Logs:Open Door

Open Door
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Steve	2019-02-05 "Now I just -- just gotta find my way again." (Set some hours after Hive and Flicker pick up a stray.)
Location Tessier Residence, Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. It's quiet in the Tessier house right now. Well past the dinner hour, inching into a very respectable hour for most people to be going to bed. At the moment, in the living room, whiskey will have to suffice in place of rest -- Lucien is setting out a pair of squat glasses on colourful glass coasters, pouring a few fingers from a bottle of Isfjord single malt into each. There's music playing softly, Rimsky-Korsakov, Capriccio Espagnol piped in quiet from unseen speakers. A plate with scones, sweet cream, jam, sits out on the coffee table near the drinks. Lucien is dressed neatly in soft grey trousers and pink button-down, his hair still slightly damp where it has been carefully arranged into very precise muss. He plucks up one of the glasses for himself, and settles himself, posture quite upright, delicately into an armchair. His well-manicured hands cradle the glass carefully, brilliant green eyes turning a calm and curious look onto his guest. Steve had been sitting on the sofa, his posture more stiff than upright exactly, exactly where he was bidden to sit when arrived. He's dressed in a heather gray hoodie and blue jeans, and the great round face of his shield leans against the couch beside him. He's sporting a pale five-o-clock shadow, his hair is not-so-artfully mussed, and his eyes flit constantly from focus to focus "Thank you, Sir," he says as his host pours him the drink. "I'm sorry to bother you at such an hour. I did not realize it would be so late, and I can hardly call this an emergency." His brows knit close together. "Though I admit it is a truly bizarre situation. Flicker and Hive seemed to think you might be able to advise me." Lucien dismisses the apology with a flutter of fingers in the air. "By my schedule, the night is yet young." There's a quiet but distinct francophone accent that colours his words. "And I do not think it need be an emergency to warrant a listening ear. I admit that I have only the roughest idea what it is you might need advising on. Hive led me to understand only that you have been having something of a difficult time." Steve lets out a guffaw that seems to take him by surprise. He picks up his glass and takes a short pull of the whiskey. Blinks several times. Nods appreciatively. "Oh, wow. I'm no connoisseur, but that might be the best whiskey I've had since --" He breaks off, shakes his head. "Yes, my situation...most people would think me mad if I even tried to explain. But at this point I frankly don't care." Still, he hesitates. Stares down into his drink. "I'm in the Army -- was, in the Army. Last week, my best friend was killed in action." His tone is flat, matter-of-fact, but his shoulders are tense beneath the shapeless fabric of his sweatshirt. "A couple of days later, I almost died, and fell unconscious for a while." The tightness spreads over him. "I woke up in the keeping of a covert government agency that didn't want to let me go, and while that's awful, I fear they may actually have a point." He scrubs his face with the palm of one hand. Takes a gulp of whisky this time. "Because the war I was fighting, that was the Second World War." Lucien's brows pull faintly inward as Steve talks, a soft sympathetic hum his only reaction -- until the end of this explanation. There's a small widening of his eyes, a faint tension that presses the pads of his fingers more firmly to his glass. He pulls a slow breath, looks down at his whiskey, lifts it for a long swallows. His arm drops back to rest on the arm of the chair, and the whiskey swishes in his glass as his hand rotates in a small restless circle. "Forgive me the question, but you are aware that World War II ended a bit more than a week ago?" "So I'm told," Steve seems to be expecting this reaction, "though I'm not sure now whether to believe anything they told me. I missed the declarations of victory because I was...frozen in arctic sea ice, apparently. So, to me, it was still going. Last week." Another quick shake of his head. "I know it's not the right way to think or talk about it. I think it's just been...a very long day." He takes another drink and sets the glass down. "I'm aware how all this probably sounds. I understand perfectly if you can't or don't want to deal with any of this, if you think me mad, or a liar." "Frozen -- in the arctic --" Lucien's eyes flutter into a couple rapid blinks. He takes another pull from his whiskey and cants a brief glance to the shield, propped against the couch. A muscle twitch-jumps in the side of his jaw, and then unclenches. One forefinger traces slow circles against the side of his glass as his eyes fix steadily on Steve. "Are you lying?" In tone, at least, this is neutral and direct. "No, Sir," Steve's answer is immediate, firm, certain. He returns Lucien's gaze with steely calm. "But I cannot imagine, off-hand, how I could possibly prove it, without the government's records." Lucien's eyes do not waver. He inclines his head slightly, and the restless bouncing-tapping of his hand stills. "Have you any idea what agency was keeping you? Or how they --" A beat. "Revived you, at all?" "The agency is called S.H.I.E.L.D. -- Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate," Steve rattles off the long string of words, deadpan. "Even I thought it sounded a bit made-up, and I'm in the Army." Frown. "Was. From what they told me, S.H.I.E.L.D. rose from the ashes of the US Army Strategic Scientific Reserve." The corner of his mouth twitches. His eyes flick down to his empty right hand, which flexes. "I'm sure they only told me the most simplified version, but I understand I was awakened with the use of several electrical machines." "It sounds as though someone very badly wanted that acronym to work." Lucien tips back the last swallow of his whiskey. Leaning in to refill his glass, he offers more to Steve as well. "I imagine that you have had -- quite a lot to do by way of adjusting." He sets the bottle back down, settles back in his seat. "Why did you leave? What sort of help is it that you want?" "Said they answer to the United Nations Security Council. I'm not sure what that is, either, but it sounds important." Steve drains his glass as well and lets Lucien replenish it. "Merci. I left because they were keeping things from me, and I wanted to see the future for myself. But then I saw." His fingers start to tighten around the glass, and he very deliberately relaxes them. "When I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, they say we won. They didn't say what we lost." He starts to add something, but seems to think better of it. "Even if I wanted to work with them again, and that's a big if, I wouldn't want to do it on their terms." "So I should find a place to stay. It needn't be for long, just...somewhere to get myself together and go back on the offensive. Though, after watching that State of the Union address, I don't know if S.H.I.E.L.D. should be my priority." He takes another sip, visibly conquering the urge to knock it all back. "Anyway, I could use help finding a boarding house of some sort, if those still exist. Unless you're burning to advise me on how to fight the U.S. government and some shadowy international spy agency." He frowns deeply, shaking his head in irritation. "That doesn't even make sense. Who do they spy on?" There's a very small twitch at the side of Lucien's mouth. The hum he gives is soft, noncommittal. "I know you've been through quite a lot, but if you'll indulge me a few more questions, it would assist greatly in figuring out a suitable place for you to land." His hand rests on his knee, fingers tracing light absent patterns against the fabric of his trousers. "Do you expect that the people at -- The Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate, was it?" Lucien isn't quite as fluid with rattling this off, each word delivered carefully, "-- will be coming in search of you? And, have you any income, currently? And if I am to get your government documentation in order, I will need your full name. Ideally a place and date of birth as well." Steve nods, confirming Lucien's recollection. "I think they will try to find me if I am not back tonight, but I don't think they'll try to take me by force. They could have done that when I left, but did not." He wrinkles his brows slightly, thoughtful. "In fact, they gave me some money and tried to make me take a radio -- telephone. I refused. Figured they could probably track it." He takes a generous swallow of whisky. Puts the glass down. "I have no income. I can and will work, though my C.V. might be a bit out of date." The hint of a smile flashes across his weary features. "My name is Steven Grant Rogers, born in Red Hook, first of July, 1920." Here he sighs. "Wait, no. My official paperwork says fourth of July now. It's --" He waves one hand in the air, dismissive. "It's a long story." Lucien stops at this, his eyes locking on Steve's face as a slowly deepening furrow writes itself into his brow. He's silent a very long time -- eventually takes his phone out of his pocket, wordless as he taps at its screen for a short time. Then looks back up at Steve. He lifts his glass, throws back its entire contents, and silently leans forward to refill it and top off Steve's as well. Steve studies Lucien closely, too, perplexity written plainly on his face at the use of the phone, though he does not ask about it. "Merci," quietly, as he picks his glass back up and drinks deep. "Still don't believe me?" No accusation in this, just exhaustion, disappointment. The next breath he draws is shaky, but he closes his eyes and lets it back out in one long, controlled stream. His shoulders are still rigid, his posture straight, both of his hands wrapped steadily around his glass. "I appreciate you humoring me, it's -- " He swallows. Seems to abruptly remember his drink, and downs half of it all in one go. "More than I had any right to expect." Lucien's eyes lower back to his phone. Then to his glass. He sets the phone down on the table, curls both hands around his drink. "{I did not say that.}" His French is distinctly Quebecois. "I am just --" He tips the glass slowly from side to side, watching the light shift off the whiskey inside. "Processing. It is," delicately, "a lot, but I'm sure nowhere near as much as you are having to filter through right now. I do believe I can assist you." His eyes are still fixed on his drink. "With housing, at the least, and hopefully with gaining access to your rightful identification as well. But -- if you --" He flicks a glance to the shield, then back up to Steve. "I've no idea how you survived, but the very fact that you did? It's doubtless that many others will be keenly interested in you, and not solely to have new propaganda fodder." Steve bows his head slightly. "{I am sorry. I should not have assumed.}" His French carries a Provençal accent as well as American, making him sound incongruously rural. "{I did not think you had much cause to believe.}" His voice is steadying, if only by comparison. "I frankly have no idea how I lived, either. I can only imagine it's got something to do with the serum, and the process..." He trails off, going still, eyes widening slightly. "Oh." "{I've seen a surprising amount of magic in this world.}" Lucien's words are matter-of-fact. "The serum?" His head tilts slightly as Steve trails off, his brows hitching upward. He studies Steve with a patient expectation. Steve shakes his head, no in denial but like one trying to clear it. "{They -- I didn't always look like this,}" he explains, indicating with one hand his wide and muscular torso. "{There was an experimental procedure. I volunteered.}" He draws in a sharp breath. Drains the rest of his drink. "{It changed me. Made me stronger, faster, tougher. That's how I survived. And probably what they want.}" He frowns again. "SSR took blood samples -- gallons, it felt like -- in hopes of replicating it. But that was a long time ago." Lucien lifts a hand, fingertips touching lightly to his lips. "{You -- volunteered. For research that made you into...}" He pushes out a slow and somewhat shaky breath through his fingers. "And you survived seven decades in the ocean. I -- goodness. Yes. I imagine that will be of immense interest to..." When he drops his hand, lifts his glass instead, some of the colour has faded from his face. "It is getting quite late, Mr. Rogers. If you are comfortable with it, I can offer you a bed here -- just until we find you something more suitable for the long-term. We've a spare room upstairs, if --" A small twitch at the corner of his lips. "If you aren't troubled by dogs." Steve nods. "{That...does more or less cover it.} I adore dogs, and would be very grateful of a bed. I hope it isn't too much disruption to your life." He tilts his head, taking in Lucien's posture, his pallor. "{Are you alright?}" "Oh, in order to be disruptable my life would need some kind of order to begin with." There's a quiet amusement buried in Lucien's tone. Finishing off his whiskey again, this time he just lowers the empty glass to his knee. "{Still processing, I think. I'll be quite alright.} I suspect plenty of people have already had opinions at you about the matter, but, have you given thought to what you want to do from here?" Steve arches one eyebrow and looks around the living room. "If this is what you consider chaos, I'm not sure I'm ready for your idea of order." But there's something almost like a smile on his lips again. "S.H.I.E.L.D. wants me to work for them, though they weren't all that specific about how. Me? I want the same thing I've always wanted." He sets the glass down on its coaster with only faintest clink on contact. "To stand up for what's right and to fight against injustice, whatever form it takes. Up until a few days ago, the way to do that seemed pretty clear. Now I just --" He draws a deep breath. Lets it back out. "-- just gotta find my way again." "It is late. The chaos mostly comes in the daytime." Lucien rises slowly, plucking up the whiskey bottle and empty glass. "If that is the path you still wish to take, I have some notion where to begin. But that -- {that might be a conversation for daytime hours, too.} Such things are best planned, I believe, when well rested."