Logs:Buttercup

Buttercup
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Malthus
In Absentia	2023-04-11 "Are you mocking me?"
Location <NYC> Mount Sinai Hospital - Upper East Side
On the cutting edge of many medical technologies, Mount Sinai Hospital is often ranked as one of the nation's best hospitals. The medical school attached is one of the best in the world, meaning that even your med students know what they are doing. Chin up, then -- when you come in here badly mutilated after the latest terrible catastrophe in Times Square, you're in good hands. The hub-bub you'd expect around a regular hospital has tapered off, here; Malthus does not have many visitors, and the armed HAMMER agents (all out of uniform, and all -- rather poorly -- pretending to be here on completely unrelated business) are doing quiet checks on anyone who happens to be visiting. That doesn't mean visitors are impossible, though... you just have to be someone who's not sending up red flags. Malthus is in bed, a bandage covering (ironically) a large portion of his left face, including both the scar and the damaged eye. Several more bandages mar his left side, including numerous stitches -- a light pattern of bruises dusts his face, shoulders, and arms. His one good eye -- left unharmed -- is currently flicking between the pile of laminated reports in his lap and the television news program reporting on the recent BoM attack. The medical staff refused to let him wear his black coat... meaning he's currently clad in a hospital gown. He at least got them to take him off the pain-killers. The otherwise drab room features one splash of color -- a card made with gold construction paper and crayons, featuring a child (drawn in red) and Malthus (drawn in black, with scribbles over the left side of his face). Both are holding a bow and arrow, with the arrowed carcass of a deer nearby; the words 'GET WELL SOON' have been crudely written beneath all three figures. The card has been tossed to the floor with the casual disregard one reserves for junk mail. Lucien does not, in general, send up flags of any sort. Today he is dressed sharply, a gray sharkskin three-piece suit perfectly tailored to his muscular physique, the abstract blues of his tie--lightened with a flash of gold--bring out his icy eyes, and his black monk shoes sport a subtle embossed vine pattern. He moves through hospitals like someone regrettably well habituated to them, riding just the correct line of businesslike and somber. A number of the nurses on the floor and at least a couple of the doctors seem to know him. In his hands, a gift bag, doggedly cheerful with its Get Well Soon motif and at odds with the impassive solemnity written into his expression. He does knock -- rat-tat-tat, crisp and clear on the door frame. But, then, without invitation, sweeps his way inside. He casts a disappointed look on the barren room, and while he does not tsk aloud he's probably thinking it, as he stoops to pluck the child's card from the floor, set it primly on the bedside stand. "Good afternoon, Captain Rogers." His softly accented voice is quiet, gentle, even, as if in deference to Malthus's enfeebled state. There is a brief moment of confusion that registers on Malthus's face when that knock first comes -- he has left very explicit orders not to be disturbed, and he is not a man accustom to having his orders disobeyed. But the moment that Lucien steps through that door -- any outward sign of confusion evaporates, replaced by a stern, tightly controlled stare that focuses upon the immaculately dressed gentleman with razor-sharp clarity. Although internally, that confusion is still there -- if anything, there's more of it. His mind is a churning mass of surprise, anger, and --what?!. "...mmh." His nostrils flare as Lucien plucks up the child's card and places it back atop of the stand; his one exposed eyebrow lifts... then tightens, crumpling into a knot with its bandaged sibling. He is very clearly trying to figure this the fuck out. "...good... afternoon?" Malthus finally responds, head tilted -- as if he were a bird curiously regarding some utterly baffling human courtship behavior. At the very least, he is no longer examining the reports. "I am so sorry to disturb your rest," Lucien is cursorily glancing over the laminated reports like he absolutely did not expect Malthus to be resting and is pleased to have his prediction confirmed. "I know our paths have crossed but the once -- but Steve is such a dear friend and it seemed uncouth to leave a relative of his in the hospital without so much as a thought. I --" His eyes flick to the singular card, then down. "Well. You are such a busy man, and it can be hard to find connections, in the city." He holds the gift bag, careful, delicate, just a touch closer to his chest. "Are they treating you well, in here?" There's an earnest solicitousness in his eyes. "I..." For once in his life, Malthus is at a genuine loss for words. He's just staring at Lucien with that focused, intentful stare -- as if his single eye could produce a burning beam of light that would spear right through that broad, muscular, immaculately-dressed chest. "...how do you..." he starts with a low, almost breathless voice at his mention of 'relative', but that thought is abandoned as Lucien continues -- and asks that final question. Malthus's eye, at last, narrows. "Are you..." Something creeps into his tone -- something unfamiliar. Subtle, but churning beneath the surface -- like a pool of pirahna hidden beneath murky waters. The words come out as a mere whisper: "Are you mocking me?" "Captain Rogers," Lucien says this with only the very -- very -- mildest hint of reproach, not so much like he is upset with Malthus but like he is, just in the slightest bit, wounded. "I could not possibly have inhabited Captain America all this time and not taken to heart at least some of his ideals. Steve is quite a caring man, you must know. It was he who put me in mind to visit, he has such a passion for dogs and when we saw your statement -- well. I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose a family member that way." He is slipping his phone out of his pocket, here. Tap-tapping -- but not very much, perhaps he was already prepared. There is a video loaded, when it turns it to Malthus. "It is not much comfort, I know," he says sympathetically, "but I thought you out to know your sweet pup is not dead after all. Quite well, actually." The video plays. "Hnh." Malthus is rubbing his brow, now, as Lucien continues -- rubbing the bandaged part of his face. By the look of it, it is likely quite painful. As Lucien talks about 'Captain America's ideals', he rubs harder. His breathing is slow and deep, like a man focusing on each inhalation of air; his hand drops down atop of one of the reports, gripping a pen laid on the laminated page. His grip tightens on it, as if he's trying to exert all his feelings on it instead of his thoughts of attempted murder. When Lucien gets to the comment about the dog, the squeezing and rubbing suddenly stops -- a look of confused, enraged puzzlement overcoming him. "--my... statement? I--" Now, his eye is riveted on that phone. He watches. The brow crumples deeper at the sight of the old original prison site, followed by Magneto. His eyes briefly alight on those rings -- then, Patton -- when Magneto redubs him 'Buttercup', the pen creaks, then breaks beneath the pressure of his thumb. Ink splatters out from the gel pen to coat Malthus's fist. His teeth are clenched. His eyes drag up from the phone, locked on Lucien: "Leave. Now," he whispers. Lucien can hear his teeth grinding. Lucien is watching Malthus's expression with a steady calm, the phone held very steady as well. He does not move until the pen snaps -- does not evince any surprise, either. His head inclines just slightly, small and polite as though Malthus has just wished him a good day. He taps at his phone again before tucking it back away and is starting to turn aside from Malthus's beside -- but then turns back with a small widening of his eyes. "Goodness, where is my mind. I know I couldn't quite help you last time we met -- and you were so very keen, too! But I thought, perhaps, the next best thing? A comfort, I hope, as you convalesce." He reaches into his gift bag to pluck out a large soft plush toy, set it so gently down atop Malthus's bed with just a little pat. And then he is striding out, leaving behind only the faint woody-citrusy musk of cologne to break up the hospital acridity -- and the wide eyed, faintly startled expression of the red blood cell giant microbe to keep Malthus company.