1964-03-04 - Doughnut Diplomacy
Summary: A box of sticky buns, doughnuts, and diplomacy done betwixt friends of old.
Related: The Thunderer and Lady Bloodmane
Theme Song: Magic City - Wahlstedt
thor rogue 


Bakeries grow like carbuncles on a neighbourhood. No amount of gentrification ever really seems to displace them because the human heart holds a special place for the joys of bread. Baking yeast products induce the happiest of responses in mankind, regardless of culture. Times be a-changing, but this old stalwart manages to survive despite Chelsea growing out its working class roots. Somehow it survives, and no one's really sure, deep in the heart of highrises and tall canyons of steel and glass, in a ground floor niche where it's been since the building went up in 1919. Penn Station is just around the corner from Mercy General Hospital, allowing pedestrians to flow past, seeking a croissant or a scone or a sandwich. Buses rattle in the shadow of commercial giants like JC Penney.

It's here a redheaded bohemian girl seeks a honey-glazed bun and a cup of tea for her troubles. She steps out of her usual Greenwich digs to go crosstown, though the shadow of Manhattan's towering skyline replaces her familiar landmarks. Still, Scarlett waits for the two attendants taking buns from the oven to hasten back, apologies on their lips and the flour on their aprons attesting to a rush. It's late enough in the day this is probably their last batch, for those who will not rise early enough to meet them at first light.

*

Donald Blake happens to /love/ glazed doughnuts. A somewhat recent invention, and local to the area, they're a huge hit among New Yorkers— mostly because it's fresh, gooey bread liberally covered in sugar. What's not to love?

Diabetes, what's that?

He's got some cash on him, and licking his lips as he gets in line, he mentally does the number-counting thing again. He's got a handle on numbers up to 15, but 20 gives him trouble and the 17s and 19s keep getting mixed up. Still— he's figured out a pretty easy system. Two numbers is a $1, three numbers is a $5, four numbers is a $20. Anytime someone protests, he just adds another bill to the pile.

He waits behind Rogue, salivating at the sight of fresh-baked goods coming up for sale. "The smell, is sweeter than summer rain!" he booms, in a voice too big for the small cafe. "What magic goes into this culinary delight, I know not," he chortles, nudging a portly businessman near him in the ribs.

*

Gooey bread slathered in sugar constitutes one of the greatest technological achievements in the twentieth century, up there with television, push-button phones introduced just this last November or so, and maybe regular electricity. Scarlett would deeply agree on this front.

A box left open for her on the countertop gets filled by those sticky rolls, small, honey-glazed delights tucked together like curled-up puppies. A bit of paper dividing them allows room for three croissants, one butterhorn, and a danish, apricot if the girl would be so kind — "For my roommate, quite particular about them," murmurs the bohemian, giving a slight shake of her flaming hair in its intricate, ancient braided style. A knowing grin from clerk to Scarlett leaves them complicit in the act of inflicting French pastries on Marie-Ange's French metabolism.

It's the sound rather than the sight which causes her to turn, a glimpse taken in the glass case around the bread products. A look back over her shoulder as she moves aside to allow the newcomer a chance to order places him in the constellation of known stars, a name given there. "Far too much sugar, then fried, piping hot, I imagine. There's a particular alchemy in baking." Her smile rises slightly.

*

"They are tremendous," Thor agrees, wagging his chin. "Succulent and delicious, full of energy and flavour! A food for anyone," he agrees, boldly. Others seem to move away from his bold tones, but no one is willing to point out to him how loud he's being. Which isn't quite… noisy, but probably too loud for the confines of the small room.

"Wait, I know you. You helped give me directions to the hospital," he tells her. "You were very kind, and I am grateful for your aid, small woman!"

*

"Now, they've gone and lost an opportunity. Your rousing endorsements could sell a whole tray out there on the street," Scarlett says, checking that everything sits properly in the box and she hasn't missed a treasured lemon tart or a chocolate-dipped croissant for breakfast. Eclairs won't be found here, certainly not at this hour. Shaking fingers pluck up her change purse and she fishes out several quarters, adding them to a folded square bill, handing over her fair-gotten gains to the clerk with an idle fashion. When it's properly to her liking, she gives the bakery assistant a nod. Twine will be wrapped around the secure cardboard box to help her carry it through the streets.

Small woman is a misnomer to anyone but someone like him. "I was delighted to give it to you, small skyscraper of a man." Her head tips slightly, not quite forfeiting the change in height. Were it anywhere else, a challenge like that might be met by her standing upon a chair or opting to float, but not in the middle of Manhattan. "Did you end up employed as a nurse at Mercy after all, or have you sought your fortunes elsewhere?" A pause, and those luminous eyes lose focus for a moment, turning slightly more green in the light. "Scarlett. I'm Scarlett. A pleasure to meet you again. Is all going well?"

*

*

"Donald, Scarlett, and well met," he says, gravely, and offers her a firm clasp of the forearm— instead of a handshake. Odd. "Again. Yes, Mercy has offered me a position, as a 'nurse'," he says. "Regrettably, my medical training does not offer me candidacy as a doctor. However, they were impressed by my skill as a healer, enough that they have let me work the 'day shift'," he explains. "I … am struggling with some aspects. The small needles, for instance. But I feel blessed with a knack for identifying maladies easily. Much of my memory is still addled, but it seems my skill as a healer is not."

*

Fingers loop around the twine at the crux of the knot, and Scarlett lifts the box effortlessly, such it barely constitutes a burden at all. Call that good binding; they know how to secure all their products to make it home or stymie commuters from munching on the Six back home. Clasping her forearm produces a startled response at the fore, and those large, wide eyes full of bright polar skies looking to him. Odd, yes. Thoughts shift and spiral in the crystalline fortress of that mind, grief and joy colliding, crackling out in foxfire embers that fade from the initial burst in the sky.

Some pain is too fresh.

"Doctors require a fairly extensive education and residency, which is like being a journeyman under supervision of a full-time physician," she explains, the words coming with a rapid, crisp cant. "We all put in our blood, sweat, and tears toiling away until they see fit to award a degree, and unfortunately, none can be spared the suffering. Or it makes us look back and realize ours wasn't necessary either." The rueful quirk of a smile comes and goes rapid quick. "That must be refreshing, though, to find your aptitude undiminished. A positive sign, and a hint that whatever damage is there might be healing well. Unfortunately the nature of such wounds and swelling to the brain can be unpredictable. One man takes a glancing strike on the bus, and loses all verbal function. Another suffers a car accident and ends up restored to full capacity in six weeks. Have faith. There's a very good chance your diagnosis is positive, especially if you retain mid to short-term memories along with longer-term capacity."

*

Donald blinks at Scarlett. The contact provokes only a tingle from his fingers where their skin touches, but she seems to change like a light is switched on. He disnegages after two beats, though Scarlett seems … changed.

"Indeed. It's a peculiar malady, damage to the mind. Still, my faculties seem otherwise undamaged, aside from some difficulties with reading and names," he chuckles. "And A challenging silence when I try to recollect a life at home! But I shall survive, I expect," he grins. He's such a /big/ fellow, in so many ways— not just tall, but loud and expressive, a fellow utterly comfortable in his own skin.

*

"You certainly retain your social faculties. Communication centres of the brain do not appear to be damaged, and none your senses are impaired?" A question, that, tendered in a lower tone of voice so no one will be quite overwhelmed by a diagnosis tendered by a stripling girl upon a youth the size of Paul Bunyan's missing ox. Scarlett nods to his grin. "All in its own course. No one likes hearing that, but I firmly believe that sometimes fresh air, activity, and time can be the best of all healers. Better for you, they're free, though colleagues may grumble bitterly about that and prescribe a load of hogwash and snake oil to make you feel better."

A bit of a condescending tone leavened heavily by a tease and seasoned with that lightning-quick grin follow. It's hard not to; the tall blond spreads grins like a highly contagious infection or disease. Transmission by proximity is hardly fair. "I'm not sure I quite follow you. Recollect a life at home? You make it sound like you're sleeping on rooftops." All meant with good humour.

*

"Well. Prior to New York," Donald amends. "I recall well a place… not this city. Family and friends. Loved ones, with rousing stories and hot food, and great mugs of alcohol," he remarks. "It seems a place you'll not find in New York, full of carousing and vigor. Perhaps I have simply not yet looked in the proper places."

"Well. Such is the way of life," he shrugs. "A… friend has claimed she knew me before my accident, and is caring for me in her own way. I sleep in a safe bed and eat well enough, though I am often feeling as if there is something I should be doing with my time. Alas, it has not yet come to me."

*

New York, absent of carousing and vigor? That lofts those finely arched copper brows, the delicate transformation overcoming the girl's limited reticence and illuminating her elegant features in an admixture of disbelief, mirth, and a drop of sardonic wit. Any more would spoil the effect. "Clearly you do not go to the right parts of New York. If you cannot find somewhere to carouse vigorously in this city, it doesn't exist, or your definition proves truly exotic. In which case, for clinical study and research purposes, you simply must deign to explain what your notion of entertainment is."

A friend caring in her own way might normally register a polite smile or a snicker behind her palm, but none of that bubbles to the surface. "You want to do other activities than eat, sleep, bathe, and work. We call that leisure time. Again, there is no end to how that takes form, but maybe you require only a nudge in the right direction to find your preferred recreation. Sports, for example. Baseball, soccer, football, and running in Central Park are all rather popular. Swimming, though the season's not right for it. Artistic inclinations are good, too. You can't lob a stone without hitting someone with a camera or an easel." Guilty as charged.

*

Donald's smile wanes a little. "I …. yes, of course, you're quite right," he says, rallying gamely. Rogue's being… odd, but she's correct enough despite her peculiar wording, and he mulls the idea over. "A… sporting game. I could give that a gaming try," he agrees. "I know little of these ballgames, but perhaps they are something I could attend a try of," he agrees. "I thank you again, red one, and it seems I am once more in your debt for the air you've rendered me. Such kindnesses will not be forgotten readily," he promises Scarlett.

*

"I couldn't tell you half the rules, but you're in good company when you go. The stadiums are full of people shouting, drinking beer and eating popcorn. As long as New York scores somehow, all you need to do is join in the roaring." Scarlett's not entirely off herself, though the subtle distinctions are there. Intellectual conversation has ever been a forte, though the manner and technical details vary substantially. Someone who knows her well on cultural or historical matters rooted in the humanities may be equally alarmed to hear her expound even remotely on medical issues. Doubly so if they realize half the wealth she possesses comes from methods disregarded since the Enlightenment… and they work.

She shakes her head. Snowdrops dance in their nodding white glory against her flaming locks. "Doing the right thing is its own reward, Donald. I can't take on a debt for that, or anything that we could not repay with a pastry."

*

"A pastry it is, then," Donald concludes, clapping his hands together. "I shall pay you when you require, as… it seems your hands are already full," he chuckles, grinning at Scarlett. "Another day, then, and I hope in the interim, I do not run afoul of deeper obligations to you!"

"I shall look into these ball games, and see what may come of it," Donald tells Scarlett. "If I find a place where I might convincingly battle others in sport, I shall try to find you and invite you to witness my glory." He considers. "What is your phone number, that I might call on you?"

*

The transition of the box via a twine knot to one finger leaves her other hand free, dangerously so. On the contrary, she has the power to free up her palm for whatever the Norns intend. Unable to read whatever slender, transparent threads emerge from the emerald knot shot by lightning and tears, perhaps this much she can proffer in steady relief. "Oh, what terrible obligations they could be. A cup of tea, say a black with lavender. Possibly holding a door. I do not imagine there would be so heavy a burden on you." The tease is there, a ray of golden sunshine brightening her presence a little more. Scarlett plucks on the sturdy cross of twine.

"I imagine you'll be hired within minutes. All they need to do is see you and you'll have some agent falling over himself. Not often you see someone who makes Captain America look like he could use a few extra helpings of his Wheaties." Poor Steve, how little did he compare. But, hello, the golden nurse is nigh unto an aureate likeness of Apollo or such. "I can write it down for you if you like. Let me ask after a pen and paper?"

*

"Captain… who? I am not familiar with this warrior," Donald confesses. "But I shall take it as a compliment." He waits patiently for Scarlett to get pen and paper and jot down her number— smiling at everyone who looks at him. There is something oddly childlike about his mien. Less boisterous than… innocent. Not feeling the shame or shyness that hides so many people from one another. Innocent of the woes of many men that keep them from sharing their feelings.

"I thank you again, Scarlett, and on that, I shall depart," he says, flicking the paper against his palm and beaming at her. "And forthwith, to look into games to while away the time. Farewell, my friend, and safe travels to you," he offers, before withdrawing for the door.

*

Digits spin together, seven of them, then another seven. Altogether, they link up, and she scribes her name beneath in a neat, tidy hand. The ink spills across an order form, and Scarlett tears it from the pad, handing over the offering. "May the road rise to meet your feet and your path be clear," she says, managing a moment of levity and clarity together. "I look forward to hearing how you restored the Yankees to any kind of record to be proud of. If only to rub the noses of everyone else in it."

Someone is not a Mets fan. Figures!

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