Logs:Ready to Serve

Ready to Serve
Dramatis Personae Deanna, Elliott, Steve	2021-01-14 "Don't think a good chicken marsala's gonna set those folk right."
Location
<NYC> Forlini's - Chinatown This venerable neighborhood fixture is spacious but rarely empty, popular with city employees, especially those based out of the nearby courthouse, and more recently popular with the fashion industry crowd. The old-school Italian American food they serve is superb, their portions generous, and their dessert menu is vast. The comfortable booths and art deco chairs are dusty rose, the tablecloths stark white, and the walls lined with paintings. The long bar is equally suited to chatting up opinionated locals trying to make their mark on the city, or just catching a quiet solitary drink after a long day. It's a quiet mid-afternoon, hovering in the awkward underpopulated hours between lunch and dinner rush. In the back of the half-filled dining room Elliott has made herself comfortable at a corner table. Here long enough that she has a sparkling water and a Diet Coke already, but not long enough for the food to have actually arrived, she's shed the jacket of her sharply tailored black pinstripe pantsuit (the requisite American flag pin on its left lapel) to drape it on her chair, leaving her in a simple pale blue blouse and slacks and polished black dress boots. "Still been in touch with Concepcion?" Elliott's 'no-makeup' makeup is picture-perfect; she looks bright as ever, but here away from cameras there's more than a hint of exhaustion twining with the concern in her voice. "If he's been seeing even a fraction of the ugliness we are..." Her nails tap lightly against the base of her water glass. In her adjacent seat, Deanna has opted to leave her dark blazer on, her black suit cut clean and simple. The jacket mostly covers the holster belt at her waist, even. Her thick locs are tied back, and her expression has been mostly only a quiet reserve through the greetings-and-small-talk intro to this conversation. That doesn't change much, except for a faint wrinkle of brows at the mention of the troubles they (or perhaps Leo) have been seeing. Her nostrils flare on a quiet huff. Across from Elliott, Steve is sharply dressed, his navy suit in a flatteringly traditional cut, his white broadcloth shirt cinched with a silver tie patterned in tessellated five-point stars, and dress boots as close to his actually preferred footwear as he can get away with while still looking reasonably formal. He's also relegated his jacket to the back of his chair, his shield leaning against it on the floor at his left side. "I am," he replies, then hesitates. "He has folks who help keep him safe, but it's still worrying." His left hand turns palm up. "That target the feds painted on him never went away -- won't go away without someone in Washington admitting they erred, which I don't see happening. At this very moment, though, I suspect you're probably a higher priority to a lot of fascists, having personally defied their -- leader." "I'm glad for that, at least. Don't know how much hope I should hold out for action from the next administration, but we'll keep the pressure on." Elliott's laugh comes out a little dry, after this. "They've never been quiet about -- not being my biggest fans but these past weeks --" A taut line of smile slices quick across her face. "Rest of the month is going to be interesting, anyway. Monday in particular, a lot of security concerns I wouldn't have been considering this time last year." "Whole'a MLK weekend, really," Deanna volunteers with a growing frown. She glances to the shield propped by Steve's chair, then up to the man himself. "Sure some of the talk's just talk, but --" She lifts one shoulder. "Not gonna take chances." Steve's lips press into a thin line. "I'm sure you're taking every precaution, but even so... The parade worries me most. Even if the talk's just talk, I think there will be opportunistic attacks. I want to offer my services as additional security, but -- don't want to draw attention to myself." Then quickly adds, "No fearing for my own safety -- today's Nazis have no sense of irony and delude themselves I'm one of them. Just don't think it's appropriate for me to draw attention away from -- the point of the holiday. I'll be volunteering with my -- community wellness group, regardless." "What will your group be doing on the ground?" The upward tick of Elliott's brows is small, as is the flick of her eyes to the shield as well. "I feel like drawing a little attention is going to be inevitable. I'm just glad if we can turn that towards protection for the community. Many local Black community leaders have been dealing with increased harassment, too, and -- like you said, whether anything organized happens or not, the threat of violence is definitely hanging over all of this." Her forefinger taps, slow and steady, nail clinking against the side of her glass. "Giving another press conference feels trying to put out a wildfire with a garden hose, but hopefully it can at least let people know we're taking this seriously. And if they still want to show up and start trouble --" There's a small tightening at the corners of her eyes, her fingers curling around her glass. "What, you gon' lay the smackdown?" Here, a faint smile does twitch its way onto Deanna's lips. "I would like to see it." A beat. "Not gonna. You be out of there before the first chud get near you. Got a whole-ass security force -- plus the good Captain here to take care of his own people." The smile fades, her head tipping in something that doesn't quite reach apology. "Mean -- not your people. Just saying, you know. They look at you a certain way." "We'll be handing out food, water, and handwarmers, mostly," Steve says, blushing faintly. "But we can also send volunteers to escort marchers who don't feel safe leaving alone, or just help pay for their transportation, and all of us being trained in de-escalation might help contain at least the less determined rabble-rousers. The more determined ones..." His jaw tightens, as does his left hand at the edge of the table, though he relaxes both just as quickly. The flick of his eyes at Deanna is sharp, but her explanation seems to take the heat out of it somewhat. "I'm very aware. Partly why I feel it's my personal duty to take out that particular kind of trash. I'm sorry you won't be able to join me," This is to Elliott, vaguely apologetic. He takes a sip of his water. "Regardless, I don't have to be in uniform or be involved with security directly to do that -- unless you think it would help. If you want me at the conference I'll gladly tell off the wannabe Übermensch -- again. Or I can keep my head down, run with the Care Bears, and be on call with security." Elliott huffs out a slightly rueful breath, cutting eyes briefly at Deanna. "I'm going to have to go back to being honorable soon enough, you can't let me dream for one moment?" She twitches a crooked smile at Steve. "It would be great if you can come say a few words with me tomorrow. I hope you'll get to stick to handing out water and handwarmers on the ground, but I admit sometimes I envy you. These people really need a good -- oh!" Her smile blossoms, bright and practiced, as the server arrives with their food. In a much warmer tone: "Thank you so much." Deanna studies Steve's face pensively as his cheeks flush. Her nod is curt, as is her comment. "S'good work." She rearranges her place to make space for the plate when the server arrives, murmuring her own thanks. Though her smile does not return, there's a clear amusement in her rich voice: "Don't think a good chicken marsala's gonna set those folk right." "I hope so, too," Steve agrees easily enough, his posture relaxing slightly, "it is good work, but I take it that's not the part you're envying. I'll be there, with bells on -- the conference, I mean. Strictly street clothes for the parade." His smile is quick and looks genuinely excited when their meal arrives. "Thank you." The smile goes just slightly crooked when he looks at Deanna this time, "Even so. If they try anything, I'll serve them, too."