7021/Fighting The Undertow

Fighting The Undertow
Date of Scene:	21 July 2021
Location:	Covent Garden, London
Synopsis:	A few things might be important to talk about.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon

Jane Foster has posed:
Confronted with major news, most people need a few hours if not days to process the information. To come to terms with it. A process feasibly that might take far longer than that calls for a certain escape, otherwise the pressure cooker intensity will potentially drive them mad. However resilient the mind tends to be, it requires certain escape valves for revelation to maintain any kind of equilibrium.

That means leaving Jemma and Daisy for a time, a silent offer made by sign to Blackagar if he cares to join her. She promises to return to them in the hours to come, and they can track the astrophysicist via the gilded bangle shackled to her wrist. Still, learning they've had some figment of her used as a seesaw for months takes an emotional and mental toll. One which requires that uttermost human act, an exercise of free will without any other demands put upon her.

But for someone who hasn't been alone longer than a few minutes for months, the prospect of facing London Town by herself sends a shiver of trepidation through her. She will walk alone, if the Midnight King has other things to do. She doesn't force it either, though the chilly shiver in her thoughts at the height of summer makes 'Want to see a favourite spot?' that much more poignant.

London holds good memories and painful ones too now.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar's list of things to do was extensively long. It consisted of... nothing more important. That was the reality of the situation, there were things to be done but at the moment there was the sense of simply being at Jane's side was most important among them. So as she starts her walk, seeking some reprieve he had been willing to let her go alone until she asked him to join her through the sign language she knows. Doing it in that way, it kept it private. She could have asked through their mental touch but he felt the hand signal meant to be seen by the others as well.

So Blackagar had nodded, signed, ~Of course~ back to her and fallen into step as she began to move. It was a difficult situation to gauge. What extent of information did Jane wish her friends to know? What did he wish them to know? But now that they were away from them a distance, his hand slowly reached out to take hers, to entwine fingers with his own and silently be. The sense of him is he is waiting, letting her find the space she needs to speak and this is a man of immense patience.

Jane Foster has posed:
He is frighteningly observant, though the deliberate denial of one sense might be responsible for sharpening all the rest. Jane's purpose to include Daisy and Jemma in the exchange incorporated sign language and avoided a more confusing one-sided conversation or one excluding those nearest and dearest to her heart from another. Asking for time and a little space to decompress from a shock is quite a bit different from running off into the urban jungle, especially after going all that distance. Besides, the Furiae have the London Eye to see. Doctor Foster has another destination in mind.

One adventurous thirty minute jaunt on the train from beyond Hampton Court in the Tudor back-end of nowhere drops them off at Charing Cross Station, adjacent to those sandstone Georgian and Victorian buildings on the Strand not far from where previous walks took them. Trafalgar Square, commemorating the great naval victory over Napoleon, is choc-a-block with statues and art galleries. His hand taken, Blackagar won't be without that steady connection blossoming where their palms meet. The golden bangle is perfectly behaved, slanted over her wrist, occasionally brushing his arm and nothing like a terrifying Asgardian relic of untold power.

As a favourite spot for protests, the square hosts a small crowd demanding more progressive action on climate change, while another group waves signs and distributes pins to denounce Latveria for being Doomily terrific.

Their destination along that highly trafficked thoroughfare isn't far, a mere ten minute walk along the edge of the mighty square.

Tucked between especially tasty Maharaja of India -- authentic Tandoori cuisine -- and My Phone -- mobiles unlocking, money exchanged -- is a tasty little outpost called Amorino.

A putti overlooks the black doors, and the hopeful flapping sign reads 'Gelato Al Naturale.' In other words, fancy Italian ice cream substitute. She tugs him along. "Come, let's get a cup to go."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The questions of why that Daisy had posed had been rolling over through Blackagar's mind. He had stopped to ask directions from Jane when she had just arrived it would seem. Just as he had arrived. Was it happenstance or was there some kind of cosmic pull, intentional or other that had put them in one another's paths. Circumstance and happen could be possible, it really is the strongest explanation for many things. But is there the possibility? Did her bangle sense him and pull her to him? Did he sense it and seek her out? Was there something greater at play.

Over and over those thoughts roll through Blackagar's mind as they walk. He keeps them soft, to himself, but the silence is noticable, she could tell that he is thinking. All the sights they pass by, all the protestors, the streets, they fade away and it is only when she speaks that his blue eyes blink and he looks in front of them. Awakening from a daze.

<> he affirms to Jane, reaching out to open the door for her. <<This is like the Ice Cream?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Happenstance and cosmic pull can coexist. A chance encounter from a generous soul unperturbed by a slate sits within the easily found context of a woman who delights in teaching children and expanding wonder into unknown corners. But in a tug across the sea of cities and villages, he pulled her out and found her there in his path. Not merely the first time for directions, but the thereafter, the critical juncture that separates Blackagar from a hundred missed connections-esque posts.

Daisy's questions too weigh on Jane's mind in a different direction. Why did you never call? What might be done differently or overlooked in the harrowing parade of ghastly transitions? Something to be turned away later.

They have now. Now is good, as she reaches for the door as he does. Her eyes spark with laughter, a dimple inflecting her cheek as she draws her free hand back. "Ah, it's going to be like that? I might get unreasonably used to your good manners. I bet you never cut in line, either?" 50 million Brits approve. <<Yes, very much like ice cream but made differently. The flavours and the texture can be mildly different. Not often eaten with a cone either, but I come in here before going around the corner every time. You'll see why.>>

Hesitant for a moment for the best of reasons, letting someone out, she squeezes next to the taller Inhuman king. A short squeeze of his hand and she dips inside, guiding him along to the counter. The place isn't busy, and scoops can be pulled out of those long metal tubs quite unlike the average ice cream shop. "I already know what I'm dying to try, so you go first," she insists to him with a smile.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Yes.>> Blackagar thinks back towards Jane rather simply when she asks if it's going to be like that. He smiles and signs briefly but it is really a cover of sorts, the emphasis of his words now more in the mind then in the gestures. <<Good manners are important. And I do cut in line when it's necessary. But otherwise? Here I am just another simple traveller.>> A small smile, a reminder of how they actually met. Her helping out a simple man travelling.

When she offers to let him go first, he quirks an eyebrow and steps to the counter, indicating the Blackcurrent as his selection before letting Jane make hers. This time, he produces the slip of plastic that is utilized for payments. He even gives Jane a considering look, <> The smile is warm as he waits for her.

Receiving his frozen treat in a cup, he samples it with the spoon, the first time he has released Jane's hand so he can eat. The taste gains his approval and he nods his thanks to the proprietor before waiting for her. <>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<You never feel the urge to politely meander to the front? Maybe sit in the unoccupied seat to keep those badly behaved teenagers from flopping in it?>> The many vices of Black Bolt, put on display, are probably as dazzling as his list of things to do immediately. Jane's gentle teasing holds no purpose other than to earn that smile. It, somehow, anchors back to an everyday care.

Not to the sinking sensation dragging her through the floor or pushing her into a mass of mortals, hurled to one of the cloud-grazing towers or a leafy village a thousand light years from anywhere normal. Death spans a galaxy, dips into the Nine Realms with ease, and she cannot deny the call. Not until the past few weeks.

He selects black currant and she breaks into a smile. <<One of the best British flavours. I'm going for citrus, that Syracuse lemon. No matter how tempting yuzu sounds.>> Hand-in-hand yet, she verbalizes that with a gesture and a few words. The gelatista behind the counter is utterly unfazed either way, scooping out a regular sized portion for each and sticking a macaron in the top for fun. <<Thank you. You didn't have to pay.>> Not knowing the resources of Attilan may be a charming thing, but still. She doesn't assume on a king's prerogative /or/ his bank account. For all she knows, they use corn flakes for currency.

There may be places to sit, but their purpose is walking and talking. One long spoon plucked from the paper cup, she gestures. <<Do you want to try mine? Help yourself.>>

Their path outside is indeed short, two and a half shops up to a gap between an obnoxiously bright blue and yellow former pub now slinging hamburgers, and an Italian restaurant occupying a corner stop. Flapping construction sheeting conceals a bit of scaffolding that further inhibits a view of an arguably timely little lane splintering off the busy flow of people and traffic a few dozen meters away. Victorian storefronts with their hanging signs stretch past, though they might have to crane to see deep into a passageway where time has stopped, reversing itself to when the elegance and romantic view meant Victorian Londoners sought gentility in the revived (and flat out reimagined) past.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar does express humor at her consideration that he would in anyway insert himself into such a thing. To sit between teens or to simply meander to the front. It is a rather funny thought. To just do something as such. But he wouldn't. He does express the image to her though. Of him just casually walking past everyone to the front, playing oh so innocent like he had no idea what he was doing.

There is despair, if he can feel it or not, he can sense the threat of hint and it is an insistent pull back to reality, back to him. <<Try yours?>> he asks her with a tone of shock, <<But what about the germs?>> A wry grin is given her, playful at the fact that there is no real danger of that, at least not any to worry over at this point. He takes his spoon and dips it into her lemon, offering his cup to Jane in turn. <> he comments <<tartness is so dangerous sometimes.>>

When she mentions him not needing to pay, he gives her a look. <> It isn't blatant, but it is certainly hopefully enough to put her at ease. They don't pay in cornflakes. They use moon cheese.

Once they are outside, the simple street does pull his attention. The quaintness of things, the throw back to a prior time, a simpler time? No. Merely a different one. <<This is interesting. A glimpse into a time past?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Innocence cavorting behind a traveller's mask is not an unreasonable guise. Takes a spy to know a spy, after all, an approach that would be ideal under certain circumstances.

Her chin goes up, the better to meet Blackagar's sky-bright eyes with her own. <<Germs when I'm apparently unaffected by diseases? You forgot, I'm a popsicle in a tube being used as a children's ride.>> The wry tone has a black humour to it, the mordant evisceration of that rather horrendous joke showing why she and Jemma Simmons get along like houses on fire. <<Oh, you put that spoon in my mouth. If we are going to do this right, do it disgustingly cutely.>>

He can offer her her own spoon if he needs, but Blackagar Boltagon can feed a death-marked mortal just fine. A little nibble will leave the blossoming Syracusan lemon practically exploding on his tongue, a kiss of intense sweetness so spellbinding that everything else turns a bit golden-yellow in her existence. Black currant, on the other hand, is the embodiment of English summer, robust and rounded off in a tartness concealed by glossy notes that come sweet, and intriguing. So very purple and delicious.

<> Please don't let them, either. She spoons a bit of the gelato into her mouth, blissfully enraptured by the promise of a Mediterranean summer. Cecil Court in all its bookish splendour lies ahead. "We wander, looking into the windows, thumbing over the tables," she says aloud. <<They have everything imaginable. It's called Booksellers Row. I used to wander through the shelves and down here, hoping to find some hidden treasure or an old manuscript by one of the greats. They know the value, the prices are fair but never cheap. I'll have to show you some of my best finds back in New York.>> A bit of a wan smile follows. <<After unpacking. I've left that for now. Explaining an abrupt vanishing would be awkward. I have a public life, a degree of fame from my work. /Most/ of the world thinks I'm just that, the lady who made first contact with an interstellar race we mistook for gods. Different than Superman, just as shocking. They don't know I worked for SHIELD... strong-armed into it, at the first, but an arrangement with dividends as you can see.>>

Fulcrums. She stares at her own reflection in the glass. No violet death's heads. Just a couple walking among the books, people inside lost in their own little worlds. <<You have things you cannot let SHIELD know. Your people. Because the outcome would be too dangerous. Yes?>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<> Blackagar thinks back, <<Next time I shall definitely let you pay for our ice creams while I get the luxurious hotel room.>> He considers the thoughts towards Jane with a soft expression of humor. The black humor, well it actually does cause him to (mentally) laugh and shake his head while fishing out his spoon to feed it to Jane. <<If that is what you wish? We shall be so disgustingly cute that none will be able to remain in our presence.>> He even does a little reach out with his finger to brush a stray hair back from her cheek to emphasize the point.

Death marked mortal she may be, but at present there is a sense of her being with him, so that would make her his death marked mortal and it does cause him a small smile. <<If you wish any of the books, I will happily steal it for you since I am not allowed to do what I wish with my resources.>> Again, a joke, humor and light. He continues enjoying his gelato until it is resolved, the container and spoon placed into recycling as they pass it.

When she explains the plan, he grins, <<Then we wander. We go into these stores and touch their valuables, consider their goods, sneak into their corners and truly make them wonder just who we are. Then, we surprise them and purchase a book for the mere purpose of thanking them for the opportunity to be together within their store.>> Once more he is patient, but when her hand becomes free with the conclusion of her gelato, that patience will shift into an expectation, hand offered to her once again.

The words she thinks to him about SHIELD, that does give him pause. <<There are things I do not let SHIELD know because I do not know what they would do with that information. It could be dangerous for my people. It could be dangerous for them as well.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<It was a reasonably luxurious hotel room. Not excessively to the point we rubbed our dusty shoulders with people in ten thousand dollar suits.>> Jane's protest might fall on sharp ears, though she leans forward to try the spoonful of gelato. Italian frozen treats cause her no amount of pleasure, stolen from the in-between moments in life.

<> Thoughts skid over the bond, implanted with a mental laugh. <<Theft of books from Booksellers Row? Pardon me when I say I'd rather face down the draugr again.>> Darkest of humour skids along the rough edges of a cutting wound, the ragged shape of a spear-thrust that should be running through her shoulder and chest. A finger traces over her body, finding no raised circle of proud flesh, no scar tissue.

<<I'm aboard with this sneaking into corners. I best hurry with this.>> She takes several quick bites of her lemony gelato to make up for the Midnight King being so hasty. The remainder can rest in the recycling bin. Let him lead his way through the booksellers, whatever captures his attention. History? First editions on analyzing psychology, thought? The joys of composting? However he picks, she goes with him.

Her cool fingers curl among his, pressing to his knuckles, kneading biscuits rather like a cat. <<They never gave me that choice in the beginning. Keeping the populace from melting down after Asgard announced itself swept me up. I saw things from SHIELD's point of view and I still do. The Battle of New York impressed the importance of groups protecting civilians.>> She rolls her shoulder, pausing to bring their joined hands to her chin in thought, in resting her lips against his fingers. <<Civilians is key. They have great heroes; Captain America. Falcon. Captain Marvel - she's something else. Their mission, I believe at heart, is mostly good. Imagine saying that about a building full of spooks. However... they can't know the whole of this, not yet, Blackagar. This is the second time I've nearly died. Actually died. And each time, I was given a choice by a... bracelet... to go softly into the night or to come back in service /of/ life. The first time, I came to an agreement, a non-answer but an answer all the same. The second time was different, and at some point I must have decided to help. I was with the dead, who were being devoured or stolen from their rightful ends, after months of playing courier. Messenger, whenever someone died. I've been murdered, died by accident, act of god, felled by old age. Burned apart, devoured, name a method and it probably happened. Now here I am, mostly on my own terms.>>

The city somehow remains alive and kinetic whereas they are an atoll in the wild sea. <<It's going to be hard enough to explain to Daisy and Jemma that the whole 'fell out of reality' problem stays classified on a need to know basis. Because their hearts are good. Others are more pragmatic. If you have to keep a country safe, a /planet/ safe, are you really going to take no for an answer if you realize someone can potentially walk undetected or be in three different places simultaneously and still function? I don't even know all of what happened yet. This is a necessity to buy time and be selfish, because I don't know the first thing about protecting and serving the living or the dying. What it looks like, what it means. Except that the closest examples I've got stay apart from mortal affairs and they do not tell their best friends 'Hi, I serve Death and I am now some kind of Aesir goddess when I do?' When I tap into that, everything changes. You can stare me in the face and not know I'm Jane Foster. Some joke that Death is universal or sneaks up on you when you don't suspect it? Maybe? The bracelet's laughing at me, by the by.>>

And in an echo? Thunder.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Trust is a challenge.>> Blackagar replies as he works through Jane's words. By time she finishes, they'd been through two shops and were now sitting on a bench, knees together in touch to match hands. He is considering her carefully. <<If you trust your friends, but believe it will put them in a compromising position, then you must weigh that. Sometimes the most challenging decision to make is what not to tell people. You take their agency of choice away but sometimes privacy must be more important.>> He considers Jane carefully then. <<Even us. What would you say to them if they asked? I do not know what I would say to someone from Attilan if they asked. Because there is this challenge we face of what information to keep to ourselves and what to make public.>>

As she goes on a thought floats on his mind, <<SHIELD, like many groups, at their core are totalitarian. They have to be. In these structures there is no separation between private and public life. So that is the position perhaps you should consider. What part of your experiences do you want public and which parts do you wish to keep private. And either they shall respect that, or they won't. And if they choose not to then other decisions will follow. But in the end Jane, you have the right to a private life.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Privacy and duty coexist, but rarely easily.>> If someone hasn't coined the phrase, they should. She rests her palm against the table laid out in front of one of the smaller shops, lined by cloth-bound editions from the turn of the last century. Green, brown, and watered navy books stretch out in three or four rows, and she almost selects one. <<Choosing not to tell them is a lie of omission. A betrayal even for good reason still weighs on my conscience. No light choices.>>

Her teeth sink into her lower lip, eyes closed. She leans back a little into him; gentle unease and fatigue mentally weave together across the bond, gratitude washing beneath. <<Why these things cannot be simple is beyond me. Just a walk in the best book market in London with someone tall, dark, and handsome. We get that and an existential crisis.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<When we find this tall, dark, and handsome person point them out to me?>> Blackagar teases gently to her with the grin coming back. She leans back into him, his hands move to envelope her in a hug from behind, holding the woman with a reassuring touch. <<It may be a lie of omission. If you believe they can hold your confidence that you ask them to, then trust them to. If you feel it will force them into a conflict or a crisis of their own, then keep the burden on your own shoulders.>>

His own eyes drift over the books but they end up settling on the woman in the reflection of the glass instead. <<Things are never simple, instead it is seeking out those simple moments as you go through life.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<The question is also whether duty requires I don't speak of it. That much remains clear, though questioning a bracelet produces mixed results.>> Jane's sardonic wit still holds an effigy of regret, the process for mourning innocence already well underway. Not for herself; the pain inflicted on others. <<We began the day with 'my friends are coming' and ended up at a crossroads. Yet I have done the unutterable offense to you of not asking how you feel and whether you even want the entanglement. You can still carry on and claim no more of this, if you want.>>

Even if it's currently an act of cutting out a chunk of herself to admit that, she pushes the thoughts with firm insistence over the link. Telepathy isn't needed to see squaring up her shoulders and meeting his gaze rather than holding to the books, a temptation not strong enough to divert either from less permanent moments. The volume she started to pull is left drawn out halfway, her hands lifting to span Blackagar's forearms tentatively where he embraces her. A sensation to be explored, as her back presses into him. <<I would understand. You have enough on your plate without adding conflicted soul, currently working through other issues. I wouldn't think less of you. You did not sign up for the complications. In fact, I am not sure /I/ did. Amora dropped a problem in my friends' laps, by the sounds of it. I'll be making amends to you and them equally.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Once more, Jane gets the look from Blackagar's expression that says she is begin ridiculous. He even lifts an eyebrow at her as he doesn't send any thoughts for a moment. Let the facial expression communicate for a moment before he does. <<You really think I wouldn't speak up if I was concerned with an entanglement?>> The look continues for long moments. <>

<<You are taking responsibility for other people's agency again. I have the ability to make my own choices Jane. So do not think you have some kind of obligation to make amends or the like.>> His embrace remains around her and he takes a moment to whisper in his thought speak to her. <<What do you need? I will be that for you.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<You would. But let me worry that you might feel obligated or principled enough to consider doing something for another to help when a wise course of action is staying hands off.>> She doesn't finish the statement, for what impression would that give? Conscious of the potential offense, Jane tilts her head back to meet his gaze. <<Which we are both terrible at.>> Whether putting their own immediate needs last or keeping their hands off, the statement still stands. <<I'm sorry. I am doing that, aren't I?>>

The smile is crooked, faint and short-lived as things go, her muddled countenance struggling to clear itself out. Blackagar's arms receive their double-handed squeeze, as assuring as she can give while dwarfed within the emerging pattern. <> Quietly, she tilts her head back for that answer. The only answer that comes to mind.

<<You.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Me?>> he thinks back. Blackagar is humored for certain, <> The sentiment is strong, as is the hold he keeps her in for several long moments. Then, he turns Jane to face him, to run his hands to hers. <>

He grins, the set up is in place. <<Let's get out of here.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<When a soldier says it, run.>> Blame the gelato for that, for Jane will dare a little. She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow, the mute smile answering like for like. Not adopting the Midnight King's mannerisms to mock, they merely serve an excellent understated purpose when need be. <>

The sky's the limit.

Just ask the damn horse.

7021/Fighting The Undertow

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