Re: Apartment: Sam/Russ/Louis
"He's right, yeah?" she said of not needing to thank her. "I'll just make you take the fucking thank you back." Her voice was slower, careful, none of the perpetual rush of the young woman she'd been. Like everything about her now, it was fucking molasses in winter, but her voice didn't waver, there wasn't any doubt in her words. She was sure about what she said, even if she said it more quietly than she'd said anything when Lou knew her. And there weren't bandages, not a one, nothing to indicate anything in the glow of the car lights.
She moved ahead of them, letting Russ help Lou inside, and she opened the door to the small basement apartment that was too loud and garish for someone with her subdued clothing and speech. But, yeah, she'd wanted something that didn't feel like Arkham's grey, and in too many ways she was just that girl of twenty-two hiding in an older, thinner body. "I have coffee," she assured them. "Just sit down, yeah? Wherever's comfortable. The offices upstairs are closed at night, and I get to crash free, yeah? Since I keep shit from being stolen by being here or whatever."
She touched Russ' sleeve thankfully, and she walked into the small kitchen, and she set the coffee on. She slipped the galoshes off and left them there, not caring that they were in the middle of everything. The cat looked up from his curled up position on the bed, and he meowed a rusty meow, and she leaned against the wall and looked. Near the easel, a pipe burned down, and the whole place smelled of tobacco and tea. She was patient, yeah? She just looked, a glance of ink and blue and Russ, and then she lit a clove and waited some more. Lou would say what had happened eventually. If there was one thing she'd learned in her job, it was that people hated fucking silence. To the last, they would fill that shit up with words if you just waited long enough.