Summary:Agents in the break room get an unexpected treat. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It's been one of those weeks at the Triskelion almost blissfully quiet. The weather might be helping, with the continual grey threat of clouds overhead and the unpredictable fluttering of snow here and there. No one's losing their minds — yet. That's later in the season.
Right now, the offices are in a gentle hum of busy work. Papers shuffle about, keyboard click, and the shifting glow of changing light means folks are manipulating their holographic displays. Steve himself is tapping a pen against his lip thoughtfully before a screen at his desk. He sighs and frowns before motioning the files closed and away once more.
Time to get more coffee as is and thank god someone brought in the good stuff for the holiday seasons. There's even some peppermint creamer in the fridge, though who knows how long that'll last. It disappears nearly overnight. In a dark-plaid button-down in steel-grey overtop a white t-shirt and jeans, he wears no combat boots today. Loafers mark a steady pace towards the break room. His coffee mug says: WORLD'S OKAYEST SENIOR. Thanks, Barnes.
He greets people as he passes them with small smiles and a friendly wave here and there, a known presence in the hallway and easy to spot.
Clint Barton is not good at the desk stuff. Or the official stuff. Or the holiday stuff. Growing up, his holidays usually consisted of a makeshift tree with presents consisting of leftover prizes from the boardwalk games. He and his brother were some of the few actual kids there, so they mostly sat to the side as the grown-up carnies got drunk and wandered off to one another's trailers, sloshing egg nog and with a steady reminder that they'd have a three o'clock afternoon show on Christmas day for the punters.
Now, he plays as he likes, which is why he has one of those one-footed scooters that he's using to zip around the hallways, "Stevens, Carrie, Dolph. Mr. Binkins. Chubbs. I don't know you, ma'am, but I like your hat."
He scoots to a halt upon seeing Steve, "Uh oh, Daddy's home for Christmas. What's up, Red, White and Dude?"
Paperwork. It's a constant on both sides of the Atlantic and an unwelcome one at that. For all his records with MI-13, he has to duplicate them for SHIELD. Can they just be transferred en masse? Certainly. Oh, and while those are processing, fill these out. Fortunately, Dylan's almost done with qualifications and documentation. He's heading for the nearest break room, coming from the opposite direction that Steve is and pauses at seeing the scooter.
"Miss Allens, very nice hat." If Steve spoke a little louder for Clint's benefit, he makes it subtle. The archer gets a wry grin at his method of travel about the halls as the Captain then walks by, giving a tilt of his head to invite Clint to walk — er, roll with him if he so chooses.
"They authorize you to pilot this vehicle on the grounds, Barton?" he asks. "Run over any toes yet?" Dylan, being a new face, garners Steve's attention. The Captain gives the young man a nod and a professional little smile as he reaches the entrance to the break room.
He speaks towards Dylan now. "I know Agent Barton looks sketchy, but he's good people. I said it aloud, so he has to stick to it now," Steve adds with a smirk towards Barton. He leads the way into the break room and holds the door open for both to enter.
Clint Barton raises a dirty blond eyebrow, "Not by accident," he replies to Steve. "I have a license to thrill, Cap, just like all field agents of SHIELD, including the authorization to rock a sweet scooter in confined spaces in service of holiday cheer," he says.
He kicks off and slides into the breakroom, "Oh, I'm extremely sketchy, but I'm good, too. They hired me to be sketchy. I'm ethically questionable, but undeniable in my own right," he says.
"Of course, I'm not as good as Cap, but who is? Seriously. Do not start comparing. It's just depressing."
"Oh, sketchy is not even worth commenting on." Dylan replies. He has a very strong Welsh accent. "You haven't seen sketchy until you've had to find an old Irish hedge wizard who lives in the middle of a peat bog. By choice." As the door's held for him, he inclines his head. "My thanks. Dylan Grey, MI-13. On indefinite loan to WAND. A pleasure, gents."
Steve has no immediate smart response to Clint's musings. He just laughs quietly, the sound warm as he meanders over to the coffee maker — thank god, someone also brewed the good stuff and it's still hot! Holiday miracles abound.
"I dunno, Barton, I forgot to return Agent Haskin's spare holster at the shooting range last week," he quips as his 'sin'. Shame, Rogers, shame! He turns towards Dylan after pulling the coffee creamer from the fridge and sets it aside on the counter in order to offer out a hand for a shake.
"Can't say I've ever had to hunt anyone down in a peat bog. Nice to meet you, Agent Grey. Agent Rogers, SHIELD primarily, though I do moonlight for WAND now 'nd again."
Clint Barton hops up on the countertop, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Surely the mighty hand of the gods will smite you for this transgression," he says, making the sign of the cross at Cap. "I'm surprised Haskins missed it anyway. The last time he pulled a weapon, Grey here was staring at the Teletubbies and wondering when Mommy was going to make his toad in the hole," he says.
"I know that sounds dirty, but I promise it's food."
"And yeah, Clint Barton, Hawkeye, field agent extraordinaire, marksman, crimefighter, spy, reformed thief, two-time SHIELD Sexiest Man Alive if you count the poll I posted on the men's room wall."
Dylan pours some coffee and reaches for the creamer but pauses to look at Clint. "I'm surprised you've heard of it. It's not a dish commonly heard of outside the island. The cook at Powis makes an excellent toad in the hole, in fact. I haven't had it in ages. She makes an excellent everything, actually. Do you like bread pudding? It's definitely one of her specialties."
Full agents have paperwork to do. Academy cadets just get to distribute the copies of the reports. That's what Helena's task is at the moment, dressed in the black combat pants and black t-shirt with SHIELD's emblem on the sleeve, hair bound back in a neat bradi. She pushes a cart with bound mission reports in front of herself as she moves through the desks. Each one gets set neatly on the appropriate desk, and then there's a check mark on the master list to note that it's been delivered.
As she catches sight of the group in the break room, she approaches the group of agents, rifling through the stacks to find one in particular, holding it toward Clint with the checklist and a pen on top. Apparently she already knows better than to try to leave it on a desk and think it'll count as received, judging by the faint smirk that accompanies it.
"Dat was you, Barton?"
Kwabena is headed for the coffee, and walked into the room at just the right time. The former Russian-terrorist-turned-SHIELD-Agent-In-Training doesn't look very Russian, considering the dark skin and heavy dialect, but he's at least taken to wearing something that isn't either a SHIELD jumpsuit or his gunmetal gray nanotech. Jeans, unremarkable athletic shoes, and a white t-shirt, over which is a hooded sweatshirt with the SHIELD insignia and a 'PPU' badge (Powered Persons Unit).
"Frank told me coffee here is good." He turns toward Steve, lifting an eyebrow. "Is coffee good, or do I put shoe up Frank's ass latah?"
"I know it's food, Barton," mutters Steve good-naturedly with a small roll of his eyes. He quietly snorts to hear of the poll even as he's twirling a wooden stir-stick around to better distribute the plop of creamer he put in his black coffee. It barely lightens the brew, but apparently, that's to his tastes.
A few steps take the Captain aside to lean against the counter farther down from Clint, his poise easy and relaxed around fellow SHIELD agents. "Had some good bread pudding back in the war," he volunteers. "Little place outside of London, little old married couple ran it."
The appearance of Helena brings a deeper smile to Steve's face; dimples even make a brief appearance. He eyes the paperwork handed off towards Clint and that near-snort of an exhale is NOT a laugh into his coffee mug — not at all. He glances over at Kwabena and lifts the mug towards the man, replying to his query with, "You can spare Frank this time."
Clint Barton pulls an apple off of a fruit bowl on the desk, rolling it up his arm and bouncing it up with his elbow, catching it casually in his other hand. "The bearded lady at the circus where I grew up was from Bristol. Excellent cook, long as you made sure to check for stray hairs in the shepherd's pie."
He regards the paperwork with a wary eye, "Just go ahead and set it there on the counter, I will definitely take it with me and won't talk anyone else into doing it for me," he says.
He takes the stem of his apple and flicks it with a fingertip to bounce off the wall and land in the trash. "So…who's my secret Santa? C'mon. Fess up."
"Well, you definitely need to try Aneira's and see how they compare." Dylan tells Cap as he pulls out his phone. "Do get some plates and forks, would you?" he inquires of Clint. Glancing over at the new arrivals only takes his attention for a few seconds as he flips through screens. "Ah, here we go." Holding the phone as if he's going to take a pic of the counter, he presses a button. There's a flash and a casserole dish of hot bread pudding on the counter. "There's enough for everyone so don't be shy."
Helena casts a small glance in Steve's firection, that faint smirk deepening just a little at one corner of her mouth before she takes the pen and circles the box next to Barton on the list, holding both out to him again. "Agent Barton, I'm not responsible for what happens after you take this paperwork, even if it happens to fall into a trash can," she points out. "Though, maybe wait until he's not looking," she adds with a tip of her head toward Steve.
"But I am responsible for saying that I delivered it to you and you received it. So. That's the bullseye," she taps the check box, "Here's your arrow." A grin flashes briefly. "I'll stand across the room and hold it if it helps." She starts to take a step back as if to follow through with the offer, though the suddenly appearing bread pudding gets a quirk of her brow.
"Thank God," answers Kwabena, and moves in to pour himself a cup. He's silently thankful not to be the one to finish off the pot. Taking his black, he lifts the mug to take a sip, unable to track the conversation that's already in progress fully.
Helena's cleverness is noticed and appreciated; turning his attention back to Steve with a grin, he remarks, "She catches quick, yes "
The sudden flash of light and appearance of a casserole dish takes him by surprise. He jerks backward, and some of the coffee sloshes out and onto his hand. Hissing, a naughty word is spat out in Russian, and the other hand comes up to steady the mug. "What is dat?" he asks, clearly alarmed as he looks to Dylan and his phone, eyes wide.
Steve informs the archer, "'m not your Secret Santa." There: Clint can sleep knowing he won't be burdened with the promise of a perfectly normal, functional, acceptable gift from the Secret Santa drawing. "And Cadet Wayne has a point. I can live with not seeing it disappear. Don't strain my old heart, Barton," he says with a near-hidden little smirk.
He does blink in outright surprise at the sudden appearance of what appears to be a legitimate steaming, freshly-cooked dish of bread pudding. His eyebrows nearly lift into his hairline as he looks over at Dylan. "That's impressive is what it is," he comments, glancing over at Kwabena. "That's bread pudding, it's edible, 'nd a serving of it has my name on it." He reaches into the cupboards after setting his coffee mug aside and brings out paper plates as well as plastic silverware.
"Appreciate this, Agent Grey, been long enough since breakfast," he asides to the Welshman.
Clint Barton regards the suddenly manifested foodstuff with a wary eye, "That 3-D printing stuff is amazing these days," he says. To Helena, "Cadet Wayne…can I call you anything but Cadet, because I feel like I'm in one of those boarding school movies when I do. On second thought, given the kind of boarding school movies I watch, strike that: Cadet Wayne, I would never want to do anything to get you in trouble with our superiors. Teamwork is sacred to me. We should do some sometime. In the meantime," he says and then he does just as she suggested, casually flicking the pen end over end to land with an inky streak right across the necessary ticked box.
"I'll pass on the pud for now. Watching my waistline. Mostly watching it expand, but still."
Dylan sniffs the air appreciatively. "Quite welcome. Never know when you're going to want something not readily available. So best to be prepared, right? Fortunately, Aneira wouldn't dream of letting me go off to America without a fully stocked phone." Steve answers Kwabena's question so he just smiles at the man and gestures for him to help himself as he puts away his phone. "She's been with the family for years and her mother was cook before her." And he does as he suggested, helping himself to a serving.
Mission accomplished. Helena sets the report down next to Clint and tucks the checklist back with the rest of the reports as well, glancing over the gathered agents. It turns out she's got enough for the whole class!
"Helena," she notes to Clint's question, picking out the other reports. Notably, no one else has to sign the checklist themselves. That's for "special" agents. But there's one for Kwabena, one for Dylan, and about five for Steve. Which gives her just the excuse she needed to inspect the pudding.
"Is it actually…created by magic, or just transported?" she asks, curious.
"Bread pudding?" Kwabena looks from Steve to what clearly is witchcraft at work, and he does not seem convinced that the pudding is safe to eat. Anything but.
Were he a cat, his ears would be flat against his head right now.
"You cannot make pudding from phone," he points out, and goes so far as to point at the seemingly delicious food with his hand. "Is no app for dis." He shakes his head and takes a drink of his coffee, saying, "I will stay with coffee, and not putting shoe up Frank's ass."
"My thanks to Aneira." Steve returns to his place of lean on the counter and sips at his coffee deeply before setting it aside. A mouthful of the bread pudding and a contented sigh follows. He's not lacking in manners and ergo does not speak around the bite, but he does gesture at Dylan with the plastic spoon to insinuate his appreciation — very good, is apparently the end-vote. "'nd that's okay, Kwabena, you don't have to have any if you don't want to."
Steve's already calculating about the process of taking some of the pudding home anyways.
A lean over lets him scan down Helena's checklist to see…aw, okay, there's extra fun for him tonight. Scowling to himself, Steve plucks a nearby pen left tucked against the backwall of the counters and marks that he too acknowledged the delivery of five reports. Well, he's not running over them tonight — he can't be late for dinner again. The couch has been threatened.
He does turn his attention back to Dylan though, given Helena's question was a legitimate one and he too wants to know this answer.
Clint Barton nods, "Helena. I'll either remember it or, more likely, forget it and have Cap remind me of it at the most embarassing time possible."
He does, in the end, surrender to the lure of bread and sneak a bit, tossing it into his mouth. "I mean, it doesn't taste 3-D printed. I'm not going to turn into a toad or fall asleep after pricking myself on a spinning wheel or something, am I? Because my experience with royalty is that you can't really rely on a handsome prince to come save you in times of woe," he says.
Dylan eyes what Helena's holding out for him then takes it. "A missive already and the ink's not even wet. You waste no time here." He'll read it later and slips it into his inside jacket pocket. "Neither. Well, technically, the latter. Aneira cooked it about 3 weeks ago. I then photographed it and stored it in the phone. Then, when I should wish to, now in this case, I recreate it in the exact state it was. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to get it to work on anything living. On the bright side, I don't need to worry about salmonella or e.coli." He uses a fork to slice some and then transfers it over to a plate. "Not to worry Barton, I'm not a prince so can save you whenever it's needed."
Helena considers the answer for a moment, head tilting slightly. "So…it's a phone of many items," she says slowly, smile flickering. "And this is the original bread pudding, right?" she asks, pointing to it. "When you took the photo, the magic basically transfigured the bread pudding into storage on your phone, until you decided to use it, when it rearranged everything into the pudding here, as it was at the moment at which you stored it."
Neeeeeerd. Helena's a sucker for how things work, whether it's science or magic. Even if she hasn't got a jot of magical talent of her own.
Apparently she's not worried about the provenance of the pudding, though, taking a bit for herself. There's been plenty of traditional English cooking in the Wayne household, after all.
Well… if others are eating it…
Hesitantly, Kwabena approaches the bread pudding. He pokes at it with a plastic fork, then leans over it a little so he can smell it. He looks to Dylan at his explanation, then back to the bread pudding.
Finally, he slices a piece off and stares at it for a long moment. "I would not want to be saved in cell phone," he tells Dylan truthfully, then, at long last, samples the recreated material.
There comes a long pause, during which his expression is hard to read. Eventually, he takes another bite, and eyeballs the food suspiciously. "It does not taste like magic, but it does taste good." He takes another bite, brow furrowed, before pointing his fork at Dylan. "If it makes me poop rainbows, shoe will go in your ass." A glimmer of humor comes to his silver eyes; he's joking, but he hopes the agent catches on. His demeanor is a bit off, after all.
"'m not a toad yet, so we're all safe." The Captain showcases the near-empty plate and eyes the casserole dish. Then again, Steve has the constitution of a garbage disposal when all is said and done, so it makes him no good barometer for anything poisonous or deadly in the long run.
"That's a nifty trick though," he does allow of Dylan's phone. Helena's explanation does inspire him to get that second plateful after all. "Figure you could bring this to any potluck we get all lined up around here?" He's hopeful, apparently. "Barton, you heard anything about any potlucks?"
Clint Barton swallows another bite of pudding and purses his lips, "I have eaten a couple of toads in my day. I used to practice bow on them. Moving targets, excellent practice. Tastier than you'd figure, too, although my brother always tried to keep the legs for himself."
He blinks at Steve for a moment, "I know I have a reputation as a casserole queen but, shockingly, Cap, the office has not yet looked to me for leadership vis a vis getting together Christmas party dinner goodies. I usually bring a rotisserie chicken and a bag of those Hawaiian rolls. Sometimes I even share them," he says.
"Oh, yes. Very much the original." Dylan agrees. "Think of it as if it was merely sent to its own dimension where time as we know it does not function. That's not completely accurate but it's close." Grinning at Kwabena, he says "I'll convey your compliments to Aneira." He seems to enjoy everyone's reaction. There's nothing like good food. "Possibly. Though wait until you've tasted her trifle or spotted dick."
"The secretary pool's setting up a potluck for two weeks before Christmas," Helena notes absently around a mouthful of bread pudding. "But they're still playing keep-away on who's going to ask you," she adds to Steve. "And trying to avoid telling you," she looks to Clint, "Because, and I quote 'who eats a whole chicken?'"
Hey, people talk around the cadets.
"Those hawaiian rolls really are good, though." And the sort of store-bought food that has to be carefully hidden from the butler at home. She grins to Kwabena, though there's something almost assessing in the look as well. As in, with his power set, the application of foot to ass could be…interesting.
With a slightly confused look, Kwabena eyeballs Clint and Steve. "What is… 'potluck'?" he asks. "How does person make marijuana lucky, and why?"
Setting the plate and coffee down, he finally takes his copy of the reports from Helena and marks off that he's received them. "Reports," he mutters to himself. "I will have to review dem on route to Russia," he tells Helena. "I leave for mission in some hours."
Clint's blank expression is more than enough to make Steve grin; his response has the Captain snickering away into the back of his hand and trying not to inhale the bite of pudding in his mouth. Thankfully, no one dies. A deep swig of his coffee has him saved from dessert-related asphyxiation.
"Even if Clint ends up manning this potluck, bring the trifle, Agent Grey." The suggestion comes with a firm nod. He continues on to explain to Kwabena, "A potluck around here is a party where everyone brings a food dish. Sometimes it has a theme, sometimes it's random, 'nd sometimes, Clint doesn't share his Hawaiian rolls. 'm not the only one giving him disappointed looks when he pulls that bunk. Nothing to do with marijuana."
"Though it could be if it were baked into brownies." Dylan points out. "That is legal here now, correct? I know it's been a recent trend across your country." Just not in NY yet. "But the trifle it shall be then. I'll be certain not to eat it before then, or at least ask Aneira to make another."
Clint Barton points a finger at Helena, "Of course the Hawaiian rolls are good. They have the magic of the islands in them. That and, like, a buttload of sugar," he says.
"Fine, I will bring extra rolls. Three bags even. Although they can be scarce around the bodega around Christmas time. Mrs. McCarthy has to get a bunch for her stoner kids who get the munchies. Speaking of pot. Which I do not smoke. In a while. Legally speaking. I'll take a test, right now, get me a cup."
"And if it were to come back positive, it's clearly because someone dosed you against your will," Helena offers to Clint by way of an excuse, taking another bite of the pudding. Sure, cadets get regular cafeteria meals, but…they're cafeteria meals. So she's not going to pass on real food right now.
She does need to make herself an excuse for being here, though. So now that she's delivered everyone their paperwork, she moves over to the row of coffee pots and other supplies, refreshing things and making sure there's fresh coffee going.
Shaking his head at Steve's explanation, Kwabena mutters, "America is very strange."
A glance goes from Clint to Dylan after replacing the reports with the bread pudding and coffee. "It would be funny to bring bread pudding with marijuana," he points out, "but bad for your record."
When he finally finishes the pudding, he empties the trash into the recycling bin and nods to Dylan. "Aneira is good person to make such good pudding bread. Tell her thanks for me? I am Kwabena." He picks up the reports again, then looks around at the others with a sigh. "Forgive me, I must go. I need to raid supply room so I do not freeze ass off in Mother Russia."
"I have total faith that you're clean, Clint. 'sides, tests aren't for another month. Start of the New Year, remember? Mmm." His final bite disappears and Steve places his paper plate and fork in their respective bins before taking up his mug of coffee. It requires a topper and he pats Helena's shoulder gently in appreciation for her refreshing of the carafe.
"If you want any survival tips for Russia, Kwabena, maybe speak to Agent Barnes or Romanov. They'll have some ideas for you," he suggests with a glance over at the silver-eyed man.
Clint Barton nods, "Clean slate, new year, all that stuff. All our debts forgiven. Clears all your tabs at the bar. That's right, isn't it? I'm sure that's right," he says.
"Yeah, don't look at me. Russia is totally Nat and Bucky's thing. If you need to stage a full-scale invasion of Florida, though, I am totally your man."
"Russia in the winter," Helena murmurs from over by the coffee, along with an amused look toward Steve. "I feel like history's had something to say about that course of action." Smart comments aside, she runs through the preparations in the back of her mind as she tidies up the coffee service and restocks everything - including the peppermint creamer. She's totally not digging for details at all.
"You forget," Kwabena says, "I was raised dere." He claps Steve on the shoulder. "Dis is one Ghanaian who is not afraid of tundra. Agent Drew and I are looking for Prevoshkhodstvo, who have disappeared." He casts a look toward Clint then. "If we find dem, we'll need backup." He winks at the archer, before casting a hand to the others in departure. "Best of luck with reports," he says with a touch of disdain, before heading out of the door, mug in one hand, reports in the other.
"Good luck, Kwabena." The wish follows the man out the door. Steve then dollops a bit more creamer into his fresh pour of hot coffee. "You're not wrong. History's got a lot to say about the difficulties of Russia's winters. When you can spit and it crackles in mid-air, there's an issue."
A testing sip of his drink finds it appreciated and he sighs, glancing over at the remainder of agents (and cadet) present. "Guess we'll keep an eye out for when they stage that potluck. Anybody want to bet on who'll ask me when?" Dimpling ruefully, the Captain shrugs.
Clint Barton hops down off the counter, "Okay, guys, I think I'm officially puddinged out. Helena, say hi anytime, Dylan, summon chili next time, Kwabena, I didn't understand anything you said and I think I prefer it that way. Cap, you remains, as always, a saint, a gentleman and what Mr. Rogers would have surely become on steroids. Peace, Hawkeye out!"
"Hundred bucks says it's Lydia in accounting," Helena chimes in on the odds of who's going to invite Steve to the potluck. Which is big money for an Academy cadet. Less so for someone whose last name is Wayne, though. Having stolen a snack and restocked the coffee, it's time for her to get back to delivering those reports.
With the feather in her cap of having confirmation that a report was at least delivered to Barton. Successful day!