|
  |
The first snow. There had been flutters of the white stuff from time to time, given how the temperature outside continues to dip, especially once the sun has disappeared over the horizon. But, as of right now, there's a sliver of half an inch setting up on sidewalks and turning into dirty-grey puddles of mush on the streets. The residences of Harlem are keeping to their-selves tonight, as the last few days have been nothing but trouble for them. Murders, Explosions; it just wasn't safe anymore, just like everywhere else in the world.
As way of support, or just for some sense of normality, a local bar called 'The Cigar Factory' is still in full swing and open to everyone who just wants a bit of peace, or some warmth from the cold. Patrons mingle with one another, as a few set up stacks and pay billiards. Working behind the bar tonight is a slender waif of a girl, with warm mocha skin and obsidian eyes. Her hair, all of it, is kept under wraps tonight, her woven head cap a vibrant tint of red. The rest of her attire is rather simple; jeans that just don't quite fit her and a second hand blouse with wide cuffed sleeves. Currently, she's hard at work scrubbing down the rear counter top.
*
Fury makes his way in, dusting a bit of snow from his shoulders, the white stuff making a contrast against the dark of his skin. He pulls off a stocking cap, stuffing it into a pocket as he makes his way up to the bar. He already has a cigar, it seems, fitting with the theme, his scarred visage perhaps a bit sinister in the light of the place.
"Whiskey, two fingers, neat," he says, rapping his fingers on the bar and nodding to the girl behind the counter. "How you doin' tonight, sweetheart?"
*
Lynette glances up as a new face enters the room. She offers him a wave before going back to her duties. Once he bellies up to the bar, she offers him a bright smile that rounds out her cheeks just so. "Y'got it, sugah." Pulling away from her work, she moves to a sink and gives her hands a wash, then pads them dry. Working at his drink, a stout glass is set before him in no time. "M'doin' alright, chere. N'y'self? Don' t'ink I seen y'round dese parts b'fore. Welcome to de Cigar Factory."
*
Fury shakes his head, "Thanks. Yeah, I been…away for a while," he says. "Good to be back to the city. It's almost civilized here," he says. He takes the drink as it's poured, taking a sip as he looks around the bar for a moment. "Not a bad place, looks like. I might have to make it a habit." he says.
*
"Welcome back." She murmurs gently, but the comment about civilized causes her to scoff. "Merde…you have been gon' long time, ain't y'? Y'bes' b'careful out dere, honey. S'dangerous world, n'jus' keeps gettin' worse." A fresh rag up, she keeps to her cleaning, but now allows herself to face Fury and offer him some company. With a kind smile, she gives a nod, her bundled up curls wobbling as one in their cap. "T'anks! Y'come back 'nytime y'wan'."
*
Fury smirks, 'Oh, you've got no idea," he says. "Believe me, as dangerous as it is out there, lots of places in this bad old world a lot worse. There are heroes here and people fighting on the side of angels - the devils still run a lot of the other parts of the world," he says.
"Which isn't to say there aren't bad eggs around these parts - but present company seems plenty pleasant and I'm not about to complain," he says."
*
"Mmm, don' know 'bout dat. I got a good idea, but, I don' know where y'been. Y'prolly got de jump on me dere." She relents, wearing a playful smirk that presses a dimple into her cheek. "So, c'n I ask where y'been t'? N'dos scars. Bet dey got'a story." The back counter gives a defiant 'squeek' after she passes it by with a bit of pressure. Moving toward a different sink, she now starts washing a few previousy used glasse. "Aww, t'anks, honey. I don' mind de comp'ny so far m'self." She winks.
*
Fury doesn't do much winking, given his circumstances, but raises his glass in response to it. "Here and there," he says vaguely. "Spent a bit of time in Europe lately. Italy. Good food, nice people. Bad public transport. Don't ride an Italian bus, it's worth it to pay for the taxi," he says.
*
Lynette shapes her lips into an 'o'. "Oooh, dat sounds nice. Dey dealin' wit craziness, too, den?" A giggle, she nods and grins. "I take y'word f'it. Don' t'ink I eva leave de states, much less get t'fly in a plane or 'nyt'ing." She pauses and then inquires, "Y'need me t'top y'drink up, honey?"
*
Fury takes a look at his glass, "Never met a drink that didn't need another," he says. "You should definitely see the world a bit. It's worth seein'. Sometimes it messes you up a bit," he says, tapping his eyepatch, "But everything costs in this world."
*
Lynette takes his drink away and offers him a new one, fresh and in a polished glass. "Oh, ain't f'lack of desire, jus', lack a means. N'well, m'not sure m'brave 'nough f'dat jus' yet, neither." Looking over his face, she focuses on that patch and then glances down, back at her dishes. "Y'mind sharin' how dat happened? Wasn' due to dat Italian bus driver, non?" She chuckles and grins.
*
Fury laughs and shakes his head, "No, afraid that was a German landmine in a French countryside," he says. "Not that I was there for the scenery at the time. My own fault for not watchin' where I was steppin'," he says. "I figure I should be grateful it was just an eye. Could've been a lot worse. Did kinda mess with my handsome looks, but I still get by," he says.
*
"Well, first, t'anks f'y'service. N'second? Don' be down in y'self, sweetie. I t'ink y'look very handsome. Bet I ain't de only one either." Keeping that happy expression on her youthful features, she finishes off her dishes, for now, and starts drying them off. She rests her back on the rear counter, and faces Fury directly now. Her eyes skip about, briefly, giving the other patrons a glance to see if they need anything. Soon enough, she's back on Fury. "Y'gonna share y'name wit me, beau?"
*
Fury considers, "Nick Fury, at yer service, ma'am. An' ain't no need to thank me, I did what needed done and not much more," he says. Which, of course, is a gross downplaying of exactly how much he accomplished during the war, but he isn't really one for medals and accolades. Not for lack of ego, he just doesn't think much of the brass who hands 'em out. "How 'bout you, chere?" he says.
*
Lynette quirks a brow, noticing that pick up of her own accent. She gives a gentle 'tsk', her tongue pressing to the back of her teeth before she comments. "Y'makin' fun a'de way I talk? Dat ain't a way t'get in wit a girl's good graces." She warns ruefully, setting a glass down and picking up a new one to dry. "Well, Mr. Fury, m'Lynette LaCroux. And…I'll t'ank whoeva I wan' f'de service. 'Specially one of m'own."
*
Fury shakes his head, "Not at all. We can even switch to French if you're more comfortable. I have a habit of tryin' to fit in, doesn't always come with much thought," he says. "No disrespect intended. I'd never be such a fool as to anger the lady pourin' the drinks," he says.
*
"Fittin' in? Why y'be fittin' in? Ain't not'ing wrong wit y'." She considers, her head canting to the side as she looks him over with curiousity in her eyes. Once his glass is empty, she's quick to pour him a new one, just as she had before. "M'fine talkin' like dis. Don' matta much t'me none, Nick. I c'n switch inta French, dough, if y'd ratha. English ain't m'first language. Den 'gain, wit where 'm from, I know de accent ain't nice f'ev'rybody neitha."
*
Fury shakes his head, 'I like the accent. Mmmmmmmmmmm, I don't think there's anything wrong with me, I just…it's habitual. Like my stogies or my…" he says, taking a sip from his glass. "People treat the natives better, respond to the folks that sound like them, look like them. Just human nature. Part of which I take advantage of, when it suits."
*
"I t'ink dat's one a'de issues 'bout de world dese days. Y'be nice t'people cause dey people. De otha stuff?" Her lips frown slighty as her slender shoulders give a apathetic bob. "Shouldn' matta. S'pain dat it does, dough." Another glass down, she hears her name being called. Perking up, she waves their way. "'xcuse me f'a sec. M'comin', Jimmy!" Then she leaves, taking along with her a bundle of fresh drinks. It only takes her a moment, as she chit-chats and shares a joke in passing with the table. Making a few more rounds, she returns to the bar, her arms full of new glasses to clean. "Sorry 'bout dat. M'glad y'don' t'ink 'nyt'ings wrong wit y'. Dat's a problem, too, f'most folks. Me included."
*
Fury shakes his head, "Well, I just met you, but I haven't found a thing wrong yet, so you're doin' fine in my book," he says with a playful smile. "I won't pretend to be a nice person - I treat people decent, but I ain't ever going to win any Mr. Friendly awards. Do they have Mr. Friendly awards? Well, trust I'm out of the running," he says.
*
"Oh, honey, y'don' know much 'bout me, dough." She warns gently, but it's doesn't sound like a threat more so than base conversation. "Decent's nice. S'lot betta den most. Y'don' seem dat bad, dough. Den 'gain, guess we both on dat line of 'y'jus' don' know'." Another shrugs, her smile returns, smooth and warm. The used glasses are slipped into the sink. She then pulls its plug, and starts refilling it with fresh water and suds. "By de way, y'fine n'my book, too, chere."
*
Fury smiles, "Nobody knows anybody. Not that well," he says, taking a puff on his cigar. "I used to wash dishes once upon a time, when I was a boy. Just to pick up a few extra bucks for my Mama and Daddy - they didn't make much, but, then, ain't a lotta black folks in Alabama like to make much," he sighs. "Sometimes I think it's the last clean work I ever did."
*
"I t'ink…dat knowin' people takes time. N'trust. Lots, n'lots a trust. Dat don' come so easy now-days. N', honestly? S'undastandable." She glances down at her work before removing her hands and turning off the sink's facet. Padding herself dry, she refreshes Fury's drink fluidly. Her eyes lock on him when he speaks, offering a gentle, understanding, smile when he speaks of his parents. The comment about Alabama, though, has her grinning a bit. "Get out! Y'fr'm down south, too? Couldn' tell." But then, he continues, and the girl's face softens with concern. "Hey…y'in trouble or s'mt'ing? If I c'n help, I wanna." She offers, her voice low, keeping the conversation between them just in-case.
*
Fury shakes his head, "Don't worry. I'm not in any trouble. I'm the one who brings trouble," he says. "I learned a long time ago the best way to stop being afraid of the boogeyman is to become him. I don't lose much sleep, but I cost a few people theirs,' he shrugs.
"Yeah, I shook off the accent a while ago. All the "yes suh" and "no suh" got pretty old real fast. I was never very good at 'em anyway," he says."
Fury says, "I appreciate the offer, though."
*
Lynette can only blink. The girl seems at a loss for words now once Nick has said his peace. At his appreciation, she gives a nod, and a soft murmuring of 'don' worry 'bout it'. She's considering something, that much is for certain, as she busies herself with her work, and starts to chew nervously against her bottom lip. Finally, she speaks. "W-what'd y'do, 'nyway?"
*
Fury considers for a moment. Of course, there's a lot he can't say about what he does, who he does it for or who he does it with. All classified. "I keep folks safe," he says. "Still fightin' the same war I always fought, I just fight it in the streets now instead of out in some field. But the enemies aren't that much different, they just don't wear uniforms anymore. Which is just fine by me."
*
"Safe. Safe's good. Lotta people need dat dese days." Leaning on the counter top now, she folds her arms casually against one another, and remains focused on Fury. Her eyes move about, taking in his features, his scars, everything she can and creating another file for her memory banks. "What y'fightin'?" She asks gently. "Y'war? Who de enemy?"
*
Fury notices the scrutiny and wonders just who exactly this bartender is. She's payin' an awful lot of attention for just an ordinary girl behind the counter at a bar, even a decent one like this. Maybe keep your wits about you a little more, Fury.
"What's that kid Jimmy Dean say in that movie, when they ask him what he's rebellin' against? 'What do you got?'" he says with some amusement, "Dirty secret is that wars? They don't really end. Just the battlefields change, some of the players. But everybody's always at war with everybody, on the low-down."
*
"Ah." She accepts, moving back from her slouch and correcting her posture. Once again, a fresh drink is at the ready. Now, she goes back to her sink and starts washing as she had been before. "I like seein' people bein' safe, too, s'all. If y'fightin', n'I know y'fightin', I jus' like knowin' dat y'fightin' de right people. Gonna have t'assume y'are, dough. Y'did say y'like protectin' people." A pause, she glances up once more. "Y'mean all peole, right? Don' matter 'bout dey skin or where dey fr'm? Or what dey c'n do?"
*
Fury nods, "Ought to go without sayin'," he says. "I don't go in for any o' that bigot bullshit. Didn't like it when it was used against me and mine - and it still is, make no mistake. Passin' it on to someone else just to make yerself feel better..there's nothin' good in that," he says. 'Yeah, I protect folks. Sometimes that means I do a few things, ugly things, so that they don't gotta. S'okay by me. I made my deals a long time ago," he says."
*
Finally, her smiles returns. Honest and welcoming. With a nod, or two, that bundle of curls gives another bob, regardless as to it being held at bay by her woven cap. "Good. Dat's good." Whatever fear she had, or hesitation about the man, seems to have melted away. "Honey, 'nybody dat fights ain't gonna be pretty all de time. Jus' c'n' do it dat way. S'impossible. Wish it weren', dough." Beaming, she looks up to Fury once more. "Maybe s'mday, right? 'Sides, seems like y'deserve my t'anks all de more, now."
*
Fury considers, "Mmmmmmmmm, I know a few that push the limits of being good all the way," he says, thinking of Steve Rogers. Damn knight errant, that kid. "Yeah, I guess the goal is we fight the fights today so kids in the future don't gotta, right? Of course, that means we gotta win. But I got a good track record far as that's concerned. Always bet on black,' he smirks."
*
The girl's eyes widen at his last comment. Her lips thin and she snickers, at first, before finally bubbling over with a joyful laugh. "Damn right!" She beams, giving her head a soft shake before going back to her work. "Well, y'betta win y'fights, Nick. Y'gotta c'm back 'n see me 'gain, right?"
*
Fury grins, "You can count on it," he says, getting out his wallet and throwing down a few bones. "Ain't found the puncher that can put me down for the count yet. Don't expect I'm going to anytime soon," he says. "You take care of yourself, girl. I'll be seein' you around," he says.
*
"Don' be beggin' f's'mt'ing like dat, chere. 'Sides, bet I could give y'run f'y'money." She smirks, taking up his glass before even considering the money. "Mmhmm, I will. Be safe out dere, Nick."