artist had to have ready designs they could just do, without anyone having to bring in their own design. Most people didn't have a design of their own, period. "The people who bring me something, that's a potent shard--but like I said. No context. Like I could show you my biggest tattoo." she said, and she did, turning around to show him her back. She was wearing a dress that was cut low back there to show them. So, there were the black feathered wings, and the top of her corset piercings visible. "But what does that really tell you?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder at him. Being he looked twitchy about the limp thing, she let that subject drop, and kept on the one he seemed more interested in discussing.

Mickey considered that then shrugged. “I still think it’s a window, something shared with another person, even if it’s just a picture off the wall, something drug them to pick that one.” When she turned to show him her back he leaned forward, studying the markings and taking in the piercings as well. “Little I suppose. It’s lovely though.” It seemed to fit her even if he had no origin to it.

'Lovely'. That was a word she hadn't heard in regards to that before. "Thank you." she said. "I designed it." She couldn't do the ink but she did the design. "But see what I mean? It's all just a snapshot without context."

“You’re welcome. You did a great job,” Mickey said, compliment genuine. “I suppose. What would you have thought of someone like me with a rose without the context?”

"Could be anything. A last name, a woman, maybe you just like flowers..." December said, shrugging. "I don't usually try to guess." She heard the thunder roll again, and for a second, it looked as bright as daytime outside the window with an impressive lightning display. "So other than apparently being a guy who runs around doing good deeds, what are you about?" she asked. “Like, if you had to boil yourself down to the most important element, what would it be?”

He chuckled again but more at the reference to the woman. That wasn’t like him even if he did seem to have a few in his life right now. “Alright, fair point.” The flash distracted him, watching the sky with a concerned look on his features. It wasn’t getting better. He hoped no one he knew was stuck in the middle of it. Her question brought him out of the thought, glancing back towards her. “One element?” That wasn’t easy and he made a point of thinking about it. “Fixing things. I’m good with my hands.”

"Interesting." she said. "Does that extend to people, too? Are you that guy who tries to make everything better for everyone else?" she asked. Because that was relevant. She'd known enough people like that in her day, even if she wasn't the type. She always saw them as individuals who tended to put their own needs aside, even if they probably shouldn't. Like there wasn't much of a happy medium.

Mickey rubbed at the back of his neck, the hair there curling from the rain more than usual. “I suppose sometimes yes. I like to help.” He tended to help others before himself, not on purpose, but that was how it usually played out.

"That what gets you off, at the end of the day? You like to fix things? How often does it work out for you?" she asked curiously. "In my experience, things don't usually end well for your type...just for your information. Food for thought, as it were."

“Gets me off? I wouldn’t describe it like that,” Mickey said making a face. “As for working out for me, I’m not sure what you mean. Are you asking how well I sleep? I think I sleep just fine.” But if she was asking for the fact that he might be missing aspect of life, maybe she was right, but he wanted her to be specific.

"Why would I be asking you how you sleep? That's the kind of thing you ask criminals." December said, shaking her head. "I mean, in the end, the guy who tries to fix everything winds up with a life full of the broken." she explained. "That and generally people look to fix shit around them on a grander scale when they can't fix something closer to home. It's deflecting, in a higher sense."

“So I’m deflecting now,” he said giving her a little look. “I don’t think my life is full of broken, but maybe I’m looking at it the wrong way.” He shrugged slightly, watching the flash of lightning outside again, thunder coming just after it. “I don’t think there’s much to fix close to home. I could be wrong, but I can’t see what it would be. I just like to help.”

"You're a grown man who's spending his day lugging sandbags for an establishment that's pretty shady, all things told, when you should probably be inside somewhere curled up with some little lady, making kissy face." December pointed out. "So, yep. I'd say you're deflecting. Or something, anyways." she said, shrugging. "But what do I know." She smiled at that, a knowing sort of look either way.

“Not exactly the type of guy with a girl at home,” he said looking at the floor. “Not many women find this is what they want.” No matter how hard he tried. “Maybe I am. Maybe you do know more than you think.” He moved away from her, looking at the art on the walls.

"Not many women find...what not what they want?" she asked, wanting clarity. "You talking about the limp? Or you in general?" It could have been either, so she asked. She also didn't stop him from looking at what she had up on the walls. She had a lot of dark artwork, that she'd either bought or done herself. Some of them she'd definitely bought off of the homeless, where their particular pinch of madness was apparent on the medium.

“The limp, the whole package. Been single for a long time,” he said looking at the artwork and not looking at her. He liked the dark artwork, despite the tone of it. It echoed with the lonely part of him, the part he didn’t tap into often and didn’t acknowledge was there.

"You got confirmation on that, or you just making assumptions for, say, everyone?" she asked, arching a brow at his back. She went to sit on the windowsill, framed by the storm outside. "Because I can prove you wrong, you know." she added nonchalantly.

“Making assumptions based on experience more than anything else. Haven’t found the right girl yet.” There was potential he guessed with Eily, but at the same time he wasn’t trying to get his hopes up about that girl. She was far out of his league. They were going with the flow. At her comment he looked over his shoulder. “Prove me wrong?”

"I'd guess you we're right about the haven't found the right girl thing. But the problem isn't that, it's that you assume people don't want you. That the limp is going to be some awful thing someone needs to overlook. Anything you're carrying with you and you put on someone else is an automatic dead end. Don't face life expecting the same shit from everyone. People see what they expect to see. You'll see what you assume is there, even if it might not be." Then she shrugged. "I spent a lot of years traveling with a carnival. That carnival also had a side show that went with it--a freak show. I was actually part of it for a while...the impaled woman." she explained. "Guess how many freaks were married or had sweethearts? More than you'd think. In the one I traveled in, the majority of them had significant others. And we're talking people with massive physical deformities, or issues. I knew a set of siamese twins that both had a guy. One was married. If they can find themselves a true love with a whole other person attached to their ass? You really shouldn't have a problem. Not unless you make it a problem."

There was more to it than just thinking that he wasn’t good enough, than knowing that the limp was a deal breaker for a lot. If it was a war injury, something that had happened in factory or some other tragic accident, it might be overlooked, but he’d been this way since birth. Birth defects meant bad genes. There was also the fact that Mickey wasn’t close to people, he didn’t let them in like he should. That couldn’t help any with his search for someone else. He gave her a smile, even if it didn’t quite go all the way to his eyes. “Maybe I just haven’t come to terms with it like the ones you knew.”

"Then you're never going to find anyone." December told him, watching his eyes. "You have to be okay with you, comfortable in your own skin, before anyone else can look past them. You'll see judgment everywhere because that's what you expect to see. You, Mr. Fix It, are broken. Told you you were deflecting." she said, pushing herself to her feet. She stretched, drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "Good luck with that. Though got to say--if people with lobster claw hands, or no limbs can get over it, you might want to suck it the fuck up sooner rather than later. You’re cute. But you won’t be forever. Might wanna hop on the acceptance train before you miss your chance."

Mickey gave her a better smile this time, something more genuine, and ducked his eyes as she stretched even if she was the slightest bit distracting in that manner. He guessed though, that she knew that. “Broken,” he said with a nod, surprised to hear it, but maybe she was right. Maybe he was. There was a lot in his past he let define him, a lot of rejection he’d taken as part of the world. “At least I’m cute, that’s as start I suppose.”

"It's a start." she agreed. "Out of curiosity, what is with the limp? What are the technicals?" she asked, motioning to his leg as she fished out a new cigarette to light up. She opened up her window, even if it let the rain in. There was an eave on the roof so it didn't come in too terribly.

He went back to the art, admiring one piece in particular for a moment. Maybe he needed something else, something else to shake up the ‘not the tattoo type’ persona. “One leg’s shorter than the other,” he explained, glancing over at her. “Why impaled?”

"All the piercings." December said. "I have more you can't really see, and I do more periodically. For shows I'd really get things rolling. Took hours, but I liked it." she explained. "How much shorter?" she asked. "Can't be by much." Or the limp would be more pronounced.

He nodded as the explanation, seeing how that made sense. It was an odd hobby, not one he could comment on, but very odd, having that much metal shoved into her. “You liked it?” he ventured, wondering why that was. Didn’t seem like something anyone would like. “Couple inches. Just enough to be an issue.”

"That's what I said. you heard me right." December said, knowing he was asking her to expand on that, but she wanted him to actually ask, not imply. That and she moved ahead, considering things. "Buy a second pair of boots." she said. "Ones with thick soles. Cut the sole off of the off side, fix it to the bottom of your normal boot. Double it up on the short side." she said, eyeing his feet critically. "Should make up most of the distance if not all, then you don't have a limp anymore." She'd spent a lot of time with people who did similar things to compensate for their physical disabilities.

When she didn’t elaborate he took the bait. “Why is that exactly?” he asked, turning to face her fully, leaning back against the wall. Her suggestion had him looking at his own boots, worn in from work and wear. “Might work. Hadn’t tried it before.” He wasn’t entirely sold, feeling like his knees hit at the wrong places to really make the limp go away. “Trying to fix me?”

"Just making a suggestion." December said. "Consider it the byproduct of me feeling charitable at the moment." she added. Then she shrugged. "Some people like puppies, some people like silver and gold...I like pain. Simple as that, really."

Mickey made a face. “What else does ‘charitable’ entail?” he asked. The look didn’t fade at her answer to his question. “I hardly think liking pain is simple.” It didn’t sound simple.

"it entails me giving you free advice from someone who has absolutely no motivation to blow smoke up your ass." December said. "Take it or leave it. And yeah, it is. It's not for everyone, obviously, but you apparently like fixing things, and me? Not so much into it. I like things just as broken as they are inevitably going to be in the end. It's like anything else. Just there's a whole lot fewer people in the world who like pain, that's all. But probably more than you'd actually think."

It still didn’t sound simple and that showed on Mickey’s features, but he didn’t comment. “Just as broken as they are inevitably going to be in the end,” he echoed. “Are you suggesting that we’re all broken and you like us better that way? Or am I missing the point?”

"By the time I deal with most people, they're very definitely broken." December said, somewhat cryptically. "But I like that in a person. Maybe I just like damage, seeing the raw, bleeding edges of humanity. Because everyone's got a sob story. But so many people can't even actually see what the real problems are. They blame this or that, any little thing or everyone around them but they don't look at what might be really wrong. But when I see people..." she shook her head. "Damage."

“Broken,” Mickey echoed her again, eying the artwork around him for clients to have inked on their skin. “I didn’t realize all of us in search of marring our skin were broken at the time.” He had been, bearing the memory of a dead sister, dead parents and lost siblings. “Do you see that with me as well? You seemed keen on finding what part of me was broken. Was that as much for you as it was for me?”

December smiled at him, a dark sort of expression. "Who says I was talking about tattooing people?" she posed. "This is just my side job." she told him. "Something I do because I like it, and it paid for the education I needed for the bigger picture." She stubbed out her cigarette, and went to stand near the open window. "And yeah, of course I see you're broken. I've been saying as much for at least the last fifteen minutes. As for who it was for...it's just something I do."

“If not that then what?” Mickey asked not sure what else she could mean. “And I was more wondering if it was something you liked in me as well, the broken parts.” He found himself moving, drifting to see her better in the frame of the window, wanting to watch her face. “An odd thing to do. Possibly odder than stacking sandbags for strangers.”

"Maybe." She answered about what she might like in him. But she didn't confirm it further than that. "And I'm the city's graveyard shift coroner." she told him. "So by the time I see people..." she trailed off, letting him fill in that blank. "Broken." And dead.

Maybe. Mickey had no idea why that was interesting sounding to him, but for some reason it struck a chord. “Coroner...like...dead?” he asked, not quite sure he had the right term there.

"As in dead." she confirmed. "As in I perform autopsies, and occasionally help out the cops. I studied in criminalistics, which you probably haven't heard of because it's pretty new. But I piece together what happened to someone from the shape their corpse is in." she explained. And there were still a lot of people who thought it was bullshit, but she didn't.

“I..” Mickey trailed off with a frown. “Oh.” He wasn’t going to call her on bullshit of science or anything for that matter. He didn’t know a damn thing about that sort of line of work, nor would he ever claim to. “What...what got you interested in that?” Maybe it was a family business like the funeral folks. They seemed to just inherit that job, which to Mickey, seemed like the only explanation as to why someone would chose it.

"Seemed the thing to do." December said. "The dead need someone around to figure out what the fuck went down. In this city there's no shortage of murders. I guess it's just something I was interested in. So I put myself through school, and here I am." she shrugged. "Call me morbid, I guess."

“I wouldn’t say morbid, not when you describe it like you did.” Being interested in the dead was one thing, but December talked about it like she was speaking for them, finding justice. That was hardly morbid. “Sounds more...valiant I think. More than morbid at least.” Mickey gave her a small smile, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes.

She quirked a half smile of her own, though it didn't last long. "I'm pretty sure that's the first and last time anyone will ever apply the word 'valiant' to me." she told him. "I just do it for them. The departed. Someone has to."

“Valiant still applies,” Mickey pointed out. Especially when she said it like that. It gave her a different dimension, one that he liked enough to give her a smile. “Glad I could be the first. I shouldn’t be, but glad to be.”

"If you say so." December said shaking her head slightly. "So, what now? You going to go back out into the storm and do more good deeds?" she asked. Seemed insane to her, but he'd been out there in the first place, so she could see it.

Mickey looked out the window, watching the rain. “Well I think at the very least I go back out there and get home. Which means fixing leaks at the building I live in and trying to fix the power, which is more than likely out.” He shrugged. It was just what he did.

"You need to get a life." December told him, laughing just slightly. "Do something fun, or...I have no idea. Irresponsible. You seem like the kind of guy who needs to have someone else shove him into some fun or something. It's the storm of the century. You can fix shit tomorrow. It'll still be broken."

“I have fun!” Mickey said, laughing a little. “I just like to help too. How is that a bad thing?” Not that he wasn’t starting to wonder what would happen if he asked her to shove him into fun. He’d probably wind up with a new tattoo.

"Technically, right now it's a waste of damn time. If you fix something before the source problem is done, it's just going to keep breaking." December told him, playing devil's advocate. "If you wait til it's finished, it's more likely to stay fixed. So you might as well just let this one lie, and do something else. You have a free day to do whatever, in the pouring rain, with the city totally swept away with the flood."

Mickey looked out the window again. “Alright, well then, suggestions for what I should be doing that isn’t sitting in my apartment watching the rain.” And the possible pot catching water if his apartment was leaking, which it shouldn’t but living in the Sprawl meant anything could happen.

"Drinking. Getting really, really shit faced. That's a start. And it has to be on whiskey that could double as lighter fluid. After that? see where that takes you. Or maybe just devote an entire day and night to going with whims entirely. Not letting any 'better judgment' get in the way." December suggested.

He laughed making a face. “If I get shit faced, to borrow your term, I’m going to wind up in a bar fight. That seems to be how it plays out.” Not that he didn’t usually come out of those on top, but it still left him in a mess the day after. “A day and night to whims...” That was a little ridiculous, but it did sounds like fun, even if he wasn’t good at that sort of thing.

"So get in a bar fight." December said with a shrug. "Get some war wounds. There are worse things than getting into a fight. Hell, sometimes they're fun." she told him sagely. "But the drinking excessively is a must, especially for a type like you. It'll make the whole whim thing a lot easier. Lower your inhibitions then stomp all over them."

“I do drink like that sometimes.” It wasn’t often, but sometimes. “So I should get drunk,” he said nodding. “Maybe you should come too. Get you out of this place as the water threatens to rise. Plus means you won’t float away.” Two could play that game and it was easier to think about going out to get drunk if he wasn’t alone in it.

December thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "Sure." she decided. "Why not." Her life kind of sucked of late, so why not just go for a night of being uninhibited with a stranger? There wasn't anything really stopping her. Thoughts of Eric brought her back to wondering if she was dating a mass murderer. So--drinking. Good times.

When she said yes, Mickey realized he hadn’t actually been expecting her to agree. It was good that she did, alleviating the concerns of drinking alone, but there was still a moment of surprise on his features before he broke out into a smile. “Why not,” he agreed starting back towards the stairs, leading the way back down and into the storm.

She followed, not sure what the day was going to have in store here, but it would be interesting, at any rate. Or it should be. If nothing else it would be nicely distracting, and that was exactly what she required. "Where are we going first?" she asked. "And who's bankrolling this adventure?"

“There’s a couple of cheap places on the shadier side of town,” Mickey said. “And at least two of them owe me since I fixed the plumbing and the lighting at them just this month,” he added with a grin. Sometimes his good deeds paid off. The bar hadn’t given him cash, but it was understood his first few drinks were on the house. “After that I suppose I can pick up the tab.” He had some money, not a ton, but some.

"Alright, lead the way, to shadier pastures." December said, laughing a little. This was going to be weird. Hopefully a good weird, though. Just so long as it kept distracting her attention, she'd be okay though.