1184/Sit Rep: Perilous

Sit Rep: Perilous
Date of Scene:	15 April 2020
Location:	Steve's Room - Avengers Mansion
Synopsis:	Just what is in that sketchpad that Janet leaves lying on the couch? Inquiring minds (named Steve) want to know! Grand miscommunication ensues.
Cast of Characters:	Steve Rogers, Janet van Dyne

---

Steve Rogers has posed:
"'m gonna get up 'nd get something to drink, maybe eat?"

This is asked quietly as Steve lifts his head up from the pillow and his comfortable recline along the couch. The TV is on low, showcasing some National Geographic Channel's sonorous show about the various habitats of birds, and his hand continues to rub soothingly up and down Janet's back. Her sprawl along him is further eased by a blanket tossed over them both. If she's overwarm, it's no surprise: the super-soldier is like a personal heater.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet's curled under the blanket and soaking up heat from Steve like a cat napping on a vent. Her own metabolism runs nearly as hot, but with her smaller frame and lower body mass, it translates into feeling almost perpetually a little chilled.

"Drinks yes, food maybe," Janet responds. She's absorbed in her sketchbook as she has been for a few weeks now; ideas floating along a charcoal pencil and onto the pages in front of her. She sniffles and wipes at her eyes. More allergies than emotions are giving her an unpleasant sinus pressure as she shakes off the last aftereffects of the pepper spray from a botched kidnapping two days earlier. "I can still smell the entire world, and it smells like I've been snorting chili pepper," she complains. A few half-finished birds are floating upwards as if trying to escape the sketchpad.

She shifts grudgingly only when Steve commits to moving, and props an elbow up to support her torso as he stands. "What're you thinking for food?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
Tissues are in supply for the runny eyes, but unfailingly, Steve manages to procure and offer a white handkerchief from somewhere nearby. His expression is deeply empathetic even as he's scooting himself out from being the sandwich filling between couch and Janet.

"Something easy. I was thinking about making tomato soap 'nd toasted cheese sandwiches. Water to drink for now, not thinking about a beer just yet." He's in jeans and a t-shirt, the latter black with the WASP title on it in gold. "You comfortable staying here if I go downstairs to make it? Shouldn't be two shakes of a lamb's tail 'til I get back."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Yes! Yes, that sounds perfect," Janet tells Steve, and honks her nose into the handkerchief in an undignified fashion. The sketchbook's fliped shut and she carefully replaces her charcoals in the container for them. A few of the deluxe pencils are worn down to nubbins. She's been getting a fair amount of use out of her Christmas gift from Steve.

"I'm gonna go stand in the shower," she informs him, still sniffling. "Maybe I'll have a stroke and it'll blast this crud out of my sinus cavity once and for all." Sniffling with a miserable, long-suffering expression, she heads for the bathroom with a waggle of her fingers vaguely in Steve's direction.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"'m sorry, <<Seillean>>." There's a harder gleam to flicker through his true-blues. "If the cowards hadn't crunched teeth, we'd have more answers 'bout why they tried anything in the first place. Go shower, spend as much time as you need."

She departs and so does Steve, headed down to the kitchen. He's about as quick as two shakes of a lamb's tail metaphorically, given the dish isn't difficult to put together. When he returns, he's got a platter with three bisected toasted cheese sandwiches, their innards still gooey, and two steaming bowls of tomato soup. "Food's here," he calls out quietly as he sets the entire affair down at the table. From in the fridge, he scrounges up a bottled water and his own water bottle, hazed with condensation.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Running water can be heard in the bathroom, and a little steam wafts out of the open door and into the slanting illumination of the light spilling into the hallway. Music plays, too, something lyrical and modern. Not quite to Steve's taste, but the sort of thing Janet would have spun up to play over the sound system.

Say what you will about Tony Stark's taste in decor, but the multimedia support for the various suites is second to none.

Her sketchpad remains where she's left it. It's cluttered with torn-out ideas, inserted reference materials, scraps of color, and even a news article or two. 'Project' is printed on the cover, suggesting the birds she was absently sketching were more artistic doodles as a stress-reliever than any actual work on the topic within.

Dare Steve pierce the veil of those artistic mysteries, between slips of sturdy single-sheet cardboard?!

Steve Rogers has posed:
Lingering at the table, Steve opts to leave the Wasp to her shower and not interrupt. The introduction of music indicates she's involved in appreciating it and the poor gal's nose has been gushing like a faucet since the HYDRA spraying. He turns from the table to see about finding some napkins and as he slides open one of the small drawers of the cabinets tucked next to the mini-fridge, he espies the fabled sketchpad.

It's on the couch along with the pencils given as a gift those months back. Steve winces to himself: that's all at risk of being sat upon in distraction. He walks over with the intent to move the affair to his work desk, next to his own sketchbook shut with a single charcoal pencil tucked into his last paused sketch.

Picking up the collection of artwork and ideas alike, the tin of pencils balanced on top, the Captain moves it. As he does, a piece of reference material falls loose from the pages. A wince and he stoops to pick it up, wondering where on earth it went within the page upon page of ideas. The pencil tin makes a soft clink as he sets it aside on the work desk. A thumbnail catches the sketchpad's middling section and opens it. Steve frowns as he begins flipping through it, holding the reference material in the other hand. He slows upon turning to a particular page...and slooooowly turns another page...and slooooooowly turns yet another page...and then just tucks the reference material back into some random place and slooooowly shuts the sketchpad.

A hard, loud swallow. His hand rises to rub at the back of his neck. There's even the tiniest huff of a laugh, this somewhat hysterical. Then, gathering his aplomb, he returns to the table and sits to eat his sandwich like a normal, sane person before Janet shows again.

Sans napkins.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet is fastidious about her appearance. She dresses to the nines to go out for ice cream, and even puttering around the mansion only in Steve's presence, it's often in things that are frilly, silky, designer, and most of all, not suited for wearing in mixed company.

Familiarity doesn't breed contempt, but after a couple of years of dating and a violent encounter with a mace-wielding HYDRA goon, Janet seems willing to accept a lower standard of beauty for the evening. Just as Steve sets her book down she emerges from the shower with a full-length black kimono rob and blowing her nose heavily into one of his hankies.

"Godd," she sniffs. "I think that's the last of it, finally. It's like doing blow off a spice rack and getting a noseful of Chinese pepper," she declares.

With one last *honk* she tosses the hanky in a wastebin and finds her seat across from Steve, curling into it. A few sniffles here and there indicate she's very likely kicked the worst of it. The fashionista sits on her calf and reaches for her sandwich to take two big, hungry bites. A third gets paused and she looks around with a puzzled frown. "Napkins?" she queries, and looks at Steve.

"You okay? You look kinda pale," she informs him.

Steve Rogers has posed:
So involved with the act of successfully dipping his sandwich into his soup without dropping the entire chunk into it, Steve misses one of his hankies being tossed in the wastebin rather than the laundry to be washed. He looks up quickly and avoids eye contact just as swiftly while Janet takes her two bites of her own sandwich.

"Napkins?" the Captain echoes vapidly. A blink. "Oh, right, napkins." His chair scoots audibly back as he pushes out from the table and rises to return to the drawer left an inch open as proof of a quest lost to sudden discovery. He returns and gives Janet both a napkin and a half-smile as he sits down. "Nah, not pale, must be the lighting -- unless you're ragging me about not being able to keep a tan?"

QUICK, QUICK, DIVERT WITH HUMOR.

"You feeling any better?"

OR INQUIRY OF MORE OBVIOUS CONCERNS.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"No, I love it when I take you to a sunny equatorial beach," Janet tells Steve, and holds a hand aloft in front of her mouth while chewing. She swallows, and her hand drops. "If we get stranded somewhere, I can just tie your pale ass to a palm tree and get it swaying in a gentle breeze. Better than a lighthouse."

She beams at him and tucks her hair back behind her ear before stooping over to sip her soup carefully. She turns her eyes up at Steve, purses her lips, and blows a cooling kiss atop her spoonful of soup before daintily consuming it. "Mm. God I love tomato bisque," she mutters. "And yes, I'm actually feeling, like, human again. That pepper spray stuff suuuucks," she grumbles. "We should stock up on some kind of neutralizer in case we get dosed again."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"You're hilarious," Steve half-heartedly grouses of his pert, pale ass being used to reflect sunlight and better summon assistance. It's still enough to make him smile around his own spoonful of soup. His sandwich is long gone now -- at least, the first one is -- and he reaches to plate the second. He glances up in time to see the cooling purse of lips and makes a soft snort of approval.

EXCELLENT, CRISIS AVERTED, TARGET IS REDIRECTED, MAINTAIN COURSE.

"Not a bad idea, the neutralizer. I can see about speaking to R&D downstairs about coming up with something. Can get samples from the handkerchief. Where'd it end up, in the bathroom?" he asks, his sandwich half-submerged in the tomato bisque now.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Hamper," Janet says, and takes another sip of her soup. Her eyes slip sideways to her sketchbook, conspicuously where she didn't leave it and with a marker she didn't leave inside. One brow slides back to Steve and she gives him a knowing, speculative smile.

"Were you peeking at my notebook?" she inquies, tauntingly, and slides to her feet. One hand keeps a lazy grip around the front of her loosely belted kimono and she retrieves the binder, hugging it to her chest.

"I guess the cat's out of the bag now," she remarks, wryly. "I was going to tell you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. What'd you think?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Alright, I'll fish it out 'nd see what R&D can do with any of the spray's formula remaining." //In your snot//, the Captain politely does not say. That's for R&D to make faces over. He visibly stutters in dipping his sandwich into his soup and glances up at Janet to watch her depart from her chair.

TARGET HAS REDIRECTED, RE-EVALUATE, ATTEMPT TO CORRECT COURSE.

"Moved it to the desk so nobody's sit on it," he replies a bit hollowly as he watches it return along with the fashionista to the table. His fingers have punched all through the toasted bread to meet now, melted cheese ignored about his cuticles. "Um."

DANGER, STEVE ROGERS. SIT REP: PERILOUS.

"All the designs're lovely. Looks like...look like you've got all the fabrics picked out?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet beams happily at Steve's fumbling praise. "I really liked some of them. Y'know, I tried to come up with a good selection," she says, and flips the sketchbook open to re-pin some of the scraps and notes back into place. "I mean-- there's the traditional look, but I despise that eighties-glam with the poofy shoulders, and the train, and all that fabric." She flips through a few and turns around a close fitting lace-and-silk number. "See, here, I like the fitted long sleeves, the bodice cut, and that high bateu neckline," she says, and turns it to face Steve.

"But, you know, you only get married once, right? Well, for some folks," she amends, turning pages. "So there's a mermaid gown with a high off-the-shoulder neckline, that's allll train, you need an army of bridesmaids to haul it. Or this one? It's a little more daring," she says, turning to a sweetheart cut barely made modest by a near-transparent top. The high split in the skirting shows off a *lot* of bare leg. "Whatcha like best?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve can't seem to look away. He tries, but there's only Janet's face as the other option and she's practically shining now as she walks him through the concepts put down upon the sketchpad's pages. He swallows down what feels like a bunch of crumbs in the back of his tongue and then fumbles for his water bottle for a long drink of it.

SITUATION NOT IMPROVED BY HYDRATION.

The bottle is set down with a quiet clang. "Um. Figure...it should be left up to the bride to choose, right? The groom's gonna not really have a say about the dress in the end," he decides, half-smiling.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Oh stop being so old-fashioned," Janet reproaches Steve, severely. In truth she is beaming enthusiastically at his appreciation for her work-- though in her mildly myopic world of self-satisfication, his discomfort isn't entirely processed at normal speed.

"Weddings really should be a joint process. Trust me, if one person does all the planning that's one person shouldering all the stress," she remarks, drolly.

"So c'mon, help me with some ideas, here," she says, and unloads clippings, half-finished sketchings, and notes. "I really like silver and blue for the colors, they've got such a lovely timeless look and it goes well with a lot of outfits. You don't want something garish like... gold and hot-rod red." Janet makes a face.

"I've got notes... uh.. let's see, I mean, there's so much to consider. Bridesmaid's outfits, floral arrangements, suits for the groomsmen-- I kind of dig an offset mandarin collar, but if there's anyone military in the arrangement, that'd kind of throw off the symmetry," she says, and casts a knowing grin at Steve.

"Honey, you're sweating," she says, a moment later. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? You look really clammy, too."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve sits up from the unconscious start of a slouch he realizes he was affecting. That, and his sandwich is bent clean in half and his fingers are almost dipped into the tomato bisque as well. Looking down at this, he frowns and reaches for a napkin. The sandwich is abandoned to its fate in the bowl of soup.

"'m fine, <<Seillean>>, nothing to worry about," he says with a certainty he means to feel. Fake it until you make it! "Just need to finish the rest of m'food, 'll perk up in a bit."

Then steeling himself, he cranes his head a little to observe the pages on display. "Uh. The silver 'nd blue's nice, yeah, 'nd not the mandarin collar. Off-chance of somebody military being present could be high."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Hrm. Fine," Janet concedes airily, and sets them aside. "I'll work on that. Ooh, though, depending on who's on the bridesmaid side, it could work out..." She frets her lower lip, thinking, and her nails drum a rhythm on the tabletop.

"Whatever, I'll figure it out. I'm still not sure on the timing of stuff," she reminds him, and sets about gathering the notes and things back into place. It's a messy bundle of chaos that appeals to Janet's bizarre mental archiving system. Her art brain is clearly in full gear.

"It'll be better once I have some idea of dates," she tells Steve, and casts around. Finding no drink handy, she scowls at him theatrically and gets to her feet to pad over to his modest liquor cabinet. Her kimono slips from both shoulders, baring her delicateuly sculpted shoulderblades and the thin divots of her neck and spine under thin skin. The subtle discoloration that conceals her wings is barely visible in the low light. "I mean, I know nailing down a -day- is impossible, but like, a month or something-- June's romantic, isn't it? A little tight scheduling to nail down the logistics for a formal wedding, but if we keep it small, do sort of a shotgun affair, friends and family only, I think that's tenable."

She pours a splash of soda on a few healthy drams of rum and turns to face Steve, still lazily holding her robe shut with one hand. Her hips lift to perch on the edge of the service and a bare leg emerges to balance the pad of her foot against the chair in front of it. "I guess it just depends on how much spectacle is called for. D'you think it'd be better to keep it small or go wide, really bring everyone in on it?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Um."

Another third of his water bottle disappears before Steve can manage to scrounge up a response.

"Can't really give you an answer just yet on any of that, need to mull things over first. Lots of information to consider," the Captain answers in his usual candid vein. He's visually focused on the art of fishing out the more than half-soggy sandwich from where it's sunk into the soap with a spoon. It's a task and an excuse not to make eye contact. "Lots to consider," he echoes more to himself with a nod. "Ah, there we go."

La voila: soup-sogged sandwich returned to his plate with an indecorous splut.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet's giving Steve a heavy-lidded look of suggestive entreaty, and when he mumbles into his soup and drops the sandwich into it, her eyes roll with exasperation. A heavy theatrical sigh slips Janet's lips and she straightens to slide off the serviette, bundling the kimono close around her and shrugging into it again.

"Look, I know it's not exactly exciting, but you did go snooping," she says, a little more severely. "It's-- fine. Don't worry about it," she remarks, with a long-suffering exhalation. "I know it's weird, and it's-- sure, a lot of people think it won't work out in the long run. But this is important," she tells him, tapping her fingers on the sketchbook. "It's not like this line of work lends itself to a lot of happiness. I say, grab any celebration for it."

She shifts in her robe, folding her arms, then walks past Steve and gently scrapes her nails against his shoulder with a frustrated expression that can't overcome a deep-set affection and need to reassure him-- and her-- through contact.

"I'm gonna go curl up in bed with my drink, and you can join me when you finish eating," she tells him, walking away with an idle sway of her hips. "Just don't spill anything on the wedding planner if you go looking again, I don't want to be scraping cheesy grease stains off of the designs at Natasha's dress fitting," she calls over her shoulder.

Steve Rogers has posed:
The sandwich is broken into bits and eaten silently while Steve admittedly only half-listens. He does glance up from the far wall of the room when she makes contact and reaches to distractedly patpat at the fingers brushing at his shoulder.

"Sounds good," he replies at half-volume to her missive about joining her in bed. Even a look over his shoulder towards those hips that simply won't lie isn't enough to dent the white noise of contained concern in his brain.

It's when she drops the line about whose dress fitting it is that his poise breaks.

Thankfully, Janet's beyond and in the bedroom, out of line of sight of the table.

Natasha. It's //Natasha's// dress fitting. For the wedding. The fake wedding. Natasha and Tony's fake wedding.

Slooooooowly, the super-soldier slouches down in his chair until most of him has disappeared beneath the table in a splay of legs akilter and face hidden away behind his hands. A full lungs' worth of air leaves him in a sigh just barely shy of a groan and his shoulders slouch.

"<<Oh thank god,>>" breathes the man in Gaelic, rolling his eyes briefly up and to the ceiling. There's the clatter of him collecting dishes and taking his time rinsing them off in the small sink before he pauses by the table again to look at the sketchpad.

It gets a purely Rogersian glower at 110% power.

Then he pads off to the bedroom, leaving the entire affair behind at the table.

Barnes still gets a text about meeting for a stiff drink later.