249/Baby, It's Only Sort of Cold Outside

Baby, It's Only Sort of Cold Outside
Date of Scene:	03 March 2020
Location:	Avengers Mansion - Study
Synopsis:	Steve lets Janet in on a little secret: Superman is alive.
Cast of Characters:	Steve Rogers, Janet van Dyne

---

Steve Rogers has posed:
Firelight is always a complimentary hue cast. It gilds the study as it glows, fed amply with thick logs, and casting heat comfortable at a certain distance. Steve in sweatpants and a t-shirt beneath a light sweatshirt is sprawled across one of the chaise-lounges as contentedly as a cat. With his spine tucked into a corner of it, he has his acoustic guitar in his lap. Notes rise from the dance of his fingers across the frets and his thumb's brush across the strings.

By the way the song wends, it's like as not some Gaelic lullaby simple enough that the Captain can play about with its main stanza, changing chords here and then, and extending certain sections with colorful brushes of musicality.

"You asleep...?" he says softly overtop the music, glancing over at Janet.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet stirs from her seat opposite Steve. If Steve is an illustration of relaxation; Janet fits the dictionary illustration of 'feline contentment'. She's taking up even more of the chaise than he is, and in an utterly boneless sprawl borne of the decadence that can only come from having a flotilla of pillows propped up behind her. It's quite shameless, too, and she's nestled deep in a pink terrycloth robe with a blanket pulled over her feet.

"Nottasleep," comes the objection, and her eyes flicker into alertness. "Was just napping. Arms and legs extend into Steve's space with Janet's stretch and she bridges up on her heels and shoulders with the motion.

Abruptly she collapses back into the pillows with a sigh of contentment. "That's a nice song. Where'd you learn it?" Fingers tug bangs away from her browline and tuck them into a hairclip again.

Steve Rogers has posed:
String hum from another brush of his thumb, their sound quiet beneath Janet's reponse. Her beau's lips curve into a fond smile as he watches the wee fashionista rearrange herself within her bower of plush and terrycloth, warm and comfortable. His own toes curl and spread within the bounds of the thick white socks on his feet before he shoulders back a little more into the corner of the lounge. Slouching requires resetting one's spine now and then, after all.

On a sigh, Steve replies, "Doesn't have a name that one...not that I can remember anyways. <<Mathair>> would hum it, never learned any lyrics." Another strum of his thumb shifts the lighter tune into something more wistful and minor, though here and there, major chords provide lifts like the rise and fall of a boat on the ocean. It has the sense of a song meant to be played at a more brisk rate, but the Captain is still playing about it in like he might with colors on his painting palette. "This one's a shanty," he murmurs, eyes briefly on the frets as he plucks out the individual notes.

Still...his gaze returns to Janet and the Wasp has been with Steve long enough to know that he's weighing something on his mind now. There's a way that he lids his true-blues without losing an ounce of scrutiny.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Buy me a drink if you're going to keep staring at me like that," Janet suggests to Steve. Lips curl into a playful little smile. With a purposeful glance she directs his attention to the little wet bar in the corner of the study.

And just to drive the point home, she starts jostling him with petite toes to nudge him into ambling that way.

"You'e got your Thinking Shoulders going tonight," Janet informs Steve. "All broody and hunched. Like something is on your mind and you don't wanna bring it up." A concerned look crosses her fine-boned features and she sits a little more upright. "It's not something with us, right? I'm not in trouble?" she inquires with a tentative uncertainty.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Startled just enough out of his pensive dissociation with reality around him, Steve blinks a few times at her words before glancing down at the small sets of toes prodding at the insert of his knee to thigh. It's enough to make him laugh a few times, palm against the strings of the guitar to silence its music for the moment.

"Sorry, Shortcakes, didn't mean to stare." Still, she gets a wink from the super-soldier as cheek. Back and forth, his head tilts in somewhat sheepish agreement to her observation, eyes off to one side, at least until the petite woman expresses concern.

"No, <<Seillean>>, not us. I'd be up-front with you about that if there were any issues," he reassures her. The guitar is set aside, its neck leaned against the upright surface of the chaise lounge's arm, and he reaches down his body to hunt out one of her hands. A kiss to pressed to her knuckles lightly, his eyes upon her face. "Nobody's in trouble."

Extrication from the chaise lounge means Steve can now wander over to the wet bar and begin mixing up something like a Cosmo. Something. Maybe it's a Cosmo? There's liquor involved and some fruit juice and he's not particular prone to mixing drinks as it stands, liquor having little effect on him.

"Janet." That is the first name, however, as he returns and offers out the drink to her. His face is unwontedly solemn now. "I could use your thoughts, but here's the thing of it: this is information that if released to the public too soon, might destroy not only what quiet we have right now in the wake of Genosha, but someone's sense of safety. You //cannot//," Steve breathes, " -- let this slip. If you can't promise me this, fine. 'm not here to twist your arm or make you uncomfortable. I need to hear you tell me you won't repeat this to //ANYBODY.//"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet's momentarily pre-occupied with the view while Steve tends to the bar. Brows rise in a sort of surprised petulance as he addresses her with an uncharacteristically stern tone. Her expression shifts from mild objection to blinking confusion as Steve expresses how dire the situation really is and implores her total cooperation.

"Steve, I've got classified access that can get me into the Triskelion's secure area," Janet reminds him with a wry tone. She accepts the drink with both hands when he walks over; a sip and a 'mm!' of pleased surprise momentarily wipes the more serious topic from her attention. "I mean, without flashing the guard. It's not the White House," she adds with a derisive huff.

Steve's giving her A Look, and Janet stares up at him for a beat before rolling her eyes impatiently. "God. Fine. 'I solemnly swear I won't tell anyone'," she tells Steve, and holds up three fingers as if imitating the Boy Scout oath. "But it better be *super* juicy gossip," she admonishes him, and wiggles to a more comfortable sitting position.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Granted, the Captain was nearly convinced by the time the comment about the White House rolled around. What animation was in his face slips away to be replaced by a stony patience. He's not got his arms folded yet, but how his hands anchor at his hips starkly broadcasts the level of consternation he finds in her immediate response.

"Janet, it's not gossip. It's classified information," Steve reiterates, brows knitted. "'nd there are a few lives that might hinge on it. More'n a few," he amends before reaching to rub beneath his ear, at the tendons of his neck. A few steps of pacing draws him away from the lounge and he shakes his head to himself while muttering in Gaelic, like as not arguing with his conscience over things. Then, he turns and gives the Wasp another level Look. "Do you promise to keep this under wraps? Yes or no?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet's eyebrows start a slow rise as Steve presses for her silence once more. Her tongue probes the inside of her cheek; there's a subtle settle of head and shoulders moving in opposite directions. It does not look feline. More like a snake coiling and preparing to strike. The wrist supporting her drink unrolls to support it near her shoulder. If Janet could buzz like an actual wasp, she'd be doing it.

"Did I stutter?" she inquires of Steve. Indeed, they've known each other long enough for Steve to know that Janet's swiftly going from 'mildly perturbed' towards 'socialite meltdown' as he offloads his tension onto her. At least her voice is mild and flat.

It's when Janet starts speaking with a saccharine affection that true danger is near.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"So yes. Good."

With that, the man moves to seat himself on the opposite end of the chaise-lounge again. One arm sprawls across its back while the other indulges in briefly palming at half of his face. Fingers then comb back through his blond hair to leave it a veritable bird's-nest in gold. Then, after another deep inhale to lift his broad chest and collapse it in a long sigh, he glances over at Janet again.

"Spoke with Superman a few weeks back."

There is it, plain and simple, a nugget of information worth more than any monetary sum: Superman is alive, confirmed by Steve Rogers himself.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet's lips settle into a thin line and with a huff of irritation she pushes the blankets off her bare legs so she can sit up. "Steve, I said I *promise*," she says, testily, and prepares to stand up. "If you don't want to tell me, then stop screwing around and--"

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Janet!"

Up sits Steve as well, both palms uplifted from the back of the lounge and the arm of the furniture, his mouth fallen open. "Janet. I spoke with Superman a few weeks back," the man repeats, absolute conviction written in eloquence upon his fine features. "The man is alive. I swear on my mother's gravestone." How his true-blues rest upon the Wasp now. A little further spread of fingers implies there's little else to be said on the matter, especially in light of invoking his long-dead mother.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet stops and looks at Steve with a querulous expression. It shifts to incredulity, then shock, then disbelief again.

Her drink's examined, and she throws it all back with one long gulp. She turns back to Steve, then extends the empty glass and wiggles it in his direction with a plaintive expression while she digests her drink (and his news).

The fashionista curls into her spot again and burrows back into the pillows. Her robe hangs loose enough to reveal the black chemise worn under it. "Honey, is it possible you ... hit your head? Or someone's having fun at your expense?" she ventures, timidly. "Superman is dead. The grave marker is right there in the park, so it's not likely he just got up and zombied out of there."

Janet frowns. "Come to think of it, did you even *meet* Superman? That was right around when you got decanted."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Finally, it goes through. As Janet's face melds through reactions, the super-soldier nods solemnly back at her, silently confirming the emotions on display. Taking the glass, Steve elects to place it on the side table after reaching beyond his shoulder to do so.

"I visited the grave not so long ago, <<seillean>>, I know it's there." His brows knit again, but not in anger; more a facet of distress centered around a deep, deep empathy. At base, the sheer amount of discomfort one can find in seeing their own gravestone is something he knows unfortunately well. "'nd I did meet him twice, yes, even before we all came together." The Avengers, he must mean, as he gestures at the mansion around them. "Nothing official or especially public, but we were on the same page...considered each other corworkers in the field of metahumans 'nd the powered. Considered him a friend...still do. Then he was gone...might as well have been marked KIA. But <<seillean>>."

Slowly, Steve shakes his head, never dropping her gaze. "This is no prank. He's alive."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet pushes her fingers through her hair to tease it out. When Steve sets her drink aside insted of refilling it, she pouts. Fortunately the immediate story is much more interesting than a refill of whatever concoction Steve came up with.

The ritual grooming helps keep her flighty train of thought on task. Superman. Alive.

"Okay. Saying I believe you," Janet begins, cautiously. "Where the flying *fuck* has he been for the last two years?" An irritated note underwrites her words. "I can think of more than a few times where we really could have used his help. Did he just--" Her wrist describes an overhead arc and she snaps her fingers. "Poof, off to Haiti or Malaysia for a long holiday? 'cause I'm pretty goddamn sure he better have a *really* good excuse for all the times we've had to pick up the slack with him laying low."

"And how did you even find out? Did--" Janet's eyes go wide, then narrow into menacing slits. "If you've been holding out on me with this for two *years*, you and I are gonna go a few rounds!"

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve does hold up two fingers and clarifies somewhat blandly: "Two //weeks//. Had to think it over," he continues by way of explanation. Blunt fingernails still move to itch at the tag of his t-shirt beneath the outer layering and he grimaces as if it's far more irritating than it truly is.

"Wasn't sure of who to tell. I can't speak for him though, Shortcakes, you know how that is. He's his own man. His decisions have his own reasoning behind it. Can't change the past now 'nd even if we could...even I've been around the Doctor long enough to know that playing with time's no good idea."

One of the ties of his sweatshirt falls to swing briefly to once side as he then shrugs. "Who else could tell me but him 'nd have me believe him? Superman found me 'nd elected to trust me with this information."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet grumbles, but relents as Steve's explanation mollifies her somewhat. "Fine. I guess that's okay," she says. It's a visible effort for her to release the simmering ire she's clinging too, but she relaxes her shoulders into the pillow pile behind her. Bare calves rest across Steve's lap again.

"Okay, so circling back-- what's he been doing for two years?" she inquires, stubbornly. "Even you have to admit that's pretty messed up. We've had space invaders and major accidents and natural disasters. You can't tell me he's just been... sitting around twiddling his thumbs for the last two years. He's been like, incognito, right? Or is he pretending to be some other cape?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
Back and forth, up and down the shins slung across his hips, Steve rubs a palm. It seems an action to mollify the both of them, release of tension through mutual touch.

"If anything, I remember he mentioned something about recovery. Whatever he went through, especially if it was true death..." Again, there's a momumental volume of grave understanding found in his regard. "Nothing you get up from fast or just walk off. He also said he was grateful for how we protected his home when he couldn't lend a hand."

His gaze then falls to his lap and the back of his hand where it still draws back and forth across the Wasp's leg. "Shocked me as much as it shocked you. Figured...already dealt with Buck coming back, that had to be practice enough, but...guess it never will be," he murmurs.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Damn that Steve and his clever use of physical reassurance. Janet's irritation is salved away by the gentle kneading of his thumbs on her muscles. Just because she lives in heels doesn't mean she appreciates a footrub any less.

Janet rubs her face in exasperation-- though at the situation at large, rather than Steve-- and stares up at the ceiling. A casual blaspheme slips past her lips.

"Alive," she breathes. "Like...I don't even know how to /process/ that," she admits. "That was like... 2017. I was married to Hank, and miserable. I'd only just started getting JVD rolling. Supes was always this, like... bigger than life character. Something out of the movies."

She prods Steve's thigh with a heel. "Kind of like you, really. God, what is it with me and relics from the past? He's so old, too, he's like.. almost *forty*."

She grins impudently at Steve and curls her foot over the top of his thigh a little possessively.

Steve Rogers has posed:
This time around, Steve lets the curse float off into the open space above them without comment. He frankly feels about the same, when things boil down to the nitty-gritty of the whole affair. His palms move to properly take up massaging Janet's feet now rather than just her shins. Thumbpads move to meld along the arch and into the meat of a foot's underside without exerting too much pressure. He glances up from his new project and over at her, wearing a small smirk.

"You have good taste in old things, how about that? Or maybe new's overrated 'nd if it ain't broke, you don't fix it?" the man offers as a few answers to her mostly rhetorical question. Still, the Captain sobers quickly enough. "But yep...alive. Gotta let the team know at this point. Figured it'd be wise to have you around to back me up."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
At that particular administration Janet positively melts into the pillows behind her. "Ooh, there you go, ruin a perfectly good footrub by complaining about 'kids these days'," Janet says. There's absolutely zero effort backing her rejoinder; she's quite happy to let Steve work the knots of muscle out of the soles of her feet.

"I'll... I can't really 'back you up', honey," Janet reminds Steve, and looks at him from under hooded eyelids. "I haven't talked to him personally. Me adding my word to yours means diddly squat. The team trusts you; you don't need me standing around preaching to them about your upright morality. Everyone who's been around you for ten seconds can get a read on that," she mutters. "You are not good at lying."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Finding a section of her sole seemingly responsive to the gentle loosening, the super-soldier's thumbs work at it with a mindful persistence sure to wear down any knot. Repositioning his thights allows him between access straight-on to the bottoms of her feet and tucks him more into the corner of the lounge-couch, as he was when this conversation began.

"Ever considered that 'm actually an excellent liar based off the premise that I rarely do it to start with? No premise in the first place to make people consider that I'd be lying," he notes with a nonchalant teasing. His glance takes her in and again, that half-smirk appears. "Meant more that you'd be there as a level head in case somebody gets a head of steam. Don't expect anybody to, but better to be prepared than not."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"No, you lie like a cheap rug," Janet informs Steve. Feet wriggle on his lap. At his nonchalance, she shrugs her shoulders at him with an asymmetrical motion. "I mean, I know what to look for. You've got some tells. I would absolutely wreck you in a game of poker."

Lashes flutter. "Did they even have strip poker back in the 40s? I have a feeling I'd end up with a wardrobe of ill-fitting clothing. I don't even know what I'd do with some of those outfits. I'd be swimming in anything Carol fits into. Freaking Nordic milkmaid she is," Janet mutters, darkly.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Janet scores her point. There go the tips of Steve's ears pinking at the question. Up goes the drag of his thumb to start rolling and mulling each toe between forefinger and thumb, one at a time, this little piggy went to market...you get the gist.

"You're a bit short for Carol's stuff, I'd agree, but you talk a big game, <<seillean>>. Two things to remember." Pausing in the foot massage, he lifts up a hand. Index finger rises and then the second, one for each point. "One, you've never caught me lying, so you've got no baseline to check. Two, you ask Barnes about the time I got fed up with the Howlies trying to prank me back when I was a newly-minted Captain. Left 'em thinking twice about it after a few rounds of poker."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Maybe I'm just such an expert of the human condition, I never *let* you realize I was onto you," Janet says.

When the footrubs stop, she rather pointedly prods his thigh with her toetips until it resumes.

"Second, you're talking about outwitting a bunch of bored GIs on the Eastern front in a poker game? That's like bragging about taking candy from infants," she snorts. "You came up playing poker because you were bored and had nothing better to do. Wait until you're at a girl's finishing academy and playing to win for the last half-pack of ciagarettes because you've been confined to the grounds for two weeks. /That/ is where you refine some bluffing abilities."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve ends up chuckling despite himself. Dimples come and go as he settles into that knowing grin showcasing just a sliver of teeth.

"Alright, alright..." The hand lifted is spread of fingers, signaling a defeat -- or perhaps not as the man adds, "But that adage about old age 'nd treachery's gonna apply if you 'nd me ever get to poker, <<seillean>>. Can't be seen getting smoked by a young sweet blossom of youth like yourself." He wiggles her big toe as if to make a point before returnign to massaging it.