ArchivedLogs:Not Easy

Not Easy
Dramatis Personae Elliott, Steve
In Absentia	2015-11-30 "{You...not how I expect.}" (Part of flutp.)
Location <NYC> Elliott's Apartment - East Harlem
This apartment is small, comfortable but far from luxurious. The small entryway hall opens into an L-shaped space, living room along one branch, kitchen down the other. There are a pair of couches around a large television and a glass coffeetable in the living room, a large desk between both couches, and the kitchen isn't particularly well-stocked; a decent selection of dishes but few of pans and pots suggests far more takeout than cooking. The bedroom sits just off of the living room, with queen-sized bed, dresser, nightstand, bookshelf. The bathroom is wide, equipped to accommodate a wheelchair. Everything in the apartment is very /tidy/, bed crisply made, floor swept neat, bathroom and kitchen gleaming; with things always put away in their Exact Place it can often look hardly lived-in at all. The shower has been running for a while, although not anywhere near as long as one might expect under the circumstances. Presently the door opens, and Steve emerges along with a swirl of fragrant steam. He's rubbing a towel over his head, damp hair a mess of blond spikes. His t-shirt is a bit too tight for him--purple, with faint ruled lines like school paper, across which is scrawled in white letters: 'Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty.' His blue jeans, at least, fit, and though clean they have a couple of hastily mended tears. He brings a black trash back out with him, its opening tied tightly shut. "{Thank you, Commander. This is better than give time for it...uh...}" His Spanish is coming more smoothly all the time, though his accent has not faded, nor his tendency to substitute Italian words for ones he does not yet know. Now, though, he /shows/ what he means by pinching his thumb and index fingers together and pulling them apart as though they were sticking to each other. "{Towel, where to put?}" The rest of the apartment smells like coffee, now, fresh and hot. Elliott, in clean black cargo pants, one leg zipped off to shorts; she's recently exchanged her bloody running blade for a regular foot-shaped walking... foot. Soft red flannel shirt over plain white undershirt, still slightly-damp hair hanging down around her shoulders is sitting on the couch with cellphone tucked between ear and shoulder. Her hand is kneading at her thigh, pressing into the muscle above the socket of her prosthesis. She holds up one finger -- give me a minute. After this she gestures to the open bathroom door, lifts a hand, mimes draping the towel over it. "{-- going to need at least three /times/ that much, Fraley. People are starving here. We're going to have hunger killing as many people as the biters if you don't -- no. No. Yes, I can be on that call at five. Thank you.}" Her thank you sounds more terse than thankful, tossing the phone aside with more force than necessary onto the couch and running fingers through her damp hair. Scrunching into it tightly, a sharp hiss of frustration through her teeth as her other hand leaves off where it has been kneading at her leg. "{I'm sorry, I forget. How do you take your coffee?}" She sounds a little frazzled that she has forgotten this. Steve nods and hangs the towel neatly over the bathroom door. He crosses the room to where his shield rests against the wall (tellingly, perhaps, already clean), and deposits the trash bag in a black duffle bag lying beside it. He wanders over to stare out the window at the city, as much of an illusion of privacy as he can afford his host's phone conversation under the circumstances. When he is sure she has hung up (it takes a few seconds of silence), he turns around. "{Black, please, and thank you again.}" He looks down at the phone lying on the couch where Elliott has thrown it. "{Sorry to...hear your phone...speaking,}" he struggles through the sentence, blushing perhaps as much for his poor Spanish as embarassment for eavesdropping. "{But...you are...work with the Army. To bring the food? I thought that you are the Navy.}" Elliott pushes herself stiffly up from the couch, a faint grimace tightening her expression as her weight shifts back to her feet. She heads over to the kitchen, getting two mugs from a cabinet to pour the coffee out of a pot. "{What? I am Navy. I'm working with the state. Trying to. If they'd be a little better at working with /me/. Think we can survive on the fucking starvation rations they've been shipping in -- pardon my French -- but God willing this meeting later will help take care of some of /that/. Get more supplies airdropped in here, let people get back to dealing with the dead and stop being at each /others'/ throats.}" Her lips press thin, head shaking in mild apology as she brings one of the mugs to Steve. Steve crosses to the kitchen to meet Elliott and accept his coffee. "{I hope meeting is good. City, needs that.}" He looks down at the coffee as though sorely tempted to drink it on the spot, but manages to control the impulse. Turns to look back out the window instead. "{The news say all the time, more things coming. But down on the street, people hungry, scared, angry.}" He grimaces, teeth grinding together for a moment, but shakes it off. "{You work with state, that is good. Can I help? More. Not just --}" He nods at his shield. Elliott shifts slightly to one side, sitting at one side of the deep window ledge beside where Steve is looking. One leg still resting on the ground, but her other hitched up off of it. She cups her hands around the coffee mug, lifting it near her face as her lips pull up into a wry smile. "{It does kind of come with the job description, yes. I'm sure some of my constituents would /love/ if we could secede, but I'm not sure I'd be the most responsible mayor if I encouraged that mindset.}" Her smile warms as she takes a small cautious sip of the coffee. She lowers it with a wince, still too hot. "{/That/ can be a help. Not /just/ --}" She looks towards the shield, too. "{But what that stands for. Seeing you out there? We're not just running short on food around here. We're running short on hope.}" "{Constituents,}" Steve echoes the word carefully. Then he turns to face Elliott, pale blue eyes going wide. "{/Mayor?/ Of the city? You.}" The interrogative tone diminishes with each word even as his face turns redder. "{I'm very sorry, I didn't --}" He looks down, almost like a small bow. "{You...not how I expect.}" Soberly, though still blushing, "{Hope...not easy to give. Not easy to keep.}" Elliott's brows lift, but a moment later the grin that spreads across her face is warm and genuine. "{You really didn't know?}" She sounds oddly pleased about this. "{Yes. Mayor. I just hope I can keep this city running through all this. Fed, safe...}" Her eyes dip out towards the window, narrowing on a pair of shambling figures in the street below. "{And still believing that we'll /have/ a tomorrow. Not easy. Not easy. But.}" Her brows furrow, until a faster-moving silhouette approaches to drop both shamblers in the street. "{We can.}"