8852/Old Chaps

Old Chaps
Date of Scene:	28 November 2021
Location:	London - England
Synopsis:	Alfred, Jon and Martin find themselves in the same pub in London after their meeting at the Tower. Discussions on the nature of heroes and how to avoid becoming a casualty of your own war are had over drinks, like proper English gentlemen.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Alfred Pennyworth, Martin Blackwood

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Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The group that Allan Quatermain gathered is going to have to stay in London at least until the next day in order to take the tour when the Tower grounds are properly open, on top of waiting on things like CCTV footage and getting lists of visitors to the Tower. So they get hotel rooms, and then Jon has to go find cigarettes because he didn't bring any, and then... well... and then it's been a day that's turned into a night and it's still mid-day in New York time, so people are wide awake.

    Thus, the 'adults' find themselves going for a drink in a small pub near the hotel, because the hotel bar is overly touristy. Jon's had his cigarette(s) to wind down from the strain of translating for ravens, and sits crammed against the wall of some booth in the back of the pub, since he knows Martin is claustrophobic. He's got a pint in front of him that he hasn't really touched, and his expression is slightly distant as he goes over the events of the evening in his mind.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    Devoid of his normal responsibilities, Alfred has retreated to the nearby pub with an old leatherbound journal and a pencil. Conveniently, or perhaps out of force of habit, he is seated toward the back of the pub with his back to a wall, idly sipping at a pint of beer while sketching and taking notes on their recent visit to the Tower. At Jonathan and Martin's arrival, he lifts his head and offers a polite smile and nod before flipping the journal closed and rising from his seat.

    "Doctor Sims, Mister Blackwood - time zones are something of a pain, aren't they? Would you care if I joined the two of you?" he quipped dryly, standing off to the side of the booth to wait for their consent. "It's been rather too long since last I was home, I must admit."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin, for his part, had been focused on something goin on on the phone pressed to his ear. He nods. "Thank you. See that the necessary credentials are taken care of... I'd rather not have to jump through a series of dog tricks simply to get some footage that may or may not pan out. Blackwood out." He snaps the phone shut (of course SHIELD sprung for the resurgence of the flip phone for organization lines) and slips it into the inner pocket of his coat.

    He smiles at Alfred. "Oh Mr. Pennyworth... certainly. Please," he says gesturing to the bench across from Martin and Jon. "When was the last time you were in town, so to speak?" he asks with a satisfied expression on his face. Apparently, the phone call was one of positive rather than negative results.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks himself back to the present, looks over at Alfred. "Hmm? Oh, Mr. Pennyworth, hello. Yes, ahh... well... it hasn't been that long for us, really. Gran's funeral was only, what, a couple of months ago now?" He grimaces slightly; the memories around /that/ aren't very pleasant.

    "Good news, I take it?" he adds, peering at his husband. It's only half a question; he can guess the answer from the expression and the lingering emotions in the air.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    Offering a gracious nod as he slipped into the booth, Alfred pursed his lips in thought as he considered the question. "Oh, two or three years now I think? A, ah... holiday, of sorts," he replied with a nod. Sipping at his pint, he slid his journal off to a corner and cradled the beverage in either hand as he glanced between the two. "I'm sorry to hear of the loss - it's never easy. Are the two of you planning on sticking about beyond tomorrow?"

    The question was equal parts simple courtesy and genuine curiosity, the butler's head listing to the side as he furrowed his brow. "I was going to stick about a few days, but intend to try and convince Master Timothy to leave after our tour. Unfortunately, he's often as stubborn as Master Bruce - 'kids' right?" he quipped in a pointed fashion.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin nods at Jon. "Yes. HQ is going to make sure I've given access to everything the Met can get their hands on and the Tower security is willing to give me" he replies with a wide grin. He astutely avoids thinking about Jon's Gran's funeral, consdering all that came after. He looks at Alfred. "Possibly. It might be necessary depending on what we can see from the video and what Jon can figure out from his research." He pauses and purses his lips.

    "Actually, about that..." he says, his expression turning mildly apologetic. "I was hoping to get Mr. Drake's assistance on scrubing through the video." He looks mildly uncomfortable asking the older gentleman to belay his wishes. "His technical knowledge is, admittedly, greater than my own and he may be able to parsel out enough filters on the video that something may come of it."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks at Alfred a few times. "Yes, I, ahh... certainly didn't ask Tim to come along on a lark." He grimaces slightly. "I wasn't entirely keen on /Phoebe/ coming along, but..." But that's an /incredibly/ awkward situation and he's still not certain what to do about it all.

    "As for sticking around beyond tomorrow... it depends on a few things, I think. I already took care of my end of some business in Queens, but I think SHIELD needs us for something Monday, yes? Now that I'm off medical leave and all." He grimaces and rolls his right shoulder.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Sipping from his pint, Alfred waved a hand about in a vague fashion, glancing over his shoulder toward the door for a brief moment before turning back to the pair. "I'm sure - Master Tim is rather talented in that regard. My concern though, however much it might be disregarded," he began to reply, pausing to roll his eyes in a self-deprecating fashion, "Is that he might be over-extending himself. The human mind is remarkably resilient but it -can- snap, can't it, Doctor?" he finished with a pointed and paternal glance at Jon.

    He brightened slightly as he began to nod, "But, I was planning on reaching out to some old contacts about the city myself to see if we can make the transfer of that footage and some of their records go a little smoother." Cracking his neck, the older gentleman smiled brightly and finished his glass with something approaching youthful vigor, "It feels rather good to be doing some field work again. I suppose I can't blame Master Tim - or even Miss Beacon - for getting involved."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin frowns at Alfred. "In what way do you mean?" he asks. "He wants to help, I don't see how that can lead to him reaching his limit..." he asks, looking at Jon with a curious expression. "Or do you mean that the specifics of our insertion into this particular case are too far afield for his own involvement?" he asks, looking back to Alfred.

    He arches a brow. "Mr. Drake has proven himself to be rather masterful at dispatching threats of this particular nature in the past. Or at least, working in tandem with those who can." He doesn't know the young man as well as Alfred or Jon, but he's seen him in action and trusts his judgement insofar as to feel he has a good head on his shoulders around matters of this nature.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon frowns thoughtfully down at his own glass, still mostly untouched, while Martin speaks up. "Seems like it's nothing but field work, for us, these days," he murmurs, though more as a statement of fact than a lament. He takes a drink, finally, still frowning.

    Then he looks up at Alfred, raises an eyebrow. "Is there a concern about Tim's mental health? I haven't had cause for concern, but I don't know his baseline for certain." He seems quite willing to listen, rather than jumping to any kind of defense.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Shaking his head emphatically, Alfred offered a quick rebuttal to the suggestion in a conciliatory fashion. "No, no, of course not - nothing beyond the usual at least that you'd expect from a young man who occasionally needs to get patched up and ends up on crutches. If this... entire affair though, is wrapped up in some conspiracy threatening the Crown, I simply don't want to see him come to any unnessecary harm," he explained, glancing down at his empty glass.

    "I've seen enough in my time to know what can happen to a soldier who fights in too many conflicts on too many fronts without a break, and I don't think -any- of you are too keen on breaks," he continued in a careful fashion. "I suppose I just wished to voice my concerns. I apologize."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin shrugs at both Jon and Alfred's sentiments. "Comes with part of holding the badge" he says with a sideways frown. "And while I understand that Mr. Drake is not part of SHIELD, he does wish to help as much as he is able. And as for his injuries... well, that's part of what I am here for." He smiles and sips his drink.

    "And we're not all business... it comes in waves" he says, "and the holdiay season comes is one of those waves. More strictly defined security measures in the US. It's just something you get used to after enough years with the organization."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon toys with his pint glass, rocking it back and forth without really threatening to spill it at all. "Healing magic doesn't remove the memory of the pain," he notes, a half-aside to Martin. "Better to avoid the injury in the first place." He's staring off into space; he has the air of a scatter-brained professor, not all there most of the time. Distracted, a bit, by the emotions he can sense in the air.

    "The trouble, really, is with the psychology of those who... dedicate themselves to the common good. A certain amount of self-sacrifice, yes, but more commonly a core self-image as either one who serves or as heroic, or sometimes both. To /stop/ that work is to deny the core self-image. Thus some of the issues with, say, veterans re-entering civilian life. The patient has defined themself as a certain thing, as a hero or a soldier or a spy, and without that... who are they? What use are they, to the world?" He glances at Martin. "I actually have some hope for you, when you retire. You'll spend the time improving your poetry, I imagine." He smiles fondly; the comment has the feeling of an in-joke, with the context left unsaid.

    "Tim... is only 20. He wants to help people. He needs to understand the strange things happening to his friends. He feels a responsibility to correct the mistakes of his dead parents." He sighs. "The particulars are different, but he reminds me a great deal of myself at that age. Healthier, perhaps, mentally and physically. Despite their... proclivities, I have higher hopes that his friends will survive the year. But I can say with certainty that someone like him is going to bury himself in work, regardless of what it is." He takes another drink. "I... hope to help him..." He frowns. "If I can see that /he/ doesn't wind up with no social life and a gaggle of neuroses by the age of 34 I'll consider it a friendship well worth the effort."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    Chuckling in the macabre fashion of one familiar with the topic, Alfred nodded with an equally grim smile. "Well said, Doctor Sims. It reminds me of something I heard, as I was transitioning out of the army. I did a small stint assisting at Colchester and a doctor there mentioned that so much money is put into trying to teach the young men and women called to service how to think in such a manner, or how to detatch themselves from self in the pursuit of duty, but he suspected those traits are something one is born with, rather than being taught," he mused while pushing his glass aside.

    "I suspect Master Tim very much fits that kind mold, and there's very little that can be done about save what you just mentioned - help to ensure he doesn't end up a wreck of a man telling himself war stories in a bar somewhere, or worse." The aligning of minds between the three seemed to help ease some of Alfred's tension, his smile turning upward slightly in a more positive fashion. "I look forward to seeing what turns up in the days to come though - that, ah... display," he commented, leaving Jon's translation for the ravens at that, "Was rather perturbing, and betweewn the two of you, Miss Zatana, and Miss Beacon? I've never done well with the supernatural, unfortunately."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin snorts out a half-chuckle and looks at Jon. "It was rather novel to me too and I'm his husband" he says with an arched brow. "Can you do that for all animals or is the nature of the Shadow Parliament just that mystical that you can tap into their... language." He sips his drink.

    "It was rather fascinating to watch albeit a little... excessive when it turned out they were just like a more numerous Statler and Waldorf" he chuckles more. To Alfred he smiles. "The supernatural is more commonplace for some than others. I would consider myself lucky that you escaped most of it's influence, Mr. Pennyworth." He glances at the gloves still covering his hands with their eldritch symbols and makes a resigned expression as he sips more of his own pint.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I haven't a bloody clue," Jon admits to Martin. "It just kind of... happened. It's not like I was expecting it. I never am, though, am I?" He sighs and looks to Alfred. "I presume Tim, being as... discreet as he is, hasn't explained... well. I inherited the title of Archivist and the powers attached to that position just a couple of months ago, on my grandmother's death. I... didn't even know the position /existed/ until I woke up with terrible dreams and telepathy and magical ability a penchant for repeating the stories of dead men and translating raven-speak." He shakes his head. "I should have had a lifetime's worth of training, and I'm... playing catch-up in the worst way. But I'm still alive, despite numerous attempts to change that, so..." He shrugs. Takes another drink.

    "I've been aware of the supernatural since the age of eight, however," he says. "It's funny; it was Gotham I could never handle. At least when a demon or a vampire's causing trouble I understand that; it's their nature. The sort of things I encountered working at Arkham..." He shakes his head, brow furrowed slightly. "Well. At any rate, I /personally/ always find knowledge comforting, so if you're wanting to better understand the situation, feel free to ask." He smiles. "I appear to be a walking exposition machine these days."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    "Hm - Gotham -is- rather vexing like that, isn't it? I often wonder if it attracts a certain kind of person, or if random chance has brought them all together," Alfred only half-joked in that grim fashion, the corners of his lips curling up slightly none-the-less at the mention of Statler and Waldorf. "I remember hearing the stories and what have you when I was a boy though - about the ravens and the Fall of Brittania. I never really gave it any serious consideration until all of this..." he acknowledged, collecting his journal and moving to rise.

    Offering a polite bow, Alfred glanced back toward the door. "At anyrate, gentlemen - I fear I need to get some sleep, or i'm liable to end up needing your services before things truly get underway. Good luck with your endeavors, and i'm sure we'll end up speaking before too long."