Logs:Gentlemen

Gentlemen
Dramatis Personae Fury, Lucien	2020-12-12 "Just because we're used to pulling everything out our asses don't mean we can't at least try to anticipate some of this bullshit." (part of rift tp.)
Location <NYC> S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ - Times Square
This corner office is big, bright and airy, which is not cheap to come by in midtown Manhattan. On one side, a huge glass desk sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Times Square. The far corner has a leather couch, a coffee table, a liquor cabinet and a sideboard, but the rest of the floor space was left open between eclectically stocked bookshelves. S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ is decidedly less populated on Saturday than ever it is during the week, but clearly some agents are still at work. The director of the agency certainly is, anyway, and has been typing away at his desk right up until his guest/temporary contract employee arrives. He's still dressed in all black, if somewhat nicer than usual today in a two-button jacket, vertical striped satin vest, button down, and pleated trousers. His black duster, if he wore it at all today, is nowhere to be see. "Welcome, Mister Tessier. Please have a seat." He closes the laptop he'd been working on and shoves it aside as he rises. "Can I get you something to drink? I'm not confident my tea is quite up to your standards, but I have excellent cognac and even better Scotch." Among the sea of dark suited agents Lucien stands out in palette if not in style, a few shades lighter than most but still unassuming in light gray suit in classical lines, well-tailored but not cut too close, with a pale blue twill dress shirt, a diagonal stripe tie in blue and gray knotted in a neat half windsor, and black monk shoes. "Thank you," his head tips slightly in acknowledgment, "a Scotch would be great." He settles himself into a seat opposite the desk, eyes tracking after Fury as he rises. "I'm sure you have many things to stay on top of and -- do not know how much to assume you've been briefed about the latest developments out in Staten Island." Fury ambles over to his liquor cabinet, selects a bottle -- BenRiach Authenticus, aged 25 years -- pouring it into two squat crystal glasses and then delivering one to Lucien. "I do have many things to stay on top of," he acknowledges as he returns to his seat, though he keeps his drink in hand. "But I'm pretty damned invested in the one that's tearing a bigger and bigger hole into another reality at the moment. I've been briefed fully as of two hours ago." His face tightens with displeasure, though this eases after he take a sip of his Scotch. "If you know of any new development since then, please enlighten me." Lucien's head inclines gratefully as he accepts the drink. He's quiet for his first small swallow, gaze drifting away to the enormous windows. "Good. Then you know that their data is indicating that they will not be able to mend that tear without DJ Allred on our side of it. I don't suppose you have had much chance to speak with the man yourself? He is," there is a very small twitch at the corner of Lucien's mouth, "occasionally hard to pin down. And back in his own world for now, to my knowledge. I don't expect there will be much new development until he reaches a decision." "It is goddamned inconvenient," Fury rumbles. He could just as well be complaining about the traffic on the GW Bridge. "But no, I haven't had the pleasure. Figured the man was probably overwhelmed as it was. Much as I want to chew out Rogers for talking Stark Number Two into letting him pass..." His shrug is an irritated, fatalistic twitch. "I don't imagine trying to pin him would have made him more amenable to cooperating. If he does it'll have to be on the merits of not wanting the world to end. Worlds." He shakes his head and takes another. "Sure do hope to hell he makes a decision sooner rather than later." "It is certainly not a decision I envy him. Though goodness knows what will be left of Staten Island if he tarries." Lucien does not, admittedly, sound overly dismayed at the thought of a gaping void where Staten Island used to be, only a mild thoughtfulness in his tone. His wrist rolls slowly; he watches the play of light through his shifting whisky, a very small crease forming between his brows. "Forgive me if I am asking the obvious but if he does decide to come back here and let your team close that door, have you given much thought to what happens -- after?" Fury also does not look particularly torn up at the mention of loosing Statent Island, at least no more than he's been generally dismayed about the entire situation. "Like I said. Goddamned inconvenient." He leans back in his seat and studies Lucien, his eye sharp and unwavering. "I assume I can rely upon you to manufacture a suitable explanation for the destruction of the precinct, though that story kind of wrote itself what with the earthquake. S.H.I.E.L.D. can handle the cleanup and beyond that?" He lifts his free hand up into the air. "Glory hallelujah and pass the champagne, I guess." As a sort of afterthought, "Or, sparkling grape juice, for Allred. Don't suppose he'll be in a celebratory mood, though." "I imagine he rather thought the traumatic amputation would be the worst part of his month. And yet." Lucien is still studying his drink, but lift his eyes back to Fury after he takes another sip. "Oh, the curiosity of the world I can manage. I was referring to the man himself. I expect," in his exceptionally mild voice there is no such weight of expectation, "you have more of a plan than hand him his grape juice and send him on his way?" "December 2020, everybody." Fury lifts his glass toward his window and Times Square beyond, as if saluting the year's end in advance. He turns back to Lucien, his expression inscrutable for a moment. "Obviously he'll be compensated -- only reason we haven't so far is the complexities of interdimensional economics, for a fugitive no less. If he winds up here those issues will be moot, but I'm not shamed to admit there's not exactly much precedence for this. Ain't nothing we can do gonna be a just compensation for a man been ripped from his entire life and everything he ever knew." His brows furrow faintly, then arch at Lucien. "Though, now that I put it that way, I guess there is something like a precedent." "No, there is certainly very little recompense that can make up for the loss of his wife, his children, his entire world --" Lucien's hand turns upward, fingers tipped toward Fury for this last. "But I do rather imagine finding your feet with a war at your back and an unknown world ahead of you cannot be any easier if you need worry about where your next meal comes from. It's not even as though he'll be able to explain himself to anyone, as tight as you want this story locked up." He drops his hand to his knee; his other forefinger taps lightly against the side of his glass. "Steve Rogers gave up his life and his world to save New York, once, and if he chose he would never have to work a day in his life. I expect some kind of arrangement might be made for giving up all you have to save the entire world." Fury nods slowly, nursing his Scotch. "Fair enough -- such as fair is, considering it's going to be a raw fucking deal for him no matter how much we pay him." He ruminates for a brief moment, then nods again, more firmly. "Alright. So we'll draw up some details on a pension for saving the world, then. We can also iron out legal matters of documentation and so on." He waves his hand in the air vaguely. "Won't solve anything on the social front, but at least they won't try to deport him --" His lips compress, his expression briefly shadowed. "-- or worse. We'll see to it he's taken care of, much as he'll allow us. World owes him that much at least." "Very good." Lucien drains the rest of his glass, setting it lightly down on the desk. "I will talk to him again once we have some sort of reasonable agreement and see where he stands." A tension hardens his jaw, small and brief. "At this rate you all ought to draw up a standard procedure for this type of thing. Gods only know how many displaced soldiers will be on your doorstep this time next year." Fury's expression is neutral enough, but his gaze dips briefly at Lucien's proposal. "I do appreciate you looking out for him. We wouldn't have left him hanging anyhow, but I also doubt he would have been as good an advocate for himself as you've been." He also finishes his drink and stands up, hands braced on the smooth surface of his desk for just a moment, his eye fixed steady and appraising on Lucien. "S.H.I.E.L.D. handles a lot of situations that are unprecedented, but...just because we're used to pulling everything out our asses don't mean we can't at least try to anticipate some of this bullshit." He walks his guest to the door -- something in his stride says this isn't something he's used to doing -- and offers his hand. "You're a gentleman, Lucien Tessier." "I don't imagine he would have been. It can be hard mid-crisis to think about the afterwards." Lucien rises, heading toward the door. There is the slightest widening of his eyes at the compliment. He takes the offered handshake, his own firm and brief. The feather-soft ripple of warmth that comes with his touch is a subtle thing, as is the small smile that accompanies it. "I suppose that's why Steve keeps me around. Thank you for your time, Director." His head inclines, slight, before he slips out.