InsaneJournal

Who: Lia, Samuel, and [briefly] Brighid.
What: Round two. Things get personal. (Completed log.)
Where: The lobby and elevator.
When: Early evening.
Warnings: Oh lawd. Language, sexual innuendo, threats of violence, discussion of politics, and overall poor conduct.

Getting stuck in the temperamental elevator had not been the most pleasant of experiences, but it could not be said it had been entirely unproductive. Paul's insights were invaluable, and although taking his advice in its entirety - honesty, respect, all those difficult and murky concepts - was an idea difficult to swallow, it was not yet an option entirely removed from Samuel's consideration. With this newly expanded, refocused mindset he began to contemplate his next approach, knowing now that it was only a matter of time before they would meet again. If he took more trips to the lobby than was normal - alternating taking stairs and elevator in an effort to hedge his bets - the staff made no comment, and no neighbors seemed to notice or care.

Days had passed, his efforts having met with no success. Work and various social engagements kept his frustration and impatience at bay, but with each trip through the spacious ground floor he found himself growing more annoyed at his ill luck. So when he strode into the lobby, boots clacking on the gleaming floor, his gray mood brightened considerably at the sight of none other than Lia Valencia standing a short pace away. He sidled up next to her without a second thought, his wolfish grin bleeding into his tone.

"Well, well, look who it is," he said. "And I didn't even have to run your plates. Turns out you were my neighbor, right here, all along. Kismet, I think is what they call this."

It had been a busy few weeks - the longer commute to LA was taking more time out of her day, though that wasn't necessarily so bad. She liked being in her car, and could sometimes even get some work done there. Often there was even time to read, or check the internet, handle correspondence and other sundries. Even so, it left her less time to handle other sorts of business, or just to have to herself. At this particular moment, she was scrolling through e-mail on her phone, making note of adjustments to be made to her schedule as she waited for the elevator up to her apartment.

At the first sound of that voice, that Texas twang, her every muscle tensed, and slowly, she turned, looking with dread to confirm what by instinct she already knew was true.

"Jesus Christ," she said, sliding her phone into her purse. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Great to see you, too." His smile had in no way abated in the face of her curt greeting; if anything, it had grown. The look on her face was worth all his long hours of waiting, worth every second spent locked in that elevator with their good-hearted, now mutual friend. He wished for a camera, that that priceless expression could be captured for posterity. The elevator slid to a stop, the hiss of doors and curt, quiet bell sounding its arrival. He took a single step forward, holding the doors open, dropping into a mockery of a genteel bow. "After you," he said, all but laughing now. "What floor, Miss Valencia?"

Already, she was backing away from the elevator, stilettos clacking on the marble as she took two unconscious steps back. Then, she realized she might have been being a little excessive, so she stood her ground and smoothed her (tastefully) short skirt. "I'll catch the next one," she said curtly. "I forgot to check my mail." With that, she turned on her heel and began walking rapidly back toward the mailboxes, pushing her hair back over her shoulder, trying to maintain some sense of calm as she absorbed the fact that Samuel Goddamn Wolfe was living in her building. In her building! How did a cop even manage to afford an apartment in a place like this? It was ridiculous. She shook her head and had to hold back an audible growl of frustration as she fished around in her purse for the keys to her mailbox.

His amusement at their situation - at her situation, truth be told, as he found nothing whatsoever uncomfortable about this turn of events - was reaching nearly obscene levels. He followed at her heels, close and enthusiastic as a puppy. "That's okay." He peered over her shoulder, looking into her bag as if it might hold some fascinating, useful secret; the motion provided ample opportunity to let his gaze drift over the soft slope of her shoulder, the smooth column of her throat. For a moment he found himself distracted. But then the sharp click of her heels brought him back to himself, and his smugly satisfied grin returned. "I'll wait. Your friend Paul and I got stuck in that elevator a few days back," he said. "If it happened again, I'd hate to know you were trapped in there alone. Very disorienting. Possibly dangerous."

Slowly she turned to look at him, disbelief etched in every feature. Hard enough to believe he'd followed her from the elevator; now he was looking in her purse - or was it down her shirt? "Really? Really, Sergeant Wolfe?" Her search became more vicious as she dug around in her bag for the keys that just didn't want to be found. "It's fine. I've managed to do all right here on my own since I moved in -" she paused, then turned to look at him, keys victoriously in hand. "Wait - my friend Paul - how did you know he was my friend?" Her hand tightened around her keys at the idea of this cretin snowing Paul into thinking it might be OK to talk to him about her in any capacity.

"Paul and I got on very well, you know. We talked for a bit. Nice guy." His brow arched sharply, matching the deep smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Is it so hard to believe I can make friends? Or carry on a conversation?" He heaved a sad sigh, shaking his head. The melodramatic image he made was irrevocably damaged, though, by the pleased look still shaping his every feature. This was not, even Samuel was certain, the sort of honesty Paul had had in mind. But something about her presence undid him, plucked insistently at certain strings, moving him in ways he could only just control. It felt impossible not to push her. "And Sergeant Wolfe, now, is it? I like the way you say that."

"Augh," she verbalized her frustration as she fumbled for the right key to her mailbox, than shoved it into the lock. "Of course you do," she muttered, opening the little door and swiping her mail from inside, uncharacteristically not even bothering to look at it as she shoved it into her large handbag. Brushing past him, she said, "And for the record, yes. I find it hard to believe that anyone would spend any amount of time with you of their own free will." She began moving toward the elevator bank, then paused, considering what he'd said about being caught in the elevator. She looked from the elevator to the door to the stairwell, considering the merits of possibly escaping him versus not having to walk up eleven flights of stairs in four-inch heels.

Turning to him, she said, "If I take the stairs, you're going to follow me, aren't you?"

"Definitely." He gestured vaguely downward, the sweep of his hand indicating her markedly flattering skirt, the long, smooth length of her leg, down to the sharp points of her Jimmy Choos. It was a view he certainly appreciated, and felt no qualms about calling attention to. "Look at those," he said, shaking his head. "What if you fell? I'm a pretty passable first responder. You might need my help. It'd be irresponsible for me to do anything but make sure you get safely to your door."

"How chivalrous," she deadpanned, then walked away from him to press the button for the elevator. With a frustrated gust of air escaping her lips, she took a deep, calming breath, prepared to wait for the damned thing for as long as it took. Fortunately, it was still on the first floor, apparently, from when it had arrived the last time. She swept into the elevator, and resisted the temptation to press the "close door" button before he had the chance to get in. Odds were he'd just edge his way in anyway, and it'd be one more loss for her dignity.

Once he was in, she was careful not to press the button for her own floor, instead asking, "What floor are you on?"

"Seven," he said. It was somewhat disappointing to note the combative edge had drained from her voice. This indignant quiet did not suit him. It offered few opportunities even for well-meaning conversation, and he had no intention of riding the entire distance to their respective floors in silence. He did not dare step closer to her, unwilling to risk further violence in such an enclosed space, but waited for her to press the button to his floor. "You're up in the stratosphere somewhere, aren't you?" he asked, the prevailing cast of his smile falling quite shy of admiration. "Penthouse? Not that pretentious tower, I hope."

Leaning forward, she pressed the button for the seventh floor, and stubbornly refused to press the button for her own. His unrelenting cheer was hard enough to deal with, but the derisive tinge to his tone when he mentioned the penthouse suites - one of which was occupied by Vince and Honey - was just too much to bear in silence. "And what if I did?" she asked contentiously, folding her arms and looking up at the numbers above the door, which, apparently, were lighting up at the speed of freezing oil moving across sand. "I guess you have some kind of problem with people who've achieved some level of affluence in their lives, rather than making a living at chopping up indigenous civilians with machetes, or whatever it is that you did," she said.

He turned on her then, his jaw clenched, his mood suddenly and furiously dark as it had been glowing before. His hands balled to fists at his sides, short nails scratching at his jeans. It was wrong to give her this, useless to expose this raw spot so soon and so definitively, but there was nothing for it. "Rather than," he snarled. "So making a shitload of money and flaunting it is better than sacrificing years to serve your country? I'm glad you got to fuck your way through college and somehow miraculously turn that into a career, but some of us had to work, and learn to be damn good at it." He stepped closer, waiting for her to slap him again, but utterly unable to bite his tongue in spite of that very real possibility. "I'm an asshole, not a fucking murderer. Learn the difference or keep your mouth shut."

Something inside her absolutely lit up as his body language changed, as his posture straightened, even as he stepped closer to her. She wouldn't have been able to say why until much later, but there was something deep within her that reveled in this, that pushed her off the wall, unintimidated by his larger size, nor the aggression in his words or stance.

"Oh yes, Sam, you certainly are an asshole - so don't you dare get up on your high warhorse and act like your chosen profession is such a high holy noble vocation. I fucked my way through college and managed to make a career of it? Maybe, if you want to break it down to the basest level; maybe you're right." She smiled at him then, and there was not an iota of the sweetness or kindness that anyone else might have expected from her in it. "But don't try to pretend for one minute that you've sacrificed anything. You like fighting; hell, I'd even bet you love it. You love guns, you love tanks, you love blood; it just bloats your cock to think about being in action, doesn't it? That's why you're SWAT now instead of behind a desk." She smirked at him. "So don't for one minute think, or act like, you're nobler, or more honorable, or better than me, Sergeant. I get off on love and sex, you get off on war and violence. Get over yourself."

"So because I love what I do you get to disrespect anybody in my line of work? Fuck you." Somewhere between his few breaths he had lost all sight of the point of this, or even how the argument itself had spun so completely out of his control. It no longer mattered. "While you were sliding through school on your back I was watching friends die. I've been to more funerals than you'll see in your life. So maybe I didn't sacrifice anything, whatever. They did." He was all but leaning over her now, so close he could have touched her with the slightest shift. He hated that look in her eyes, and loved it, and made no effort to untangle that nonsensical emotional knot. "So yeah, you'll understand why I have a problem with people who wallow in their fucking affluence and talk shit about what they don't know."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Sergeant," she sneered. "You're exactly the kind of piece of shit I wouldn't fuck with a stolen vagina; you run around shitting on any woman who happens to have more sexual experience than Mother Theresa - not that you'd be interested in a woman who wasn't experienced enough to know how to please you, you fucking hypocrite." She did not back down from his intrusion on her personal space - instead, she planted her hand in the middle of his chest and shoved at him, hard. "As for your 'line of work,' get real, sweetheart. I'm sorry your friends died, I'm sorry you had to go through that, but your friends probably died while executing an unjust war - and yes, probably killing innocent people - to serve the corporate, political, and financial interests of people way more affluent than me. Just because they suck your dick and tell you what a hero you are, doesn't mean they have any respect for you or what you do, dumbass."

"I know it's intangible bullshit seven thousand miles from you, but it's not a fucking concept, it is a very real fucking thing," he said. He stepped back to her from where she'd shoved him, completely unwilling to back down though the elevator had stopped, was ringing impatiently, was opening and closing the doors as if urging him to go. "Pull your head out of NPR's ass. I don't give a shit about your politics, and I already know what those 'interests' think about me and my brothers. But in front of me, you-" His finger prodded at her chest, just beneath her collarbone, pushing roughly at her, "-will show some goddamned respect, or at least shut the fuck up."

Without hesitating, without missing a beat, she slapped his hand away from her as hard as she could. "Oh will I?" she said with another sneer. "You get to shoot your mouth off any way you like, you get to disrespect anything and anybody you like, but I need to shut the fuck up?" She laughed, harsh and cold and sharp. Having found nerve, there was no thought in her head but to work it. "You and your brothers kill innocent people, propagate a war and an imperialist ideology for profit. Meanwhile, you want to shit on me because apparently, since I'm talking to people about love and relationships and connection instead of being out burning and pillaging for God and Country, not only am I a worthless slut, but I owe you some measure of respect. Fuck yourself, you self-righteous dickhead."

The sound of her laughter made his teeth grind together; every sound rang impossibly loud in his head. She utterly unhinged him, so quickly and thoroughly he hardly believed it even as it happened. Even Regina had not been so effective, so precise, so vicious in her needling. His hand curled into a tight fist again, his knuckles white as his nails dug into his skin. "It isn't your job that makes you a worthless slut," he snapped. "It's your fucking attitude. You ought to know hypocrisy and self-righteousness when you see it, cos you wear them pretty fucking well."

Oh, God, she wanted to hit him. She wanted to haul back and slap him as hard as she could, she wanted to close her own fist and punch him right in the mouth, her mind was teeming with all manner of violent thoughts that just weren't like her. Somehow - some way she would never know - she managed to keep her hands to herself. Her mouth, however, was already open to spew more venom at him when the doors moved open and stayed open. Her head whipped around to see who was waiting there, her cheeks flushed, her fists clenched, not sure yet if she was grateful for the interruption.

"Em..." Brighid's eyes widened when she caught sight of the elevator's occupants, obviously mid-row. Samuel appeared to be angrily crowding a smaller woman who looked like she was about to hit him, or anyone else who got in her way, causing the Irish girl to question herself even more than she already was. What had possessed her to come down the hall at precisely this moment just to press the button for the lift? She didn't even need to go downstairs! But she'd had this feeling, and for the past five minutes, all she'd been able to think of was pressing that bloody button. Now that she'd given in to the irrational behavior, she was left standing in the hallway, staring and embarrassed and uncomfortable and having no idea what to do next. "Hiya?" she offered sheepishly.

"Brighid." Samuel's posture shifted in an instant, her quiet interjection more effective than any slap. He blinked as if clearing his vision, pulling a long and heavy breath through faintly parted lips. He realized the ridiculous picture they must have made, children carrying on in public in a fight fit for daytime television. There was no explanation for it, no justification; truthfully, Samuel would not have cared if there were. "Hi." He managed a smile, weak though it was, and threw a narrowed, hateful gaze back to Lia before moving toward the doors. "Great timing, kiddo. But you might wanna take the stairs."

Lia had to make a concerted effort, real, genuine, almost physical effort, to ignore Samuel completely, brushing her hair from her eyes and looking at the newcomer. Her cheeks were still flushed - she could feel them - and her heart was pounding violently in her chest. But somehow, she managed to pull in a deep breath that calmed her enough to say, "Hi there. Sorry about that." She smiled just slightly, somehow staying steady on her feet even as the adrenaline drained from her. "I'm just going to take a quick trip up a few floors," she cast a much less hospitable smile at Samuel, "and I'll send it right back to you."

"It's okay," Brighid replied hurriedly. "I was just, em, going to check the post?" She'd already done that today, but neither of them needed to know so. She'd also forgotten her keys back in her flat. "But it'll keep, yeah?" Slowly, she took a step back from the elevator door.

Samuel joined her in short order, his back solidly to Lia. He could feel her staring at him still; it took every ounce of his willpower not to turn back, to cast one final stone, to embarrass himself further in front of his so recently acquired friend. "Smart move," he said. He might have invited her in, but for the moment a six-pack and an hour or two of popping headshots in Fallout 3 seemed just the thing to steady his frayed nerves.

Lia nodded, smiled, and waved, pressing the button for her floor, waiting until the elevator doors slid closed before exhaling audibly and leaning back against the wall, waiting to get back to the safety of her apartment.