Logs:Imperfect Strangers

Imperfect Strangers
Dramatis Personae DJ, Sam, Steve	2020-12-14 "... how do you do it? Start -- over?"
Location <NYC> NYPD 121st Precinct - Staten Island
Is it very late? Is it very early? It's certainly one of those things, and it's quiet around the station, many of the lights dimmed. Near the rift site itself there's still space heaters going, still a few lights on around where Sam is in a thick cable-knit red and white sweater and dark jeans, staring at his hand of well-worn playing cards and then at the table between them before he lays a two of hearts down from his hand atop a pair of threes. "Building eight," he announces, before plucking up the squat glass of whiskey that's been sitting near at hand to take a swallow. Across from Sam, Steve has been eyeing his hand critically while he sips at his own whiskey. He's in his red, white, and blue tactical uniform as has been his habit on rift duty, though given the lateness of the hour he's relaxed enough to settle for hanging his shield harness across the back of his chair. "Building nine," he announces glibly, laying the ace of spades down on the two Sam has just played. "Think I've got maybe another hour before I need to eat again," he adds off-handedly, tipping a surreptitious glance up at Sam as he says so. It's likely they have not been expecting company at this hour -- certainly, DJ didn't call ahead. But there's a quiet flicker, a shift of motion from across the rift, and then DJ, still looking mostly Off The Farm in thick fleece-lined flannel, boots, jeans, a black backpack slung across his shoulder. His head has been bowed but he looks up when he sees the other men. His eyes stutter on Steve but it's Sam he nods to first, his voice quiet when he speaks. "Captain." Then a small frown, a soft addendum to Steve, "-- and Captain. Didn't -- expect you to still be here. This late." "Cold, man." The shake of Sam's head is not overly dismayed at this play. He glances at Steve over the rim of his glass, a small quirk of smile on his lips. "Keep that up, I'mm'a go home." He takes another sip, studies his hand with some resignation before this new arrival saves him having to make a choice about his next move. He glances toward the rift, the small tension that had started to creep into his posture fled just as quickly once he sees DJ. His brows lift at this address, a small tug at the side of his mouth. "Nah, man, I enlisted." His eyes dart between DJ and Steve. Back to DJ, lingering on the backpack. "You -- staying?" Steve beams proudly at the smile, his eyes dropping to his cards again. Then, at the first flit of motion from the rift he's halfway out of his seat and reaching for his shield before he registers who their visitor is, whereupon he blushes faintly and drops back down. His eyebrows arch slightly at the greeting, and he glances at Sam, then back at DJ. "So did I, but -- well, no unringing that bell." His head dips, his voice softening. "I know it's a lot to ask." "Right, sorry, here you're not -- he's still --" DJ's jaw tightens, head bowing again. His hand rests on the strap of the backpack, fingers squeezing hard at it. His eyes snap up again at Steve's last comment, though, a sharpness in his tone. "How the hell could you know? You're about to shut the door on my entire world." Sam sets his hands of cards face-down on the table, swiveling in his chair to face DJ more squarely. His brows knit, one shoulder lifting and dropping again in a small hitch. "Not the same, for sure. But getting torn from your world, dropped in another not-quite-like it? Not a lot of people could relate, but I'm guessing he got at least one idea where to start." Steve doesn't flinch at DJ's words, but he does look away. Takes a generous gulp of his whiskey. Sets his cards carefully face-down on the table. "Not the same," he agrees, still softly if less steadily. "Didn't expect to survive my choice, and when that happened anyway I didn't find dead friends alive on the other side of it." His lips press into an unhappy line. "Even so." The anger drains out of DJ's expression, his shoulder slumping and an immense weariness settling into his features in its place. "I'm sorry. I didn't..." He bites at the inside of one cheek, exhaling slow. "Haven't. Really been thinking farther than. About here, actually." His fingers squeeze at the strap of his backpack again. "... how do you do it? Start -- over?" Sam gestures to an empty seat at their table. "Think that might be a sit-down kinda conversation." He leans forward, topping up Steve's glass and then his own. "Though I'm guessing going at rebuilding a life's gonna be -- little different in your case. Steve came with a whole other set of expectations attached." "No need to apologize. Think I'd forgive you a lot more than that right about now." Steve shakes his head. "Thank you," he tells Sam. Frowns, looking back up at DJ. "Flicker -- our Dawson Allred -- didn't drink, but if you do, we've got plenty of whiskey." He picks up his own glass again. Sets it back down. "You're going to be a lot more recognizable than I was, before I stepped back into the spotlight. Might want to put some thought into publicity management right from the start." DJ's hesitation is brief, but then he walks across the room, setting his backpack down in front of the chair and easing himself into it, the back sandwiched securely between his boots. "Flicker." He echoes this with a quiet bemusement, head shaking. "Been an age since anyone called me that." For a quick moment something tighter shutters his expression. He rubs at his eyes, his head just staying cradled against his hand afterward. "Sorry -- publicity management? I -- kind of just wanted to. I don't know. Get my bearings. What -- did he do?" Sam winces. Takes another sip of his whiskey. "Most recently? Died. Think you'd have a time of it anyway, though. Man --" His eyes lower to the glass, fingers tightening around it. "Had a lotta friends. New York's a big little town, guessing especially in your circles. You staying local?" Steve nods. Indicates Sam with a lift of his glass before taking a sip himself. "He was very involved in life, and in death..." His brows furrow deeply. "Well. We just had an entire uprising over his murder by the police that's not died down altogether yet." He sets the glass down and runs the same hand through his hair. "Our Lucien Tessier is already working on arrangements for you, and I'm sure he'd be willing to help with PR, too. Give you some options beyond just disappearing into a new identity." DJ exhales sharply, his expression still half-hidden behind his cupped hand. "Wow. Sounds. Not so far from home after all." His teeth clench. Grind slowly before he drops his hand. "Till I remember I've spent years hiding in the sticks structuring my life around staying off everyone's radar and now PR management with Lucien Tessier is somehow. Supposed to be part of my..." He shakes his head again, incredulous. "I -- told Matt I'd keep an eye on his sister. So I guess it's New York, for now. Not like I have anywhere else to -- be." "You gonna stay here, Steve's steering you right. That face," Sam is studiously not looking at DJ's face, "hard to disappear into some crowds with." His mouth twitches to one side. "Not that it's my business, but disappearing? Probably rough in its own way. Everyone needs support, getting back from a war." Steve lifts his hands. "It doesn't have to look like what folks usually need publicists for. If there's any man I'd trust to help mitigate fame, it'd be him." He nods, slow and meditative. "Just enough publicity to save you constantly explaining yourself." He bows his head over his whiskey. "I know we're...imperfect strangers, and that may be painful and jarring in itself, but to the extent that I can relate to what you're going through -- I'll be here for you. That aside, it's got to be easier here than most places to find folks who've been fighting a similar war, even if not exactly the same one, as you." "Feels like I should know you. I was the best man at your wedding. You were --" DJ's jaw tightens, his eyes lowering again. "Well. Not you. Guess this'll be hard for you to get used to, too." He tips his head back, eyes searching the ceiling. "I like to think, in some other universe, all of us are just. Hanging out right now. Making plans for Christmas parties. No war anywhere in sight." 'Wedding,' Sam mouths, his brows lifting as he looks to Steve. He lifts his glass again. Takes a longer drink. "I like to think, we work at it enough, that could be this one, some day." "Hard, yeah." Steve takes a swig of his whiskey and sets the glass down. "So are a lot of things worth doing. Got so much work to do but --" He breaks off, staring. "I'm sorry, did you say my wedding?" DJ's eyes widen. "You two aren't -- married? Here?" A faint flush of pink creeps into his cheeks, his gaze darting between the other two men's faces first, and then down to their hands. "-- clearly. Not. Sorry. I just assumed -- right. This world isn't..." His eyes return to the ceiling. "... you know. I think I'll have that drink, now."