Who: Charlie and Samuel What: Hallway confrontation? Where: Pax Letale, 7th floor, in front of 701 When: Charlie’s move in day Warnings: Language, Charlie has a potty mouth
The apartment was small, but it was hers. It was the first thing in five years that she hadn’t had to share with a cellmate; the first thing she had done was drop her bags near the front door and walk over to where the bathroom was. The wash room was tiny, just a toilet, shower, and sink, but being able to bathe in private put a small smile of complacency on her face.
Leaving that door open, she went back towards the front and made sure she grabbed the room key from the jacket she’d dropped on the floor; she crouched down, digging it out of a leather pocket. There were movers coming, bringing a bare amount of furniture that she could use to populate the space. It was all left overs and used from Goodwill, mostly, but she didn’t care. She was out.
Standing, she scratched at her head, moving a tangle of dark brown hair behind one ear. Charlie sighed, made sure she had her cell phone (square shape in the front pocket of her pants) and wallet (a bulge in the back pocket), and then opened her front door. In the moment it was taking her to turn and lock the door again, she didn’t hear the person coming down the hall.
Distracted as she was, there was no need for Samuel to hide his once-over of the girl, nor the obvious glint of judgment that suddenly lit his eyes. Though the forum was a rather impersonal and often quite vague medium, the fact that his new neighbor was trouble had come through quite clearly; the only details that remained were precisely what kind and for whom.
“You must be Charlie,” he said, drawing up close behind her. The smile creeping across his face bled easily into his tone, lilting on her name like an unvoiced laugh. His arms folded across his chest as he looked down at her. “Where are you headed? We can go downstairs together, maybe play Twenty Questions in the elevator that likes to get stuck.”
Charlie jumped, the key still in the lock came loose from her hand. Thankfully it stuck rather than falling to the floor; she rolled her eyes, upset at her own lack of awareness, and turned. The man who had irritatingly snuck up behind her was taller, and she had to look up slightly to glare at him, but the height difference didn’t faze her for a moment. Where her expression had been bordering on happy before now rested a rather perpetual sour look.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Her colorful commentary on his sudden arrival. Of the few she’d met through the building’s forum, she could put two and two together as to who he was. The goddamn piece of bacon from 707. Joy to the fuckin’ world. She’d hoped to avoid him for at least a few days; Jimbo wasn’t yet laying on pressure for her to meet her parole requirements, and she wanted to savor her freedom for just a little while before reality started knocking her down again.
“I don’t remember reading about any mandatory frisking in the lease. Go manhandle someone else.” Turning away from him, she took the key out of the lock with a quick jerk. But then there was the issue of him standing in her path towards the elevator. And just telling from his attitude on the forums, he probably wasn’t going to let this go easily.
“Frisking, huh?” Samuel’s smile broadened considerably. “Some people might say that sounds like you propositioning an officer.”
She clearly had somewhere to be, even if that ‘somewhere’ was nothing more than a place Samuel was not. He looked down to the keys in her hand, to her aggressive posture; she looked more than ready to simply knock him down or be injured trying, and walk straight over him once that was done. The prospect struck him as more than a little amusing. “I’m not here to harass you,” he said. “I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself in person. See if you needed anything. You know, be a good neighbor and all.”
Her sour expression only deepened at his (possibly sarcastic, but she’d been wrong before) threat. Then he changed his tune, but Charlie wasn’t biting. A good neighbor, in Charlie’s experience, was the one that paid no attention to you while you returned the favor. Those that got too nosy were looking for one of two things - either something you had that they were looking to take, or just to make trouble because they didn’t like the way you looked. She’d had a lot of experience with the latter and didn’t care to revisit.
“If I need a fuckin’ cup of sugar, I’ll be sure to drop by your place first,” she retorted, taking steps to move around him. All she wanted was her furniture. And maybe a pack of cigarettes, but she was willing to take one thing at a time. She wasn’t interested in playing games, especially not with someone who seemed like he’d be more than interested in just sending her back to jail just for kicks. No one could ever color Charlie judgmental.
Samuel shifted back in front of her, his bright grin not the least bit dampened. Given the preternatural cheer and laid back nature of the majority of his neighbors, since his brief tiff with Lia he had found himself at a loss for good arguments; this woman, at least, seemed poised to give him back that blissful animosity. “Sugar would probably be Brighid’s department,” he cheerfully corrected. He lifted one hand, pointing down the corridor. “Seven-oh-five.” He took a step closer, thoroughly invading her personal space as he sought to cut off her only route for escape.
“I’m still curious about your babysitter,” he said. “Maybe I know him. That could be more helpful to you than a fuckin’ cup of sugar, don’t you think?”
Was he thick, or did he want to pick a fight? He had a few inches on her (well, more than that), but she was no stranger to fighting dirty. Still, getting into a hallway scuffle on her fifth day of freedom, with a cop no less, would certainly do little to endear her to her parole officer. After all, she had convinced him to let her forgo the anger management classes. For now.
She hadn’t done anything to warrant this man’s attention except for the fact that a few mistakes from her past had landed her behind bars. Hell, she’d gotten out early on good behavior - didn’t that count for anything?
“Don’t know, and I don’t care. If you’re short on players for your bridge game, that’s not my problem.” Did he really think she was just going to start talking? Yeah, let’s give Jimbo a fuckin’ security camera that’s pointed right at my door, she thought to herself, just stopping before she started rolling her eyes at her own inner monologue. One that can’t take a fuckin’ hint, to boot. She backpedaled, crossing arms over chest, her skin itching as she gave up ground. It was incredibly unlike her to let things slide, but she wasn’t in much of a position to do otherwise.
“What the hell do I have to do to get you the fuck out of my way?” When in doubt, be frank. Charlie was always frank, but rarely in doubt. Others might have said differently.
“Just be nice, Charlie,” he said. Her name rolled off his tongue with a boyish, singsong lilt. “You don’t even have to mean it. Just act like it. Is that really so hard?” He took a step back, glancing briefly back to the elevator behind him. “We can chat on the way downstairs,” he said, looking back to her, that obnoxious, broad smile still lighting up his features. The suggestion was made as much out of legitimate curiosity as the desire to further needle her; something about her seemed familiar, though he could not quite identify it. He hadn’t arrested her - that, at least, he would have recalled with damning clarity - and he had certainly never dated her, or even attempted to. But that left few options, and the uncertainty that remained was going to drive him mad.
“We’ll get to know each other a little,” he added, his head canting slightly as he regarded her. “Maybe even come to a little neighborly understanding. When that day comes I’ve got an excellent Irish whiskey in my apartment we can share a few glasses of in celebration.” His arms folded at his chest again, mirroring her motions, his back straightening as his smile faded into something less amicable. “Or we can just keep this up til one of us goes to jail over it. What sounds good to you?”
She’d rarely heard her name and the word nice used in the same sentence, though it was usually in the format that he’d presented. Of course she could be nice, when she wanted to be. Even then others said she still played too rough. She was of two minds - one half wanted to just punch the smile off of his face and deal with the fallout, because it would feel too damn good to just give in to her urges; and the other was wondering if she just shouldn’t go along with what he wanted, if only for the time being. After all, she was supposed to behave.
“God, I thought this forced socialization shit stopped back in high school,” she finally spat, relenting after a few moments of silence and glaring, one hand thrown into the air to punctuate her aggravation. The moving truck was probably downstairs already, and she didn’t want them to get the sudden urge to run off with a threadbare couch and used mattress. Sleeping on hardwood did not sound appealing.
“Fine. Is everyone here this fuckin’ nosy, or are you just that special?” It was less of a question and more of a comment on her part, but she didn’t expect an answer either way. Putting a hand to one of his arms, she shoved him (as much as she could) out of her path and started walking towards the elevator. If he wanted to press charges for assault, well, she really didn’t give a shit anymore.
Samuel’s laugh was sincere; so cheerful it seemed almost deliberately obtuse. There was a bounce in his step as he fell in behind her, following like a puppy at her heels. “Just me,” he said, “far as I’ve noticed. Normally, you know, I’d let all this go. But we already have a mutual acquaintance, and we’re on the same floor...” He trailed off as they reached the elevator, reaching out to press the worn button marked Down. “Seems like we ought to at least come to some sort of understanding, right?”
The doors slid open. Samuel slipped a hand into his pocket, withdrawing a jangling set of keys. “I have places to go, too, you know. I’m not gonna keep you long.” He gestured her into the car, waiting patiently outside in case she decided seven flights of stairs would be a better option after all. “I’m a persistent bastard, Charlie. Let’s just have a chat now and I probably won’t have to keep bugging you every chance I get. There’s just stuff I’m curious about. Like do I know you from somewhere, and are you really interested in keeping your parole officer happy, or are you here to start shit.”
Stepping into the open elevator doors, she waited for him to get his ass inside before slapping the L button for the lobby with more force than necessary. Remaining silent through his little monologue, she moved to the back of the car and leaned against the faux-wood paneling that decorated it. “So what?
“Is there a specific place you want me to start, or should I just give you my life story?” She returned her arms to their crossed position across her chest, eyes watching him carefully. The car gave an imperceptible shake, the only real sign of its descent. “God, I hope this thing doesn’t crap out. Being stuck in here with you would bring a nice day to a screeching halt,” she muttered, more to herself but uncaring if he heard - a small part of her knew she had said it aloud specifically for him to hear. “I got out early. Good behavior. What makes you think I’d want to piss on that?”
“Experience?” he said, one brow sharply arched. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a lot of recidivism in our line of work. It never hurts to try and find potential problems before they become such.” Quickly his good cheer returned, now that the thinly veiled threats were for the most part out of the way. He shifted his weight against the wall, the keys in his hand clinking merrily as he moved. “Glad to hear that won’t be the case with you. I’d much rather be friendly than otherwise.” He was pleased to feel the elevator’s continued progress, sliding down toward the ground floor without so much as a hitch. Though he was enjoying this borderline harassment, Samuel was in full agreement with her: to be stuck now would be in no way pleasant, and would endanger his own afternoon plans, a nuisance he certainly hoped to avoid. The thought made him wonder if it wasn’t time to extend some sort of laurel, if only to forge a temporary peace between them, in case the worst did in fact come to pass.
“Alright, Charlie,” he said, trying to soften his features to something less playfully combative. “If you really do want to make this work, I’m not gonna stand in your way. I’d rather you stay on the straight and narrow here, mostly cos it’s my home and I like it being quiet and drama-free as possible. If you ever feel like telling me who that parole officer of yours is, I’ll even call him up and tell him what a good girl you’re being. If not...” He shrugged, the gesture coming off as less apathetic than he might have wanted. “I’m sure you’ll manage just fine on your own.”
She wasn’t entirely sure what ‘recidivism’ meant, but she got the idea, and disliked it immediately. The title judgemental prick floated through her mind, but it didn’t get through her mouth - maybe there was some truth to the idea that she’d fall back into her old ways. Hell, it’d been all she knew her entire life; kicking that long of a habit was going to be harder than she thought and, confronted with the idea, she shirked a little.
"Yeah, well, I've had enough of people fucking with my life, so no thank you. I guess I'm supposed to say thanks for the thought, but I've never been good with manners," she retorted, knowing full well she could manage fine on her own. After all, managing fine on her own had gotten her arrested, jail time, death threats...perhaps she wasn't managing so fine on her own. But she found it incredibly difficult to ask for help. "Look, I'm going to keep my head down as best I can." The elevator crept along without a fuss, which helped to smooth Charlie's anxiety about being in such close proximity to a police officer. Old habits died hard.
"But I do appreciate you not being a prick about it," she added, making her own attempt at friendliness, her brand of nice being as gentle as steel wool.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Samuel took the relative softness precisely as it was meant, grateful for the lowering of her proverbial hackles. Such difficulties in communication were not entirely unknown to Samuel, after all. His own mouth had gotten him into more trouble than he cared to admit, but such confessions were for another time, if at all. For the moment he was pleased to hear precisely what he had wanted, even if it was an assertion made in not the most genial of tones. But attitude he could understand, having given plenty of his own to superiors and subordinates alike. “No problem,” he answered cheerfully. “We seem to be on the same page, for now anyway, so I don’t see what’s to be a prick about.”
He looked up to the lights above them, the illuminated numbers marking each floor as it passed. “Besides,” he said, pointing up as the L began to glow, “even if I wanted to keep being a dick, it looks like I’m all out of time.” The car came to a stop with a small, soft jolt, hissing quietly as the doors slid open. “Stop by seven oh seven if you ever want to chat,” he said. This time, the smile he flashed her looked almost boyishly earnest. “I think you’re going to be an interesting neighbor after all.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t comment, instead glad to just brush past him and move towards the waiting moving van that was parked near the curb of the apartment. Something in the back of her mind scratched at her, though, the nagging sensation that she'd met him somewhere before when she knew for a fact that they never had.
Yeah, he was going to be an interesting neighbor all right.