ArchivedLogs:Wingman

Wingman
Dramatis Personae Sam, Steve
In Absentia	2017-08-28 "Was in a bad way. And now?"
Location <NYC> Firehaus - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The sunset ombre walls are the most striking feature of the room by far. A deep, dark purple - almost blue - starts at the ceiling and devolves in even, shaded spreads into a healthy violet, a spunky pink, a sunny yellow, a warm orange, and finally to the namesake: a firehouse red. The common room is fairly open, with the kitchen off to the right of the entryway. A long custom bar with both chairs and backless stools separates the kitchen from the living room, the doors to Steve and Savannah's rooms set on either side just beyond it. An antique maple-wood coffee table sits squarely in the center of the room, beside a purple corduroy futon couch flanked by matched end tables, one in pale wood and the other dark, each decorated with abstract flame-like mosaic patterns. Two tall bookcases line the wall across from the couch and coffee table, occupying the space that would enshrine a television in many houses. By the window are two plush red chairs, one a recliner and the other rigid but convertible to a backless chair, with a matching ottoman. Plenty of lamps are sprinkled throughout on various surfaces. "You call that fine, huh?" Sam's eyebrows are hiked way up. Dressed down -- light grey-blue chambray shirt, jeans -- he's lingering on the doorstep, not actually coming in just yet. Takeout bag smelling heavy of Chinese food slung over his wrist, phone in one hand. Dark eyes fixing looong and scrutinizing on Steve -- about neck level, before lifting higher. "I took the day off." Steve sounds just a touch defensive. "Gracias, though. You didn't have to do this -- I would have ordered food myself..." He has one hand braced against the wall of his entryway, pale and droopy but trying to look casual. Aside from the white gauze covering most of his neck and drawing Sam's attention, he's wearing a white t-shirt with a crowd of adorable cartoon dogs (plus a few cats and other pets) posing beneath a red banner that reads 'A New Leash on Life!' and loose black sweatpants. Zenobia is sitting at attention beside him, tail wagging eagerly and muzzle straining toward Sam, silently solicitous. Steve suddenly seems to remember himself. "Come on in, por favor." "I sure didn't /have/ to do much of anything. But I do love a good ma po tofu. And Zenobia looks overdue for some petting." See? Sam's easing on past Steve, casual, slipping his shoes off by the door and reaching a hand down to rub behind the huge mutt's ear. "And I got no doubt you could've ordered food. But all on your own? How exactly were you planning to share it? Conversate over it?" The warmth of his smile as he hefts the bag indicatively doesn't quite dispel the concern in the flick of his eyes again to the bandaging. Steve smiles weakly. "I'm sure Zenobia would have helped herself to the food, but it's true she's not much of a conversationalist." He shuffles into the kitchenette. "Can I get you something to drink?" He asks, opening the cabinet to take out bowls. "I have orange juice, ginger ale, beers, hard cider, ah...cashew milk. Do you use chopsticks?" Looking down into the utensil drawer. "Oh, I can also brew up some tea or coffee. And I have a grab bag of decent liquor, mostly whiskey and vodka." "I'm good with some water, man." Sam starts setting out containers on the kitchen counter. "And chopsticks." He leans against the edge of the counter, forearms braced on it and fingers lacing. "You didn't leave yesterday with that, nah?" A nod toward the bandaging. "I know things've been getting hairy out there, but that --" His brows crease faintly as he watches Steve shuffle about the kitchen. "I mean, man, Lord knows I wouldn't fault you if you been out /looking/ for some Nazis to punch, but if they've been getting the better of /you/ you might could use some backup." Steve hands Sam two pairs of chopsticks along with the bowls, then picks up a glass to fill it from a pitcher by the sink. "Ice? And no, this isn't from the Nazis." He gives a dry, mirthless chuckle. Touches the edge of the bandaging gingerly. "All they gave me were a few nicks. This was..." He hesitates. Pours a second glass of water. "A friend needed blood. I offered. They took. Just -- a bit rougher than usual." Sam straightens, starting to open up the containers and scoop rice out into the bowls. He stops short of adding eggplant and tofu into the first one, though. Looking up with a small twist of lips, chopsticks tapping briefly against the side of one plastic carton -- this time the bandaging gets a longer look. "A friend --" His tongue runs up over his teeth, almost unconsciously. It's a slow moment before he gets started dishing food out again. "Leave /you/ in a state, that's," he says, quiet, "some kind of rough." He offers Steve one bowl, chopsticks stuck up into it. "Not sure I was far off the mark about the backup." Steve slides one glass to Sam and, upon second though, sets his own water on the counter, too. "This...wasn't his fault. He was in a bad way." He starts making his slow way around to the other side where the stools are. "I had backup, but..." His head shakes, the cringe that follows the movement plainly visible. "I wasn't in any danger. Not from him." He eases himself down onto a stool. Sam remains standing, dragging his glass near and curling an arm loosely around his bowl. "Was in a bad way." His brows lift. "And now?" Steve takes his bowl but doesn't yet eat from it. Stares into it kind of fixedly. "Not a whole lot better but...not starving." His jaw clenches hard and his broad shoulders hunch in toward the food. "For now." "/Starving/." A harder clench tightens Sam's arms, muscles more prominent as he looks back to the bandaging. Slowly it eases when he looks away, picks up his glass, takes a slow drink of water. "And if it gets back to that." Kind of a question -- but not really, his eyes reflexively slipping away from where he sits at the counter to where Steve's shield rests against the couch in the living room. Back to Steve. "There's a lot of different ways to need a wingman." Steve swallows hard. "It's up to him." The words come with some difficulty, as if he has to force himself to say them. "And...for your own safety, it's possible that my work is listening in here." He lowers a hand to scruff at Zenobia's ears. "As for me...well, they'd be wise not to stand between me and a friend in need. Even if I have to go it alone." He looks back up from the dog. Meets Sam's eyes. "Doesn't seem likely to come to that, though." "Your work," Sam replies with a small shake of head, "got some boundary issues." He picks up his chopsticks, cheeks puffing out, breath puffing out. Quick, sharp. He plucks up a piece of eggplant, some rice, kind of waggles this at Steve. "But you best know, old man, you don't never have to go it alone." Steve gives a dry, humorless laugh. "They got all kinds of issue, but boundaries are certainly up there." He picks up his chopsticks at last and corrals some of his food into one side of the bowl. "I don't know about /never/, but yeah." He nods. "Yeah, I know."