Logs:Operation: H.O.T. P.O.T.A.T.O.

Operation: H.O.T. P.O.T.A.T.O.
Houseguest's Overstepping Transgression Precipitates Ouster. Totally Atrocious? Totally Overblown?
Dramatis Personae Natasha, Rocket, Sam, Steve
In Absentia Tony	2024-06-25 "Violated?! Tch, she liked it."
Location <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. The sleek art deco motif that runs through the living room furniture, while not strictly matching, has clearly been worked to coordinate. The dining set, coffee and end tables have been crafted with complementary geometric patterning, ebony accents providing a dark contrast to the warmer swirls of maple burl that feature most prominently. The sofa, love seat, and chair fill out the rest of the living room, a matching set upholstered in plush burgundy. The numerous lamps do not all match, some of them clearly temporary supplement for the inadequate overhead lighting. It's slightly less hot here at least than it is downtown, buildings a little shorter and a little less cramped leading to a little less heat trapped in all the claustrophobic concrete. Nevertheless the spill of (slightly) cooler air washing out on the front stoop when Sam opens the door to the brownstone is probably a relief. He's dressed in Zoom Work style, a crisp and ironed deep purple button down together with shabby old jeans, and he's surveying his guests with a small twitch of lips before he gestures them inside. "We on 3," he's saying with a nod to the staircase. "Y'all having trouble?" The black Stingray at the curb is probably not legally parked, but Natasha does not seem overly bothered -- not by the prospect of a ticket, at any rate. By her standards she's downright agitated, though, tense around her eyes, through her shoulders, a small rattle as she swings her keys restlessly against her palm. "We had," she's telling Sam, a little clipped, as she gestures her soon-to-be-former houseguest inside, "some boundary issues." Rocket's arms are crossed tightly across the chest of his dark red flight suit in an unfamiliar synthetic material, a brighter red scarf around his neck. "It's just a nick," he says indignantly, "I can fix it." Though this does not address how such a scratch might occur. Despite his obstinacy, he does head inside when gestured at to do so. "Roommate friction gets tough." Sam is nodding along sympathetically as he ushers the others up and towards the door -- to Nat? To Rocket? Who knows. He does flick a look back -- in the general direction of the street, though he can't actually see the car parked outside from in the stairwell. Now he's wincing -- definitely sympathetically at Rocket. "The bike?" he's asking, as he pushes the door open, calling out: "Yo Steve you corralled the beast?" Though the answer to his question is somewhat already coming in a thunderous thumping of Very Big Paws. Zenobia has just managed to thrust her big cinderblock head through the half open door when she somewhat cartoonishly vanishes back inside as though she's been given the hook. In this case, the "hook" is Steve scooping her up bodily, then stepping back to let Sam and their guests in. He looks hastily dressed in a blue t-shirt and black sweatpants that actually fit him, his hair all askew. "Sorry," he says from behind 100-plus pounds of dog, before he shifts Zenobia over to one side with her paws on his shoulder facing back. She doesn't seem very fussed about the indignity of her position, though she does crane her neck around -- propping her chin comically atop Steve's head -- to see the visitors, tail lashing excitedly all the while. "What's wrong," he says when he sees Natasha's face, suddenly alert and patting for his phone with the hand he just freed up. "He violated her," Natasha is replying, quite fiercely -- it's in response to Sam but probably Steve is just getting the no-context version. "Violated?! Tch, she liked it," growls Rocket, who makes a movement mimicking squeezing the gas, though this too is presented to Steve without context, though his attention is drawn over Zenobia. "Is this thing even the same kind of thing as the one Clint's got hanging around? What does it eat?" Sam is mostly successfully stifling a smile. He slips in, closes the door behind the others. "That's Zenobia. She's a dog. Eats --" He's glancing at Zenobia, then at Rocket, then back to Zenobia with the first dawning hint of concern. "... dog food." Steve's frown drops away into an expression of confused horror, which looks ridiculous with Zenobia still mugging above it. "Who did you -- you can't just --" He mimics Rocket's mimicry of -- Natasha's motorcycle enjoying his attentions, presumably. What Steve thinks it means is an open question, but he's hugging his dog closer. Zenobia just wags harder. "Well, I sure don't know how you space fellas go about things, but here on Earth you have to ask first!" "Thank you," Natasha says, a relief in her voice as if Steve is the only other sensible person here in the room. "And sorry to drop this on you. Just gotta go out of town for a minute. Didn't want to spend the whole trip worrying about my baby." She lifts her chin to the two men and turns for the door, pausing kind of reluctantly to offer Rocket: "Good luck with your ship." before she slips out. "Yeah, good luck with your ship," Rocket snaps back as Natasha leaves, without really thinking too hard about the words coming out of his mouth. He turns towards Steve. "I didn't know trying a bike would be such a big deal! I didn't know earthies had these kinds of relationships with land vehicles!" he protests. He rubs his chin and adds mostly to himself, "The motorcycle club thing makes more sense now." Once the door closes Sam is not successful at this charade anymore; the smile that breaks across his face is wide and amused. "Texts she sent sounded real dire. Figured we could spare the couch for a bit. -- Just don't bother me while I'm working," he's nodding absently to the home office setup in a corner of his room, visible through its open door, "and we'll probably be good." He's still kiiind of eying Zenobia, though. "...bike?" Steve looks blank for a moment. "Oh, her motorcycle!" He's nodding sagely. "Yeah, you definitely shoulda asked first. Lucky you didn't mess with --" He shuts his mouth, perhaps reconsidering the wisdom giving Rocket any more ideas. "But sure, you're welcome to crash here." He winces. "Too soon, I bet." He plucks a couple of heart-shaped dog biscuits from a treat jar at the end of the counter, then sets Zenobia back down. "Down, girl. Stay." The dog slides down flat, though her eyes remain fixed on the treats. "She comes on pretty strong," he tells Rocket, "but she's a big softy. Gets bullied by cats on the regular. Here." He gives their guest the biscuits, which look huge in raccoon-sized hands. "She loves these. Be forewarned, she slobbers kind of a lot." "What'd you think we were talking about? I wasn't gonna go around bullying her little pet vegetables or anything," says Rocket, a bit defensively. He takes the dog biscuit and sniffs it, then-- very cautiously-- reaches out to hand it over to her. "What kind of work do you do? You're the wingman, aren't you? I'm not planning on interrupting anyone flying around." "-- Pet vegetables?" There's amused curiosity here. Sam is easing off on his watchfulness, at least, when Zenobia lies down. "Uh, in my day job I'm a therapist. People talk to me 'bout their feelings. Usually I'm on the ground for that. -- how long you think it's gonna be till you get your wings back?" "He's not my wing --" Steve starts somewhat reflexively, then blushes. Scruffs at the back of his neck. "Oh, you mean literally." Zenobia, meanwhile, has stretched out her large blunt snout to take the cookie from Rocket -- delicately, with her front teeth. The crunching that happens immediately afterwards, however, is probably a bit alarming, especially as her enthusiasm spatters Rocket with drool and crumbs. "I'm a sort of. Professional mascot?" He sounds kind of resigned about this. "Can't imagine you're like to get in my way, long as you don't spent more than an hour in the bathroom at a stretch." Zenobia is trying to lick Rocket now, though with Steve still holding onto her collar she's just overextending her already long tongue, eyes bulging with the effort. "They talk to you about their feelings?" repeats Rocket, surprised tone suggesting this is one of the strangest things he's heard since arriving on the planet, though this astonishment is cut short by him shielding himself with his arms from the oncoming splattering and subsequent tonguing. "Yech..." He looks back towards Sam, "Some of the materials I need for repair are pretty uncommon on your rock. You don't have a spaceport workshop, so it'd be a couple of your months of dedicated work even with all the materials and tools... I got started on some of the stuff I can." "-- you seen if Tony got a hookup for any of the weird stuff?" Sam is asking, kind of idly. His mouth twitches at Rocket's tone of surprise. "Oh yeah. Feelings, hopes, dreams, gets real mushy times behind that door. Speaking of --" He is checking the clock on his phone, and starting to head back towards his "office". "-- Zenobia only gets even grosser," he adds, lightly, as he goes. "That was my reaction the first time I heard about it, too." Steve has presumably gotten over his astonishment about therapy some time ago. "If Stark doesn't have something lying around, he's liable to just make it for you, if you pique his interest." Zenobia backs off slightly at Rocket's reception of her admittedly gross affection, but she looks very reproachful about it, and is still snuffling in his direction. Only lower, because maybe he won't notice then? "Sorry. Most folks aren't at face level with her for that sort of thing. She's pretty good on 'sit' and 'down', if you ever want her to back off." He stands back up. "Alright, ah. It's not a big place, but maybe I should show you around anyway?" He looks at Rocket's diminutive stature, then the high kitchen counter. "See if there's anything we can make more...accessible." "Sit?" Rocket says tentatively to the dog, though this only over the arms that he holds at his defense. "Tony? I haven't talked to Tony about any of that. Does he usually have unusual materials?" He bows his head in affirmation to the question about being shown around, "I make do with whatever, but you guys sure like to build things tall." As Sam goes, he swipes his hand upwards in what must be a farewell gesture, "Good luck with therapizing those feelings." Zenobia sits, which kind of makes her tower over Rocket more, really. She looks from Rocket to the treat jar, then back. Significantly. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and tosses her another biscuit. "Oh yeah, he's an inventor. Being absurdly wealthy doesn't hurt, either. Worth asking, but he can be kind of ah." His lips press thin. "Difficult. Anyway, this isn't that tall to us --" He frowns. Frowns deeper. "Most of us. Gosh, we do like to build things tall." He's blushing faintly as he pulls a step ladder from the pantry and props it open alongside the counter. "There. Not sure what we can do about the ice box, but ah. One thing at a time."