2007-07-31: Goin' Down?

Starring:

George_icon.gif McAlister_icon.gif

Summary: It may not be love, but it may be honesty - and in an elevator? Sometimes that's all you can ask for.

Date It Happened: July 31, 2007

Goin' Down?


Upper West Side, Erin's Penthouse and Elevator

George ducks his head in, making a point of looking around the place before entering fully. "We should have shotguns for a job like this," he deadpans. "How do they fit all of this into a high-rise? They have to be balanced against strong winds, the higher you go."

"Yeah, well, don't blame me. this is Erin's stuff." Ali is tugging on shoes, sitting in the floor in front of the couch - having buzzed George up, actually. "I used to own a couch. It's still in storage - but, I swear to God I'm selling it. First opportunity. It's a really, really ugly couch."

The Dj grins up to the fellow. "I'm thinking Starbucks? I know it's overpriced and really corporate, but to hell with it. It's on the way, and I like their mochas even if I am supporting the Man."

George shrugs. "I dunno, if Java City ever shut down back home, then I might bother boycotting 'em." He remains in the doorway, holding it open. "And the thing about couches— if you're looking at them, then you're doing something wrong. You're supposed to sit on them and look at other things."

"George?" Ali levers herself up. "It's burnt orange."

That sums /that/ up quite nicely, thankyouverymuch.

She bounds for the door, though, scooping up that bag that serves as her purse on the way. "You're not allowed to say that, ya know. 'back home'. You move somewhere else, it's not 'back home' anymore. Did I ever ask you what you do? I think I haven't been nosy enough with you yet."

"I know, but 'Waco' always derails the conversation in exactly the same way. Sick of it." He turns and resumes his earlier pace once you come alongside. "And no, you probably haven't— I'm on staff with the Petrelli campaign. Coordinating contacts, yadda yadda."

"Yeah? This chick with the city council wanted me to help out. It wasn't a bad gig, either, but the radio thing makes it hard. Can't endorse anybody unless you're a political sort, or the management gets twitchy." Ali wanders along with him, pulling her hair back and fiddling with getting it into a rough ponytail. "He's a really good guy - I haven't met him, but his wife's pretty cool, and he's got a better platform than that republican he's up against." A pause, then, wryly - "Isn't Texas a red state?"

George shrugs. "There are all types— just some places, you have to look a little harder to find them. Personally, I lean sort of Blue Dog. Anyway, what about just having some of the supporters come on the show? Maybe some from the other side, too, keep it all on the up-and-up." Speaking of, the elevator shudders for a moment on its way upstairs, before resuming.

Ali doesn't seem to react to - or even pay much attention to - the shudder. She leans back against that elevator wall, grinning - enjoying herself, from the look of things. "You honestly think a bunch of politicians are gonna want to be on a midnight show about rock and drugs and bored security guards? Not really good press for 'em anyway."

"I don't mean the big guys," George replies, shaking his head. "Some of the younger types, too much energy for their own good? Right up their alley." Steps inside as the doors slide open. "What about drugs, though? Must've missed that one." Or, working the day shift, he may have just nodded off.

"You can't talk rock and /not/ talk drugs. Just comes with the territory. "Ali moves with him, of course - paying more attention to the conversation than the world outside of it. "I mean - at three AM? The conversations about Jim Morrison or Keith Richards get pretty racy. So far, nobody's filed a complaint - I keep hoping. Got Stern his ticket, right?"

George leans back against the wall. "Stern's one of a kind, though. I hope." For a couple of floors, he just stays there, mulling something over. "Oh, speaking of that couch? I figured something out, yesterday. About looks."

"Yeah?" Ali quirks a brow. "He's one of a kind - but it doesn't mean there can't be /another/ one of a kind out there somewhere. I mean - so's Rush Limbaugh, and he's irritating as opposed to crude."

"Usually, but the extremists on the other end are no better, really. And with less of a sense of humor." At this point, he leans forward, pointing to the diffused reflections from the opposite wall. "See, there, in the mirror? That's how you see yourself. But how often are you smiling when you do?"

"Huh?" Ali… ever seen a thought get derailed? First it was politics, then it was radio jocks.. and .. now it's a distorted reflection? The woman actually takes a moment to catch up. "I'm always smiling." It's a bit defensive, in fact.

George pauses as well. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. "Well… but there are levels to it. I don't know, maybe it's just because it's new to me. I know I'm seeing something that you aren't, so I'm trying to put a finger on it."

… there aren't many elevators left in New York that have a "Stop" pull. And most of those have an alarm.

This one doesn't have an alarm. And .. Ali reaches out, abruptly, to yank on it; the elevator grinds to a sudden and solid halt. It's an almost fierce motion. "I really, really like you, George. You're a really nice guy."

"And me? I'm not all that special. I dunno why you think I am, or why I should be - but I'm not what you think." She is studiously /not/ looking at him. "What would you do if you woke up one day and discovered you pretty much could have anything you wanted - if you just screwed over a couple of people to get it? And they wouldn't have much choice. And worse, you may have been doing it for years and never known?"

That wasn't the answer he was expecting, either. It is, however, the answer he needed.

Slowly, George walks around in a half-circle, until he and Ali are face to face once again. Buys him time to choose his next words carefully.

"What would you do if you woke up one day and discovered you pretty much could do either of those things? Separately? And worse, you couldn't even pick how it went down?"

Ali looks up at George - something indefinably pained in her expression. "You don't get it. A couple days ago? I almost killed my roomate because I got pissed off. I can't remember … for all I know? You like hanging around me because I /made/ you like it. And I just can't remember if I did." For anyone else, perhaps, it wouldn't make a lick of sense. But she throws it out there anyway, even as she reaches out to push in the button that'd start the elevator moving again.

George considers that, finally shaking his head. "I don't think you did. But… Wait a minute, I think maybe I know a way out of this." Fishing in his pocket, he comes up with a quarter. "Heads, you did make me, and now you make me stop it. Tails, you didn't, and you don't. And I like you because you're a really nice girl."

He moves as if to flip it, but pauses. "Now, see, this is /going/ to land true. Because the truth is very important to both of us right now." And now the coin is sent flying— smacking into the corner of the elevator car for good measure, spinning on the floor.

Ali closes her eyes - "George?" Abruptly, she focuses on him, eyes opening to meet his with an odd intensity. "You don't have to like me."

She simply doesn't look down. Let the quarter go where it goes. A shove on that button, and the elevator's moving again. "Let's go get that coffee?"

George takes a step forward, meeting your gaze. Also ignoring the coin, at least for the moment. "I know I don't," he says— as his arms slide around your waist. This time, there's no robbery in progress to spoil the moment.

She stiffens - but.. one can almost see the thought, something like 'it's just a hug' .. enough of a thought that for once, a stolen moment in a descending elevator, she relaxes, leaning against the man.

And you know? She doesn't say a word.

It isn't, though. The so-called nice guy steals a kiss at the end for good measure, even if it's really just a quick brush of lips against cheek. Then, letting go, he follows you out as the doors open again— stopping to pick up the quarter along the way, but whether he checks it or not can't really be told.

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