7110/Insert Clever Title Here

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Insert Clever Title Here
Date of Scene: 28 July 2021
Location: Location
Synopsis: No description
Cast of Characters: Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff




Sam Wilson has posed:
    If there's one thing that is a universal truth of the world, it's that New Yorkers really love brunch. There are endless internet lists identifying the best brunch places by borough, by how good their alcohol game is, how late they're open... because brunch isn't just a meal, it's a lifestyle.

    And let it be said that in a lot of ways, Sam is a pretty typical New Yorker.

    He's still not much of a presence at the mansion after being basically missing for most of June, though he's at least stopped by to pick up his mail and his most recent box from some trendy wine delivery service that keeps getting advertised by influencers. Last month's delivery definitely got swiped by another Avenger and Sam definitely blames Clint. And he's communicating more. Which is usually a thing Sam's really good about.

    It's just been a month.

    But he's upped his text game back to his normal levels, which probably involves too many cute animal pics (most recent one making the rounds has been a bald eagle strutting his stuff with an added Sam caption of "Steve on the catwalk") and trying his best to spend time with his teammates in non-stressful situations. Not that he's the team therapist, but he's the self-proclaimed team "normal guy who vaguely remembers what living a normal life is like".

    Normal lives include things like brunch dates with friends. The place is in Williamsburg, not far from Steve's Brooklyn apartment, and it even comes with a punny name: The Bedded Breakfast. It tops at least one of those "best alcohol game" brunch place lists with its array of local craft beers on tap and walk-in wine cooler. Excessively bougie. Which Sam kind of is, sometimes, because he is a man with depth, okay? He's enough of a regular here (or maybe it's just the typical NYC attitude) that even though he's sporting a cut held together with butterfly bandages over one eye and a handful of dark purple bruises, no one really pays him any more mind than the group of tipsy middle-aged women at one table near the front or the overly touchy couple a few booths over.

    He's at a booth in the back, his chosen seat giving him a good view of the place as he sits and waits. There's a glass of beer, still pretty full, sitting in front of him. And he's trying very hard not to fiddle with his phone as he waits, but he keeps picking it up to check his notifications before setting it back face-down again. It's a bit unlike Sam to be overtly anxious about anything, but, again. It's been a month.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
An amendment: everyone from 21 to 35 enjoys brunch to a ruinous extent. The economic growth of prceding generations lies in tatters as a result of the Millennials exchanging their financial security for smashed avocado on toast, endless mimosas, and gathering together for creme brulee French toast or heaps of organic produce from the rooftop gardens around Manhattan and Brooklyn added to free-range eggs that might just come from the golden goose. The elder, wiser generation that happily ran the country into the ground, trusting only in Superman or Tony Stark's wealth to singlehandedly safeguard the arsenal of democracy, find countless faults in the younger set's adoration for a proper brekkie.

Brunch is suitable for Wanda, too, though not for the typical indecisive reason often levelled upon her compatriots. When her day begins later and ends later than the typical daily grind, brunch becomes a linchpin for her routine. Neither skimping on protein or getting by with a cup of coffee, she relishes the prospect of a proper meal.

Company actually happens to be the best part of brunch, and time to hit the town. A round of yoga and trying to tame her thoughts or hair hasn't amounted to much for the elder Maximoff. Better to turn to those social media channels between the other Avengers. She contributes her fair share too, it's not all Sam or the occasional response from Janet or Clint. Photographs of the city are interspersed with humorous videos, the latest of a woman booping the snouts of deadly animals who seem comfortable with the attention. Well, all except that suspicious otter. He might be ready to bite the lady's finger off.

A text drops to Sam, warning of the witch being inbound. :Remind me why the Brooklyn Zoo does not allow us to greet the lions or hyenas?: Normal people with normal lives do not stage private showings or walk where zookeepers go with impunity, and she's certainly not going to suggest Tony or Steve flex their influence. He won't have to wait on what plans might rest, for the Bedded Breakfast -- tops for the name -- soon enough gains another guest. Not everyone stands out like a man in a mecha suit or a blue-skinned alien, and passing for normal is one of those little secrets that make it easy to underestimate *some* of the Avengers. Some.

"Something tells me this seat is taken, da?" Wanda's light accent carries its Slavic weight, deeper when tired or in thought. Neither applies totally. This is early for her, though. She puts a hand to the booth and gauges Sam's reaction, like he might tell her to hie off and leave him be. "How many bandages does the other guy have?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
    Sam just barely manages to be in that age group, and sometimes he feels it. Other times he feels like a spring chicken in comparison to two of his closest friends, who happen to both be centenarian super soldiers. And then other, *other* times they do things like pull helicopters out of the sky and survive 200-foot falls with little more than a groan and a snarky comment, so sometimes Sam feels like he might just keel over right then and there.

    It's all a balancing act. The stress of his chosen lifestyle calls for a hell of a lot of self-care, which boozy brunch definitely counts as, in his book.

    His first reply comes quick: 'probably because all of the animals in the Brooklyn Zoo have New Yorker attitudes'

    He pauses to take a sip of his beer and only winces a little bit as it stings a cut on his lip. The pain is worth whatever outrageously overpriced craft beer he's chosen, or at least the pricetag means he's going to suffer through it anyway.

    Next text: 'would do a lot of illegal things to cuddle a red panda though'

    And then Wanda is walking in through the door, so Sam puts his phone away for real. All the way in his back pocket. Even though he looks a little stiff as he rises to his feet, he's smiling. "Only if you want it to be," is his answer, and he's laughing as he steps in to wrap Wanda up in a brief, but warm, hug.

    "Well the building is rubble now, but it wasn't me who brought it down so I can't really take any credit." His tone's pretty light but in a way that implies he's forcing himself to keep it that way. There's a certain tightness around his eyes as he pulls back, but his expression mellows as he starts to sit himself back down. "I have it on good authority that the eggs benedict are really amazing here," he says, as smooth a deflection as he can manage.

    It takes a few seconds for Sam to ease himself slowly into the booth. He makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat that's as close to a groan as he's gonna allow himself, and then he blows out a long breath. "Sorry. Whew. How've you been?"

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
No matter your age, the real concern is what goes on inside the skull and not exactly in the cellular aging process. Be a spry 102-year-old with a zest for life, and that wizened sprite invariably draws more out of each day than an unhealthy, paranoid person fed on a diet of fake news half his or her age. Spring chickens are as welcome at brunch as Mrs. Maeda Bloom-Wutherington, the spry 102-year-old tucking into half an omelette with her bevy of middle-aged ladies who don't know a third as much about having fun. Especially when Maeda tucks some of that fiery hot sauce all over the omelette against her nurse's, "Oh, that won't agree with your later!"

Evidence of Sam's lifestyle in balance being true, but not without moments to leave the rules behind and have a blowout. Not the infant kind, the fun kind.

Her phone pinging with the messages from her fellow teammate, Wanda isn't given to checking the screen yet. She can go back and do that once settled. Slinking through the room in a black and red shirt over jeans just about passes for normal attire, nothing there immediately screaming an occult practitioner entering the vicinity. A sweep of rings and bracelets definitely add a hint of colour. Arms out to receive that hug will find the like returned to him, Sam getting a laugh for his trouble.

"The building came down? No wonder stock in Damage Control went up last week." Not that she bothers with a portfolio. Unfair when you can play with probabilities like nothing. "This is how we get fresh real estate, you know? They come right in, take out the rubble, up goes a skyscraper or a condo with studio units starting at a million dollars. Mad. Pietro and I never understood how fast that happened when we first came here." Conversation keeps a light tone, tacking into the wind so they aren't forced to stay anywhere too long. Dodging discomfort is a congenital talent.

"That good? High praise. I better find out if that's true." She doesn't even peruse the menu. "Did I tell you about the creperie on East 45th? They make ones you can walk away with, like Paris. Not to toot my own horn, but I could walk and chew at the same time." Things to be proud of, right? You can be Steve and save the world, or eat a crepe without ramming into a hydrant. "Walk, chew, and heal whatever you did to yourself. Is it one of those wear wounds with pride situation?" A little wave of her hand does nothing to him, not that kind of situation or violation of personal space, but circling.

She smiles, but it is tight. "Bored. Sitting on my hands, waiting for trouble. I dream of fire in the skies, blood red clouds. Snow burying the flag, swallowing up the stars. Nothing to worry about."

Sam Wilson has posed:
    Maybe Sam should start getting more familiar with the other regulars at this joint, starting with Mrs. Maeda. He's got something of a knack for befriending the elderly, after all, and nothing serves to bring a smile to his face like poking fun at Cap for his age or his turn-of-the-century sensibilities. Or just thinking about doing so, pre-planning his next joke about boiled food or something.

    Hey, it takes effort to keep up with his responsibilities. Gotta stay one step ahead of the game. Mrs. Maeda seems like the type who'd be willing to help.

    "Yeah. It more-or-less didn't land on me," he answers. Kind of looks like it did though, the fact he's able to walk around means it's he's telling the truth to some degree. Sam's not the type to ignore doctor's orders, because unlike a lot of people with medical expertise, he's generally a pretty decent patient. Sometimes being injured is the only way you get any kind of downtime, and Netflix has eight seasons of the Great British Bake-Off.

    Sam shakes his head, his mouth twisted in an amused smile. "The Avengers catch blame for all of the construction blocking the sidewalks and not gonna lie, sometimes I blame us too." He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, eyes skimming over towards the bar, habitually watchful. "Not that it's any different than I remember it being back when I was a kid," he adds.

    A waiter appears just about then, polite but without being overly chatty, though he's familiar enough with Sam to just ask "The usual?" and get a quick nod in return.

    After he's gone, Sam blows out a long breath. "If you want. I've had worse, and I feel bad about using my friends like some kind of on-call healing service," he says. Not that Sam's ever shy about offering his own, much more mundane, first aid skills if there isn't an actual (medical) doctor around. But that doesn't cost him anything more than a little time, not... mana? Spell slots? Sam's no good at magic stuff. "I've had crepes before like that in Hawaii--though I think they were Japanese style. Not sure if there's a difference to the French version, but they were great. Next time we can walk and chew."

    The dreamscape Wanda shares makes Sam's jaw tighten, eyebrows drawing together in concern. "Sounds like something to worry about. If for no other reason than your ability to get a decent night's sleep."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Mrs. Maeda has all the best outlooks on life. Eat your eggs with hotsauce, don't skimp on vegetables, and surround yourself with friends. A good long life for all her other challenges, and don't let no bum knee or bad eyesight get in the way of a hearty chuckle when the passel of youngins think they have figured everything out. Have a nice bottle of beer and enjoy your friends! Advice she would give Sam if he asked. She beams and will wave at the nice man if he looks her way. She waves at the servers. Because that's a good life, baby.

So many responsibilities in life? Heavy burden on a man's shoulders. The witch might know something about it. "What are you having?" she asks, looking to the beer. The craft brew list a mile long on the walls warrants a lot of sifting around, but the patience for an archaeological expedition before brunch asks a lot. Not that skimming the long list isn't without reward. Finding something curious like a red velvet rye mash or a Trappist using lingonberries is its own pleasure. Just not on an empty stomach. Or worrying.

The server will be so disappointed when they come around. "Tea please," will be the first option of the day. The rest, after a summary perusal of a shorter list that doesn't end in dessert. No offense to Bake-Off. Sam probably gets her squished on the couch to watch the culinary thrills.

"Better we get the blame than an office or a civilian with no responsibility." Those green eyes narrow a bit. "English muffin too, please." Never can have enough carbs. "Blame is a heavy word. We sometimes have to realize the world changes and those upheavals have knock-on effects. Better to try and construct something good, or see something good come out of it. Fewer condo towers for Tony to add to his portfolio. Or is it Pepper? I would put money on her making the acquisitions."

She rolls her fingers, the faint shiver of scarlet light passing over spread digits. "You aren't treating me that way. You see me as a team member, da? Someone who works with you, helps out when it counts? This is how I help out. I don't have thunder and a shiny suit. I cannot give you millions of dollars." She could, but that's beside the point. "But making sure a friend walks away feeling better, lighter a few bruises and scratches he took helping support what we believe in? That is right. Tell me I'm wrong." The cost of magic isn't light, but she isn't the usual girl. Chaos magic this is not, a rolling dream painted in soft warmth. "May I? I don't need to touch the booboo to make you feel better."

Sam Wilson has posed:
    For now, Mrs. Maeda is left to enjoy her hot sauce with a side of eggs and the company of her friends. Sam's keeping most of his focus on his own company, because he knows these sorts of times, nothing happening and no emergencies for them to rush off to, can be few and far between.

    "The hefeweizen from Coney Island Brewing Co.," he says. "I was in Germany recently," and he doesn't specify why but the shake of his head suggests it wasn't a pleasant outing, "And I didn't get to go to a single beer garden. Felt like a waste." Another sip of the aforementioned wheat beer, and then Sam sets his glass back down. "Might not be a good idea for me to go back any time soon, either."

    Being noticeably in the area while a notorious criminal escapes from prison really doesn't do much to ingratiate you to the locals. Who would've guessed.

    Man, it's been a month.

    Sam's all about dessert, though. A clarification about his mysterious "usual" order revolves around asking if he wants maple syrup and butter or the apple-cinnamon compote ("Both, please" is the answer Sam gives) suggests that's where his mind's going. He likes his sweets when he's not carefully managing his macros, and right now Sam's eating is all kinds of disordered.

    His head tips in agreement, or maybe acquiescence. "Yeah, I know. I'm usually pretty confident on where we fall in terms of the positive versus negative consequences of our whole 'superhero' gig," and the finger-quotes don't literally happen but Sam does a good job of making them audible in his voice, there. "I wouldn't take that bet. Pepper's the kind of thoroughly competent person that I can never decide to be in awe of or just intimidated by." Sam isn't really the type to be either of those things, not really, but he's also not the type to deny that he is regularly surrounded by some really amazing people.

    "Of course I do, Wanda," he says, and it's earnest, the same kind of steady, real honesty that is probably why Sam and Steve connected in the first place. It's easy to connect with someone when you see a little bit of yourself reflected in them. But then Sam is still Sam, his own person, so he adds, "If you wanted another hug, you could've just asked. I know I'm a fantastic hugger."

    He grins, not laughing at his own joke (only just barely), and rather than actually following through he extends his hand across the table, palm-up. "You're not wrong. I guess I just don't want to be a burden," he admits, and then looks vaguely uneasy with his own admission there.