multiversallogs | [pounding on the door; open]

Who: Steve Rogers and anyone at the Inn.
What: Cap arrives!
Where: The arrival rooms, the Valhalla Inn.
When: afternoon into evening--I'm being flexible with time so many people can play :D
Notes: In-person log because shhhh learning a CiD is hard when you're from 1945.
Warnings: Potential for lots of aw-shucks behavior. Also eyelashes, stand back.

The frozen white ground looms up closer and closer, faster and faster. The drone of the engine has sharpened into a protesting whine, nearly drowning out the sound of Peggy’s voice in the cabin. He knows this is it, that he has mere seconds.

He’s as brave as ever, playing it up for her sake. “We’ll get the band to play something slow,” he calls out to her. “And then maybe I won’t step on your feet.”

He has no way to know those last few words were cut off, no way to know she can’t hear him any longer and she’s already calling his name into her microphone, frantic with worry and grief. All he can see out of the plane’s broken windscreens is the ground now. I’m sorry, he mouths, without really knowing who he’s addressing; before he can figure it out, the plane’s nose impacts, sending him flying forward.

He’s braced for pain, for the scrape of metal and ice over his suit and skin, for bones crunching as the hard ice stops his momentum. He slides, but it’s… odd. It’s not the slick movement of a body over ice or the tearing of his body over broken metal. It’s like skidding on a floor.

He stops with a gentle thump. Far too gentle. When he sits up he’s no longer in the plane but not out on the frozen tundra, either. He’s in a room. It’s green. His shield is propped against a table; he slings it across his back and then he studies the pamphlet he finds on the table. Twice. Carefully.

He looks over the device—a CiD?—and he pockets that. Yes, he could call for help, but he’d need time to study the device and learn what to do, and there’s a more direct way, at least he thinks so.

“Hello?”

Anyone in the vicinity of the arrival rooms will hear a thumping from behind one of the doors, and a man’s voice, calling out politely.

“Hello? Is anyone out there? Could someone open the door, please?”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The face is right, but everything else is wrong, the longer he keeps looking; the way she carries herself, the way she moves, her American drawl, her wedding ring. It's not and it can't be, but she registers that moment where he thinks she might be someone else and softens around the edges, like she does. She's a nurturer, despite the body count, and while she tends to think men can fend for themselves just fine, she's got a soft spot for the good boys.

"I went and got the date wrong on one of these," she says, deprecatingly, pointing at the poster out of her reach. "Could you just pin this little amendment up over there?" It's an advertisement for a friend of hers who only operates at the market so many times a year, evidently, selling jams, preserves and handmade jewellery.

It's definitely not Peggy. And now he almost feels bad for thinking it was. Not that she's done anything to make him feel that way, not at all--that's just Steve being Steve, worried he's gone and offended a lady somehow.

"Of course," he says, smiling. He holds up a finger--a moment, please. He sets his helmet on a nearby chair so his hands are free, and he shrugs off his shield--so he can move closer and do this without knocking her over or bumping the wall--and that gets set beside the chair, with care, leaning against it.

He starts pulling off his gloves, peering up at the wall. "That one, just there, ma'am?"

"Right there," she confirms, sliding her palms into the back pockets of her jeans and rocking back on her heels to keep an eye on what he's doing, just in case she feels the wholly unnecessary need to correct the angle or something of the sort.

"It's Dominica, honey," she adds, a moment later, "or Mrs Norrington, if you rather."

He's got the notice in his hands, just about to reach up and fasten it to the wall when she makes her introduction. He pauses, holding it, and he nods. Mrs. Norrington would be more proper, but she did lead with her first name, so... she probably wants to be called that? He thinks. He hopes.

"Thanks, Dominica. I'm Captain Rogers but you can call me Steve."

He turns his attention back to his task, hanging the notice where he'd been told. "How's that?"

It's a good guess; she smiles at him again, steady as she goes.

"Now, that is much better," she says, pleased, resting her hands on her hips - jeans, today, which she prefers a damn sight to corsetry and voluminous skirts, even if she still doesn't leave the house until she feels sufficiently put together to face the world. "It's a devil of a thing, Steve, I put 'em up, but I have to get someone else to do the writing, so often as not I never do catch the mistakes myself."

Steve smiles, too, pleased he's done good work. He steps back and looks up at the notice, checking its placement.

"Do you work here?" he asks, polite as anything as he looks down at her. "Here at this inn?"

"Oh, me? Not hardly." Her laugh is easy, quiet; everything about her is somehow understated, a little muted, but it's not unpleasant. She's just...still, somehow, interestingly deliberate. "No, I do mending for the locals sometimes, but running around picking up after the good Sheriff Norrington keeps me plenty busy."

She's probably never not going to find it slightly funny, the way her life has turned out.

"Sheriff Norrington," he repeats, bending to retrieve his shield and helmet. The shield goes on first, slung across his back, and he pauses to look at her. "The city has a sheriff?" That's comforting, at least. Law and order, or someone trying their best to get some going.

"Just for our little spot - there's sheriffs in different areas, my James-" that never gets old, a little bit entertaining, "-is Sheriff 'round Mog Hill, and that is where you happen to find yourself." Helpful, isn't she? Dominica remembers being new to this city all too clearly, and she knows not everyone is quite as pleased as she was to leave their old lives behind.

"You come by the office if you need anything, he's not as pretty or friendly as me, but he's a good man, he'll give you a hand."

He's grateful for all the information. Every piece helps, every thing he learns that much more toward making sense of this place.

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind. Are you and your husband locals? Or were you brought here like me?"

"Everybody's an immigrant, sweetheart, it's just a matter of how many generations back. We came from San Francisco, though, just a couple years back now." ...San Francisco of the late 19th century, but who's counting? There's an awful lot of story that she always leaves out, when explaining herself, but that's just how things are.

"A few years." That doesn't help him feel any more okay with the permanence the brochure hinted at.

"San Francisco's real nice. I stopped in there once, on, uh, tour." USO tour. Shhh. "What little I saw it looked like a beautiful city."

[pounding on the door; open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject