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Le Figaro: it's a place where American staples are served without pretension, and anyone who comes in commands no special attention. Discrimination is a more subtle thing, based on how long someone has sat in the corner with only a coffee instead of something tantamount to skin colour, a place of immigrants from all over the US, Midwestern corn fed boys and southern belles, gobsmacked Downstaters and the odd displaced Utaher. Soup and sandwiches are heavy on the agenda, coffee and fries for those with a taste for it. Wanda is in a booth by herself, which is some prime real estate. No one in their right mind is going to displace the young woman sipping her tea and on her second basket of bread, not when the look she can level through narrowed eyes might make them reconsider their life insurance policies. Or if the stove was on. Or if the baby was left in the bath with a toaster or something dreadful. Either way, she has her own space, and a book to consult. She doesn't read it.
*
The particular engine rumble that rolls on up outside is familiar to this part of Greenwich — the motorcycle's owner doesn't live too far from here. Liv had made sure she drove sanely with a passenger in tow, though really, unless there are actively monsters attacking the streets, the Asgardian tends to be a pretty safe and conservative motorist. Go figure.
Once parked, Liv leads the way inside and, after a quick look around, over towards Wanda's booth. "The tea here is quite good," she says half to herself, absently running both hands back over her hair to straighten it after the drive in.
*
Resident SHIELD nerd, Leo Fitz had been unsure about the motorcycle… until Jemma murmured something about sense of adventure. Then he'd been keen. The unspoken challenge only would've been complete if she'd made him a sandwich. With something akin to a grimace-smile, Leo ambles into the cafe behind Liv.
He slides into the booth behind her and issues Wanda a small nod. "This place is uh…" his eyes sweep the room, "… interesting." He manages a tight smile.
*
Cup, one. Tea pot, one. Slices of bread, six, and small container of honey to squeeze on it, mostly empty, or barely full depending on what sort of Winnie the Pooh one is. For the magical Owl, she picks up a piece of bread as Liv rolls up with a passenger in tow. Neat, quick bites make very short work of the warm bread and the concoction with the same eye colour she has. Crumbs are still being discreetly licked away by the time the connected pair get towards her corner, and she raises her head a touch more alert.
A girl as light as her needs all the opportunity she can get to replenish, especially given her metabolism is unforgiving. Another glance measures the granary supply adjacent to her. Then she gives a slight nod to the pair.
*
As she gets settled into the booth, Liv offers Fitz a small, reassuring smile. She hasn't known him specifically for long, but she's known many people who had similar dispositions. Always had a bit of a soft spot for them. She waits precisely long enough to order for herself ('the blackest coffee you have in the largest mug you've got, please') before looking across at Wanda.
"This has been a very strange day," Liv muses, keeping her voice quiet and light. "Well. Fitz, Maximoff. Maximoff, Fitz." Introductions always seem like an appropriate place to start. She's fairly sure the two haven't met, anyway.
*
"Uh…" Fitz looks at the server pensively. His eyes squint and he manages, "Just coffee." A flicker of a grin edges his lips, "Been pulling long days and nights and still haven't gotten used to the time difference. Transfers aren't as easy as Jemma believes."
He lifts his hand and a lopsided grin pulls at this features, turning a stitch bashful at the introduction. "Hi, Agent Maximoff." His head motions towards Liv, "It's Leo Fitz. But everyone just calls me Fitz."
*
Only a twin is really going to understand the reasoning, but she adds, "Wanda." A twin defines herself in whatever way she can against her other, the lunar reflection for this petite, cold sun. Her legs cross under the table, calf plastered to the leather-sheathed length of her shin. Narrowed profile from the waist down achieves little but assuring they probably won't kick one another by accident.
Another moment, and she says, "Hello." It never hurts to be polite. "How was today strange?" Her question warms considerably, though it could be something about the honey hitting her bloodstream and tea clutched lovingly in her hands. "Jemma?" Is this a secret byword for something? Maybe!
*
Mental note made. Wanda, not Maximoff. Check. Liv offers the other woman a quick smile and leans forward to prop her chin up in a hand - she may be new to this whole 'being a spy' thing, but talking shop over a meal? That's downright normal. "It isn't every day you start to worry the world's been turned upside-down on you, that's all. Though it does seem to be becoming more common," she allows, in a quiet grumble.
Without lifting her head, Liv looks back towards Fitz, keeping her voice light and low. "The other day, you mentioned that you and Jem — you and Simmons, you could analyze what we brought back from Istanbul to try and see who'd mucked with it. How do those tests work?"
*
"Jemma. Jemma Simmons," Fitz replies to Wanda. "She's a biochemist. Brilliant. Smartest person you will ever meet," and by the way Leo says it, he means it. Liv's question prompts Fitz's eyebrows to lift warily, "Well, we can analyze it, but telling who tampered with it would require a lot more data. We use the DWARFS to gather data, and get inside the make up of the machine, and then we take that data and do an analysis. Wha you're proposing is a bit more complicate, aye?"
His lips twist to the side and his Scottish accent actually seems to thicken as he continues, "That said, we can learn a lot from whatever the DWARFS find. So far we haven't been given access to the bots." He rubs the back of his neck, "But we can possibly yes things like their fibres, any signs of tampering… that kind of thing."
*
"They can't hear you." A simple clarification lies in the wording, and Wanda goes back into silent listening. Her teacup makes an excellent accessory, concealing the lower half of her mouth. Bright honey-brown eyes are still fairly concealed by her lashes. "Why do you have stone people examining a machine?" This is going down to the worst event ever. "Wouldn't you or Cassidy use leprechauns?"
You can shoot her right now. "They are not very good searchers except for metal. Ore."
She does not change the subject, so much as require a desperate lifeline. Or you've just been introduced to her exceptionally dry humour.
*
Let the record show that it was not the Asgardian who brought up dwarves in search of clarification, here. Though Liv did look like she was about to ask before Wanda beat her to it. But the witch has also given her something to clarify instead, one hand absently reaching over to pat Fitz's shoulder in anticipation: "Leprechauns are Irish. Fitz is Scottish." It's obvious, isn't it? The accents sound nothing alike.
Being well-traveled over the span of centuries has its upsides, one supposes.
"But, the ah… DWARFs." Liv is very purposeful about matching his pronunciation, accent and all. "If I were to give you something like a… like a coffee mug. Would you and Simmons be able to tell me if the person using it was. You know." Even with Wanda's assurances, she lowers her voice. "Human?"
*
Fitz squints at Wanda. Not entirely understanding whether she's serious or not, he just manages a vague arch of his eyebrow. Liv, however, is given a small nod. Yes, he is Scottish. Clearly. "Simmons is a Kiwi," because maybe she needs to know.
Liv's question prompts him to ponder. "We could do better than that, Liv." He shoots her an easy smile, "We could do some matching." Pause. "Well, Simmons could. She's better at biochem than I am."
*
The humour is noted. The ignorance of Celtic myth is fairly unlikely, given Wanda is, in fact, a witch. Her hands flatten to the table, a myriad number of rings gracing the digits. The cup rests just beyond the tips of her nails. She mirrors the vague sense of curiosity with none of the cloak and dagger drop in voice Liv demonstrates. She almost always speaks quietly; a change in volume would help no one.
"Initial results show human, but not based on the… genetic… material." The English does not come easily here, technical terms she has to tiptoe around to use correctly.
*
"I do like kiwis," Liv muses to herself. The people, the fruit, or the bird? It's Liv, so the answer is probably 'yes'. Her expression brightens at Fitz's answer to her question and she starts to say something —
— before she blinks owlishly across at Wanda, her brow furrowing. "…oh. You looked?" Liv hazards, finally straightening up in her seat. She drums her fingertips against the table. "…well. We should try the test anyway, just to be safe. I will bring a mug down to the lab in the next day or two," she decides, dragging a hand over her face. "And we'll… we'll see."
*
Fitz just squints further. "The robots were tampered by humans?" his expression sours. "Probably only a handful of people who could modify them. IK haven't seen them functioning but they are highly complicated." He drums his fingers on the table. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Because he really doesn't. "I thought we were talking about robots, why would a mug be necessary?"
*
Wanda picks up her tea. She takes a deep sip, something to clear her thoughts and palate. "No. I do not deal with robots." Oh, but for a future fate, if ULTRON ever shows up. Guess who is waiting to make his life really miserable. In this time and place, however, the brunette levelly regards the Scotsman. "No. I do not know how your robots work. I have never seen them. I am interested though to see what they make of the present from Istanbul. Yes? If they can do anything with her cup, it would be good to test and be sure." That explanation gently backs up Liv's statements before falling on the sword, biting the bullet, and eating up the violence metaphors.
"I tested if a woman was human. My means differ from yours. Sometimes they are more accurate. They are not perfect." It does bother her, if the tone is anything to go by; the results or the imperfect state of the world, she needs to get used to. "She may look like a human but be an alien or something else. It is possible to look like something so well, any proof you are not requires very close examination." Stumbling on the last word, she raises her hand. "Other forms of changing behaviour can be done by normal methods, and would not show up these ways. Mere guesses."
*
"No, sorry — my fault for being unclear," Liv says to Fitz, holding up both hands and smiling apologetically at him. "I wanted to know if the tests you two will be using to figure out who may have tampered with the robots could also be used for… that." She nods her head towards Wanda, to second her explanation.
Liv looks a touch uncomfortable as she expands on it. "We just want to figure out if this person is herself, or if she has been… what's the right word. Compromised." She makes a face. "There are aliens, there are shapeshifters, there are illusionists. It would be alarmingly easy for someone to disappear and for us to never even know."
*
Fitz frowns. His gaze flits between the pair only to trail back towards the door. With his eyes still trained on the door, he considers each of the things he's being told. His lips part, his tongue clucks and then his mouth closes again. He silently, slides out of the booth. He swallows hard. Clearly something rolls over his mind. "This was a bad idea. I should just stay in the lab, yeah?" He forces a tight smile and shifts on the booth.
He lingers a moment, however, before he peeks over his shoulder, "And who do you want tested exactly? And why?" His eyebrows lift expectantly.
*
Wanda is wordless in the description, her eyes narrowing. She reaches for the pot of tea and pours out the rest of the contents into her cup, a stream of amber gathered in the basin. The last of the honey will join in a liberal squeeze that drains it completely, enough that she'll get at least a half tablespoon for all that wheezing and bubbling from the upturned bear.
*
Well, hell. Liv casts a brief look towards Wanda before she scootches after Fitz, though she doesn't stand — just turns to sit at the end of the bench and look up at him, tightly clasping her hands in her lap. She's nervous. The Asgardian is nervous.
"Fitz," Liv says in a very gentle voice. "I need you to please, please promise me that if there is any blowback for what I am about to tell you, that you focus it on me."
But she waits for no such assurances. "It's the Director," Liv admits in a very quiet voice. "The way she's been acting lately, the orders she's been giving, they're just not like her. We just want answers."
*
Fitz's eyes clamp shut and he pinches the bridge of his nose.He freezes and stares at the tiled ground. His eyes hone in one a few particular tiles and his jaw tightens considerably. Frozen in spot, he allows his thoughts to ping around his mind. "What orders? What actions? I need specifics."
*
"I let her explain. Or else it will sound rather broken, for my understanding is limited, and my opinion of gulags or internment camps somewhat dim." Wanda does not mince words. Not in the least, and not now, though she manages to keep the vitriol to a relative minimum.
*
"I can always translate, if you need it." Though Liv thinks even that much probably got the point across just fine. Slowly, she eases back into the booth to make room for Fitz to reclaim his seat, in case he'd like it back. "But she has been… cold. Angry. Rash, and that is not a trait I would have ever expected to see in Peggy Carter."
The longer she speaks, the more troubled Liv seems. "I can understand the need for an adequate prison… but the way it's being approached, it feels wrong. Especially with the leap to power it with technology you hadn't even had a chance to examine yet, how quickly any criticisms from her team are being dismissed."
*
Fitz cringes at the mention of the prison. "That's not… it's not like… I've been.. this isn't… " he frowns and then finally gets to the point: "it wasn't from the Director." His hands scrub his face. "It's been theorized for years. But with that Asgardian prince terrorizing people through the Ed Sullivan Show, NATO mandated the construction of a prison. Simmons and I in New Zealand were…" his frown deepens. "Sorry. I think this is classified," and they're in public.
*
The murmured sigh from the brunette borders on irritated. "It was already told. I have no clearance. Those above command those below. It comes down. Maybe she cannot have it questioned because there is no room to question. It does not make the choice right. Do you, in your safe island far away from battleships and guns know what those prisons look like? How close it is from one of them to a gas chamber? Because a man or several men decide it is not safe or good to allow 'dangerous people' out. Another word for alien? Choose someone with skin a different colour. A power feared. is it going to be an age where they consult reports and predict with maths or seers who is going to maybe commit crimes, or have powers too terrible to be allowed in the world? We left one world behind in smoking ruins a few years ago. The one we are building should not be from its ashes."
*
Liv looks very much like she wants to interrupt Wanda, to tell her that the comparison isn't fair. But she doesn't. She focuses on Fitz instead, and the longer Wanda goes on, the harder the blonde cringes.
"I know it isn't your intention for it to be used that way," Liv says quickly. "I'm sorry. You're a good man, Leo, I can tell. And if this is coming from higher up than even the director herself, there may be nothing any of us can do. I just want to be certain that I know who I'm taking my orders from. That's all. Everything else is… not unimportant," she murmurs, glancing to Wanda. "but, for the moment, secondary. To be looked at, but after this."
*
Something in Leo's brain comes to a screeching halt. And his expression changes. There's something clearly defensive about his guarded look as he observes: "Prisons put criminals places so we don't have to kill them — so we don't have to find ways to enact final solutions. Prisons make due-process possible. They mean that we don't have to find creative ways to kill people who hurt innocent people," now and only now does Fitz stand from his seat and he glances between the pair, "But… This has been enlightening. And telling."
He reaches into his pocket and puts down a few dollars to cover his coffee. "While I appreciate the lift here," his throat clears and his hands retreat into his pockets, "I'll walk back. Please… don't bother coming down to the lab… we're busy anyways." There's something inherently guarded with the comment. "You want people to do engineering for you or chemical testing," his lips twitch again, "ask the nice nazis down the hall." He turns on his heels to the door.
*
Wanda wordlessly slides out the booth about three seconds after Fitz does. She walks over to the counter to drop off a neatly folded bill and two coins, and zigzags towards the door. Following her is not impossible that far, though getting her on the street is infinitely more difficult. She is a creature of cities and vanishing into the masses.
*
"Fitz, I'm not — Fitz..!"
Well, dammit. Liv turns to aim a mildly furious glare across the table just in time for it to be directed at Wanda's retreating back, which seems to catch the Asgardian off-guard. Hard enough to leave her sputtering. What. WHAT. She makes a growly noise of frustration in her throat, drops some money for her coffee onto the table, and hurriedly slides out of the booth.
<It will be good to be a part of a team, Liv,> she mutters animatedly to herself in flawless Romany, ignoring the stares she gets as she stalks for the exit. <You will no longer have to do everything yourself, Liv. Won't it be nice, Liv.>