Logs:Knock Knock Jokes

From X-Men: rEvolution
Knock Knock Jokes

Tessiers vs. S.H.I.E.L.D.

Dramatis Personae

Lucien, Matt, Desi, Gaétan

Monday thru Wednesday


"Sorry to bother you at dinnertime, but I'm looking for a missing person." (Followed immediately by Coulson coming clean, ish.)

Location

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.

It's late-morning on a brisk winter Monday, and the bells are tolling uptown. A blonde-haired young woman makes her way up Waverly Place, glancing from her phone to the townhouses as she walks, clearly looking for a place she has never been. Her hair falls in loose, golden waves, framing her classically beautiful oval face and trailing onto the collar of her long sapphire blue coat, and her knee-length black high-heeled boots click sharply on the sidewalk. She finally slows to a stop, and, with one last look down at her phone, goes up to the door of the Tessier residence and knocks three times.

Behind the door there's an eager barking, a snuffling at its base. The door opens momentarily; Lucien is holding a sleek young black-and-tan shepherd mutt at bay with one heel as he cracks the door. He is just slipping his phone back into the pocket of his grey trousers, turning a polite reserved smile on the woman on the doorstep. "Good morning," comes pleasantly mild, his distinctive accent softening his words. "Can I help you?"

"Hello. So sorry to disturb you." The woman's smile is a little awkward, a little worried. "I'm /hoping/ you can." She hesitates, then give a breathy, self-conscious laugh. "There's just no way to say this and sound /normal/, but I think my brother is staying with you. His name is Steve?" She opens a photo album on her phone and pulls up a picture of a smiling Steve beside her. "Steve Rogers."

Lucien tips his head slightly forward to better see the picture, though he gives it only a cursory glance. He drops his hand to rest atop Flèche's head, scruffing absently as the dog strains to sniff toward their visitor. "Oh -- goodness," there's amusement in his voice, soft and warm, a small crinkle set beside his eyes, "is it all *that* unusual? If my siblings are any indication, it is a primary feature of brothers to misplace themselves."

The woman forces a smile, but looks clearly distressed. "Sir, my brother is...he's been through some terrible trauma and I'm afraid he's lost touch with reality again." She glances down at the excited dog, her stiff expression going softer. "I really appreciate you taking him in -- I was /so/ relieved when the PI told me." For a moment she looks as though she might actually cry, though. "May I come in, please?" The hunch of her shoulders against the cold and the faint, demure flush of her cheeks all play at a very empowered modern damsel who is nevertheless in distress.

Lucien's expression softens as well, the laughter crinkling his eyes fading as, slowly, his brows crease instead. "Oh -- goodness. My apologies, I should not have made light." At the hunch of her shoulders he begins to reach out a hand -- checks himself and lets it fall back to his side. "I understand that must be very worrying. I do wish I could be more assistance, but I'm afraid he isn't here. Is there a way I might have him get in touch with you? I'm sure he would be glad to know his family is concerned."

The woman looks crestfallen. "It's just...I'm so afraid he...may not even know me. When he's been off his medication, he --" She shakes her head, tears brimming, a gleaming lock of blonde hair falling across her face just so, before she brushes it back. "Sorry, I'm just terribly worried about him, but I must not catastrophize." She intones the last few words levelly, as though quoting her latest self-help guru. "Please tell him Katie's been by to see him, and give him his things?" At this she fishes a crumpled paper bag from her purse. "He didn't pack anything when he left, but I brought his phone, charger, meds, and toothbrush. And can I give you my card, as well? In case he...doesn't respond well to hearing about me?"

"That's quite considerate of you. It does seem he's been through a lot." Lucien's voice is quiet. "Has he been on his own long, might I ask?" He accepts the bag, carefully folding down its rumpled top into a more neat-pressed closure. Flèche is finally victorious when he shifts forward to accept the package, darting out from behind his legs to sit practically on the woman's boots, tail whumping onto the stone steps. "Of course you may. I'm glad he has someone looking out for him."

"He disappeared last week -- it's...not the first time this has happened. He has this...story, you see. That he retreats into." She sounds a little calmer now, and breaks into a genuine smile at the dog's antics. "Oh, hi there, pup!" She offers the the back of her hand for sniffing first, then scratches behind Flèche's floppier ear. "Thank you so much for helping him out." She takes a large wallet from her purse and removes a crisp, modern business card which reads 'Kathryn M. Rogers, Attorney at Law', with the usual block of contact information below, including an office at a trendy co-working space in Midtown East. "If he doesn't want to contact me himself...I understand, but please call me if he won't?"

Lucien reaches out to take the card, looking down at it with a small furrow of brow. "I'll talk to him," he murmurs, folding it into his pocket, "hopefully it won't have to come to that." A click of his tongue, a firm, "{Inside}," recalls the pup into the house. His brows have pulled in deeper as he gives an apologetic shake of head. "I'm so terribly sorry, but I'm soon to be overdue at work. Best of luck, Ms. Rogers. I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances." A small dip of his head, and the door closes. Lucien folds the paper bag a little bit more neatly snugly closed, tucking it into an empty backpack and setting it away in the back of the entryway closet.

It's suppertime on Monday night, and the streets of Greenwich are more or less quiet in the moderately seasonable chill. A young black man in a navy blue NYPD parka and a thick belt laden with the paraphernalia of state violence is knocking at the Tessier house's door. He's tall, dark, handsome and, despite the cold weather gear, manages to look very sharp.

A wave of excited barking begins at once, then subsides, before the door opens part-way. Matt stands in the way of the gap, haloed by the warm light from within and preventing the dog's escape. "Good evening, Officer," he says with a friendly smile. "Do you need something?"

"Good evening, Sir," the cop mirrors his smile. "Sorry to bother you at dinnertime, but I'm looking for a missing person." He produces an actual hardcopy photograph of Steve. "Have you seen this man? His name is Steven Rogers."

Matt's eyes skip down to the photo, then back up to the officer's face. "I know him. He's not missing, though."

"That's great," says the cop, tucking away the photograph. "May I speak with him?"

"No." Matt's smile does not falter even a touch.

The cop blinks, startled. "I need you to understand, Mister Rogers is a very disturbed man, and poses a serious danger to himself and others. He should be returned to the care of his family and his doctors."

"Oh! I really appreciate the information," Matt replies earnestly. "I'll be sure to advise him to seek care."

"Sir..." The cop begins with an air of strained patience. "I don't think you appreciate how much danger your family is in. I'm going to need you to let me inside."

"I appreciate it a great deal, Officer, but..." Matt raises his eyebrows ever so slightly, his smile growing thin. "...do you have a warrant?"

From somewhere back in the house there's another man's voice, calling out warm, bright: "Matthieu! Supper's ready -- A hand with setting the table, if you don't mind?"

The cop blinks rapidly again. "That's really not...I mean, this is a welfare check. It's really for everyone's benefit, Sir, including your own."

"Coming!" Matt calls back over his shoulder, his reply faintly sing-song. Flèche is quicker to lose interest in the man at the door and gain interest in potential food movement, and bounds away toward the back of the house. "Of course, Officer. I'm most grateful for your concern. Good night!" So saying, he closes the door -- not hard, but with finality.

It's been a nasty, rainy Tuesday -- well above freezing, though anyone lingering outside for long in the soaking damp runs the risk of hypothermia. A taxi pulls up and disgorges an East Asian woman of indeterminate age and serious bearing. She's dressed in a gray trench coat over a sober charcoal pantsuit, her long black hair secured into a neat bun. She checks a notepad and walks up to ring the doorbell of the townhouse.

There's no immediate answer save for some barking -- more friendly than alarmed as such. The door finally opens, the young woman standing there looking just a touch harried, her long brown hair damp and not yet styled. Still, she manages a smile that lights up the gloom. "May I help you?" Desi asks. A couple of steps beyond her, the dog is sitting obediently, quivering with excitement but quiet.

"My name is Caroline Zhang," says the visitor, "I'm a therapist at the VA. It's come to my attention that one of my patients is staying here, and I've come by to check on him."

"Oh!" Desi's eyebrows arch delicately. "It's so wonderful to see the VA moving toward a proactive role in providing care for veterans in need, but..." Her lips purse slightly. "Isn't this a violation of his legal right to medical privacy?"

Zhang seems unperturbed by this accusation. "His condition is very delicate, and at this point I think it's important to prioritize his safety -- and that of the people around him."

"Funny story," Desi says dryly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "/He/ told me he'd feel safer if you left him alone."

Zhang shakes her head, brows furrowing with intense concern. "I'm afraid that his judgement is somewhat compromised right now."

"Mmm." Desi's expression has gone rather flat and unimpressed. "I find /your/ judgement rather suspect, so I suppose we must agree to disagree." There's no humor at all in the smile she flashes. "Now, if you'll excuse me." She does not, in fact, wait for Zhang's leave to close the door firmly in her face.

It's sunny and mild -- at least by February standards -- Wednesday afternoon, and even with sunset drawing near there's a certain liveliness to the foot traffic in Greenwich. A scruffy white man rides right up to the townhouse on a bare, unpainted fixie, which, combined with his lumberjack chic and faux pompadour, stamps him as a member of the hipster set notwithstanding his dearth of facial hair. He squints up at the house number, squints down at his phone, and knocks -- to the rhythm of "Shave and a Haircut".

It takes a considerable length of time for the door to open. Eventually it does, though, pulled open by a short mop-haired teenager in frayed-hem jeans, socks, a blue-and-white striped long-sleeve tee, very large headphones over his ears and a rainbow rope of sour gummy candy dangling from the corner of his mouth. Gaétan leans up against the partially-open door, gnawing on the gummy straw and peering up at the man outside with a quizzical lift of brows.

"Hey there, buddy!" The hipster grins, rooting around in a fanny pack and coming out with a business card. "Dunno if I got the right place, but I'm looking for uh, Ste --"

Chew. Chew. Chew. Gaétan doesn't reach for the card. There's a brief hitch of brow, a flat twitch of lips as he straightens, licks sugar from the corner of his mouth, and shuts the door firmly on the man's spiel.

Later that evening, the doorbell rings yet again.

Music spills out from the house when the door opens ("--strange place to be when you don't know where you're bound --" ), cheerful voices coming from inside. Lucien rides the line between crisp and casual, neatly tailored herringbone vest, pale buttondown, tie, cuffed jeans. The smile that affixes itself to his face is small, courteous, his brows lifting slightly.

Standing outside is a middle-aged white man in an immaculate but painfully generic black suit. His suit isn't the only thing that's aggressively unremarkable -- everything from his stature to his carriage to his receding hairline seems somehow calculated for maximum forgettability. His hands are clasped together in front of him and he puts on a slightly sheepish expression as he says, "Hi."