Logs:De-escalation

De-escalation
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Fury
In Absentia Jax, Malthus, Erik	2022-05-02 "Now, maybe I'm catastrophizing here, but my pessimism don't often steer me wrong."
Location <NYC> Fury's Safe House (1/??) - Crown Heights
From the outside, this house looks like just another historic brownstone. It is, in most of the ways that matter, just another historic brownstone, little different from the others in this "up and coming" neighborhood. And, like many others, there's a sign out front indicating it has been sold to a development company that hasn't actually bothered developing it yet. And so it has lain apparently empty in a traffic camera blind spot--incidentally, of course--another silent witness to the systematic dismantling of New York's Black neighborhoods. Despite the apparent neglect of the development company that theoretically owns it, the interior of the house is clean and well-maintained and tastefully appointed in mid-century modern style, straight edges softened with subtle curves in rich polished teak and upholstery in a warm palette of earthtones. For all the care that went into furnishing and decorating, the place feels a bit like a model home, too perfect to be a place people actually live. There's music softly filling the kitchen -- Shostakovitch violin concertos; his phone has neglected to identify the extremely skilled violinist playing them. The tote bag full of groceries and fresh ingredients from Lucien's garden has been largely depleted, save for the wine still inside. Lucien himself is hard at work, has been hard at work -- the proof of which is neatly laid out on the counter. How long has he been occupying Fury's kitchen, exactly? Long enough that there's a beautifully browned loaf of whole wheat focaccia cooling on the table, its surface decorated with scallions, cherry tomatoes and nasturtium leaves arranged to look like a blooming garden; there's a lemon cake miso leek pasta sprinkled with duck fat toasted panko; there's a lemon cake for dessert whose upper crust is embellished with candied oranges fashioned like flowers and a rich purple hibiscus drizzle; atop a plate of citrusy tuna tostadas he's currently arranging borage flowers. This belated Beltane theme carries through to his springlike clothing -- purple-and-white striped button down with cuffs rolled impeccably neatly and buttoned above his elbows, light blue-grey trousers, a pale green apron over top that features old-fashioned blockprint of a wooden spoon, measuring cup, chef's knife and bundle of herbs arranged around a bubbling soup pot. He's humming quiet along with the music as he carefully lays out the purple flower petals. Fury treads so lightly outside that there's no hint of his arrival until the back door unlocks to admit him. He is still in his work clothes, no-nonsense black dress shirt and slacks and a light black duster. Only a single arched eyebrow bespeaks his surprise as he drifts into the kitchen. Or nearly into the kitchen. He pauses to take in the ornately decorated foods on offer, and finally gives a low whistle of appreciation. "Well. Happy Beltane to you, too, Mister Tessier." He retreats and shrugs out of his duster -- surreptitiously rolling the shoulder that always gives him trouble when he's been too tense -- to hang it on the coat rack. "I hope you actually got some rest on your day off and ain't been toilin' up in here from dawn to dusk." "Please. All my dawns are spoken for until I hang that shield up, my trainer would likely murder me if I skipped the gym to cook a decadent feast instead." Lucien hasn't looked up from his flowers, but his expression and voice are both warm at the holiday wishes. "I have only been here since midmorning, and perhaps this is how I rest." Only once the last tostada is adorned does he straighten, looking up at Fury. "I do hope work was just tiring enough to give you an appetite." "Only midmorning," Fury echoes, faintly incredulous. "Beats what I been doing since then." He returns to admire Lucien's handiwork. "My appetite don't take much work when the chef look like you and the food look like that. But if hypothetically something was gon' put me off my supper?" He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms to make it look less like a slump than it is. "It'd be dealing with the goddamn United States gummint all day long. Again." "If you let Uncle Sam acting up dissuade you from a meal you would never eat again." Lucien turns to the sink to wash his hands, not quite quickly enough to obscure his faint flush at the compliments. His gaze slips sidelong to Fury, lips compressing at the other man's not-a-slump. "What fresh aggravations have they been putting you through today?" "You will note the hypothetical." Fury's frown, pulled lopsided by his scars, looks faintly quizzical until suddenly his brows clear and he straightens up fractionally. "I ask you to be particularly discreet on this matter, but I been dealing with DHS." He studies Lucien closely. "I have negotiated for the remaining HAMMER detainees to be transferred to SHIELD custody." "Here I had been planning on livetweeting the whole of our dinner date." It's a breeziness that drifts slowly away as Fury continues. Lucien has gotten a towel to dry his hands and he wrings it slow and tight between them. He eases back against the counter, gaze fixing back on Fury. "All of them?" "Yes. Mister Holland, too." Fury smooths one hand down over his beard. "Now, I can't just give him the pretrial hearing he's owed on account of we only got jurisdiction over physical detainment. DOJ still prosecutes him, and DHS still dictates his access limits." He shrugs, one shoulder hiking slightly higher. "It ain't finalized yet -- but I can only go back and forth so many times with these pussyfootin' feds. In the end I got to prioritize getting those folks out, away from Malthus Rogers." Lucien's shoulders ease fractionally at this confirmation, though he is back to wringing the towel harder at Malthus's name. "That man is the physical embodiment of an ill wind." He isn't looking at Fury, now, his eyes fixed on an indeterminate point on the wall. There are several questions warring in his expression. He squeezes the towel harder and in the end summons up none of them. "I expect Jackson's fan club will be pleased to have fresh scenery for their protests." "Me and Malthus been trampling on each others' toes for a minute. He's a piece of work, alright." Fury blows out a long, slow breath. "I don't expect any cookies for this, but I am hoping to show we're the lesser of evils. Which..." He gives a breathy, humorless bark of a laugh. "HAMMER done set a pretty low bar, there, but it might be hard to convince folks of that at the outset, when they's already pissed off and I can't as yet offer a whole lot more than 'we won't torture him'." "If you provide Jackson access to a kitchen, you may well get cookies out of it regardless." Lucien's fingers dig harder, for a moment, at the dish towel. "I am glad you plan to tiptoe over the bar Malthus Rogers has set." He eases his grip deliberately, smoothing the fabric out and folding it neatly to hang. He moves down the counter to where Fury has been leaning, eying the food as though to start moving it to the table. He doesn't actually get this far, though, instead leaning against the counter with his palms braced hard at its edge. "You will certainly have a challenge on your hands convincing his supporters you have no ill..." Here he trails off, eyes flicking up to Fury. "What is SHIELD's intent?" "I'mma just go ahead and not mention to DHS we ain't got any actual prison facilies, only temporary holding cells. We do have guest suites, so cookies may in fact be in the cards." Fury shrugs again, unfolding his arms this time to brace the heels of his hands on the counter, too. "SHIELD's intent is to head off a wholeass mutant uprising. Far as I can tell, Lensherr's a goddamn madman, and I'd be shocked if he didn't use this opportunity to fire up his people. He's a polarizing figure in mutant community, but Mister Holland?" His lips compress. "Now, maybe I'm catastrophizing here, but my pessimism don't often steer me wrong. So I get the photogenic freedom fighter outta harm's way. Might could even milk some actual justice out the feds if I'm sneaky enough." He turns to look squarely at Lucien. "Call it de-escalation." "What does justice look like for a people decimated by torture and mass slaughter?" It's hard to say if Lucien actually expects an answer to this question; it's soft, his eyes fixed on the spread of food in front of him. "Erik Lensherr is controversial -- but even that controversy has been much diminished over seven years out of sight. To most young mutants he's more of a meme than a leader, at present. I'd wager there are more mutants in this city who Jackson has personally pulled out of a cage than there are on the entire Brotherhood roster, and he's missed a trick already going weeks without firing them up." His eyes flick up only briefly to meet Fury's. "The longer he dawdles, the more opportunity --" He tips his hand up, out toward Fury. "-- a concerned party might have to prove themselves trustworthy. Pull some of the building energy in a less explosive direction." "Shit, I ain't talmbout justice for mutantkind. Even if I knew the answer and even if it was something could actually be done, I'm walkin' a real fine line as is." Fury scoffs, shaking his head. "But pulling strings to get some specific folks to trial? That I might could manage. And even that'll take time -- I cashed in a lot of favors and twisted a lot of arms just to get custody of them at all." He tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. "You got any idea how I might prove myself 'trustworthy', considerin'? Our PR folks ain't exactly as plugged into the mutant community as I'd like, but there's nothin' for it now. I do hate improvising but it come with the territory." At our PR folks Lucien's brows hitch fractionally, an ambiguous twitch tugging brief at a corner of his mouth. He finally pulls himself up from the counter, beginning to take the food over to the already-set table. "Are you asking my opinion as your --" His hesitation here is ever so slight, "-- friend or as a professional PR wrangler for somewhat chaotic public figures? -- In either case, I think it would be important to know what -- sort of balance you want. Between earning a position of trust with the mutant community and not burning too many bridges with the United States Government. The two goals are -- perhaps not entirely at odds, but certainly held in some tension against each other." Fury ducks out of the way and considers Lucien with an opaque gaze, literally stroking his beard. "I was asking as your friend," he allows, "but now that you say it maybe I should be asking you as a professional PR wrangler for somewhat chaotic public figures. Lord knows you got your hands full, and not just with aforementioned wrangling, but I will pay you a consulting fee if you're willing." He follows the other man into the dining room and braces his hands on the back of his chair. "I aim to make my balancing dynamic -- if I can earn the mutant community's trust, however grudging, and keep these protests comin' to a head? That'll buy me some latitude with Uncle Sam. Some. Anyone take a hard stand on the 'mutant question' is gonna hate me over this anyway, if they don't already." He peels one hand away and makes an ambivalent 'what can you do' gesture. "But if I demonstrate I can work with mutant activists? Sure as God made little green apples they're gonna hate lovin' me. Best case scenario, it might even influence their policies, though I ain't holding my breath for that." "Goodness, if I'm getting paid I will draw you up an entire game plan. -- Jackson himself may be a bit of a wild card in this. He has no love for police, under any acronym." Lucien brings out the wine last of all -- an Australian shiraz -- carefully uncorking it to pour two glasses. "Luckily," he sounds a little dry, "there is a very large contingent of liberals who adore police and very badly want the world to affirm this trust. -- Out of curiosity, what other prisoners will be you be taking on? Are they more in Jackson's vein of national threat, or Magneto's?" "Oh, I ain't countin' on him to come out liking me. Even if I did care about his -- or anyone else's -- gratitude, I been in intel long enough to know what comes of good deeds." Fury does not, actually, sound all that put out by this evaluation. "I reckon he'd rather this all blow up in our faces, but I'm just tryna salvage a fucked-up situation before it get fucked up beyond all repair. If I got the chance to be a decent goddamn human being in the process, I'll take it." He watches Lucien fill the glasses, still not taking his seat. "It's only a handful, and none of them Lensherr's calibur. Heidlage -- you remember that Waco-ass motherfucker? -- still got support from the far right. Considering where this country's heading, he might be a threat on par with Mister Holland." His brows furrow deeply. "Bennet Paris is the most infamous, and might pose a problem if he gets enough exposure to pick his 'dark prophet' bit back up. The rest are mostly there on account of shitty luck. Except Arkady Rossovich, but I ain't worried 'bout him unless someone out there starts getting nostalgic for a real life anti-Captain America." "Goodness, you are going to have du Paris?" Lucien's eyes open a touch wider. Once he has set the wine down he leans, too, against the back of his own chair. "That is good. That will be helpful. Jackson's diehards can be consoled that you are more humane than HAMMER, and the gaggle of liberals in the middle will be pleased you are more competent. I would advise --" Lucien catches himself with a small dip of his head, his fingers curling harder against the chair. "I should save the précis for when I am on the clock and not when supper is getting cold." Though he is also not taking his seat. He drags his gaze slowly up from the wine glasses to Fury. "Can I see him? Once he is -- safely ensconced in your guest suites." The breath Fury huffs is -- not quite a laugh. "If I got to deal with a crazy-ass doomsday cult leader, it's lucky I got a helpful one. Or, more to the point, someone who can turn him to good use." He draws a deep breath and shakes his head slowly. "Ain't s'posed to let him see no one 'cept his lawyers." His eye slants aside at Lucien, steady and sharp. "But, obviously my personnel got to be able to interact with him. And you'll be a bona fide SHIELD consultant, now won't you?" "DJ Allred is starting a cult -- have you heard? I do not believe he wishes to bring about the apocalypse, though. Trying something fresh and different with his ardent followers." Lucien's tone has warmed, an amusement just bleeding in at its edges. The set of his shoulders eases at Fury's answer, and now he does take off his apron, folding it and draping it neatly on the back of his chair before easing himself down into the seat. "I won't be wearing one of those drab black suits. Some people," he's eyeing Fury with no small measure of appreciation, "can pull it off adroitly but I simply do not have the color for it." "Jesus Christ," Fury mutters, "fresh and different's great, until it brings a torch-wieldin' mob to your door. Here I was vaguely hoping he'd settle down and lead a nice quiet life on a farm somewhere with a wife or three." He does finally sit down, himself. "Well, nobody's perfect. I'd be tempted to hold it against your lily white self if you weren't so damn fine in spite of it." He arches the brow of his good eye at Lucien. "And though you are ever so skilled in the art of flattery it will get you nowhere with me. This feast, on the other hand..." He lifts his wine glass. "To Jackson Holland, and all the other reasons I wear the black."