ArchivedLogs:Vignette - People Like That

Vignette - People Like That
Dramatis Personae Steve
In Absentia	2016-07-05 "...but did he /seriously/ think someone like /you/ would ever be interested?"
Location <NYC> SHIELD HQ - Cafeteria
The dining hall is capacious and bright, furnished with round tables and comfortable chairs for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents and other employees. Floor to ceiling windows along one wall look out over the architecture and bustle of midtown Manhattan, and opposite that, a long gleaming counter with glass serves up a vast variety of food, with sections set aside for special dietary considerations -- some with their own color-coded plates and utensils. The quality of the food is decent, for the most part, if a bit on the bland side until fairly recently. Steve is, somewhat uncharacteristically, sitting alone with multiple trays -- two already emptied while he works on a third. He's wearing a light blue button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows, light gray trousers, and the harness for his shield, which rests beside his chair. The lunch-time crowd bustles around him in a stream of amiable chatter punctuated by bright greetings and laughter. He does not seem to notice any of this, staring down into his plate of heavily spiced vegetable hash and mashed potatoes. Two agents approach him, one tall and one short, both in smartly tailored black suits and both carrying their trays. "Hello there, Cap," says the taller one, cheerfully. Steve looks up before the man speaks. His smile does not come immediately, but it's dazzling when it does arrive. Perfect, if heavily rehearsed. "Good afternoon, Agent Ashford." Then, nodding at the shorter man. "Agent McElroy. How goes your day?" "Scads of paperwork and a bit of fun. You know, the usual." Agent Ashford has a pale, longish face and slightly hollow cheeks even when he is at the peak of health, as he is now. "Happy belated birthday, by the way. Saw you on the news yesterday. Great show down in DC, wasn't it?" The last question seems to be directed more at the short, dark-skinned agent beside him. "Splendid fireworks," McElroy says in oblique agreement, nodding slight and slow. His hair, done up in preternaturally neat and thin chin-length braids, sway with the motion. His dark brown eyes contain fair more mirth than his words or expression, as though he were relishing a private joke. "Happy birthday." "Oh! Merci." Steve dips his head. "I ah...wasn't responsible for the fireworks, but I certainly appreciated them." He pauses for a beat. "Pyrotechnics has certainly grown as an art since my day." "I'll bet!" Ashford laughs -- a short, abrupt sound. He looks around Steve, at the empty table. "Say, I haven't seen your puppy hanging about. Finally told him off, have you?" Steve blinks at Ashford, first slowly. "I beg your pardon?" "Holland." Ashford jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen. "He's been trailing you around, giving you doe eyes ever since he got here. I've certainly got nothing against a man being oriented however he likes, but did he /seriously/ think someone like /you/ would ever be interested?" Still staring up at Ashford, Steve puts down his fork. "I'm sure what he thinks of me is none of your affair." "Pretty obvious what he thinks of you, but then, the same can be said for a /lot/ of people," McElroy allows, diplomatically. "Well, yeah, but most of them weren't /glommed/ onto him like that." Ashford tisks, shaking his head. "Must have been a bit uncomfortable, or annoying, at least." Steve's hands grip the edge of the table. "Jackson Holland is a good man, and a friend. I have no complaints about his character or his company." "Nothing wrong with that, of course." McElroy glances sideways at Ashford. "Perhaps we should leave Captain Rogers to his meal?" Ashford blunders on blithely, however, "You don't have to play politically correct with us. We all know you really just have to be firm with people like that. How'd you finally get him to leave off?" Steve stands up. The movement seems minor, but all at once he's towering above both of the agents, a fierce anger burning in his pale blue eyes. When the chair slid back, his shield fell to the floor on its convex side, and with a sharp stomp on its edge he flips it up to his right hand. Then brings it down right smack in the center of the table. The sturdy composite material splinters, cracks, then finally sunders, sending trays, plates, bowls, cups, flatware, and uneaten food crashing to the floor. The cafeteria around them quiets abruptly. Security guards turn toward them and grip their weapons tighter, but make no move to intervene. Through all this Steve never takes his eyes off of Ashford, but never says another word to him, either. He just turns and sweeps out of the room, leaving the wreckage of his table and lunch, and a slow, rising tide of astonished murmurs.