ArchivedLogs:Capitaine Canada
| Capitaine Canada | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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Canada Day "{You know, the new motif really suits you.}" |
| Location
<NYC> 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. The sound of rain drums constant and heavy, pounding on the roof, sluicing off the eaves in great sheets that stream past the windows. The streetlamps are only a vague glowing blur through the watery glass, the incessant white-noise of the city largely drowned out by the drumming. Inside the Tessier house it is, at least, warm and dry. The air smells rich and winey from dinnertime stroganoff, though now joined by sweeter baking smells -- apple pie, maple-frosted maple-and-candied-walnut cake. The cake icing bears a glazed red maple leaf in its center -- surrounded by the words "Bonne Fête, Steve!" Off in the dining room, Horus is perched on the back of a chair, warbling quietly to himself while peering intent and curious at the saltwater fishtank. In the kitchen there are clinking sounds, running water, cheerful chatter, as some of the party tends to post-meal cleanup. In the living room, Hive (dressed today in faded old corduroys and his 'ceci n'est pas une lune' t-shirt) is lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly to one side as he watches Flèche consume the slice of pie he had sitting on a plate by his side. He makes no move to actually /stop/ the dog. Just -- watches. Matt enters, bubbling with amusement still, from the kitchen whence he has been chased. Dressed in a black t-shirt with the line drawing of a blue house (sprouting an architecturally improbable spiral staircase deep into the earth below) and gray cargo shorts, he carries the largest of their teapots in one hand and four mugs in the other. He kneels by the coffee table and fills the cups for distribution--a light, sweetly fragrant milk oolong. It's only when he nudges Hive to draw his attention to tea that he notices the dog polishing off the pie. "Oh, um...Luci, is there anything in that pie that would hurt the pup?" as he hands Steve his tea. "I saved all the garlic and onions for the stroganoff." Lucien seems unconcerned, at least, with Flèche's pilfering. "Though she may keep /us/ up half the night after all that sugar." He is nestled into a corner of the couch, legs tucked up beneath him. His /own/ square of cake is safely on a plate in his lap; he slices off a small nut-filled corner to take a bite. Perched on the couch beside Lucien, Steve has almost finished cake slice #2. He still looks as though he has just gotten off work, in a pale blue pinpoint oxford shirt, a dark blue tie dusted with spirals of faintly glimmering stars, and lightweight gray trousers. His shield he has left propped against the wall beside his shoes, its paint scheme changed ever so slightly for the day: a red maple leaf on a white field occupying the center instead of a star. He bobs his head and accepts his tea from Matt. "{Thank you,}" Glancing at Flèche. "I can take her for a run around the block or ten to burn it off. Though I didn't bring a change of clothes..." "... really frakking good stroganoff." Hive is still watching the dog as she licks his plate clean. His brows pull just slightly together, though, with this comment. It takes a moment for his expression to even back out -- the ripple of amusement that follows flutters in uncomfortable pressure up against the others' minds. "So you in clinging-wet shirt? Doubt you'll hear much complaint." Matt slides his brother a cup as well before nudging Hive again. << Tea. If you want it. >> Whether the man takes it or not, he sets the last cup on the coffee table, near enough for him to reach if he wishes. He scoots over to sit at the foot of the couch, wrapping both hands around his own mug. "/I/ won't complain, but I'm not sure my brother would quite like wet pup /and/ wet Cap galumphing around his living room." "/One/ of those two I can handle." Lucien leans forward to claim his cup, settling back comfortably in his chair with it. "{You know, the new motif really suits you.}" Steve finishes his cake and takes a careful sip of his tea, humming with approval. "I like this tea, too. /Everything/ has been fantastic tonight, I cannot thank you all enough." The sentiment is genuine enough, but inside he's still roiling with the same hollow ache that has followed him all week, and a fresher hurt that he does not want to name. He smiles. "{Oh, yes! I should just keep the maple leaf shield for Monday. I'm sure the media will love it.}" "{You'd start a riot.}" Hive says this with more amusement than concern, lips twitching almost into a smile. Almost. His mind presses up a little more firmly against Steve's, a stirring of concern there easy enough to feel. "{Which -- is pretty holiday-appropriate, come on.}" "Hey, Canada is in America, too." Matt cranes his neck toward his brother's cake, though his eyes are skidding aside toward Steve, his quiet worry evident to Hive, at the very least. "{It's very /you/-appropriate, for that matter.}" Lucien slices off another piece of cake, offering the forkful out towards Matt. "{Perhaps not /entirely/ concordant with the image you have been trying to present, admittedly.}" His lips purse, thoughtfully. "{Though if we superimpose a hammer and sickle over the maple leaf? Then it might do well.}" Steve's mind leans back against Hive's, curling inward, burrowing. "{A riot or two would make my 'birthday' more entertaining, at least.}" His laugh comes quiet and shallow. "I'm going to have to eat so much mediocre red-white-and-blue cake." "{Just bring Zenobia with you. Palm off all your trash to her. She'll be the happiest pup.}" Hive's mind presses back harder against Steve's -- clenching, digging, finally coiling in to intertwine with the other man's. The feeling of concern grows, spreading out warm and enveloping. Matt gloms the cake and washes it down with a mouthful of tea. "Dogs are patriotic, right?" He curls an arm around Flèche and drags her closer, burying his face in her neck. "Gigantic dogs must be /extra/-patriotic." "Such are the burdens you must bear." Lucien does not sound exceptionally sympathetic on the subject of Mediocre Cake. He does offer a consoling, "{We will save some good cake for you upon your return.}" Steve closes his eyes. Flickers of memories pass through him -- of other birthdays, few with cake (mediocre or otherwise), many with laughter, at least one under fire, and almost all of them with Bucky at his side. "{Thank you -- not just for the cake. For something to come back to.}" He relaxes into Hive gratefully. His shoulders ease, and he's a little surprised to find that he was tense to begin with. Hive's eyes close. He lies back on the floor, the flutters of memory passing through him. Quietly, the coils of his mental presence grow stronger, bolstering. "{Think that's called a home.}" | |
