Return to Sender

November 11, 2018:

Caitlin Fairchild returns the Asgardian armor lent to her by Lord Thor, fulfilling her promise to do so.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions: Diana

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

There's a certain informality between Caitlin and the Asgardians. Six months on the Bilskirnir in cramped quarters, with everything that comes with such living, tends to break down some notions about personal space and privacy. Everything's out in the open, and everyone has to grow close because there's nowhere to go and be alone.

In this instance, however, Caitlin's approaching the Asgardians in a formal capacity. She sets up an audience with Thor using the League's official channels, rather than calling him up or dropping in casually. A time is arranged and she shows up at the appointed hour.

When she arrives at the Prince George Ballroom, she's wearing something approaching a formal outfit. Not Asgardian, but respectful of the occasion. A long dress in shades of plum, dark brown boots suitable for the winter, and a long-sleeved shirt in grey with intricate lacing that contrasts a modest white camisole underneath it. And she's carrying a large military-style transport box on one shoulder, durable but scarred black plastic all over.

Thor is already waiting for her, so she walks steadily towards Thor's position, stopping a few paces in, and drops back in a respectful kneel with a forearm on her knee. After a beat, she rises. "Lord Thor. Thank you for seeing me today," she says, hands folded neatly over her stomach.

*

It had certainly taken some persistence to contact Thor. His notoriety as a hero Midgard is equaled only by his infamy amongst the league for being ambivalently off the grid. It is said that in order to assure he arrives for monitoring duty one must begin praying for his aid at least one hour before he is scheduled to arrive - lest you call futility into a full voice mailbox.

Yet there are means to reliably get a message to him that are neither technological or divine. The attorney of the gods, Foggy the Son of Nel, has means to summon him. As does the sentinel of his building - the doorman Samuel the Son of Jacob.

Having received an austere request from Earth's mightiest technomancer, Thor sends word back to her that he will receive her. Today - at the Prince George Ballroom.

The austere ballroom has been renovated to mirror the ornate ballrooms of the early 20th century. Ordinarily reserved for weddings and other grand events this evening it is nearly empty. Columns. Gold trim. Electric sconces. Footfalls echo upon polished hardwood as she approaches.

Thor Odinson stands at rear of the room opposite the double doors. His leather hauberk is much cleaner than when last they fought together and the metal discs sewn into have been well polished. When the doors open he looks casually upward and then seeing her his posture stiffens with a creak of hides. Lifting his chin there is a flicker of confusion across his countenance but soon thereafter his firm visage splits with a kind smile ? that lingers ? and lingers .. as she must walk all the way across the hall towards him.

When she kneels his brow knots itself and he seems about to speak but just barely stops himself. Mouth opening and then closing he reaches outward and gestures upward for her to rise.

"It pleases me to see you, Caitlin." Thor replies and though his words are respectful his voice is casual - without royal airs, "We have fought together. We have lost together. You are as close to Asgard as any being born of mortals upon Midgard could ever be."

"Tell me, to what honor do I now enjoy thy company?"

*

Caitlin takes a breath. "Lord Thor, I owe thy… thee, thanks, for thine… thoust?" She looks skywards, thinking, and rolls her eyes. "Okay, sorry. I had all that straight in my head five minutes ago, and now I forgot the conjugations," she apologizes. "Please excuse me for talking like a farmgirl."

She settles her shoulders, /trying/ to look like Diana would. Composed and cool. "Uh, I— oh, right." She clears her throat. "When we were on the Bilskirnir, you did me a great courtesy," she tells Thor. "You let me join the ranks of the Asgardians. And when I needed arms, you gave them to me willingly. We had a deal when we returned, though, that Asgard keeps her riches. And you extended that bargain until the demon crisis was over."

She exhales. "The crisis is now over, so—" she stoops, tugging the crate over, and undoes the clasps. The chest faces Thor, and she lifts the lid so he can see the contents of the box. It contains the armor Caitlin had scraped together during their travel. Mismatched greaves, badly worn gauntlets with pieces of carbon steel welded to the knuckleguards. Vambraces belonging to someone with even bigger forearms than hers, and the half-plat pauldron made of a broken piece of hull and salvaged space scrap. And the heavy club of Asgardian alloy she'd been lent as well.

"You did me a big favor, I know. Asgardians don't like humans playing with their toys. I wanted to get this back to you so you aren't on the hook for missing armor," she tells Thor. "But I also wanted you to know that I really appreciate you lending it to me."

Her nose wrinkles. "Sorry. I'm not good at the flowery speech stuff," she apologizes, sighing.

*

Her attempt to find the proper words causes Thor to grin. The air seems to warm pleasantly at the Thunderer's mirth. He reaches outward to set a broad hand upon her shoulder and squeezes in a fraternal manner as if to say 'there is no need for excuses'.

When she begins to talk of his courtesy he seems to nod - agreeing that he is courteous - and as she stoops over the crate his weight shifts forward to the balls of his feet and peers downward with interest. He anticipates a gift and so there is a glimmer of wonder to his blue-eyes but as he removes the lid and reveals the armor within he goes 'ah' as if he just then understood what she had been trying to convey.

"Toys?" He replies with good humor, "Careful now, if Brokkr were to hear you call the work of his clansmen such you would spend the next week working the bellows in the heart of Nidavellir." The corner of his mouth twists with a wry grin - he speaks from experience.

"You are quite welcome," Thor replies without great reverence, "It was an honor to fight at your side /and/ it would not do for a companion of Thor to be ill-equipped ?," there's a long pause then as he looks to the mismatched set and then he murmurs, "no it would not do."

"I thank thee for thy stewardship and for returning them to me," he shits to kneel. Odinson's crimson cloak collecting down his outstretched leg as he leans over his knee and turns the items over within the box for a moment before closing it shut and lifting it into his possession.

He stands before her once more.

"Nor am I," Thor grins once more, "I would much prefer a feast and ale to a day of court." Shrugging at that sentiment he tucks the box under his left arm and then pats its front with his right hand, "I will see that these are returned to the armory."

There is a pregnant pause and then he asks her, "Caitlin what was the name of thy father?" Thor wonders, "The bards of Asgard are writing a grant play based upon our adventure and I wish to see that your family is properly honored for your deeds."

*

Her attempt to find the proper words causes Thor to grin. The air seems to warm pleasantly at the Thunderer's mirth. He reaches outward to set a broad hand upon her shoulder and squeezes in a fraternal manner as if to say 'there is no need for excuses'.

When she begins to talk of his courtesy he seems to nod - agreeing that he is courteous - and as she stoops over the crate his weight shifts forward to the balls of his feet and peers downward with interest. He anticipates a gift and so there is a glimmer of wonder to his blue-eyes but as he removes the lid and reveals the armor within he goes 'ah' as if he just then understood what she had been trying to convey.

"Toys?" He replies with good humor, "Careful now, if Brokkr were to hear you call the work of his clansmen such you would spend the next week working the bellows in the heart of Nidavellir." The corner of his mouth twists with a wry grin - he speaks from experience.

"You are quite welcome," Thor replies without great reverence, "It was an honor to fight at your side /and/ it would not do for a companion of Thor to be ill-equipped …," there's a long pause then as he looks to the mismatched set and then he murmurs, "no it would not do."

"I thank thee for thy stewardship and for returning them to me," he shifts to kneel. Odinson's crimson cloak collecting down his outstretched leg as he leans over his knee and turns the items over within the box for a moment before closing it shut and lifting it into his possession.

He stands before her once more.

"Nor am I," Thor grins once more, "I would much prefer a feast and ale to a day of court." Shrugging at that sentiment he tucks the box under his left arm and then pats its front with his right hand, "I will see that these are returned to the armory."

There is a pregnant pause and then he asks her, "Caitlin what was the name of thy father?" Thor wonders, "The bards of Asgard are writing a grand play based upon our adventure but I was uncertain of your lineage."

*

"Alex Fairchild," Caitlin tells Thor, promptly. "I, uh… I don't have a mom. Not one I knew, anyway," she says. "It's… really complicated," she apologizes. "But Alex is my daddy's name. He… was a warrior," she says, carefully. "Very well respected."

She hesitates, then rolls her eyes. "Oh, heck, I feel so dumb trying to do this formally," she sighs. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder towards the door. "Look, let's go get a few baskets of chicken wings and I'll buy you a beer or three," she offers. "I'm starving anyway, and if you're going to threaten me with working for Bokkr for a week, I'm going to make sure to say 'toys' to his face." She flashes a megawatt grin, thoroughly amused by the idea. "A week watching the master blacksmiths work? You'd have to tear me away from it kicking and screaming," she assures Thor.

"So a play, huh? I've never been in a play." She blinks. "I've never been *to* a play," she remarks. "Golly, I hadn't even thought about the theater until now. Isn't that weird?"

*

"A warrior?" Thor asks, "You do him great honor."

The shift in her temperament causes him to exhale. It is only then that he realizes that he had been puffing himself upward a bit more than normal, "Verily!" He exclaims to the proposition of wings and beer, "A feast of wings and beer!" He cries joyously and immediately starts forward putting his left hand upon her shoulder with the box still tucked under his right arm.

"You would not do much watching," Thor warns her, "Faster! Harder! He would taunt thee night and day giving thee cause to question thy might.." Then moving his arm away from her he curls it before his chest and flexes his bicep swelling and then hardening as if uru forged, "..but it would mold thee well."

Arms drops, "Often Loki would wager that I was not mighty enough to pump both of our bellows at once," Thor chuckles at the memory, "I tell thee I did always prove him wrong and he could only watch in amazement as I did both his labors and my own."

"Hrm?" Thor says, "Aye, a grand play. To the edge of the universe. The comet. The bird people. The final battle. Atom's sacrifice. Why, you shall run in with the blades of Surtur and stab the monster. Then there will be a song and much dancing, I am certain."

"But thou hast never been?" Thor says a bit puzzled, "Count thyself as lucky. In a play warriors do not fight but dance instead and I tell thee that I would be filled with blades and arrows if I tried to move as they against giant or troll."

*

"Uh, ex-CUSE me," Caitlin says, throwing a palm up at Thor when he starts flexing. She hikes up her dress, exposing calf-high boots and half her thigh. She turns a toe downwards, and presses against the floor. Mimicking Thor's grunting strain, she 'grrrrs' as well, muscles fairly popping under her skin.

"You've been skipping leg day," she chides Thor— but laughs merrily, and lays a hand on his arm to show she's teasing.

They head out and down the street. Fortunately, there's a very good pub not a half block away. Caitlin seems heedless of the chill late autumn air, walking with her elbows tucked in and hands folded in front of her. "I'unno. Theater isn't as big a thing here as it is in other countries," she tells Thor. "Everyone watches movies. Which is basically theater, just… done differently," she says. "Kinda."

"But it's all about the spectacle. Dancing and movement done all coordinated, instead of a real fight. Like where I tripped and landed on my face, remember? Or when whats-his-name swung at that one guy, and hit your hand with his mace?" She leans sideways, whispering sotto voce. "Princes arne't supposed to swear like that, but I won't tattle on you."

"Wait, so— are you inviting me to Asgard to see a play?" she says, brows lifting in surprise.

*

He had been staring at her leg until she caused him of 'skipping leg day'. Then he regretted that he was wearing pants because were he not then she would clearly see that he is not skipping anything that has to do with legs.

"I would much prefer a movie," Thor replies, "or perhaps even a made-for-TV-movie. Hath thou seen 'Party Mom' upon the Lifetime Channel?"

Her explanation of theatre leaves him skeptical. Certainly 'Party Mom' had been a greater achievement in his eyes than the collected works of Bragi.

"Uhm," Thor replies thinking on whether he had been inviting her or not, "Yes," he recovers from his uncertainty, "It does not seem 'right' to create a play about someone and not invite them -," pause, "Unless they are dead /or/ the villain but you are /neither/ of those."

"I suppose the strange wizard of Earth and Lady Diana shall be invited as well." He says following his own logic to its conclusion, "and the others.." He reaches to the back of his neck and squeezes suddenly realizing he's going to need to begin a list.

*

"Hey, you don't know. I could go darkside," Caitlin huffs. "I'll cut my hair and dye it a little darker. Get some leather pants. Everyone knows that's what evildoes wear when the script flips." The concept is utterly laughable given Caitlin's relatively angelic Irish looks. She just doesn't have a mean bone in her body.

They belly up to one of the tall dining tables, and Caitlin tests the stools to find ones that she and Thor won't break by leaning on. A waitress comes over, looking inquiringly at Thor and Caitlin. It takes the ginger a moment to realize she should probably order.

"Oh! Uh… some wings, please," she requests, politely. The waitress starts to write. "Two baskets of the boneless honey mustard wings, a basket of the Hurricane Salt wings, your double-slammer burger, and a chocolate malt milkshake." The waitress writes it all down, blinking slowly.

Before she can speak, Caitlin gestures to Thor. "And then whatever he'll have," she adds— and the waitress blanches a bit.

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