Moving In

Characters: Steve Rogers Richard Grayson
Summary: Steve Rogers meets his new neighbor— Richard Grayson.
OOC Date: Sun Mar 04 00:28:14 2018
IC Date: 4 PM
Where: RP Suite 1

There have been at least two or three different, yet almost identical tenants in the loft apartment opposite Steve Rogers. Rich, probably bearded, probably white guys, who probably kept to themselves. Judging by the sounds of clunking furniture, and multiple people making that furniture clunk, and frequent dings of the elevator (couldn't they have turned that ding off? surely someone could have turned the ding off), a new Tennant has arrived! Or, rather, is just about finishing getting all his stuff into the big, empty space he now has all to himself. A big, giant space with plenty of recent renovations that could probably comfortably house a whole family- with both grandparents.

Is this new guy going to be just another in a parade of douchebags?

"Thanks guys, thanks, no, no all of it, yeah," he's saying, hadning a thick envelope of cash to the last of the departing movers. "I put a little extra, since you guys did such a great job, and a lot of my stuff is heavy. I'll get the boxes in the hall, thanks."

The aformentioned boxes are arranged by his own door- not exactly neatly, but at least careful not to be in anyone's way. Most of them are labled pretty predictably KITCHEN, RECORDS, PHOTOS/ART- LIVING ROOM, a couple of them just "Misc." A teddy bear wearing shiny plush plate armor sticks out of one, bearing a Gotham Knights pennant, because this scene needs even more exposition.

Steve doesn't so much mind someone moving in. That's life, right? People need to come and go.

But they've been moving a lot. All day. And more furniture than that small apartment should be able to handle— and that's after already a few weeks of construction workers and carpenters coming and going, working long hours almost to the point of offending the super's strict noise rules.

Steve's an early riser and early to bed, but the endless hammering and thumping and sawing was starting to grate at even his nevers.

Out shopping for groceries, on his way back, Steve has to swim upstream the entire way as the last of the workers leave. There are boxes in the hall, stuff in the walkways, and Steve's carrying a ton of groceries, so he's obligated to move aside and let the outgoing workers leave.

He gets to his door and does the grocery juggling act, fishing for his keys and glancing over at the new kid offloading his money onto the workers. He looks at Richard and reflexively nods with a civil sort of gesture— old school Brooklyn, you don't have to be friendly but you always be polite to your neighbors.

The kid smiles- and boy, is that a smile. That's a smile with years of well-paid dentistry behind it. Maybe even some braces at one point. He's young, early 20s- so all that work had to be done young. He's dressed casually, though the jeans are probably more expensive than the worn-in facade of them makes them look. The t-shirt (genuinely well-worn) it's from a charity summer camp in New Jersey. The word "counsellor" is spread across the back, something made visible when he darts to start grabbing boxes when the elevator opens again. "Oh, hey man, sorry, I'll get this stuff out of the-" and he goes from friendly and apologetic to… something else as his brain catches up with his eyes.

"Right- right out of your way, of course. I'm really sorry, um, ah, Mister R-… ah Captain…? Rogers?" He says after hurridly sliding boxes into his open door, catching a few loose items as they fall out, then turning around to face him.

"Oh, man, this went a lot better in my head," he admits, awkwardly holding to his chest that aformentioned beknighted bear, a picture frame, and a spatula. The spatula looks brand new and never-used. There is still a tag on it. Everything in the Kitchen box at his feet is brand-new.

Steve smiles tolerantly and unlocks his door, setting his groceries inside and busying himself with that task long enough for Richard to kick his boxes into the new apartment and settle himself. He looks at Richard with an air of good humor as the young man stumbles through the introductions. Happens a lot. Good-naturedly, he offers Richard a firm handshake, making no effort to set a bonecrusher. "It's okay— how about you just call me Steve?" he inquires, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards a bit. "Keeps things simple. Welcome to the building, by the way. Looks like you've been doing some renovating," he says, nodding towards the shiny new interior of the apartment. "Looks like you've knocked out a few walls— bigger than I remember it being."

"Steve then, that's- great," he forces another awkward smile, and steps aside, moving boxes further out of the way. "Yeah, um, you're welcome to take a look if you want-" he offers- apparently comfortable enough meeting celebrities that he can get over being star-struck pretty quickly. "We were- well, the contractor was starting to replace a bunch of old wire, and realized the wall wasn't load bearing. It cut a lot of hours to open up the kitchen and living area than to actually do the rewiring. And I kinda like the end result." While there certainly are some closed-off rooms, presumably guest rooms or private theatres or whatever it is guys these rich do with extra living space, the main living/dining/kitchen area is huge, with a lot of space to move around. He's actually designed it in the hopes of it being accomodating for a wheelchair user, but for an able-bodied single man, it is a damn lot of space. And probably a lot of stuff. Expensive stuff, judging by the look of the kitchen appliances.

"Can I get you a drink or something? I know New Yorkers aren't supposed to get friendly with their neighbors, but ah- well I've never actually /had/ neighbors, so I guess I'm bad at it."

Steve glances inside, politely but not goggling at Richard's sweet new digs. "Well, thanks, I appreciate it," Steve says, following the full invitation. He makes sure his own apartment door is locked and follows along a few steps after Richard.

"Water, would be just fine, thanks," he says, standing in the interim space between the living room and the kitchen. It's very pretty, all modern and beautiful and expensive. Even to Cap's relatively inexpert eye, it smacks of significant wealth.

"That's a New York thing," Steve tells Richard. "Brooklyn knows that it's important to be polite to our neighbors. You don't have to /like/ them, but it never hurts to be polite."

"Didn't catch your name, by the way," he says, looking diffidently out the window to spare Richard's feelings.

And that's right when Dick realized he didn't give it. Crap, is he so used to people knowing who he is that he'd- no, he's just awkward and starstruck, he assures himself. "Dick Grayson," he says, "I just moved here from Gotham-" as if the little teddy bear he's still holding doesn't make that part obvious. "After a little travelling, anyway. It's been a couple years since I've actually settled in anywhere. Lots of hotels and friends summer places." After searching through a few cabinets, he finds where the glasses ended up (thanks, Alfred), he taps one against the freezer's ice dispencer, lets the cubes fill it about a quarter of the way, then adds tap water. He does not stop to think about the awkward implications of giving ice cubes to Captain America. "It'll be nice to… put down roots somewhere." He says, as if the idea is almost somehow foriegn to him.

Richard Grayson has reconnected.


"It's nice to put down roots," Steve agrees politely— but there's a sympathetic, lopsided grin on his face. He accepts the glass from Dick and takes a sip of it. Filtered water is one of those little luxuries he still marvels at frequently.

"It's nice to meet you, Dick," he tells the fellow. "So, Gotham, huh? Gotham used to be one big fishing wharf, back in the day. Hard to believe how much it's grown since then," he says, laughing easily. "Big city, now. All those skyrises. I remember when the Wayne building was the tallest building around— Wayne Tower? I knew Thomas— the senior Thomas," he clarifies. "Met him back in '43. Nice fellah. He helped modernize that city, brought in all the bankers and industrialists after the war, if I read the history right."

"Really?" Dick /beams/. "Bruce never told me his grandfather knew you- I- yeah, um, sorry. Hi, yeah, like I said, Dick Grayson- Bruce Wayne is my, uhm," there's a hesitation there. He doesn't call the man his father. "He took me in as a kid." The awkwardness of explaining their relationship is one that never really goes away. Bruce was something between a father and a brother, and fell a little short of either while trying to be both. "He never talked much about- any of his family, really," he says, pouring himself a glass of (presumably very expensive, organic) juice from the fridge. "But wow. That's crazy, isn't it? You knew him all those years ago, and… now here I am, accross the hall."

"Oh, Bruce Wayne!" Steve blinks. "Wow, yeah— small world," he says, wryly. He nods a few times, then clucks his tongue and looks up from his drink. "Yeah, Thomas was one of my good friends. We palled around a lot during the war— well," he amends, rolling his eyes a little. "The rest of us had fun, and Thomas mostly lurked in a corner. Never really seemed to get the hang of having fun. Heck, even Kit would loosen up and have a drink now and then," he says, wryly. "And he lived in hut in the jungle."

He shakes himself out of his reverie. "Sorry. Old memories," he apologizes, grinning. "So what brings you to Brooklyn, then? Seems like one of the Waynes could settle down anywhere in the world. Don't get me wrong, I like Brooklyn plenty, but…" he shrugs, nodding the trailing question at Dick.

"Well… really? Long story short- I'm- I'm not a Wayne," he admits. "I mean, I was 13 when Bruce took me in, he definitely raised be, but- I had a father," he says, putting down his glass. "He gave me a lot, he- he still gives me a lot, even if we don't talk much. His world- the old money, the gala balls- it's not my world. And I'm still trying to figure out what is. And New York's where people come when they've left somewhere, right? That, and there's some charity work I'm doing out here. What they're doing is worth staying in one place enough to help them, you know?"

"Yeah, New York is where everyone wants to go to make something of themselves," Steve agrees, easily. "People want to invent a better mousetrap or make it big on Broadway. But that's New York," he pointes out, diffidently swirling his ice cubes around his mostly empty glass. "Not Brooklyn. Brooklyn's old, it's been working families for… pfft, longer than I've been alive, anyway," he remarks. "And that's saying something."

"Everyone wants to make it big in the city, be a star, make a fortune. Brooklyn, though— we're all about family," he clarifies. "Looking out for one another."

Richard Grayson has connected.

"Maybe that's what drew me here. Family. That's-" he pauses. More hesitation. Something he wants? Wishes he had? Misses desperately and would do anything to get back? Living in cramped campers and eating out of one big communal pot of mystery stew.

"The people I'm working with here, that's- that's what they're trying to preserve. We buy property before the slumlords or people who wanna build condos or turn old churches into apartments, that sort of thing. The Waynes built a city. Maybe I can… help hold something together. Do something with the oppurtunities Bruce gave me, put them to use for good people."

Steve's brows rise in surprise, and an approving nod follows Dick's words. "Well— I have to admit, at first glance, I wouldn't have called you for a philanthropist," Steve remarks. "The apartment's a little on the uh, … big size," he remarks, looking round again. "I've got a two-bed and people keep telling me horror stories about broom closets for a thousand dollars a month across the river."

"Anything that keeps Brooklyn like -Brooklyn- is fine by me."

He finishes his water and sets it on the counter. "Looks like you've got some work left to do, so I'll leave you to it. But it was swell meeting you, Dick," Steve says, offering another handshake. "Folks would say they can lend a cup of sugar, but I'm not around my apartment enough to keep cooking supplies handy. But I'm across the hall if you run into any trouble," he tells the younger man.

Dick takes the offered shake, returning it a bit firmer than the first time, a little more confidently. "Yeah, glad to get the Steve Rogers approval. Honored, even. And I'll keep that in mind. I know I feel safe knowing Captain America is a shout away," he says as he walks him back to the door. "And if you ever need anything, likewise. Consider my door- uh, well, not open, but knock-on-able, for sure." Look, he /does/ plan to have private guests. At some point. He hopes. Oh, God he hopes.

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