ArchivedLogs:A Good Story

A Good Story
Good for one free beer.
Dramatis Personae Dan, Elliott	2013-03-29 A soldier and a squid meet in a waiting room....
Location Veteran's Administration Building, New York
It's not a glamorous building, the Veteran's Administration building in New York. Five stories tall, with physical and psychological therapy facilities located on the lower floors, it is a place of hope. There are smiles to be found here, despite the tacky plastic chairs in the waiting areas, or the sometimes grim-looking faces of the staff. This is a place for wounded heroes to find their feet (in some cases literally) and get the assistance they need. Fridays tend to be busy, at the VA. Those patients and clients who are too busy during the week make time for their appointments over the weekend, and many start early. Here in the administrative office, there are quite a few people sitting in the uncomfortable chairs; some are flipping through magazines, some are talking quietly with their spouses or family members while waiting to speak to someone, but many are doing exactly what Dan is doing, which is filling out paperwork. Dressed in jeans and a grey ARMY t-shirt, the ex-soldier sits away from the others, a clipboard balanced on one knee as he scrolls through his phone, transcribing numbers into the appropriate boxes. Under one leg, he has a notebook jammed -- an old black-and-white covered composition book that look well-thumbed and written in. In his mouth, he holds a plastic tag with the number 34 on it. That may have to do with the 'next up' machine on the receptionist's counter, which currently reads 23. Elliott's is far from the only wheelchair to pass in and out of these doors; she is grateful, then, for their width, for the automatic-open button beside them. She wheels her way inside, goes to talk to the receptionist to get her own set of paperwork, her own number; there's a startled-looking young man who looks over at her through this exchange, coming over to wave her away from the line with a, "Lieutenant. We can see you right –" Elliott snorts at this, shaking her head as she hangs on to her plastic tag -- 42. "Tch. All these people were here first." She sets her clipboard in her lap, pushing her way over to notch herself at the end of Dan's row of chairs. Though she left the pen they gave her up at the counter. With a slight sigh, she eyes the counter, then twists around in her chair to grab the backpack off the back of it. She's dressed simply, dark olive cargo pants (one leg pinned up rather shorter than her /leg/ should be), a plain dark blue t-shirt, grey sweatshirt. Dan is close enough to the end of his row that the woman in the wheelchair lands next to him, and he offers her a tight smile as she settles. Her dilemma is immediately clear when he sees where she looks, and he signs the paperwork on his own clipboard before leaning over to hold out his pen. "You can have mine," he offers, his smile loosening. "I'm done." His eyes narrow a bit as he regards Elliott carefully. "You look familiar," he says. "Have I seen you on the news or something?" Now he's offering an actual grin. "Or do I just know your face from around here?" Elliott has her backpack in her lap, when she turns back around to look at Dan; she glances at his shirt then up at his face, and waves away the offered pen with a crooked grin. Her hand dips into the bag to claim one of her own out of its pocket. "You come here a lot?" she asks with a shrug of one shoulder. "S'where all the cool kids hang out, I hear." Dan eases back, tucking the pen into the top of his clipboard and turning it over on his lap. "I'm here more than I'd like," he says honestly, resting his elbows on the back of his chair. "But, if it ups my cool factor without my having to jump a motorcycle over a bunch of cars, I'm down." He grins, and liberates one elbow to extend a hand. "Dan Rourke, out of the 25th." "Is /that/ what the Cool Kids are doing these days? Shit. I gotta get me a motorcycle. Better'n this ride." Elliott snorts as she thumps a hand against the arm of her wheelchair. She leans forward, extending a hand to him. "Elliott." She doesn't actually offer more than that, save a quick-easy grin. "Think here at all is more than anyone would like." Dan chuckles, and shakes the offered hand warmly before releasing it. "That ride looks pretty sweet," he says, leaning back. "I don't know how quick I'd be to trade it in." He grins. "Motorcycles are dangerous, you know." His mouth presses tight at the affirmation, and he shrugs. "I guess. It's more than a lot got." He titls his head, studying the woman. "I know I've seen you before," he says, shaking his head. "It's going to drive me cra...wait," he says, furrowing his brow. "Are you the squid lieu who fought those pirates?" There's a certain amount of respect in his voice for this fact. "The one in the papers?" "Yeah? You want it? Get yourself a motorcycle, probably could end up trading in for one of these." Elliott's smile is a little thin, a little wry. "S'me," she grunts in acknowledgment. "Papers been nosy lately." Dan's chuckle is a rumble in his chest, and he shrugs. "Nah. I got a kid to think about," he decides. "I don't want to set a bad example for her." His tone is equally wry even as the corners of his mouth tug downward. "Damn, lady. Let me shake your hand again," he says, thrusting his own out. "Sorry about your leg, but that was a hell of a story. Glad you made it home to tell it." Elliott's lips quirk up a little further, at this, and she keeps this amused smirk as she glances down at Dan's hand. Doesn't take it, clicking her pen open, closed, open, then starting her paperwork. "Might could shake Lieutenant Carruthers' hand," she says, "you want to talk to a lady, though, you'd be better off looking elsewhere." The quirked-up smile doesn't fade as she fills out her forms, in blocky neat all-caps. "I didn't do much except my job. The mutant angle just brings the press out of the fucking woodwork." Dan's eyebrows pop up briefly when the handshake is refused, and he wrinkles his nose. "I was remarking on the story, not your performance," he says, easing back into his chair and fiddling with his clipboard, running fingers along its edge. "I know what doing your job means. But you've got a hell of a story to tell." He grins. "And that's gotta be good for a free beer, now and then." "Don't doubt you do," Elliott murmurs, glancing up at the Army shirt and then back at her paperwork. "Haven't been back on land long enough to get up to much. I'll hopefully take advantage of that free beer situation now that things are quieting down." Her brows pull into a frown, the butt of her pen tapping against the form before she continues writing. She glances up at him. "Usually find that most people around here have stories to tell, though. What's yours?" "Well, if you get to the Lower East Side, I tend bar at a place called Molly's," Dan says, jerking his chin towards his chest in a nod. "The first one is free for all our brothers in arms, active or not. Even if they /don't/ have a good story." The query of his own tale gets a tight press of his lips, and a shoulder lifts. "Got into a couple of scraps over in the Shit," he grunts, shifting in his chair. He lifts a hand to run a thumb along the scar under his left eye, his expression thoughtfully bleak for a moment. "Lost a lot of my men, the last time around." "Molly's, eh? Have to remember that. Don't usually say no to a free beer." Elliott clicks her pen again, shoving it into a pocket, apparently done with her paperwork. She fingers her plastic number tag absently. "Sorry to hear that. Glad /you/ made it back." "Yeah, it's a good place," Dan says. "I'm planning on buying it, one day. If I can get the loans." He taps at his clipboard, frowning deeply. "I've been back a while," he confesses, and there might be more, only a woman in a grey sweater and tan slacks comes over, with a file in her arms. "Sergeant Rourke," she says, giving Elliott a small smile and a nod of greeting. "I'm afraid you were given the wrong information. You were supposed to report to the psychiatric office. Doctor Samson called us just a minute ago. I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience." With another nod, she's gone again, behind the counter and therefore untouchable. "I wondered where he was," Dan murmurs, and pushes to his feet. "I better get up there," he says, and offers a small salute in Elliott's direction. "It was a pleasure meeting you, ma'am. I hope to see you in my bar one day. Then we can swap war stories." Then he's grabbing his coat and his clipboard and offering a cheerful "Good luck!" before he heads out into the hall, leaving Elliott to play the Waiting Game. Like so many others around her.