2012-08-16 Reasons Never to Eat Again

The cafeteria! It's not particularly mealtime for any shift, but at all hours of the day, there are at least *some* people present, stuffing their faces or kibbitzing or griping. At the moment, the paramilitary gourmands are scattered, small groups and solo masticators occupying disconnected areas.

The benefit to buffet-style eating is that one can serve him- or herself as much or as little as he or she likes.

This benefit has been embraced wholeheartedly by the newest arrival to the Helicarrier, one Peter Wisdom, former MI-6 operative and fairly heavy drinker. He's got a spread on the steel table in front of him that could probably feed a village in Africa for two weeks. It's not even so much a little of everything as a lot of the things usually considered the worst, the most full of empty calories. He's not in the uniform, despite Barton's warnings of morale and looking like he's on the same team-- just his standard sleeves-rolled oxford and tie, black trousers and dress shoes. He's keeping half an eye on the door as he shovels it in.

The mission with Hawkeye and Widow was not, strictly speaking, officially sanctioned. But Doug had gone with them anyway because they had asked, and he was still trying to figure out if he regretted it or not.

Freshly showered and back in his suit, Doug makes his way into the cafeteria with a troubled expression, and he stops where he is once the smell of food hits his nose. Yes. Yes, he is about to have some serious second thoughts. At least he isn't literally turning green or anything, he just looks a lot less confident about picking himself up a bowl of chili and grabbing a seat.

There is at least one other person on the helicarrier today that isn't wearing a uniform as such. Though the way Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. wears a sober black suit and tie... yeah, it's a uniform, never mind. The feild agent is just aboutthe most unassuming thing one could ever hope to meet, too-- he slips in with a newspaper under an arm, walks briskly across the room, smiles at a couple of people at a table, picks up a coffee and a muffin, and asides gently to Doug. "Something bothering you today, Ramsey?"

It's while Agent Coulson's quietly doing an aside that Wisdom calls over from his unapologetically unhealthy feast. "Ramsey!" And then he realizes who he just basically interrupted, and chokes on the mouthful he hadn't actually swallowed yet before calling. KAFF KAFF.

"Just a very strange afternoon, sir," Doug replies to Coulson, his expression sheepish -- and then he cranes his neck to look towards Pete, and manages not to laugh when he realizes why he's choking on his drink. Oh dear. "Have, ah. Have you met Pete Wisdom yet, sir?" he asks lightly, gesturing his way, full of innocence. "He just transferred in the other day."

Coulson nods, claps a hand on Doug's shoulder, and assures him "You'll get used to those," before he half-turns toward the call, giving Pete a thoughtful look-over while Doug asks the question. He scoops up his muffin. "No, I was dealing with that situation at Three-Mile. Now is as good a time as any," he adds, turning to approach the poor mortified Brit.

It's not often that someone whose reputation Pete Wisdom actually admires is anywhere near him. Or in a position of authority over him. Especially that last part. Thankfully, the coughing fit is all-consuming enough to provide the time it takes to regain something resembling composure; it's somewhat contritely and whilst thumping his chest that the Briton stands up, stifling trailing coughs with effort.

"I just hope future missions smell a little better," Doug mumbles quietly, lightly resting a hand over his belly. He could still smell it. He'd showered three times, brushed his teeth four, and he could swear it was still there. Still, he dutifully turns to follow Coulson to Wisdom's table, lifting a hand to wave at him on the wave. "Wrong tube?" he suggests, trying not to grin. "You okay?"

Coulson waves Pete down with... a muffin. He's out of hands. "We're all colleagues here, Agent Wisdom," he notes with an easy sort of tone as he slides into a seat and sets out his coffee, muffin and newspaper neatly. "Don't let me interrupt your..." he pauses, taking in the spread. What would one call it exactly? It defies discription. "...food."

Muffins, like bananas, are good. "Ta," Pete says scratchily, sitting down again and trying not to look too disgusted with himself-- because yeah, that face is 'jesus fuck I just stood up didn't I'. He seems to waffle between giving Doug mild murder-eyes and laughing, then, himself; his shoulders de-tense and he waves a hand over the monstrous collection of soon-to-be-devoured. "Yeah," he says to Doug. And then, "My doctor told me scotch isn't food," he explains, managing to manifest deadpan somehow; he picks up a piece of french toast in one hand and gestures with it. "So this is dietary supplements."

"I have it on good authority that beer is liquid bread," Doug says wisely, settling into a seat next to Pete. This way, Coulson has plenty of room for his paper, and doesn't have to deal with him trying to read over his shoulder or something.

Coulson shakes out his newspaper, and eyes Doug sidelong. "I don't think a comedy song counts as good authority, Doug," he notes. The man has clearly mastered the stone-cold deadpan. He peruses the paper a little bit, then turns his attention to Pete. "You'll have to forgive me, Agent-- I haven't seen your file yet. What fine agency did we steal you from?"

"Guinness is liquid bread," allows Pete, like it's some great concession. And he stuffs the whole piece of french toast in his mouth while Doug's finishing, and somehow manages to semi-chew and swallow it while Phil's talking, so he doesn't actually subject a subcultural icon to see-food. Another stifled cough thereafter, and Wisdom shifts on his seat, starting to fall back into his professional persona. Finally. "MI-6," he answers Coulson, reaching for his coffee and washing down the lingering hoarseness with the fluster. "Most recently. Previously the W.H.O., then the R.C.X., then Black Air subgroups. Uh. That is, Weird Happenings Organisation-- and Resource Control Executive. The outfit that replaced S.T.R.I.K.E." All, indeed, British government agencies, all dedicated to the extranormal; one research and defense, two black ops (and now infamously defunct). Pete pauses, glancing quickly between Doug and Phil's faces, primarily focusing on trying to read the latter's. There's pretty clearly something he's not saying.

Doug, at least, looks like he recognizes a few of those acronyms -- but, well, he's always been a Gigantic Nerd, and organizations like that? They appeal to a kid with internet access in the same way that watching Twin Peaks appeals. Come on. It's cool. Admit that it is cool and just move on. He stays quiet, though he does quirk a curious eyebrow at Pete's expression. Come on, man, we're at the /sharing table/.

Coulson nods as Pete runs through the list. Unsurprisingly, he's heard of all of them. "Quite a portfolio in such a short time," he muses thoughtfully between chunks of muffin. And being the perceptive and intelligent agent his dossier claims he is, he sips his coffee, then asks "Don't play well with others?"

"Some'd say so," Wisdom says easily, folding up another piece of french toast, then dipping it in syrup and holding it to drip over the plate while he talks. Because even if there's no defense in his tone or bearing, it shows up in relative etiquette comparisons. "But any government that sanctions, through ignorance, the internment of and experimentation on children? Should be informed of what it's sanctioning. I love my country, Agent Coulson. She stood and stopped it once she knew. But no one likes to be told on. Are you familiar with the Jaspers Warp?"

Coulson takes a few seconds, while sipping coffee. "Mad Jim Jaspers? Mutant, able to warp reality?" he hazards, then makes a so-so gesture with his hand. "I heard something about it, but feel free to fill in the gaps."

"That's the one. Threw everything right into hell, he did, straight down the worst toilet in Scotland. Brought an eldritch construction from another universe to go about hunting mutants, killing them off; made Britain a police state--" At this point, Pete's put down the french toast slice, and he's picked up his coffee again. He holds it in both hands, briefly looking down at it while he speaks, then looking up again-- but not at Phil or Doug. "The nightmares of our fathers and grandfathers, made real and making everything unstable. Reality. Prison camps for everyone who spoke out. And when it was all over?"

Wisdom looks at Coulson again, finally, blue eyes focusing bright and intent on the other man's, trying to read them, to read his face; the search and analysis leaves him open, unguarded for a moment. "And when it was over, some of our children-- they'd been hurt by it. Changed. Rewritten. They looked strange and did stranger things. It was a sudden thing, so many at once, when we all woke up, got free-- parents who had no idea what to do were more than happy to send the kids off with the government, with promises they'd be cared for and taught. And they disappeared."

Now, this, Doug seems familiar with. Not that he's about to admit to it. How exactly does that conversation go? 'Oh yeah, I totally heard about this from the insanely powerful telepath who ran a secret mutant school out in Westchester and trains a strike team in his basement.' THAT'LL GO OVER REAL WELL. He glances around shiftily before he moves to get up. "Coffee," he says by way of explanation. "I'll be right back."

The fact that Coulson can continue to neatly break apart and eat a muffin, meet Pete's gaze, listen to the description and still fail to bat an eyelash can only be attributed to the fact that as a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent of fourteen years' experience, he has seen some truely hair-raising stuff. He's not unsympathetic, of course-- just tempered witht he kind of understanding of how the world really is these days that a very small minority really have. He can also tell Pete his headed somewhere with this grisly recounting, and makes an encouraging go-ahead-he's-listening noise.

And the tempered sympathy is enough to shut down the filter-and-analysis routine in Pete. He looks away at where Doug's gone for a second, sipping his coffee. "R.C.X. had them," he says, "of course. They were considered a resource, so obviously they'd be dealt with under the aegis of the Resource Control Executive. They had carte blanche and no practical oversight, and their budget was only half official, only half on record. Unofficially they were funded by the private sector, continental interests, and the Hellfire Club, so absolutely they had the capital required to develop weapons from the blood and brains of non-consenting British subjects. Some of them as young as two, some as old as fifteen. So--" The coffee, she is put down once more! And Pete straightens his shoulders, exhales. "I suspected it was the case; I confirmed it was the case. I informed. There were members of the House of Lords financially invested in it. So, yeah, I don't play well with others." Then he laughs, and it's a sardonic little thing. "But I do my job."

Coulson listens intently to the rest of the story, intense eyes watching Pete thoughtfully as he rattles the rest of the information off. After he's done, Phil looks like he's thinking about it, then quite abruptly offers a hand across the table with a short nod, like he's decided soemthing about the other man. "Good enough for me," he declares. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D."