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xp_logs Jean and Kevin have a drink at a bar and talk about the aftermath of the last mission and the holidays.
The King Cole Bar at the Astor was uncharacteristically quiet for the holidays. While the early supper seating was filled with aged couples from New York's social register tucking into their meals before the theatre or evening events, the bar had lost the afternoon cocktails crowd and wouldn't get busy again until the later evening. It was why Kevin tended to show up at this time, enjoying the space without the normally maddening edge to murder a former hedge fund manager turned minor philatropist for refusing to shut up. Instead, he collected his overpriced although reasonably decent Manhattan and waved over Jean the second he caught sight of her red hair over the ocean of grey, white and blue rinsed coifs in the dining room.
Jean felt a little out of place when she stepped inside, pausing a moment until she saw Kevin across the bar. Making her way through the crowd, she slipped off her black peacoat before taking a seat. "Hi. I uh...I have never been here before. Seems nice."
"Generally you need to be worth at least nine figures and over the age of sixty for a dinner invitation here. Thanks to the iconic Maxfield Parrish mural-" He motioned to the massive painting behind the bar. "-and the subsequent appearances in films and television, the bar gets a younger but no less obnoxious collection of wealthy tourists and Wall Street types. Despite the clientele, it is a beautiful space and the painting is worth pondering over a drink or two."
"So who do you tell them you are? The son of a rich someone?" Jean said, studying the mural with the king situated in the center and guards, as well as subjects positioned on either side. "Definitely no symbolism here," she added with a smirk.
"All they know is that my drinks are always on George Rutherford's tab. They assume I'm part of AQR Capital Management with him, which is weird considering that it's what I set up using his face a couple of years ago." Kevin smiled as he waved over the bartender. "When I first moved to New York, this was just the St. Regis, not the Astor Court. The hotel was getting a little aged and wasn't as popular, so it was a lot less expensive. First time here was the morning after a mission that went bad... hard. I must have had a dozen Red Snappers straight off a return flight from Athens."
"Why here?" Jean said. She eyed the mural. "Seems a little...imposing."
"I was staying around the corner. The Agency had a small building in Lennox Hill at the time." He said, leaning back a bit in his bar chair. "It's got... history. Seemed cultured, something that I was not at the time."
Jean quirked a brow. "You? Not cultured? There's a surprising thought that doesn't quite compute at first glance," she said.
"The place certainly does have that kind of ambiance. I feel like I should be making back room business deals here over cognac."
"Not any more. Most of the gray hairs here are retired or figureheads in their own firms. They sit on boards for hospital charities and arts centers now." An ice cold Gibson arrived at Jean's elbow from the bartender. "When I first got here, I was in my twenties, still doing wetwork for the Agency while finishing off my high school diploma. At that point, other than a bunch of language courses, I was still just a kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Chicago by way of the US Army. I was pretty rough around the edges."
"So why did they recruit you? For your...unique skills?" Jean said. Pausing, she glanced down at the Gibson.
"I...didn't order this."
"I did. It's a bar specialty. I thought you might like it." Kevin said. "I was recruited as a sniper. I was... well, am, extremely good at putting bullets through people are very long distances and not being too concerned whether or not the person deserved it. The early CIA mostly recruited operatives out of the Army."
Jean fell silent at that for a moment or two. "Makes sense," she said. From a supply and demand standpoint.
"Was that what you wanted to do?"
"I wanted out of where I was. The Army was the best option when I was young. After that, I didn't really stop to ask questions. I went where I was ordered to. I joined the Agency because my superiors said it was the best thing I could do for my country. By the time I started asking questions, I was already part of the system." He shrugged. "When I was a kid, right and wrong were abstract things. You did things or didn't do things because you didn't want to catch a beating. Or because you could get away with it."
Jean glanced away. "Sounds like a lonely life," she said. She knew people had different experiences, motivations that made them do what they did. It helped to understand, even if she didn't always agree with the methods.
Taking a drink of the Gibson, she made a face. "Oh..." she said, curling her nose. "Little too much onion for me."
"They use some Pernod to pickle them inhouse. Not to everyone's taste, I guess." He said, waving the bartender over so she could order. He wasn't surprised that she couldn't really understand his past. After all, the CIA wouldn't have recruited him if he wasn't damaged in the ways that made him useful to them.
"Always worth a try," Jean said with a smile, ordering a Blood and Sand from the bartender. She rested her chin in her hand thoughtfully.
"I...can't presume to know everything about you. But I know you've been there for me during all this...and before that, and I appreciate it."
"Most people can't. There's a lot about me that can't be released to the public due to Acts of Congress until at least 2028 at the earliest." He gave her a wry smile. "How did Christmas with the family go?"
"Way to deflect," Jean mused, slipping off her peacoat as the warmth from inside had finally settled in after being in the snowy New York weather.
"Just your typical Grey-family gathering. Presents, pajamas, and the chaos that comes with twins tearing through wrapping paper."
"Must have been nice. How much were you able to enjoy it, or was most of it a combination of deflection and acting like everything is fine?"
Jean scratched the back of her head. "Oscar-worthy, everything is fine deflection fest," she said, stirring her drink as the bartender set it down in front of her.
"Best way to deal with an existential crisis."
"And for real, how are you doing? Did the break help at all or was it mostly mainlining rum vaguely coloured with eggnog to fake your way through?"
Jean had to think about that. It was a big question. "I'm...dealing. It's a lot to adjust to. Especially when everyone else in the world who doesn't know thinks everything is hunky dory."
"I get it. I mean, not exactly, but look around. I'm older than everyone here and look younger than half the waitstaff. Disassociation is a tough issue to handle." He tossed off the last of his drink and waved for another. "I can't pretend to really understand what you're going through, but I know enough to understand that it's hard."
Jean took a long drink. "When I came to the mansion full time I used to wonder why some people felt so off around me. M-Day had just happened...I knew they were grieving that...I tried to give them space. But now....to know that it was because my double had smashed the universe into little pieces really puts it into perspective. I just...There's so many layers to get through. Knowing it's not me but...still my face. Still...someone who is me in every shape and form but....she zigged when I zagged."
"From what I understand, it's more complicated than that. Emma said that they didn't know anything about the other Jean. She could have had a history completely alien to yours. It's possible the only thing you had in common was looks and a name, honestly." Kevin had never believed that people grew into the people they were supposed to be. He'd been conditioned by the Army and the CIA, and had in turn conditioned others into people that their past selves wouldn't recognize.
"Exactly. They don't know. She could have been exactly like me and something set her off. The others knew both Saint Jean and Dark Jean. They say they were different people but it just feels like they're hanging over my head," Jean said.
"At least it's now in the open. And, to be fair, the number of people that saw the other Jeans isn't enough to fill out a football team." Kevin said. "You've already seen the kind of scenario that it would take for you to change your ethical stance, and even then, you didn't turn evil and genocidal. What a different Jean in a different dimension did is irrelevant, because despite the name and the face, they still are fundamentally not you. The few people struggling with that will learn to figure it out."
Falling silent for a second or two, Jean finally nodded. "Hopefuly," she said, finishing off her drink with a light smile.
"Who knows. maybe someday I'll look back at all this and laugh."
"You got to see my idea of romantic gestures while dating someone. I'm sure you can laugh already." He waved for another round, a slight smile out of the corner of his mouth.
"Little different circumstances," Jean said with a smirk. "Besides, I thought they were sweet."
"Yeah, sadly, not that different in terms of ideas. Ah well, it might have been in a false world, but we'll always have Paris."
Jean's smile lingered. "And parts of New York."
"Good point. Alternate you was a little nasty." Their drinks arrived and he toasted her with his refreshed glass. "But I still prefer the real version."
Jean laughed. "Thanks. I prefer me too. Especially not being tortured for years, thanks."
The King Cole Bar at the Astor was uncharacteristically quiet for the holidays. While the early supper seating was filled with aged couples from New York's social register tucking into their meals before the theatre or evening events, the bar had lost the afternoon cocktails crowd and wouldn't get busy again until the later evening. It was why Kevin tended to show up at this time, enjoying the space without the normally maddening edge to murder a former hedge fund manager turned minor philatropist for refusing to shut up. Instead, he collected his overpriced although reasonably decent Manhattan and waved over Jean the second he caught sight of her red hair over the ocean of grey, white and blue rinsed coifs in the dining room.
Jean felt a little out of place when she stepped inside, pausing a moment until she saw Kevin across the bar. Making her way through the crowd, she slipped off her black peacoat before taking a seat. "Hi. I uh...I have never been here before. Seems nice."
"Generally you need to be worth at least nine figures and over the age of sixty for a dinner invitation here. Thanks to the iconic Maxfield Parrish mural-" He motioned to the massive painting behind the bar. "-and the subsequent appearances in films and television, the bar gets a younger but no less obnoxious collection of wealthy tourists and Wall Street types. Despite the clientele, it is a beautiful space and the painting is worth pondering over a drink or two."
"So who do you tell them you are? The son of a rich someone?" Jean said, studying the mural with the king situated in the center and guards, as well as subjects positioned on either side. "Definitely no symbolism here," she added with a smirk.
"All they know is that my drinks are always on George Rutherford's tab. They assume I'm part of AQR Capital Management with him, which is weird considering that it's what I set up using his face a couple of years ago." Kevin smiled as he waved over the bartender. "When I first moved to New York, this was just the St. Regis, not the Astor Court. The hotel was getting a little aged and wasn't as popular, so it was a lot less expensive. First time here was the morning after a mission that went bad... hard. I must have had a dozen Red Snappers straight off a return flight from Athens."
"Why here?" Jean said. She eyed the mural. "Seems a little...imposing."
"I was staying around the corner. The Agency had a small building in Lennox Hill at the time." He said, leaning back a bit in his bar chair. "It's got... history. Seemed cultured, something that I was not at the time."
Jean quirked a brow. "You? Not cultured? There's a surprising thought that doesn't quite compute at first glance," she said.
"The place certainly does have that kind of ambiance. I feel like I should be making back room business deals here over cognac."
"Not any more. Most of the gray hairs here are retired or figureheads in their own firms. They sit on boards for hospital charities and arts centers now." An ice cold Gibson arrived at Jean's elbow from the bartender. "When I first got here, I was in my twenties, still doing wetwork for the Agency while finishing off my high school diploma. At that point, other than a bunch of language courses, I was still just a kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Chicago by way of the US Army. I was pretty rough around the edges."
"So why did they recruit you? For your...unique skills?" Jean said. Pausing, she glanced down at the Gibson.
"I...didn't order this."
"I did. It's a bar specialty. I thought you might like it." Kevin said. "I was recruited as a sniper. I was... well, am, extremely good at putting bullets through people are very long distances and not being too concerned whether or not the person deserved it. The early CIA mostly recruited operatives out of the Army."
Jean fell silent at that for a moment or two. "Makes sense," she said. From a supply and demand standpoint.
"Was that what you wanted to do?"
"I wanted out of where I was. The Army was the best option when I was young. After that, I didn't really stop to ask questions. I went where I was ordered to. I joined the Agency because my superiors said it was the best thing I could do for my country. By the time I started asking questions, I was already part of the system." He shrugged. "When I was a kid, right and wrong were abstract things. You did things or didn't do things because you didn't want to catch a beating. Or because you could get away with it."
Jean glanced away. "Sounds like a lonely life," she said. She knew people had different experiences, motivations that made them do what they did. It helped to understand, even if she didn't always agree with the methods.
Taking a drink of the Gibson, she made a face. "Oh..." she said, curling her nose. "Little too much onion for me."
"They use some Pernod to pickle them inhouse. Not to everyone's taste, I guess." He said, waving the bartender over so she could order. He wasn't surprised that she couldn't really understand his past. After all, the CIA wouldn't have recruited him if he wasn't damaged in the ways that made him useful to them.
"Always worth a try," Jean said with a smile, ordering a Blood and Sand from the bartender. She rested her chin in her hand thoughtfully.
"I...can't presume to know everything about you. But I know you've been there for me during all this...and before that, and I appreciate it."
"Most people can't. There's a lot about me that can't be released to the public due to Acts of Congress until at least 2028 at the earliest." He gave her a wry smile. "How did Christmas with the family go?"
"Way to deflect," Jean mused, slipping off her peacoat as the warmth from inside had finally settled in after being in the snowy New York weather.
"Just your typical Grey-family gathering. Presents, pajamas, and the chaos that comes with twins tearing through wrapping paper."
"Must have been nice. How much were you able to enjoy it, or was most of it a combination of deflection and acting like everything is fine?"
Jean scratched the back of her head. "Oscar-worthy, everything is fine deflection fest," she said, stirring her drink as the bartender set it down in front of her.
"Best way to deal with an existential crisis."
"And for real, how are you doing? Did the break help at all or was it mostly mainlining rum vaguely coloured with eggnog to fake your way through?"
Jean had to think about that. It was a big question. "I'm...dealing. It's a lot to adjust to. Especially when everyone else in the world who doesn't know thinks everything is hunky dory."
"I get it. I mean, not exactly, but look around. I'm older than everyone here and look younger than half the waitstaff. Disassociation is a tough issue to handle." He tossed off the last of his drink and waved for another. "I can't pretend to really understand what you're going through, but I know enough to understand that it's hard."
Jean took a long drink. "When I came to the mansion full time I used to wonder why some people felt so off around me. M-Day had just happened...I knew they were grieving that...I tried to give them space. But now....to know that it was because my double had smashed the universe into little pieces really puts it into perspective. I just...There's so many layers to get through. Knowing it's not me but...still my face. Still...someone who is me in every shape and form but....she zigged when I zagged."
"From what I understand, it's more complicated than that. Emma said that they didn't know anything about the other Jean. She could have had a history completely alien to yours. It's possible the only thing you had in common was looks and a name, honestly." Kevin had never believed that people grew into the people they were supposed to be. He'd been conditioned by the Army and the CIA, and had in turn conditioned others into people that their past selves wouldn't recognize.
"Exactly. They don't know. She could have been exactly like me and something set her off. The others knew both Saint Jean and Dark Jean. They say they were different people but it just feels like they're hanging over my head," Jean said.
"At least it's now in the open. And, to be fair, the number of people that saw the other Jeans isn't enough to fill out a football team." Kevin said. "You've already seen the kind of scenario that it would take for you to change your ethical stance, and even then, you didn't turn evil and genocidal. What a different Jean in a different dimension did is irrelevant, because despite the name and the face, they still are fundamentally not you. The few people struggling with that will learn to figure it out."
Falling silent for a second or two, Jean finally nodded. "Hopefuly," she said, finishing off her drink with a light smile.
"Who knows. maybe someday I'll look back at all this and laugh."
"You got to see my idea of romantic gestures while dating someone. I'm sure you can laugh already." He waved for another round, a slight smile out of the corner of his mouth.
"Little different circumstances," Jean said with a smirk. "Besides, I thought they were sweet."
"Yeah, sadly, not that different in terms of ideas. Ah well, it might have been in a false world, but we'll always have Paris."
Jean's smile lingered. "And parts of New York."
"Good point. Alternate you was a little nasty." Their drinks arrived and he toasted her with his refreshed glass. "But I still prefer the real version."
Jean laughed. "Thanks. I prefer me too. Especially not being tortured for years, thanks."
no subject
Date: 2021-01-19 11:26 am (UTC)