1122/At My Aunt's House

At My Aunt's House
Date of Scene:	12 April 2020
Location:	Dane Whitman's Home
Synopsis:	Breakfast! Drinking stories!
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Dane Whitman

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Jane Foster has posed:
<<10:30 @ Chez Ma Tante? Room for 1.>>

Yes, it's her aunt's house. And yes, it's in Brooklyn, necessitating an effort to get from wherever the hell Happy Harbour is. Mind you, the ground-floor corner shop of a perfectly nice brick building heaves with those speaking French, unsurprising given the French-Canadian owners. Food isn't particularly abundant, but the choices are excellent, and here Jane takes up a perch at a two-top with a croque madame already ordered from the kitchen. She thumbs through an article on her phone, scrolling as she goes. A hint of a laugh colours her lips into a smile even as she is forced to respond to another message.

<<It's Easter. Don't you have something else to do?>>

<<That's my line!>>

<<Bye, D.>>

Dane Whitman has posed:
Well, definitely not as easy as flying a magic horse, as swift as that might be. It actually best involves the terror that is the New York City Subway. Not REALLY that terrible, but everyone jokes about it anyway. In any case, Dane Whitman finds the nearest stop, and makes it by foot to the proper place. The miracle of modern cellular devices and their navigation abilities.

So Dane Whitman arrives just a couple minutes early which is not bad, since apparently Jane was even earlier. He flashes a warm smile, and makes his way over to claim the other seat at the table. Hooray for day-off Sundays!

"Morning." Dane offers simply, though the smile remains firmly in place. "I'd ask what's good here but I'm going to go out on a limb and bet the answer is, "Everything.""

Jane Foster has posed:
The New York subway, that thing underinvested and underappreciated for decades, running on tech from the 40s while Metropolis gets a hyperloop and some people just use portals to run around. Just about the worst, except it moves around five million people every now and then. Jane probably needed it to reach Brooklyn in the first place, but bypassing the river is tough for anyone not fortunate enough to live on Long Island. More than likely she can't afford to kick it in Manhattan, given the average rent costs are stratospheric even for fairly successful scientists.

To make life easier, and a minor celebration of the season, she wears a filmy white infinity scarf printed with tiny carrots and rabbits around her t-shirt, which bears an image of a rainbow. Casual and French chic, easy to spot. At least she doesn't wear huge sunglasses screaming "VIP - bring me your manager!"

"Did I drag you out of bed too early?" Jane asks, looking up from a flurry of 'what, Jane, where are you'-esque messages from Darcy, who very likely flipped on the security cameras in the lab and discovered nothing more dangerous than a chocolate egg in a vase. "Everything is good but they are Quebecois. Trust in eggs and fresh herbs," she replies, looking up and that smile brightening. Squeezing past the narrow floorplan of tables and chairs isn't exactly easy. "Hi, you. I might steal a carrot and some sugar cubes for your friends."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"No, I'm used to being up pretty early. More by forced habit than preference, but training takes time." Dane studies the menu a few moments, mentally making his selections before setting it aside. Magic Bean Juice incoming, lightly creamed and sugared. The croque madame looks too good to pass up, so they can make it two. "Well my friend will be eating out of the palm of your hand before we know it."

Dane smiles brightly, "I suspect if you hadn't messaged me first we mightve been having this conversation in a diner near my place. Not nearly as gourmand as this, but the pies are great and the coffee is just bad enough to be amazing."

Jane Foster has posed:
Magic bean juice and the caffeinated jolt: it's a new band! No? Definitely a great name for a hipster joint, because everything is X and Y. The titles and the fonts are even the same. Still, Chez Ma Tante has its own bucolic charms of a French bistro, small cafe tables and abundant white napkins and white linen tablecloths to soak up all the oil that might be used. She nudges her plate towards the middle of the table, and Jane smiles. "Help yourself. It may be a little until the kitchen catches up as they make everything from scratch. You hopefully have been having a good training session?"

Her eyes brighten by degrees at mentions of pie. "Save it for another Sunday. I make it a habit to wake up before the dawn on Sundays to catch whatever happens to be transiting. Planets, stars, a drone being obnoxious over Bryant Square Park." Dane receives a glass of water from a passing waiter, who in turn refills Jane's, and carries on. "This place was recommended to me by a colleague. It /is/ a hike out here, but worth it, I like to think."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"It was all right. My own space is a lot more limited than what SHIELD has on offer but it manages to do well enough for maintaining." Dane sips his water, eyeing Jane's plate and grinning, "You sure? I can wait, but I won't lie and say I'm not hungry."

On the subject of Jane's Sunday activities, Dane chuckles, "Bet there's more drones by the day. Surprised there hasn't been more regulation on them yet." He leans back in his chair, "Another Sunday it is, though. Or other convenient day off." He takes in the surroundings again at her mention, "Seems like the kind of place where I'd be awfully surprised...and disappointed...if they weren't above-par."

Jane Foster has posed:
"SHIELD likes to one up everyone with the Triskelion, I have decided," Jane replies. She picks up the butter knife to break the sandwich in two, making it so much easier to pick up a segment each and indulging in the croque madame. "I do insist. This has a bit of dill, so you're aware. They came with more tarragon, and admittedly it was fantastic. Try as I might, I can never seem to match it despite being to a spice store more times than I care to count." Cooking may or may not be on the docket for things she is actually that good at. Call it a case of limited talents. Coffee is brought in turn, delivered with a smile, and off goes the waiter again.

She nods to Dane. "Oh, the drone situation is terrible. They stay away from JFK, but no one else shows a lick of sense. Honestly, the only reason they get away with it at all is probably due to Stark Industries delivering so many packages. Matters of convenience and the like." Her mouth crinkles up into a disapproving little frown for a moment, but then she's back to smiling again. "What can I say, I like my airspace open and no chance of something buzzing past the window. Next time, your diner. Pie, you had me at that. This place is popular enough it better be the real deal."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Don't feel bad. I probably wouldn't even get close. I'm not quite to the point of failing at boiling water but I'm definitely not going to be hosting my own cooking show anytime soon...at least not unless it's a comedy." Dane grins, happily accepting half the sandwich...hey, it's not like he can't share half of his once it arrives. "Convenience can be very convincing." Dane admits, sipping from his coffee and considering, "Still, it never fails to amaze me how short-sighted elected officials can tend to be. The longer they let it be the wild west the harder it's going to be to rein in when they haven't got any choice left. Say what you will about some of the very much //not// elected leaders I knew...and this is so very not an endorsement of returning to those systems...they at least seemed to be cognizant that the world would go on without them, and maybe they could leave something behind that an heir could build on some more."

Jane Foster has posed:
Tucking her hair behind her ear, Jane turns to the task of splitting the sandwich half into a quarter, and bringing it to her lips. Taking a bite, she allows the combination of egg and bread to melt away into a frisson of pure happiness. Croque anything is delicious; madame or monsieur, who really cares? It tastes delicious, and one cannot help but appreciate that sort of element in play. "Julia Child. Seriously, I learned some of the basics from watching her. And she's funny, which helps, rather than these people with bleached hair or airs like they are the second coming of Christ." She shakes her head, picking up a few crumbs with her fingertip and sliding the digit along the edge of the plate.

Dane's thoughts on the wild west of drone land earn a low sigh. "Right? I have no interest in arguing with the government, but having flying machines clotting the air without warning and putting passenger planes at risk bothers me. At least you can see someone traveling at Mach 6. I mean, imagine Superman out there storming through the atmosphere. He shows up on radar, you have to figure."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Wow...didn't know the TV show chefs had gotten quiet that pretentious." Dane laughs, happily munching away on a half of sandwich in-between bites of coffee and conversation. "Guess they all need their gimmick."

"Probably so? At least on the military grade radar. Though from what I've heard he can go fast enough that he's hard to track anyway. Not that it really matters." A shrug of a shoulder, "They'll get it under control eventually...might be painful and annoying and take a lot longer than it should but even if laws and regs have to have the politicians dragged kicking and screaming to get it done...-eventually- they usually do."

Another sip of coffee, "Sooooo "not it" for doing the dragging, though."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Secret way to decompress while the computer's running modeling and I am not up to begging different foundations to fund science they don't think is sexy enough or likely to garner them airtime." Dane wins that insight into the astrophysicist across from him, her expression muted by general mirth. "I assure you, being a teacher is in some ways easier. You know you're undervalued and underpaid. What was it that inspired you to take up teaching after working for Tony Stark? Wouldn't you find something more appealing in tech?"

Jane sighs at the general gist of politics, and beams a moment later as a fresh croque madame with a swirl of orange appears for Dane. Set in front of him, the plate is bright and cheery.

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Well, as mildly disgruntled as I might have been at the time, I think I kind of eventually came around to understanding Stark's view on making weapons, and that was largely where my expertise was. Truth be told I just kind of flitted between jobs for a few years, and then decided I'd start working on a doctorate. Didn't get very far before...that very long sabbatical into an extra-credit medieval history dissertation."

Dane grins at the arrival of the new sandwich, taking a few moments to slice it into quarters and move the plate alongside Jane's own.

"I do enjoy tinkering, but I have enough things at home to mostly scratch that itch, and it looks like SHIELD's likely to be giving me plenty more in that regard. Teaching seemed like it might be...satisfying, I guess? I figured the worst case scenario was that I really suck at it and am no longer a teacher after a semester or two. Best case...help some kids get some interest in STEM and maybe cultivate some talents if I'm lucky enough to find them."

His next words are spoken more softly, the better for only Jane's ears, "Naturally a week in there's a kid trying to build his own power armor suit."

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane brushes her bangs from her face again, then wipes her fingers on the napkin in her lap. Having forgotten about her water, she picks up the glass while the conversation slaloms from one topic to another. "Medieval history that left little chance to practice all that fine-tuned engineering work, considering the split in concentration, I have to imagine?" Wit and wisdom blend in the very worst of deadpan jokes. "I can only imagine. Trying to look into astronomy while focusing on a sudden dose of archaeology and digging around in the field makes matters tricky. Especially when we -don't- have the tools we are used to."

She sits forward to catch Dane's lowered voice, and her lips round. "Well isn't that exciting," she adds, finding it hard not to tap her lips with a fingertip. "Always one in every bunch who has to show off, unable to leave well enough alone. For all the Musks, Luthors, and Starks, we have a thousand Smiths and Joneses."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Yeah, there was a whole lot of existential dread when I realized I couldn't Google for historical facts to make sure I wasn't about to mess anything up. So...winging it on broader general knowledge was...an experience. That didn't leave me much time to show off much in the way of technical skills, but that's probably for the best...wouldn't likely have wanted to get stuck building Siege Engines or playing with Alchemy."

At Jane's assessment Dane looks rueful, but amused, "Not sure that's the exact word I'd use, but then again, you're probably right, it was exciting in a lot of ways, only a few of them good. I mean the kid's clearly pretty brilliant and you don't want to quash that but..." Dane shrugs, "We worked out a compromise. I think."

Jane Foster has posed:
"No Google. No phone calls. Even the English language goes awry, and so many spoke French instead. Norman French? Italian? Latin at least was an option among the learned?" Jane ticks off the choices on her fingers, pausing. "I feel that I am missing one here. Not Spanish, Greek was wholly likely only in the Byzantine Empire. Not many men from the west would have spoken that, not unless they were... no, not even churchmen. I don't think the schism would have allowed for that." She tips her head, looking thoughtfully at Dane for clarification. "Getting caught playing with alchemy seems like a fine way to end up in a noble's employ or dead. You tell me." Gently biting her lip, it's hard not to suppress the smile.

"The kid being brilliant, or a man being brilliant, still has a place and time. I nurture the notion we should build on education. That we shouldn't stifle good ideas. Good being the focus there. Someone trying to create a death ray inspires a certain bit of alarm, and hoping these can be directed and focused somewhere properly? I mean, death rays have led to totally normal and fine innovations, Nikola Tesla saw to that among others, but still..."

She finishes up a piece of the sandwich and neatly slides her credit card from her phone. Nifty, tiny wallet. The server knows the cues.

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Thankfully language seemed to be covered. Even managed to retain some of it when I came back, though I'd imagine my version of Norman French would get some serious eyebrow-raises in here. Middle English, but I rarely used it even though Eobar knew it well. And yes, Latin. Eobar was pretty well-educated. Picked up bits and pieces of others but I seem to have lost a fair bit of that since I returned." Dane laughs, "Probably employ. The Crusader Kings were all too willing to try anything to reclaim Jerusalem. I had to...deal with...a few of their advisors myself, at times." A bit of a grimace there. Not proud of what blood he feels stains the hands of his soul. But it was war, and the alternatives were always much more death if left unchecked.

"Yeah, there was a fair bit of that, though this kid seems...really focused. There's a story there, but I haven't puzzled it all out yet."

At the emergence of the credit card, Dane grins, "Well, I guess Pie's on me next time."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Latin. Want to know a secret?" Jane leans forward a little bit, trying oh so hard not to break into a smile. "<<No one speaks it at me and I conquered Gaul.>>"

Okay, it's not the most elegant approach but her functional use of Latin goes back to university and parsing the different trials afforded to her through the scientific community. "Don't taunt me for having rough declensions. It's been longer than I would like. Not too many people interested in that unless you follow the Pope's Twitter feed, which generally I tend to avoid. And there you are, imagining the days of Jerusalem. Have you ever been back since your sabbatical? Has it changed greatly, I wonder, from the way you saw it?" Of course it has, but then there's no question whatsoever the world dramatically shifts from week to week, let alone centuries. Perhaps a chance for him to open a chapter in a book, as it were. Still.

Still, his offer is met with a grin. "You handled transportation for the lighthouse. Let me at least cover this, since you came all the way out. We can sit here for coffee facing the looks of our peers. Or maybe something else?"

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane laughs, shaking his head in amusement at Jane's slip into Latin, but he grows considerably more somber at her next question, "I went back almost immediately. For a...time capsule. But I didn't find who I was looking for, and the trail was very cold. I didn't really stick around to sightsee after that." There's definitely a hint of something very troubled at that failure, but whatever that burden is seems to lighten at Jane's grin and comment on reciprocity.

"Well, I know an argument I'm not going to win when I see it." He acquiesces to her offer of paying for breakfast, then sips at his mug a moment, considering, "I think...I'm game for whatever you'd care to do. Not like we can't sip a little more coffee and figure out what might come after, though."

Jane Foster has posed:
Veni, vidi, vici. Sounds so much better when you realize you aren't saying 'wenny, weedy, weeky,' and the remarkable Julius Caesar quote becomes that much sillier. Jane finishes the water in a glass, curiously regarding Dane about the mention of a time capsule. "Not something you hear every day, that. Something you left behind or something left for you after you stepped away, I suppose?" She doesn't push too hard on it, but merely gives that chance he can share a little more if he so wishes. Dane will not have to worry about her prying into things she should know better about.

"You can argue it, though I would hardly want to cause you any trouble, Mr. Whitman. Though if it makes you uncomfortable, consider I asked you to travel a fairly long way, didn't I?" Who knows where he started from, but she makes that assumption without overly fanfare. "Let's sip the last of these drinks and go see the neighbourhood. I imagine all the kids will be in the parks hunting for chocolate eggs and candy, but you will find me chock out of jellybeans." Well, she has the bunny scarf. "How do you prefer to spend Easter?"

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Someone I made a promise to." Dane lets that fairly enigmatic statement be the final word on the subject of timecapsules for now, his look once again momentarily distant and clouded with worry. But it's not something he can do anything about at the moment, and so he shakes it off. At the suggestion of a stroll through the neighborhood, Dane nods, "Sounds good to me."

At the question of how he celebrates Easter, Dane looks thoughtful, "Well...I grew up Catholic, fairly regular attendees of mass and confession. Somewhere around College I kind of fell out of it. I don't know that I've ever stopped...believing, if that makes sense. But the pageantry and ceremony and well...the whole "organized" side of things didn't sit very well. Probably typical rebellious college kid behavior or whatever. Obviously I had to at least play at devotion...during my trip...but I saw a whole lot more that soured me on various aspects of the Church itself, even if they're less applicable to the modern day, knowing what the organization was built on..."

He shakes his head, "So I guess the short answer is...pretty much how I'd spend any other Sunday. Only today it gets to be in the company of someone I'm quite happy to spend it with."

Jane Foster has posed:
Slipping out of Chez Ma Tante is easy once the meal is paid for, Jane's credit card swiped, a double take in there, and returned. She gives a reasonably fair tip, twenty-five percent, and condemns herself with a swipe of the pen offering up a swirly, loopy take on her name. Let them go no further than that under the circumstances, rendered in a kindly measure. Taking her bag from over the back of the chair, it unslings and she sets the strap over her shoulder. Satisfying to feel the familiar weight, she readies herself to follow Dane's lead out of the bistro. "I won't poke at that one," she says softly, leaving no further comment on whether or not the time capsule matters in conversation. A ready agreement there offers freedom from the prying mind and they can continue the conversation elsewhere outside in the joys of Brooklyn itself. Gentrification certainly has performed a significant change around the neighbourhood, giving a string of popular little spots to dine at and wiping out the seedy mom 'n pop stores with hip record places, u-brews for the hip, and other fascinating little holes in the wall sreving up fusion and stranger things beside. Either way, the place is more than a bit busy. "I don't know that I ever felt a strong calling to the church one way or another. My parents never really pressed the point, and mostly Easter meant family dinners. Stopped that a long time ago, though before I even got to university. So no big hams or anything here. Couple of my interns do a bar crawl, but not really my scene," she explains.

Dane Whitman has posed:
"I'll admit, it's kind of hard to picture you on a bar crawl. Though at the same time I kind of imagine it might be amusing." Dane teases lightly, "Or you could just blow your Interns' minds by showing up and not really drink much." Yes, there's at least a little bit of mischief to be had from Dane, but he says no more on the matter just yet, taking in the neighborhood as the stroll. Its businesses, its people, its buildings. Pretty much the whole thing. He really hasn't explored Brooklyn before.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Oh, I've done it but the waste of time and money? And remembering that I'm not nineteen anymore?" Nineteen year old bar-crawlers, only in Quebec or Ontario. Or BC. Maybe she went north afterward. Jane shakes her head to the good humoured teasing. "Besides, you haven't seen Dr. Selvig prancing around without any clothes on, shouting about the interdimensional convection theory." She can poke him right back, mischief met with its kind.

Brooklyn is a sprawling space, full of commercial elements and wild artistic souls, rattling chains of industry ghosts on the wind among the brownstones and the tumble-down docks further to the west where the great shipyards are now mostly converted, quiet, no longer vast. "Where do you feel like heading? Tell me whatever you think would be fun, and we can make it happen. I have no real itinerary in mind unless you are harbouring a reckless street under there."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Without a hot tub? The scandal!" Dane retorts with laughter in his voice on Dr. Selvig's antics. "But yeah, I suppose it does lose its allure after a certain age. Or when you have better ways to spend your evenings. Besides I always thought the bar crawl was more suited to Saint Patrick's Day. Or at least that's what I tended to associate it with. Not that plenty of bored college students need a special occasion for them."

At Jane's urging, Dane considers for a few moments, "Not sure. I mean, I had a great time at Montauk but I think we can save a return visit there for a while longer. I'm not really familiar with the neighborhood here, and we just ate, so not sure what other options are to be had. All told, I'd be happy just finding a quiet place with just the two of us, or near enough."

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane's eyebrows arch with an unspoken eloquence. "Without a hot tub? I suppose you should have added that to the requirements for any good scandal? What else am I missing, Mr. Whitman. Please, enlighten me. I just had my eyes opened and never expected this," she chimes in. "Bar crawls lose their luster when you learn to drink better things, anyway. Though promise you will never repeat that to an Asgardian. They take food and drink very seriously, a matter of hospitality and unwinding. A bar crawl fits right into that ethos, regardless of time or day. Trust me, they can and will drink you under a table, so maybe it loses the appeal more knowing you'll end up wasted or blackout drunk before they even get a buzz."

She shares that image with a playful tip of her head. "A walk sounds delightful. We should have WNYC Transmitter Park all to ourselves, minus a few dog walkers about this time of day. It's about four blocks up West Street, if you don't mind the walk up there. The views on the river and of Manhattan are absolutely worth it."