Log: David and Marie-Ange | Thursday morning

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Marie-Ange picks an exhausted David up from the airport on Thanksgiving morning, and makes him drive while she fills him in on the major events he had missed out on. 

Marie-Ange was only -slightly- harried-looking waiting in the baggage claim area, and watching the arrival boards to see which flight had landed and where its bags were going to. It had been the driving, because if she was going to pick someone up at an airport, it seemed silly to take a taxi or the subway.

She was fairly sure that whoever had told David that she would meet him at the airport had done it because she'd stolen David's office. Driving a zipcar, one of the boring 4-seater economy-fueled ones through city traffic was clearly repayment for having stolen an entire office. Well, less stolen and more "acquired while he was away, without asking him and then sent him most of his clocks via parcel post". So essentially stolen.
 
“You look well, mademoiselle,” David commented, coming up from behind her with a nondescript duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Having been on the lookout for her, he had spotted the Frenchwoman almost as soon as she had entered his range of sight. “I trust you have been enjoying the comforts of my office?”
 
He was teasing, almost, and he flashed her an easy smile that barely hinted at the unsettled score between them. For the most part, however, he would readily admit that it was good to see Marie-Ange again. Perhaps there was something to be said about absences and fond hearts. Then again, it was almost amusing that she was his ride back to the Center, given that he had just escaped from certain death in her home country.
 
"I have been enjoying the comforts of -my- office."  Marie-Ange returned wryly.  "I especially like the door. It closes. Cubicles just do not offer the same level of privacy from nosy Jubilees who want to know if I have leftovers from lunch."  She made a vague gesture towards the baggage claim carousels.  "Did you need to claim any more luggage, or are you starting over again? I think most of your furniture is in storage at the Brownstone."
 
“Thank goodness,” David replied, needlessly hefting and dropping the duffel on his shoulder. It was about as heavy as a typical overnight bag, mostly containing essentials purloined from a safehouse, as well as a cheap paperback that had helped him survive the seven-hour flight. Other less airport security-safe items such his guns, tags and clocks were being shipped over, while whatever remained had either been destroyed or left behind – the best he could do given his hasty exit. “I thought that perhaps you had acquisitioned them for your own use as well.”
 
All right, he was definitely teasing. “Not to worry, kleine Diebin, I will not oust you from your hidey-hole.” David gestured towards the exit. “I’ll just have to find myself a better office.”
 
"Oh no, I am sharing with Amanda now."  Marie-Ange said, avoiding the extended gossip-y explanations. The whole "left for New Orleans, spent a year with the Assassin's Guild, broke up with Doug, came back just in time for Remy to get taken and everything to go to total shit could wait. "So no furniture theft, unless Jubilee or Cammie has taken it." She paused just before the doors out and glanced at North.  "Oh, I am not sure if Doug had told you, it turns out that Mister Barnes was not responsible for the incident with the radio tower. It was his adopted daughter."
 
Thoughts of furniture stealing did not really bother David. In any case, he had not been the one to buy them in the first place. He did want a hot bath followed by some sleep in a sturdy bed with a hard mattress, though, so if anyone had messed with his IKEA bed, he would make sure to arrange for some repercussions.
 
“The bedlam never ends,” he noted dryly in acknowledgement, filing both pieces of information in his head without pausing in his stride. David was hardly about to question Marie-Ange about her change in living arrangements; experience taught him that awkward conversations like those were best avoided. “Ramsey boy may have mentioned something sans the details. Are they both dead?”
 
"No, Mister Barnes is still living in his apartment. His daughter is, ah.. "  Marie-Ange paused to try to figure out how best to word this. "In rehabilitation. We recovered her, she had been brainwashed, and it was starting to break, and Mister Barnes put her in rehabilitation."  She shrugged, looking very tired for a moment.  "Remy was missing, then we had to recover it and now Wanda's mentor is missing, and it has just been, as you said, bedlam."
 
“You’re holding up well, I hope,” David said, glancing briefly at the other precog with something akin to sympathy colouring his tone. “That’s a lot of missing people.” Missing Remy must have had resulted in twenty kinds of complications. And did he even know who Wanda’s mentor was? There was probably a tonne of files to be read if he wanted to get up to speed.
 
“Perhaps I should look into alternative employment,” he remarked after a contemplative pause, running a thumb along his shaven jaw and allowing Marie-Ange to lead the way to the car. “My life has been remarkably tame in comparison.”  
 
In response, Marie-Ange tossed the car keys to North.  "If you want exciting, you can drive the car." Besides, then he would have to park it and she would not have to fret over putting a ding in the car and causing the rental rates to go up for the Institute. Again.  "Would you really want to go back to, what was it, Initech? Because I am sure we can arrange that if you would like a nice restful stay processing health insurance claims and deciding on 401k plans."  She was smirking, just a little.  "We did get Remy back, and I am holding up well, thank you."
 
David swiped the keys out of the air and gave her a baleful look. “It’s making my heart race,” he deadpanned. “Both the car and the sound of that job. You do know how to make a man interested.”
 
Unlocking the car, he tossed his bag into the back and eased himself into the driver’s seat, foregoing the seatbelt altogether as he started the engine. By Gott he was tired. Who knew that blowing someone up and then sitting through a sleepless flight could be so exhausting? It was a good thing the flight stewardess had been generous with the flow of coffee.
 
"It could be worse. I could have borrowed Amanda's very boring car, or Doug's very very boring car."  Marie-Ange said, as she slid into the passenger seat.  "I am afraid you may actually have to process some paperwork. I think you are one of the only one of us whose cover job is actually relevant, and for some reason people keep getting broken noses or being shot at. I cannot imagine why, we are all so very friendly and nice."  Not having to drive had clearly improved her mood.  "Oh, this should amuse you. Logan has a daughter."
 
What? David blinked, not quite sure whether he had heard right. Paperwork and his old job back was to be expected. But.
 
“Who’s the mother?” He could only think of one possibility, given Logan’s past, but he did not really want to think about it. Deftly navigating the crowded car park, he was soon exiting the place. He allowed himself a mental sigh of relief as soon as they hit the main road, marginally relaxing back into the seat.
 
"I have no idea."  Marie-Ange said with a strong touch of amusement in her voice.  "David, she is a <i>cheerleader</i>. She shops, and is cheerful and perky. It is the best karmic justice for Logan that anyone could possibly ever hope for."  She was near to giggling, which never happened.  "Of course, Logan has gone off to whereever Logan goes when he is not around. As usual, you arrive and he is not here."
 
“It’s tradition. No return would be the same without his prolonged absence,” David snorted, frankly unsurprised. He could not quite dredge up enough energy to share Marie-Ange’s amusement, but he would come back to it when he was settled in and ready for a chortle or three. First, though, he had to wrap his caffeine-addled brain around the matter. “Did the old man know he had a pom-pom toting offspring?”
 
A pause, then, “mien Gott, Jim reproduced.”
 
Marie-Ange shook her head. "Oh, no, not at all. He was as surprised as everyone else. He found out a few days before the rest of us. She calls him 'Pops'. We think she does it to annoy him. If it was not for the claws, I would not think she was his daughter, but she has them. Bone, though, not metal, which is odd, no? I am trying to think, what else have you missed besides brainwashed Russian assassins and Logan having a child..."
 
Well, Logan’s lack of knowledge hardly sounded good. But then, he had the advantage of it not being his problem in the least. It was probably for the best that he had refused to answer all of his former teammate’s questions that one time two years back. Massaging the bridge of his nose, David shook his head to clear it.
 
“I would not think she was his daughter if she didn’t have the ability to drive him up the wall,” he observed drily. But whatever wry amusement he might have injected into his voice was ruined when his stomach let out a loud grumble of protest at the abuse he had been subjecting it to. The German staunchly ignored it, bringing the car to a stop at a light. “As long as it’s on a file in the system, I can probably fill in the holes myself. Unless, of course, there are other non-documented matters.”
 
Marie-Ange waited until the light had turned green before speaking again. It took a few moments to gather all her thoughts.  "Except the gossip, and some of my time in New Orleans, I think everything is in the files. There are a few new faces in the office, but little much has changed."  She paused and gave him a mildly concerned look.  "Is your stomach upset over the airline food, or have you been sampling terrible American fast food again? Because that is never a good idea."
 
“It’s upset because it had neither,” David shrugged, unconcerned. “And nothing else besides. I may have been spoilt by all the exquisite French food.” Though it was more like he had had no time to grab a bite until he was on the aeroplane and eating airline cuisine was almost unthinkable.
 
Time in New Orleans that was undocumented generally meant something along the personal lines of do-not-enter-unless-invited, so he merely marked another mental note. “You can regale me with the gossip and other tales of adventure and mayhem after I have had some sleep,” he quirked the corner of his lips up in a semblance of a smile. “And some food. Then maybe you can join me when I go terrorise the new blood.”
 
"If I tell you there are new good restaurants and I know where they are, can I watch while you terrorize Cammie?"  Marie-Ange asked, impishly.  "I like Nico, she is Amanda's assistant, she is clever, and
sensible, under the sarcasm and insane family, but... I think you are familiar with how much I do not enjoy Cammie, and the feeling is mutual."  She considered that for a moment, and then added. "She did kill Swarm, and is competent in a fight, I do have to give her credit for that."
 
David weighed his options, then gave a single-arm shrug, pressing his other elbow against the window so that he could prop his head up on his palm. He suppose could afford to stay awake long enough to settle his complaining stomach.
 
“Done deal,” he declared gallantly, a slight smirk to his lips. “It would take more than killing some bastard to get me off a person’s back when they have shoddy paperwork. Mind you, the food will have to be good, or you won’t get your entertainment, young lady.”
 
"As though I would send you somewhere with terrible food."  Marie-Ange protested.  "I have not gone entirely mad. Yet."  She glanced at David, taking in his posture and weary expression.  "Perhaps I should text ahead and see if there is coffee at the office. You look exhausted. Have you slept at all since your cover was broken?"  If she was guessing right, the answer was no or close to no.
 
She would be right, but David was not about to tell her that. “No coffee,” he said instead, “I may have already OD-ed on caffeine on the plane.” If they were going to the office, it probably meant that he would not be getting any sleep until the end of the work day. His dreams for a bed were suddenly set back a little further. The spy supposed that he could demand time off first, but he needed to acquire a computer to do some investigating of his own. Sitting up, he smiled disarmingly at Marie-Ange. “Besides, you’re going to have to feed me first.”
 
"Oh, of course. Food first, then.."  Marie-Ange thought for a moment. "Probably then Remy, and if that does not wake you up, little else will I suppose, and then perhaps you should sleep? I do not think that
we will all lose our health insurance or that Eastern Europe will implode in the next day while you were settling in…"
 
“Don’t jinx it,” David warned, biting back a yawn that had stealthily crept up on him. “You know how words like that can come back and bite you in the derriere, ja?” But as he manoeuvred the rental car through the streets towards a decent German restaurant on Marie-Ange’s directions, he realised that she was right. Perhaps for the first time in a long while, he could relax for long enough to get a solid night’s worth of rest. For now, however, he would have to be careful not to fall asleep in his food. Or in the middle of his debrief. Or perhaps even right on top of Remy, while using him as a bolster.