capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

[ How he finds his way to this address is a mystery; maybe he's tipped off by another well-meaning ImPort, maybe he just had his ear to the ground and knew what to listen for. Either way, Bradbury has no real idea of what he expects when he manages to stagger his way up to the house, spending a moment catching his breath before he knocks at the door.

He's half-wiped out between painkillers and blood loss, even if he has been patched up, and all he really wants is a place to crash for the night. Possibly even the next few days. His arm's been immobilized in a sling for the moment, lucky enough that the bullet just grazed his arm instead of going right through it.

Shoulder injuries are always a bitch, though. It's never as clean as it is in the movies. He leans against the doorframe, gritting his teeth. ]

Anybody home?

[ In fact, nobody is home; a few hours before Nelson had left the house with perhaps a few too many drinks in him and made his way to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was good luck, or chance, or simple coincidence he had made it home at all -- the intervention of a stranger sometimes does wonders.

He's escorted back because -- he assumes -- of both his distress and his none too mild state of intoxication, subtle but still apparent, and he's in the process of expressing some gratitude for the company: ]

-- And I insist you at least stay for dinner, please. It's really no troubl--

[ Before he notices the bleeding man at his door. Luckily, the years haven't deadened his sense of emergency; Nelson moves quickly to unlock the door and help Bradbury inside if he needs it, but if Nelson recognizes him it doesn't show. The key fumbles a little from nerves and intoxication. ]

Good lord, what happened to you? Are you -- [ He turns to Mitch/Maskin, wide-eyed. ] Do you mind helping me get him inside?

Edited (HAHA TAKE TWO) 2013-03-04 04:00 (UTC)

[ He'd really been intending just to make sure the guy got home, before high-tailing it back to his hotel room. He was uncomfortable in the City, like any association with people he knew were imports would jepoardize his carefully crafted history and life. It could make far too many people suspicious, but he couldn't just leave the guy, either.

Nelson, and it was Nelson, looked to be in dire straits. He couldn't fucking leave him.

Well, he could, and would, if it became necessary, but right now, it wasn't. He'd walk him home, and--

Was that a dead body? Well, no, it was a live body, and while he wasn't sure if Nelson recognized him, Mitch sure as hell did. ]

This happen often?

[ He used Maskin's cool, measured voice. Free of the thicker New Yorker tones, free of the swears that came so naturally, even as he tried to hoist him by the shoulders.

His heart thudded in his chest, trying to get the guy, Bradbury into this guy's apartment. ]

[ For better or worse, Bradbury wasn't exactly as bulky as he used to be, so levering him up and onto his feet wasn't as much of a production as it would have been, before. He hissed in pain when the guy helped him up -- the painkillers weren't enough to completely mask the pain, although it worked well enough to keep the worst of it at bay. ]

I'm fine, shit-- [ He got onto his feet by sheer force of will, staggering in through the door; he'd walked all the way here from John Watson's place, and he'd be fucked if he had to be carried over the threshold. ] --worse than it looks.

[ One-handed, he tugged his jacket off his injured shoulder, where it had just been draped on, to show them that the wound had already been dressed, that the blood was mostly from what had soaked into his jacket sleeve earlier. His eyes flicked between the men in front of him, then, brow furrowing, because both of them seemed pretty fucking familiar. For different reasons.

Oh, he knew that fucking voice. That was the guy he'd saved in the alley, just earlier this same fucking evening -- the one he'd gotten shot for, even, risking discovery when he'd used his powers. Stupid fucking thing to do, honestly, but...

Well. Superheroes weren't exactly common around these parts anymore.

Suddenly turning and running seemed like a pretty good fucking idea, or it would have, if recognition of the other man hadn't finally clicked into place. ]

Nelson?

N-no, I can't say that -- well, in this city you never know, but...

[ Once Nelson and Maskin had gotten Bradbury safely inside and the door has closed, he goes to his cabinet to pour himself a scotch with shaking hands into one of many prepared glasses. Just a little something to settle his nerves; it isn't every day someone almost bleeds to death on his steps. He takes only one gulp, knowing he needs his wits about him enough to address this situation somehow. He glances over at Maskin again, a little helplessly -- both emotionally and mentally Nelson's vastly under-prepared today for catastrophe, and he considers it only too lucky he has someone with him to help pick up any slack he misses. ]

Really, are you sure? It looks awful, I wouldn't want you getting an infection. Maybe my friend here can at least get you a glass of water...

[ He hears his name and takes another drink before he looks over, squinting at the bleeding -- or simply bloodied? -- man. Whether it's the intoxication or the many years of distance, he can't say; it's still a moment before he puts a name to that face and voice. ]

Do I -- [ Wait. ] Bradbury? [ He hurries over a little frantically to get a better look. ] God, what did happen to you?

[ His motions were smooth, although he was just about ready to take a scotch from Nelson if at all possible. His hands dropped off from the injured former bodyguard, his hands pulling away quicker than necessarily normal. He really didn't need to linger. He held a hand to his neck, pulling away, not exactly plastering himself to the wall, but certainly hovering there for a few moments. ]

Hey, can I get one of those?

[ Really, he felt like he could use a bottle of that. His eyes flicked between the two figures in the room. There was an elephant in the room for him, but he didn't think the other two would pick up on it.

He hoped they wouldn't, at least. He hovered a bit closer to Nelson, not acknowledging Bradbury at all, even though he could feel a trace of guilt creeping in. He'd heard a shot, earlier, when he'd been saved, but he hadn't thought anything of it. He'd thought it clipped him, not shot straight through. ]

I, ah, don't know any first aid, do you?

[ When Nelson came closer, Bradbury could smell the alcohol, and he faintly recoiled -- he hadn't realized exactly how soused the man was, earlier, and now that he was looking at him, the differences added up. Not that he probably looked much better. Actually, he probably looked more like shit. At least Nelson couldn't pass for a homeless wino. ]

Christ, are both of you blind? I don't need any first aid! [ Irritation finally made him snap out, feeling a flare of annoyance that he smothered as quickly as it came. No point in raising his voice -- if the guy was here, and Nelson had let him in, well... He'd just have to hope he was someone who wasn't about to rat out an ImPort who'd saved his life.

Turning back to Nelson, his expression faded back into something like apology. ]

Sorry for busting in like this. [ He shifted his bandaged arm, wincing as it pulled at the stitches. ] Honestly, I was just looking for a place to sleep, since I couldn't stay with the guy who patched me up. I didn't think ... [ He trailed off, lamely. ] Guess you're going by a different name these days, huh?

[ He raised his gaze, eyes narrowed at the other man, but he wasn't bringing up what had happened earlier in the evening. ]

Who's the stiff?

[ Nelson looks up, his gaze just slightly unfocused. ]

Please, help yourself, there's more in the cabinet and ice in the bucket. If you don't mind waiting I could mix you something-- do you-- [ He looks at Bradbury again, with some concern, putting his hand gingerly on his shoulder. ] ... want a drink? Anything? You look awful. I do know first aid, you know, if you want to get out of those bloody clothes.

[ He bites his lower lip, but stands again, going back to the mini-bar (weaving only slightly) to fix another drink; for himself or for Mitch or for Bradbury, depending on whether or not Mitch wants to make his own and if Bradbury wants something. ]

No, but I don't, uh... try to advertize, particularly. You know, it's not the safest out there no matter what name you go by... but don't apologize, I do have a spare bed for you. Stay as long as you need to -- uh, either of you, if you like. He's here for -- I invited him for dinner. [ He remembers, once at the counter, that he still has a half-filled scotch sitting there and sips from that instead. His cheeks redden mildly as he neglects to detail the circumstances that led to the invite and he gestures to Mitch. ] Maskin, isn't it?

Yes, yes. Adrian Maskin, thanks. [ He thanked, reaching out to make his own drink. It was silly, yes, paranoid, absolutely. He'd learned quite a few tricks, over the years. This one was from his time as Vice-President. He poured the drink, but faked a splash over his thumb with deft ease, lifting it to first let the scent catch his next inhale, and then slipping the tip into his mouth, tasting.

Nothing off. Just plain old scotch. At least, as far as he could tell. He didn't suspect that Nelson was out to kill him, but he couldn't be too careful. He learned not to trust anyone after what happened earlier in the year. Despite Edward's words.

He watched the two of them, either way. Brown eyes flicking. Adrian Maskin wasn't necessarily a fanboy, and while he supported import rights, he needed to play it careful. Not treat the men like they were normal people, if the subject came up, somehow. For the moment, he preferred to play blissfully ignorant, but he could at least--

Well, someone took a shot for him earlier in the night. Sure, it used to be his job, but he didn't know that, and it wasn't like he was being paid for it anymore. ]

Author, actually. I wrote a book called Superheroes Among Us, if you've read it. [ An awkward pause, something that wasn't wholly Adrian Maskin, but thankfully, nobody really knew him. ] Thanks, by the way.

[ He lifted his glass. Whether it was for Bradbury, or Nelson, it wasn't quite clear. He didn't feel the need to elaborate. ]

Just water for me, thanks. [ He shook his head at Nelson's offer, still standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, before he grimaced, sinking down into the nearest chair. Not quite shaking off Nelson's hand, but quietly easing himself away from the contact. There was only one person who'd ever really touched him that familiarly, and he wasn't around anymore.

That was a good thing, wasn't it? He didn't have to see the mess his dreams had become. ]

Never heard of it. [ Or you, his voice implies. His tone in the alleyway had been gruff concern tinged with urgency, worried that he'd tell someone about what he'd seen, just stopping short of begging him not to. Now it was inflectionless, guarded. It turned out he didn't have to worry about it, after all. ]

Sorry. I don't get a chance to read much. [ There's the faintest trace of apology there, for a moment, and then it was gone. He doesn't say he's welcome, because honestly, he wondered if it was such a smart idea to save him. If maybe he should have just walked away.

The light was better here than it had been in the alleyway, and he found himself studying Maskin now that he actually had the chance to. ]

[ Nelson's eyebrows raise, as if he's learning this information for the first time. Well; he is. He hadn't put two and two together about Maskin before this moment, wrapped up as he'd been in his own personal crisis. ]

Oh. Oh! I have! It's -- um -- I think I even have a copy... somewhere... maybe you could sign it-- I haven't finished it, but... oh. Well. Not just now. Don't let me forget!

[ Another gulp of scotch before he sets the glass down, aware he's getting scattered. He got a fresh glass from the counter and filled it just with water, bringing it over to Bradbury and sitting by him again. He bit his lip again, looking over the bloodstains with concern through mildly bloodshot eyes. ]

Can't I get you some new clothes, at least?

[ He plucks worriedly at Bradbury's shirt collar, more openly concerned than he might be if he were sober. ]

It isn't any trouble. I can take care of it. I'm quite good at this kind of thing.

[ Between himself and Hooded Justice, he did have an excess of experience. ]

[ He watched, open-eyed for just a moment, mouth gaping, and then closing, and then gaping again as he watched, and sipped. He was a little, well, honestly blown away by Nelson's actions, and he remembered Nelson. Hell, he remembered everyone, and he remembered the way he'd been when he first showed up. Shit, he's adapted, just like the rest of them.

It's hard to keep a level head, and this is why he avoided the City for so long, but now it was coming back with a vengeance, and it wanted him in the thick of things.

He just wished it would have tossed him any different people, or perhaps just left him to meet nearly no imports. They weren't the vote he needed to win, at the end of the day, if they could vote at all. ]

Absolutely, I won't leave without signing it. Mr, ah, sir? Is there anything I can help with?

[ Still bland, a faint edge of concern. He felt somewhat guilty, at least, for being the reason for all this shit. ]

[ Clearly, as the only 100% sober adult in the room -- half out of his mind on painkillers, maybe, but close enough -- Bradbury was going to have to actually be the responsible one in all this. ]

Bradbury. You can call me Bradbury. [ He offered it quietly to Adrian Maskin, even as he lifted the hand that wasn't immobilized by a makeshift sling to pry Nelson's hand gently away from his shirt collar. Someone had torn the sleeve off Bradbury's shirt to be able to wrap the wound neatly in gauze, leaving his T-shirt unattractively asymmetrical, but somehow he didn't think Nelson was up to getting himself dressed for bed, much less anyone else. ]

And you can help me by cutting this guy off and getting him to bed. Come on, big man. You look like you need to catch a few Zs.

[ Ironic, coming from a guy who still had drying blood soaking his clothes, but really, with his wound stitched and bandaged, the only thing to do now was to try not to re-open. He drained the glass of water and pushed himself back to his feet, nodding at Maskin and nudging Nelson with a foot. ]

I'll take a shirt, if you can spare it, but go the fuck to bed after that, all right? We'll talk in the morning. When you're sober.

Edited 2013-03-04 09:49 (UTC)

No, no, no. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. [ Nelson patted Bradbury's shoulder gently, tsking once, before he stood again. Slowly, so he could make a show of how steady on his feet he was. He looked Bradbury over again and patted his head, then his cheek, in one last show of affectionate concern before he stepped away. ] I just need to eat -- I was going to make something. Oh, right--!

[ Remembering that he was going to make dinner, Nelson's eyebrows rose and he turned to disappear, momentarily, into the kitchen. Something clatters vaguely, and a couple of moments later he comes out again. ]

Don't you worry about me. I'll get a shirt for you. And pants. And there's, uh -- [ He gestures vaguely down a hallway. ] A shower... [ He pauses and purses his lips for a moment. ] Uh, it shouldn't be long! You two can chat, uh, help yourself t-to drinks.

[ He disappears quickly back into the kitchen. ]

[ "Adrian" held his hand to his mouth, biting off the almost involuntary urge to murmur "Jesus Christ" at the show. Honestly, he thought there might be something going on here, but he'd hardly voice his concern. Maybe, if he'd been someone else... well, that had been fucking years ago, hadn't it?

Too long, he was almost starting to forget who he was, that he responded to a different name, and he'd had different goals then. Well, no. That was hardly true. He had the same goals, but he wasn't about to go about them in the same way.

He knew how well that worked out last time. ]

He's a hell of a character, isn't he? [ He asked. He shouldn't, he know. He should leave, but Nelson didn't seem in good straits, and if anything, he felt responsible for the guy. He didn't know how he would end up, if he left. They didn't need any more tragedies in the community, even if the word wouldn't get out.

He didn't hold on for even a moment that if you died, you'd come back.

Hell, he didn't even know if he'd go home.

He had to hold out for that. ]

You sure you don't want a drink, by the way?

[ Bradbury flinched at the way Nelson patted his face, shying away from the human contact like someone who'd forgotten how it went. Honestly, he didn't even know how this was supposed to go anymore, and he shrugged at Adrian's assessment of the situation, flopping back onto the couch with a slightly disgruntled noise. ]

Something like that. [ He grimaced, scrubbing his good hand over his face like a kid trying to wipe away the memory of touch. No offense against Nelson, but they weren't -- he'd worked with the guy, liked him well enough, but he wasn't really someone he'd gotten to know. It was half-hearted, though, because he figured, maybe, he understood a little bit of how Nelson felt.

Sometimes you had to touch ghosts from the pasts to try and figure out if they were real. ]

Like I said, I don't drink. And you know painkillers and alcohol are a combination that's probably gonna kill me, right? [ He glanced down at the gauze over his wound, the blood already faintly seeping through; he'd have to change the dressing sometime tomorrow, a task he wasn't particularly looking forward to. ]

So what brings you to the big City, Mr. Maskin? If you're looking for heroes, you're shit out of luck.

No, nothing like that. [ He waved a hand. He felt on the spotlight, like this was going to get messy, fast. He couldn't stop the lies, though, they spilled forth from lips that only told lies these days. It would be easier for everyone involved, if they all thought they were lies. Already, he struggled with the worry about those who did know that Adrian Maskin and Mitchell Hundred were one and the same.

It made him fear for his life, in more ways than one. ]

I've written plenty of books on the subject, but eventually, you have to move your message to a new venue.

[ He poured himself another drink, calm and collected, despite the fact that he was anything but. He wasn't. He wanted out, but how did you just leave a guy, two guys that could be hurting in more ways than one? He wasn't drunk, not by a long shot, even with a few drinks, a tolerance built up over years of drinking on an empty stomach.

He couldn't just leave either of the guys to potentially see more trouble. ]

[ With Nelson to distract his focus, it was easy enough for Bradbury's gaze to fall on Maskin. It was a distraction from the throb in his shoulder, the weird, depressing mood that seemed to linger in the air. This wasn't a house where friends visited -- Nelson looked like he possibly hadn't had anyone he could call his friend in a long time, if Bradbury was any judge. It wasn't just the house, though. The City itself felt different, swollen like an overripe fruit, sickly-sweet but rotten at the core.

He shook the mental image off. ]

What makes you think there are people who want to listen?

[ He couldn't help it, the split of a grin that took his face. He was confident, maybe too confident about this. He crossed his arms as he did so, holding the glass at the juncture of an elbow. ]

Because I'm a bestseller, that's why.

[ It was true. That's why the government thought he was dangerous, after all. They couldn't have someone sowing the seeds of dissent often, and not well. The problem was that Mitchell was painfully easy to hide, and not enough people knew his new face. He'd been careful, he'd constructed everything about the new identity down to the birth records.

So people listened, and the debate was heating up again, thankfully. }

[ There was something about that grin that tugged at memory, though Bradbury brushed it off. He hadn't thought about that in years, and he sure as hell wasn't about to start now. ]

Yeah, a bestseller I've never heard of. Who was stupid enough to go wandering around the City at night.

[ He wasn't even sure how many hours it had been, since that encounter and this one. Wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a sign, or some fucked up... something. He didn't know. ]

So, you write about ImPorts, huh? [ He tipped his head. Watching that grin spread. ]

Why? What's in it for you?

[ Meanwhile, in the kitchen: Nelson's taken a little longer than planned to even find the ingredients he's looking for, weaving around the kitchen a little aimlessly. He had wanted, mostly, to distance himself from any accusations of inebriation (maybe he was a little tipsy, but he just needed some food) and from what he was still sober enough to recognize as a desire for affection that only loneliness, desperation, and/or alcohol brought out in such stark degrees. In the kitchen, apart from them, even he could be somewhat embarrassed by some of his own behavior.

Though that doesn't keep him from muttering to himself as he finally begins to cook, turning the stove on and searching for some chicken or fish or even beef he could cook up quickly. A peptalk, of sorts. ]

It's all right. Slowly, now. This is simple, you've done it a thousand times...

And when you go back out there remember to keep your hands to yourse--

[ He drops a bottle of olive oil, which lands with a crash. ]

Oh damn. [ And he says more loudly, for Maskin and Bradbury's benefit: ] Everything's great! Don't worry about a thing. It should be just ten minutes more.

[ His eyebrows quirked at Bradbury, questioning Nelson's actions more than his question. He didn't hear anything wrong, so he wasn't about to go charging into the kitchen like a hyper-perceptive human being. No need to leave anyone with questions about why Maskin seemed just a bit too much like he could hear something others couldn't.

He'd gotten damn good at faking that. ]

Just yell if you need some help. [ He raised his voice for Nelson's benefit, before leaning against the small table with the liquor, finally setting his glass down, and crossing his arms. What the hell kind of a question had he been asked before Nelson interjected? He felt on the spotlight, like Bradbury was hunting for something. Even if he didn't realize what it was.

It left him cautious. ]

Because we don't know anything about you guys, that's why. If we understood imports, maybe this wouldn't have happened. [ He paused, still holding his hands where they were. It was a Maskin pose, something he'd taken on as a part of his old identity, where Mitchell Hundred may have gestured wildly, Maskin was reserved. ]

I don't know about you, but gross breaches of civil rights aren't something I can stand by and let happen, even if it doesn't effect me.

[ It wasn't obvious, how much he'd started to relax against the couch, letting the flow of the conversation carry him, until the shattering of glass broke the conversation and his head snapped up, tension crackling through him like electricity through a live wire. ]

Just don't burn down the place.

[ That was for Nelson's benefit, though his eyes didn't leave Maskin's face, watching him speak. The slight frown furrowing his brow might have been faint concern, or maybe having to concentrate past the soft fog the medication cast over everything. Finally, he snorted, leaning back against the couch and tipping his head back against the couch, shutting his eyes. The years had faded it to little more than a thin, silvery line, but there was still a scar on his chin that cut through the stubble, and he lifted his good hand to rub at it with a finger as his mouth crooked into wry, tired smile. ]

Yeah, well. Hopefully a bestselling author has better luck convincing America's middle class to give a shit than -- [ My boss, he almost said, but choked on the words before they could even get out, swallowing reflexively before he fought it down. ]

Who knows? Maybe you can be the hero we needed all along.

Have a little faith in me, would you? I do know how to use an oven.

[ He raised his voice again, dropping a dish towel on the mess to tend to as the meat cooked with only slight frustration at himself. As Nelson managed finally, with some difficulty, to heat the stove burners, and put some chicken and beef -- he didn't have enough of either for three -- on a pan, he wandered toward to the door to ask if either man had a preference toward how their meat was cooked. He didn't quite make it to opening the door, though; once he was close enough, he caught a few threads of their conversation and opted instead to put his ear closer to the door in mild curiosity. Even know, talk of heroes always caught his interest. ]

I'm no hero.

[ He mentioned, turning to pour another drink. He felt a stab of guilt that was too raw to deal with. He did feel guilt, of course he did. What he was doing compounded into a complex web of lies that was too deep and too vast to really stride across. He couldn't breach his web.

But that didn't mean he didn't feel like shit about it. He held it with the rest of his burdens, everything else he'd done. He poured his drink, before turning, brown eyes scanning the room. He gestured outside, with a finger extended from the glass he was still holding. ]

The middle class are never going to care, as long as they don't lose their homes or their jobs. I understand the frustration, I've been through it too. It's hard to fear for your life, when imports have more power than they can handle.

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