Across the Aisle
Roleplaying Log: Across the Aisle
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Carol receives a visit from Warren after the disastrous Mutant Town raid.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: April 06, 2019
IC Location: Quincy, Massachusetts
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 08 Apr 2019 19:26
Rating & Warnings:
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

The Danvers Apartment has never been perfectly well kept. Only a military career where cleanliness and personal chores are beaten into you keeps her homestead from being a roaring disaster of a bachelorette pad.
The apartment sits on the fourth story of a complex on Quincy Shore. A decent enough middle class income place however the most expensive part of it has to be the balcony looking towards Quincy Bay beyond a few tall trees and green grass.
The balcony being the key feature, very often serving as Captain Marvel's launch pad on the way to work to the southwest. Most of the residents of the apartment complex know of their celebrity tenant but they've long-since come to respect her privacy over the years. Occasionally she's stopped by for local barbeques and the like in a neighborly fashion when her schedule hasn't been too crazy and the weather's good.

Even now, for the most part, the locals have supported her. When she first returned to her apartment there was a bouquet of flowers in front of her door, along with several cards of well wishes and belief in her.
There was one picture, however, of Eliza Marshall's school photo along with the notation 'Murdered'.

Out of all her hallmark greetings and communications, both hateful and supportive alike, the photo is the only one she's kept out in view of her apartment. Placed in a small, cheap frame she had laying on the bottom of one of her random knick-knack drawers, the photo is placed on the in-table in front of her LCD TV placed on the wall.

Carol herself is seated on her old fluffy three seater couch she got practically on a dare by Jessica Jones at an estate sale somewhere in Norfolk. Relaxed as much as she can be, wearing a loose U.S. Airforce T-shirt and grey sweatpants. Reclined into the cushions with all the image of a woman on her ass with a permanent look of dismay plastered on her expression, staring mutely at the TV and trying to figure out which cable show it is. She hasn't watched television in so long.. She has no clue what's even playing these days.

The other tenant? Currently loafing upon Carol's lap. Of everyone's fate in recent days, Chewie's has improved dramatically. Carol spending all day at home for several days now - Possibly her personal record - The fluffy orange beast is besides himself with the extra attention. Purring lightly with a pleased feline expression, eyes closed as he partakes of her warmth and company as only a cat can.


Given recent events, Carol Danvers might not expect to be getting a lot of visitors, and what visitors she could expect to get are probably not of the sort who bring good news. Dark wings, dark words, or so they say — except this set of wings isn't dark. Nonetheless, the phrase is close enough.

It's not terribly important how the man approaching Danvers' apartment got her address. There were a number of ways, mostly through chains of acquaintances and 'I know a guy who knows a guy' relationships. A few well-placed phone calls eventually got the location. Men like him tend to get whatever they want, sooner or later — and most often, sooner.

Such it is that Carol's doorbell will suddenly ring. If she's got a means to check who her caller is before buzzing him in, she'll certainly find out right then. Warren Worthington isn't really doing anything to disguise who he is, other than dressing down a bit — or his definition of dressing down, which still incorporates a collared shirt and dark jeans — which is probably good and bad.


Charmingly, the door bell seems to have been modified. The first few riffs of 'Danger Zone' play in the air, alerting those within.
As it so happens, Warren is not alone. From the far ends of the apartment hallways a few heads have poked out of doorways. A small pack of Quincy children have their heads aligned from the door to the stairwell, daring each other to go tug on those wings. More knowing individuals recognize the man, there's only a few winged men who look like -that- and already the gossip begins. Some look concerned to see him here, others look.. Well they give him the usual look Warren is used to when out on the town. The kind where they gauge their chances of getting his number.

After more than a few repetitions of those famous 80's chords, the door swings inward widely. Carol has little fear of strangers or shuffling unwelcome guests along.. Which means the small eye-hole or peering from a still-chained door sees little use. Her initial expression is one of bother. Tousled gold framing her face haphazardly as she spies the newcomer with half-hooded eyes.

That expression evolves slowly as realization dawns on just who this is. Jaw slacking; eyes widening. In a quick calculation there's only one reason for Worthington to be here and she offers a groaning scoff, turning her face away as she bitterly muses, "You sure go out of your way to kick a woman when she's down."


Brows raise at the modified bell tones in amusement, but otherwise Warren waits quite patiently. His wings, brazenly on display (he no longer hides them, except at the most dire need), are folded tightly at his back. His eye is eventually drawn by the interest of the natives in him; he slants a glance sidelong at them, and after a moment one blue eye flickers in a conspiratorial wink. Especially for the ones who look like they're weighing the odds of getting his number.

He doesn't seem like he'd tolerate any wing-tugging, though.

There is only one lady he is here for today, however, and that is Carol Danvers — t-shirt and sweatpants and all. His attention reroutes fully to Carol as she opens the door, and the first sight she'll catch of him is him looking windblown and beautiful as ever, half a smile on his features. It curls up at the corners with a little humor when she groans and makes that rueful statement.

"That's a hell of a way to greet a man who flew two hours to see you," he says. He obviously isn't talking about having taken a plane; he's way too tousled for that. "Most women would be thrilled about that, by the way. Will you let me in? I promise not to say the four words that you dread… though I may say some others." He saw the look on her face, right after that blast went through the child's body.

His expression sobers. "I have news. This is a courtesy call."


To be honest, the half-smile was more than she was expecting. The beautiful Angel seems more than capable of sarcasm but she was expecting judgement. If not outright anger. The banter is way more playful and the confusion is clear on her face. Of course, this may well be some kind of setup somehow but..

A flashback in her mind. Of standing on a high rooftop looking down to Warren all but drenched in blood, holding a young woman who moves..

"Alright. I'll hold you to that.." Carol states slowly. Steel eyes looking him up and down, briefly peering past him in wonder if there's more of his retinue.
He did say he flew, presumably alone but.. Billionaires seldom go anywhere without people.
"Mind the cat." Carol mentions off-handedly as she wanders further into her apartment, "He can be.. Funny around new people."

The apartment is about what someone would expect of Captain Danvers. The walls are covered with posters of NASA and the Air Force. A Red Sox pennant proudly splays above the door itself on the inside. Several boxes of ordered pizza are haphazardly stacked by the half-full trashcan. The TV currently has the latest Daily Bugle documentary, 'Spider-Menace: The Terror Of Queens' playing on mute. The sliding glass doors are open, filling the main room with a crisp bay breeze.

Most prominant of all is an orange tabby currently seated on the backrest of the cheap, synthetic leather yet pillowy Sofa. He looks upon Warren with the legendary disdain of cats having their human-mattress disturbed. Long tail swishing slowly behind him. Upon his neck rests a red collar with a small nametag 'Chewie'.

Carol's first action on walking into her apartment is to briskly approach the intable and face the framed picture down with a small click of metal and glass. For someone with Warren's incredible eyesight the brief image of Eliza's school picture was as plain as day.
"News huh?" Still looking away from him, her eyes looking out to Quincy Bay, "Well if it's about the Brotherhood I've been placed on leave.." In reference to their very first conversation when it was she that invaded his domain.


'I told you so' summarily taken off the table, Warren waits patiently as Carol weighs his presence here. The confusion is evident on her face and would be even if he didn't have the excellent eyes that he does. Perhaps his demeanor is calculated to provoke that kind of confusion. He could have turned up with judgment and fire and fury, certainly — his appearance is perfectly suited to such theatrics, and he's used them for that before — but he chose not to today.

Anyone who knows the first thing about Carol Danvers would know that she is perfectly equipped to react to anger and judgment. But the pleasant, slightly-distant patrician look that is the mask Warren wears 90% of the time in public? It's harder to know how to interface with that.

A glance past him reveals no one else. No one else visible, anyway. Assuredly he's told people where he is, and there may even be one or two people running backup hanging around nearby — a necessary precaution after the last time he went somewhere alone — but otherwise his retinue seems to have been left at home. Of course, that doesn't account for whether he is armed or not. The ridiculously stringent concealed-carry laws common to most of the cities of the Northeast don't mean anything to a man with his net worth.

Not that that would mean anything against Carol. It might against other things, though.

Summarily granted entry, he steps within. He takes in the apartment in a single glance, including the picture frame which Carol tips face-down, and he avoids the cat; he and cats don't really get along. They don't typically like giant birds. Keeping a wide berth from the feline, he shoves his hands in his pockets as Carol responds, his head canting to one side. "It's not about the Brotherhood," he gets out of the way immediately. "Pietro and Wanda were always very good at disappearing. They evade even us, when they really want to — though that comes at the price of them not being able to act." It's interesting that he uses their names, though he doesn't linger on the topic of either Brotherhood leader.

His head lifts slightly instead, lashes shadowing his blue eyes. "After all the blood I lost on Eliza Marshall," he says dryly, "I felt a certain interest in her well-being. I had her transferred to New York-Presbyterian. I am told she will recover, especially as I have given them continued access to my blood. She is likely to be there for some time, if you were inclined." His gaze flicks around. "Unless you are under house arrest."


Without the expected entourage, Carol can only assume what he's come to say is very confidential indeed. Since she's turned her back to him after welcoming him in, it's clear she does not consider him a threat in the slightest - concealed-carry or otherwise. She does not have all the guile of a true SHIELD Agent who might consider this to be some sort of trap. After all, if Warren wanted to do her harm there's a vast arsenal at the fingertips of a man of his resources that do not involve him knocking on her door.

At the moment, Carol doesn't particularly feel like entertaining guests.. Even ones as charming and rarified as Worthington.. But she can't help but allow him into her space. In part because of intrigue but the other part.. Her eyes drift to the flipped picture in passing as she turns to face him once he's fully indoors. Folding an arm over her waist, gripping her opposite arm she stands at rest. Not inviting him to sit as he once offered her before.. At least not until she knows more of this man's errand.

And the plot thickens as he dismisses the Brotherhood. The fact that he knows the twins on a first name basis isn't surprising. Those two are working hard to make themselves household names at the rate their going. They may even match their infamous father.. If SHIELD doesn't find them first. She offers a mild grunt of dismay, nodding once in acknowledgement that the Brotherhood remains at large. For now.

Chewie seems oddly behaved for a common housecat. Large wings indeed terrify most small cats, most small animals for that matter. The shadow of a bird of prey at flight will send almost every single animal smaller than it scurrying for the nearest hole to hide in. Chewie continues to stare at Warren, green feline eyes possibly weighing how many cans of chicken-flavored Fancy Feast that the man could add up to.

As Warren speaks that name, Carol's breath spikes in spite of herself. A gasp that exists for a quarter of a second only before its held in her throat. Curiously enough, her right hand begins to tremble at her side before she eclipses the limb behind her.

If she was a better spy she would keep her cool but in this her Poker face completely fails. Her anguish is only faintly tempered as she turns away from him, pacing around her couch and moving towards her small kitchenette. Hands going to her brow and pushing back her blonde locks from her face.

Perhaps most surprisingly of all, she does not verbally reply. There's many questions.. Principally how in the Hell could his blood have kept her alive through that? But she does not speak them. She can't speak at all.

Her shoulder rests against the frame of the archway leading to the linoleum-floored kitchenette, back facing to the bearer of these tidings. In a small way this is what she'd hoped he'd say. She couldn't admit it to herself but that's the main reason why she didn't just close the door in his face. She knew he saved her. She knew it but..


Tell the truth, Warren coming directly to Carol's door is a vulnerable move on his part, and that contributes to the sense that there is no particular threat to his appearance here at all. If he wanted to do Carol harm, she would never see his face. Strings would be pulled from the shadows, cutting away all the things in her life which mattered to her. Wealthy men are not wise to cross — and not just because of their wealth, but because of the ears which listen when they speak.

Fortunately, Warren Worthington isn't even a tenth as vindictive as others of his class and stature can be. Much credit goes to the X-Men and their Professor.

He doesn't seem offended or surprised at her refusal to play host. He simply settles in comfortably in a stand, his wings folded tightly at his back, hands hooked in his pockets. He continues to ignore Chewie. Instead, his attention is wholly on Carol as he relates the first piece of news he has to say. Those keen blue eyes watch her reaction carefully. Nothing of her expression, nor the shaking of her hands, is missed. After a moment, he inclines his head slightly, as if in silent confirmation to himself of something. Something like compassion comes and goes in his eyes, beneath the cool sternness. Compassion… and a hope for a lesson learned. The X-Men have always reached across aisles, even when things seemed most bleak.

"My blood has interesting properties," he begins, after a pause. "It's a healing agent when transfused into another person, but it has variable effects. Sometimes it barely closes their wounds. Sometimes it revives the dead." He smiles faintly. "We were very fortunate the dice rolled as they did with Eliza Marshall. I wouldn't like to roll those dice again, personally."

His wings flick restlessly. "Perhaps years ago I would have been more closemouthed about the things I can do, but now?" He shrugs, flips something out of a pocket between his fingers. His registration card, with his capabilities bluntly stamped on it. "It's a matter of public record. In fact, they have me come back biweekly to give blood for medical research." His gaze abstracts, turning out the window, and the card slips away again. "Very dehumanizing. You ever seen a horseshoe crab farmed for its blood? It is like that."

He exhales a breath, his eyes returning to her. "You said the word 'war' to me. Well — herein is the price of it. Blood for blood is terribly self-perpetuating." His blue eyes lid. "You didn't need me to tell you all that, I am sure. But after thirteen years, I've gotten in the habit of saying it. There are those of us who would like nothing better than a peaceful coexistence. We find it easier to keep reaching out when people are reaching back."

Warren's voice is measured. "That's why I am not here in judgment, or in anger, or in reproof. I prefer to continue to come to you as an ally, because I would prefer to think that we ultimately want the same things."


For the moment, Carol can not face Warren. She stands there, slumped against the arch frame mutely. Even as he describes how this miracle was possible she does not speak, only a slight shift of her head that might have been a single nod to acknowledge that she's listening at all.
She might represent part of the government that is enforcing Registration and guarding its bounty, but even she does not pry into the abilities of those with the laminated cards. While SHIELD may have had some knowledge of what Xavier's students can do she could not quote the details verbatim. This incredible healing ability fits the description of what she saw.

If she were honest, there was a single second when she saw Eliza moving in his arms that he was an actual Angel. Straight from the shining host to redeem her mistake. If she hadn't largely abandoned her religious upbringing she might have believed that even still.

"Thank you." Is all that Carol says to his saving the girl. A tone that fights to be matter-of-fact above the cracks of emotion. There are further points that could be made about the benefits of Registration in this moment but they are lost on her. She does not lecture him or have a discussion with him or anything else. All she does is simply that - A thanks with more pain than she intended.

A more suspicious person might consider this to have been just a bargaining chip that Warren is playing at the right time but Carol does not. It was genuinely the right thing to do at the right time.
After a time she finds the strength to unshoulder the arch and move back towards the living room, stepping over to the couch and lightly stroking Chewie's back.
The cat eyeing those restless wings with growing interest, eyes shifting to follow them with every moment.

"I thought I could honestly prevent it all from going down like this." Carol speaks now, gaze at a right angle from Warren, "I thought for sure we could.. SHIELD could stop Bell from fielding those damned machines. Stop these raids before they could even start. Prove that we.." Her voice hangs as her head bows, shaking slowly. "I guess I was naive. I thought we had more control on this but I was wrong."


It would not be the first time that someone wondered if he really was an angel, and not just a mutant. The imagery is just too on-the-nose, and the addition of his secondary mutation too close to what most would term 'miraculous.' It is something which Warren has had a conflicted relationship with over the years. Sometimes it's useful, even ego-affirming: no one can really say with a straight face that Warren Worthington isn't vain. Most of the time, though, it's discomforting, or even actively dangerous. People react poorly when they perceive their faith is being mocked.

Here and now, Carol Danvers simply thanks him. Warren is silent a few moments. "It's not something for which I need to be thanked," he finally says, "but you are welcome."

It could come off as a bargaining chip — something to get over on Carol Danvers. But standing there, a slight frown on his lovely features, his wings fanned a little in thought (without much thought as to how increasingly interested Chewie would become in their movements), 'Angel' does not look like the kind of person who would use a young girl's life as a lever against another person.

He listens in silence as Carol admits she thought she could have prevented it — could have prevented Bell from fielding the Sentinels. "You tried," he allows. "But the one thing I've learned, that I've been learning ever since these things came out of my back — " a twitch of his wings, " — is that we do not control much of anything at all. Things come to us, and we cope as best as we can in the moment." His blue eyes flicker. "If we cope poorly, we learn from it."

Warren's head lowers slightly. "We'll do what we can to de-escalate, but the Sentinels will make that very difficult. They could never use them openly before without backlash. Now they have been given an excuse."

He hesitates a moment. "If you wish to go see the girl, you should. I am told that when she is well enough to be released from the hospital, she will be sent to the Raft." His expression twitches slightly, some suppressed emotion not allowed to fully take form on his face. "No one was particularly interested in my opinion on the matter."


Carol's gaze shifts to him in a brisk glance as he offers his welcome. She again inclines her head in a faint nod but belabors that topic no more. Perhaps he doesn't truly need to be thanked as his own conscience guided him but to her.. Well.. It clearly meant a great deal.

As Warren's wings fan with his expressions, Chewie very slowly lifts a paw a distance away in predatory contemplation of what would happen if he juuuuust..
..Perhaps more in tune with her pet's thoughts than her distant look would suggest, Carol places a finger right on Chewie's nose in wordless command to be good. The cat bats an ear as he lowers back down, disinterestedly beginning to lick the paw and groom as if he never had the thought in the first place. Honest.

On the subject of how providence had taken great liberties with their lives, Danvers can relate. Though she is no mutant, her oddities were no less outside of her control. She has further insight into this but mention of the Sentinels keeps her from speaking. 'The excuse' in question having been furnished from Carol's own actions.
The shame of she herself being the cause of the thing she wanted to prevent.. Oh it has dawned on her. It haunts her greatly. But above even the shame of that..

"I.." Carol hesitates, her tone suggests she is very unfamiliar with hesitation, ".. Don't know if I can." The forced matter-of-fact tone returns from before as she takes a few steps around the couch and sits herself down, resting her elbows on her knees with left hand covering her right. Perhaps to hold it still with more force than is visibly obvious.


Warren finally notices Chewie as the cat's BIRD!! instincts activate. For a moment, Carol is privy to the rather unique sight of a billionaire having a staredown with her cat as if he were a perched eagle watching a lynx. His aquiline gaze only averts when Carol suppresses her pet.

It returns to Carol, with no small amount of compassion. He isn't privy to her exact thoughts, but he can guess at their shape — especially when she admits that she does not know if she can visit the girl. Perhaps that degree of compassion is a strange thing to see in a man of his privilege. But Warren has led a life rather different than his old money heir peers.

There were two paths his life could have taken, and the fork was when Professor Charles Xavier approached him to come study at his Institute — and to be the third member of his nascent X-Men. He had, perhaps, seen the seed of goodness in Warren. There was a high-souled spark in the boy which led him to think only of how to defend or save other people with his wings when they came in. But in many other respects, at that point in his life… Warren was very much a product of his upbringing. A beautiful young hedonist of a young man who had never heard 'no' in his life, and who felt it quite normal to handle and discard other people as playthings. If he had not gone to the Institute, who knows what sort of monster of selfish, indifferent rapacity he would be today?

But he did. And all that he has gone through since then has made him the sort of man concerned with living up to the image that his wings have given him.

To speak of those wings… one unfolds quietly as Carol sits. It reaches forward and moves to settle against Carol's shoulder, identically to how a man might reach out and rest a bracing hand, though obviously with a much greater reach. Sometimes Warren does with his wings what most would do with their hands; not surprising, given how integral a part of his body those appendages are. The motion will never complete, wing folding back, if Carol seems at any point to reject it. "As somewhat of a professional in such things," he says, either way, "it would 'look good' in the press if you did. But the decision is yours. I came here primarily so you would know."

He pauses. "I saw how you looked, right after."


Chewie realizes that he isn't going to get his way here. Besides, it would seem that the cat gains a grudging respect for Warren to a degree. Possibly sensing that he's here for Carol's sake he rises from his haunches and makes room as the man approaches. The orange tabby gives him a lingering look, sniffing the air once before hopping down and meandering towards his bedroom. On a technical level its Carol's bedroom down he's walking to but we all know who really owns the room. Carol just pays rent in the form of food. Which doesn't seem to include Angel.
For now.

Carol twitches at the sudden contact, muscles in her shoulders tensing at the sensation of warm feathers. She chooses to relax, allowing this comfort as her left hand raises to touch fingertips the avian 'wrist' of the wing. An accepting gesture as steel eyes continue to look straight ahead.
At a touch one would never know that Carol Danvers is all but physically indestructible. Her skin as pliant and warm as any other. Nevermind how many bricks and stones seemed to bounce off of her like powdered cotton balls during the Mutant Town riot.

"It's not the press.." Carol mutters in a rush, eyes closing. Her right hand now free to grip her knee in a new bid to remain still, "Jesus Warren, what would you do? Part of me wants to strangle her for what she pulled on me but.." Her drifting voice suggests that is not the majority of her internal consensus of action. "I feel like anything I say to her would.. It would just make everything worse. For me and for her."
What it would mean for the world at large goes unconsidered for the moment.


Warren watches the cat(?) a moment more as Chewie seems to declare, with his departure, that the winged man can live — for now. A slight expression of humor crosses his features as the true lord of the apartment takes his leave.

It is quick to vanish as Warren offers that one small gesture. Perhaps others would not — certainly the Brotherhood never would, and more hardliner X-Men would think twice — but as with literal angels, there is a certain duality to the man who codenamed himself after one of them. There are both angels of vengenance and angels of mercy. Warren balances forgiveness and fury alike in his responses to things.

He takes her acceptance as a small step forward. His wing is mindfully quick to withdraw, not intruding too long.

"It was not the smartest thing for her to have done," Warren says, with infinite dryness. "The most ideologically-striking actions are rarely smart. I mention the press primarily because I'm rather uniquely qualified to understand the power reporting can have in either smoothing things over, or inflaming them. Whether you visiting her would be a positive or a negative isn't something that can be guaranteed. But in my experience, failure to do anything at all is usually construed in the poorest light possible."

He pauses. "I wouldn't recommend a conversation," he allows. "But I was taught by a man whose belief was that sometimes the gesture of reaching out is enough."


In truth Warren had already banished any ire Carol might have had towards Xavier's faithful in their first encounter. While he had been outraged at the implication of complicity with the Brotherhood of Mutants, his simple denial of the X-Men having any intel or awareness of the horrid action that terrorist group took was enough to stay any issue she otherwise had with them.
While the truth of the relationship between the X-Men and the Brotherhood may be far more complex, she is not so blindly bigoted or hateful to associate them freely.

The converse is not nearly so true. The X-Men, mutants and meta-humans in general have a great deal to lay at Captain Marvel's feet. She has a great measure of gratitude that at least one of their number has offered her sympathy at the least.. And a gesture in the direction of possible absolution.

At his advise on the matter of Eliza, Carol nods yet again. This time with increasing conviction. She takes a deep breath, her right hand reaching out to touch the frame of the picture she turned down earlier. She ultimately decides against righting it but even she notices her hand has stopped trembling. For the moment at least.
"New York-Presbyterian you said?" Danvers repeats the information, committing the Hospital to memory. Eyes flitting back and forth as if reading an invisible page, processing her thoughts.


Even with the long association the X-Men and the Brotherhood have had — perhaps because of that long association — it was beyond Warren to imagine that the Twins could do something like this. Something of this scale. It was easy to imagine of Magneto, but his children had always felt more… human, and there had been hope they would not be as extreme as their father. Fighting against people for so many years breeds odd relationships, especially when the ultimate goals are the same — and especially when the lines sometimes blur due to necessity forcing them to unite and fight as one.

Warren has fought alongside Pietro and Wanda, before. He had hoped…

His head lifts, banishing those thoughts. These few moments are about Carol, and about what he can do here to reach her — perhaps bring her to be more measured in future encounters, despite her losses. He is not blind to the fury that can build in someone's heart as they bury friend, after friend, after friend. He was furious for years after they buried Jean. Furious for years after he buried his parents.

"Yes," Warren confirms, when Carol finally repeats the hospital's name. The top-ranked hospital in New York City. "I will have the room number forwarded to you. If you feel it would be safer not to speak, you can ask to be called when she is asleep. She is asleep much of the time."

He turns, as if to go, but then hesitates. "Her confinement to the Raft will be another kind of powder keg," he says. "I would like to mitigate that where possible."


Carol is still as Warren confirms the hospital information. Her eyes continue to move in furious thought as he describes her location and condition.

At his final words, her eyes stop. "Wait one." She asks quietly. At that she rises from her couch with some haste, marching into her room without further explanation.

Moments pass. Moments stretch into minutes. There are sounds of drawers being pulled open and what sounds like intense writing and movement of paper.
After a few minutes have passed on the Red Sox-themed clock on the wall, Carol returns holding what seems a standard folded letter envelope. Without much regard for his personal space, she walks right up to him and attempts to slip the letter into the breast pocket of his collared shirt. She looks up to him with a renewed resolve in her eyes as she furthers, "There isn't much I can do about that now. Whatever pull I had in SHIELD is gone. I'll see who I can talk to. Take care of yourself Warren."
Her fingers linger on the pocket as if suggest against opening it for the moment. The abruptness of the goodbye somewhat odd as well but..


Asked to wait, Warren stops. His eyes follow Carol as she rises and departs. His feathers ruffle a little in puzzlement at the ensuing sounds.

He's still there when she re-emerges, standing where she left him with his hands shoved in his pockets. They don't come back out, nor does his posture get defensive, when she walks straight up into his personal space and slips that letter into his pocket. He only looks at her, his head canted a little, seeming perfectly accustomed to people being this close to him — though assuredly for different reasons than the one driving Carol right now.

After a moment, his golden head bows, taking the hint about the letter. His eyes promise to read it later. "I will," he says. "Same to you."

He turns after that courtesy, and walks — towards her open sliding doors, rather than the front door. "Your neighbors have already gotten quite the eyeful," he says lightly. "I feel a need for some privacy in my departure." Especially if he's now to be carrying what might well be sensitive information.

With that, he steps out onto her balcony, opens his wings to their fullest extent, and takes off in a vast flurry of wind, angling to swing out over the bay before turning west for home.


For the first time since.. He's ever known her for that matter.. Carol smiles. It's faint and somewhat exasperated at the mention of her neighbors but its genuine. She steps out of the way and gives him leave to use her own personal launch pad. Not nearly as fancy as his own personal accommodations but they certainly do in a pinch. She watches him go then, her expression dissolving away into determination as he soars brilliantly into the distance.

After a few minutes she steps back onto the balcony, having retrieved the pad of paper she used to write the note. With a quick toss and flex of her hand a small photon bolt burns the whole thing to ash, scattering quickly in the coastal wind. She's had just enough time in SHIELD to know how easy it is to recover writing from those pads.
She also knows that her apartment is bugged. Oh they never told her, but she knows how SHIELD operates. She'd be insulted if it wasn't bugged. Thus she could never give Warren more details. Some time later he will see a very simple message on a white piece of paper folded neatly within the envelope.

'Suzie Dobson. Toronto Hospital. Soon.'

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