Percy "Pinky" Pinkerton (pinkypinkerton) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-08-16 09:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, percival "pinky" pinkerton (616), peter guillam |
Who: Peter Guillam & Percival Pinkerton
When: Backdated: Thursday evening
Where: kamchatka Peninsula
What: Old boys discuss the war, get drunk and smoke a lot.
Rating: maybe pg-13 for language, we’ll see
STATUS: In progress, in G-docs. Will be updated as we go.
The Circus, in its upper (and middling, and lower) reaches, was a particularly boozy set. Peter was no exception. Intimacy and indiscretion within a certain circle proliferated in proportion to the secrecy required outside of that circumference. The ability to find one’s way drunkenly to bed across London’s fiendish city plan was, therefore, an essential job requirement. It was less a skill, though, than a matter of practice. A man might come up well short through no fault of his own, no fault other than inexperience. New York was different, Peter reflected, plodding down the street - nicely tipsy, but by his professional standards a far cry from inebriated. New York had ease of navigation. Straight lines, easy angles, massive landmarks, numbered streets. It freed his mind up for other things, chief among them the idle fantasy of typing up a dispatch to the tune of 20.30, Thurs., in-person contact (“Pinky”), loc. club (“Kamchatka”) and shuttling it innocently up to Alleline’s desk. The sputtering would be worth the inevitable upbraiding. Not just sputtering - Toby’s faintly appalled pallor, too, and that sharp little curl of a smile from Bill - Bill, who would no doubt think it perfectly hilarious. Bill, who, if not a dyed-in-the-wool pinko, had been suited out in it from head to foot. Bill, who Peter nonetheless couldn’t quite stop remembering as one of the best men he’d ever known. But now he was on the verge of getting angry again - or, worse, sentimental. The overwhelming confusion of his new situation helped and hurt in waves, in some moments leaving no room for anything but discovery, and in others leaving him with nothing familiar to cling to except his complaints. That was no doubt the reason he kept leaping toward anything with a familiar face. (Whitehall - for Christ’s sake.) More of them were friendly than he had any right to expect. And, naturally social, he was never inclined to turn down an invitation, particularly not one so agreeably given. So he made his way to the club without incident, dropped the right name, made his way to the right seat, and tried not to sound too thoroughly desperate when he asked for a scotch. He remembered himself just in time as his hand was rising to his jacket pocket for his cigarettes - seeing as he’d been shouted down earlier for smoking in the park (in the park), he supposed he’d better ask. What had anyone fought a damn war for, that’s what he wanted to know. In the bloody park. Percival was happy with the Kamchatka. It had taken off to great success, advertising to the elite, none of which knew they were sniffing brandy overtop a complicated series of bunkers, armouries and safe rooms. Beneath the wine seller which boasted wines from French vineyards that did not otherwise distribute in America, there was a network of situation rooms and supplies, just in case the war that had never really left Pinkerton or Fury called them back to the front lines. With the destruction of the Helicarriers and Captain America's brilliant take down of Project Insight; since the release of SHIELD's greatest secrets to the greater public, there was even more value in having a secret that was not on their radar. No one besides Nick's exclusive team knew what thrived beneath the cigars, scotch and well-manicured men above, and Pinky always smiled like a cat who knew where the mice slept. "Hope I didn't keep you steeping too long, Kip." Pinky appeared, a pipe in his hand and the handle of an umbrella curved delicately over his wrist. He deposited one into his jacket pocket and the other he hung over the back of his chair. He claimed his seat and looked over the rims of his glasses to give Guillam a brief inspection. Just something friendly before extending his hand across the table for a formal greeting. "No trouble finding the place, and I'm charmed to meet you, I'll have you know." Pinkerton wasn't from all that long ago, in the grand scheme. It was the middle of the 1980s back home, not that Pinky paid much attention to the cultural movements of that time or any other since his youth. Joinging for the war effort and was assigned to work with the elite, Howling Commando team had changed his life's direction and he had never looked back. From the European Theatre to the Korean War and the formation of the international security agency that was SHIELD, Percy had looked at the world like a soldier, and it had never changed. With that, of course, came a certain amount of detachment and distance which was why he often floundered with people or in situations where his experience and authority held no meaning. “Not at all - just long enough, thank you.” Peter shook his hand eagerly, making the obligatory gesture at getting up, which brought him about an inch out of his seat before he was in it again. He’d had a couple of minutes to tuck into his drink and take off the ever-advancing edge, and when he flashed him a smile it was with something approaching his usual carefree confidence. “It’s awfully good of you to roll out the mat. I can’t tell you how good.” It was the atmosphere here as much as the drink that had settled him a little. It was as close to a slice of home as he’d yet found, and Percy rounded out the picture nicely, the image of the polished sort of countryman with whom Peter had always surrounded himself, and whom he’d always admired. He felt on firmer ground, here, as though he knew the rules. Never mind that some forty-eight hours ago he’d been shown in no uncertain terms that those rules might just mean bugger all. One thing at a time. Taking up his drink again, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and tried to sip away the last of the tension. “I haven’t been this far out of my depth since geometry div, I don’t mind telling you. But it gives a man hope to see someone who’s managed so nicely.” He gave an appreciative nod to the surroundings. “Were you Army?” There was nothing shrewd or prying in his expression; it was just a conversational, good-natured inquiry, and he made sure to cast it as such, with an air of very genuine respect. Dragging a man’s life story out of him on first glance would be deeply rude. “Those boys always seem so perfectly prepared for anything.” “I was, indeed. Special forces, rather, British Commandos originally, until I was assigned a multinational allied group called the Howling Commandos under Sergeant Nick Fury. Bit of a learning experience that was, having a New Yorker in charge of business. During the Great War, his father was the one that shot down Manfred von Richthofen, so then of course I’d heard of him. But more by rumor than reputation, as it were, but it was enough to keep my ears perked up when he barked orders -- Ah, you don’t mind, do you?” Pinkerton fished his pipe out of his pocket and set it on the corner of the table. It had been a licensing nightmare, gaining permission to own and operate a new cigar bar, and if he hadn’t taken over the location of an old one which was operational before 2003, it wouldn’t have been possible at all, but some fine print and a few loopholes got him in business without having to pull any favours from the SHIELD offices, which was a good thing too, since SHIELD offices has all but sunk to the bottom of the Potomac. The military had already poked their head in to take a look around once, since listing Nicholas Fury and Margaret Carter as primary investors raised a few eyebrows when Fury went the way of international fugitive. But Percy hadn’t particularly minded. He was used to Nick being on the wrong side of the law in pursuit of what was right. Disobeying orders he didn’t agree with and marching to the beat of his own drunk had been Nick’s primary method of transportation for as long as he’d known him, and they’d gotten themselves out of enough scrapes together that Pinkerton would lay all his chips wherever Fury placed his bets without so much as a second thought. Avoiding certain death wasn’t the only way in which Fury had helped along Pinkerton’s longevity. Nick was given the Infinity Formula, something like old Steve’s super serum formula which added years to his life and slowed the aging process significantly. Exposure to Fury had meant exposure to the formula, and Pinky had been able to maintain his youth much better than most. |