2007-08-06: DF: Boy Talk


DFMcAlister_icon.gif DFTrina_icon.gif

Summary: Talk of boys and nuking a futon. Good times.

Dark Future Date: August 6, 2009

Boy Talk

NYC — Kitchen — Rising Phoenix Towers

Sometime yesterday afternoon, a driver from Bat Country brought her home.

The voice, still looking tired, unashamedly wasted what was probably half the hot water in the building and spent last night in a real bed, still coughing, but given at least the 'go home and eat' doctor's order. Not that she's following it this morning.

In this new, sumptuous kitchen, she's curled up in a chair, going over a newspaper and drinking coffee; clean. Skinny, but clean - wearing a ratty old Betty Boop nightshirt and .. yes. Those are gorilla-toe slippers. Fear the mighty Saint and her ancient fuzzy gorilla feet.

Heaven is a relative thing, and this kitchen, this place, this moment? It's close enough.

Morning. How quickly one can go from despising something just because it exists, to being entirely grateful that you even get to see it.

The bleary-eyed Trina is mostly in the latter camp right now but is on a one-woman mission for the coffee pot. She… she smells coffee. Must have coffee. Must drink coffee. Must. Her hair, combed through with slender fingers, has done a little to help calm down sleep-mussed black hair, but not completely soothed it. Jack's sweatpants, thin and worn, hang loosely around her hips, paired with a tight black tank top. Barefoot, she pads her way with near zombie blindness towards the source of her salvation. Coffeeeee.

Ali offers, voice quiet and wry - and still somewhat hoarse, "There's real cream in there. And that's real coffee. Damnit. I splurged a little."

The DJ looks up from the newspaper, offering an uncertain smile. "Good. Uh. Morning?"

"Nrgh." Fumbling for a coffee mug, the mechanic finds it and pulls it down. Then the Real Coffee is poured into that mug. No sugar. No cream. Just beautiful black. She's gotten used to its staunch over the past year, and the inner part of Trina that remains uncertain is not quite prepared to become reaccustomed to the luxury. She already indulged herself in sugar and milk once this week, you see. Once the bitter brew is in her cup, she shoves the pot back with a noisy clatter and then makes her way to sit at the table with McAlister. After a moment, an eyebrow arches. "Feelin' better?"

"I'm alive." Ali offers that, softly - and yes. She's still pale, and there are still deep circles under her eyes - and. Well. A week's sleep and a dozen meals would likely help. Give her time.

Regardless, the DJ leans back, cupping that mug of her own heavenly nectar (sugar. Cream. Hazelnut. Yes, she's indulging) in her lap. "I slept. That's a good thing, right? You okay? Elena said nobody got hurt - but it doesn't mean I'm willing to just believe her. You know how it goes."

"I'm fine. Elena got shot, got better. Eric, too. S'fine now." Calories are calories. Trina's not about to start chastising McAlister in how she gets 'em. There are plenty of other people to do that. Drinking another sip of her coffee, the mechanic suddenly finds herself in an awkward silence. Wasn't always that way, but the words are short and to the point with little wasted verbiage. It's the Voice who they look to, after all, to wax poetic. Not her. "Good to have you home," she finishes at last.

"Home." Ali offers a wry smile. "I went to the Plant until Gene got me headed the right way. My heart about stopped." She sips at her coffee. Mine. "tell me you did /not/ bring the futon." The evil of the evil futon is apparently well-known. "because. Seriously? I will set it on /fire./ Foom. Gasoline and matches." She pauses. "We should do that anyway, for the pure sake of doing it."

If anything can rear Trina back to life in her morning state, it is her hatred of the Evil Futon. "Oh, hell. If Jack even tried to bring that piece of shit in here, I might have to kill him. It'd be a fuckin' shame, too, after he made it this long." Then… a mischievous smile of the like that is rarely seen curls the young woman's lips. FIRE. FIRE, FIRE, FUTON BURN. She's about to say something in agreement, but then reason returns. "Jack says he's still gonna use the plant as an office. I guess the futon lives to torture another day."

"I'll get him milk crates." Ali's dismissive. "Besides. You /deserve/ revenge. We'll do a bonfire thing - or.." A sudden moment of inspiration. "Catapult, on the roof of the truck. We'll throw it on fire at the white house. It'll serve in death." She grins, impishly, coughs once. Twice, then mutters. "Swear to /god/, I'm tired of that."

At that, there is an amused bout of laughter that escapes Trina's lips, bubbling into the air as a nearly forgotten melody. "Oh, SHIT. To be able to put that fuckin' thing through Mr. Freak, Esquire's window? I don't think even Homeland Security could make me—" And then Ali starts coughing, and the laughter retreats back into the hidden recesses of the raven-tressed woman's throat, banished once more by a look of concern. "Babe. Why don't you take all this crap with you and go to bed? I'll even move the pot if you want. There's instant in the freezer. People can deal."

McAlister says, "No." Ali objects - mildly petulant. "I got work to do - and it's easier to take bed with me than it is to take coffee to bed. Besides - doesn't bed defeat the purpose of coffee, and vice-versa?"

Said Voice offers a wry, lopsided smile. "Besides, I got transmitters to put together, and I really need to bug Gene - and I am not putting on real shoes." As though that's a compromise. One more, almost perfunctory cough - "Besides. Cass cut me loose. This means a lack of death in my future, right? And that means I'd better get back to work before I turn into a charity case.""

"We don't do charity cases here. You know that." Trina frowns, but the words are partly lost by the fact that… well, they DO do charity cases. And, thanks to Nathan Petrelli, there's an entire population of them in dire need of the invaluable service that the Saints provide. "n' I can send Gene to you. You know that man's smarter'n all of us put together, nearly. I think he could figure out a couple of transmitters. Just 'til you're at a hundred percent. We need you better sooner, not later."

"I do. Doesnt mean that… well." Ali smiles, wryly. "Told Cass the same thing: I may be doing something worthwhile, but it doesn't mean I don't feel like I do nothing at all next to the rest of you." More seriously, she points out - "If I don't do something, I'm gonna bust. I can't just sit. And don't you start and say I should - I should. You should have a week in Fiji with Jack."

The smile that Trina offers is shallow. Transparent. Friendly, but tinged with a seriousness. "You get me a pair of tickets to Fiji, wherever the hell that is, and then we'll talk. Meanwhile, your bed's *right down the hall*. Not sayin' you gotta sleep. You can… write inspirin' speeches. The ones that make everyone go 'huh' and 'Fuck Petrelli'. You can read and get all inspired yourself. Sooner you're back to the Ali we love, the better off we're all gonna be."

"I will, if I can find 'em." Ali sets her jaw… one can almost /see/ the mental digging in of heels. And then.. oddly enough, she deflates. "I - you people are conspiring." And she reaches up to wipe at her eyes, just once, over another of those coughs. "Did 'Sven' leave any movies laying around the place?"

There's a quick tap under the table, Trina's bare foot making playful contact with McAlister's shin. "I dunno." Speaking of conspiring, she grins. "But I bet he'd get it for you if you wanted. He's *totally* eyein' you." …what? What are y'all lookin' at? Once in a while, yes, the mechanic is *allowed* to act like a girl.

"Yeah?" See that? that's the Voice actually having a moment like that herself. And she even grins - but.. then. Well. She sobers. "maybe after all this is over, right? Besides - he's got the rich-and-powerful thing going. He should go land a swiss model or something." Ali selfconsciously reaches up to run a hand through her hair. And then admits, wryly, "I haven't been on a date in years. Guaranteed that streak's not breaking anytime soon."

"Pfft. Don't need to go out to have a date." Pushing herself to her feet, Trina takes another sip of her coffee before finally dumping the entirety of its contents down the sink. "Make yourself comfy in bed, and I'll see if Eric can't scrounge up a couple classics for you to watch." Turning back to Ali, there's a conspiratorial smile. Damn the tiny blonde, making her all chatty. It really is hard to be stoic around the little sunball. "I mean, really. If you can't get some sugar off a sugar daddy, what is really left in the world?"

"Lame chick flicks, coffee - and maybe ice cream?" The offer's extended - "We'll take over the common room or something. I'd love to see Prime's face if we made him sit and watch something like Sleepless in Seattle. Grab Elena, and make a night of it some time." Ali slowly. VERY slowly. Stands. No, she's not really fully recovered yet, but yeah - she's mobile. "How long has it been since any of us have done that?"

… and. Apparently, said sunball has ammunition of her own. "Besides. It gives me an excuse to eat ice cream - and I /know/ Cass sent word that you people are supposed to be feeding me." She raises an arch eyebrow. "You can claim a good excuse."

"It's… it's been a while," Trina admits, smile finally returning to its more common reserved form. It's more comfortable, like an old friend. "I'll put out a memo. Meantime, take it easy, sugar. S'an order or something." Not that… she can really give orders. But the thought's there. And with that, Trina sets her rinsed out cup upside down in the sink and heads off to get a start on her own to-do list.

"A /memo/? Since when do we use /memos?/" Ali wrinkles her nose - "Let me know if I can help. You know, sit there and read the Chilton's manual or something." A pause - "And thanks, Trina."

Turning her head to look over her shoulder, Trina temporarily rests her hand on the door frame. The corner of her mouth flicks upwards into a fleeting smirk. "You're welcome. Just lemme know if there's anythin' else I c'n do, okay?" She wishes there were something more she could say. Something that was better thought out. More inspiring. In the end, however, there's nothing she can say that can't be said better by the other woman, so Trina just lets the unspoken sentiment be transmitted by one more smile. Then, ducking her eyes down, she turns back towards the exit. Patting that door frame a few times, the dark haired woman steps over the kitchen threshold and disappears into the hall.

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