My Boss Is An Alien


jane_icon.gif luther_icon.gif

Scene Title My Boss Is An Alien
Synopsis Luther was in the neighborhood and thought he'd invade.
Date June 29, 2018

Kansas City, MO

Sunset passed a few hours ago, and night blankets the country’s new capital city. Rebuilt infrastructure keeps the lights on well into the evening, proving humanity to be ever resilient in the face of adversity, simply too stubborn to give in, creative in the quest to survive under world-straining circumstances.

Luther Bellamy has proven to be one of these such creatures, one man who has survived particularly life-threatening circumstances on more than one occasion, and somehow found a way to keep showing up, still upright, on the face of the earth. In this moment, though, it’s showing up on the doorstep of Jane Pak. Though they’d been in communication a while now, he has not communicated to her that he’d be showing up at her door tonight. He hadn’t actually started planning such a visit until he was in a car headed this direction. In that plan, he’d at some point remembered to make himself presentable after several hours’ drive on the road. That was, though, several hours ago. And while he’d caught a shower and a change of clothes at a local hotel, instead of calling ahead he’s simply shown up at her door.

Whatever effort there was to be presentable has likely left him, after a few stops to debate with himself and a bottle of whiskey or two. He’s come upon her door and after missing the doorbell button a few times, leans upon the door frame and raps his knuckles solidly against the much bigger target of the door. The sound of it is louder due to a glass wine bottle clunking against the wood in echo of the knocking.

It's late, but that's never stopped Jane from being awake and working. Which is what she's been doing tonight. The knock isn't expected, nor is the man on the other side of the door, but seeing as she doesn't mind him or an interruption, she opens it.

Jane smiles, but the expression shifts to a quizzical one— eyebrow lifting, head tilting— as she actually gets a look at him.

At least he's still upright. Even if the door frame is holding him up.

"You'd better come in." His name is on her list of approved visitors, his picture. But even though Secret Service let him in, the whiskey likely means they're watching. Just in case.

Luther’s tall frame, even slanted against the door frame, looms over her gargoyle-like in blocking the view of the night sky. He’s already broken a few laws to get here, most of them having to involve operating a vehicle while under the influence, but that’s hardly within the Secret Service’s realm of worries. Plus, it’s probably quietly amusing, the situation full of sidelong glances and knowing nods.

“Hey, I was in the neighborhood,” the man greets her too casually, a crooked smirk making its nest on the lower half of his face at the sight of her. Fingers holding the wine bottle lift, his other hand reaching for hers so he can press said bottle into them. Luther pushes off the door frame as he does so, swaying pendulously the other way, at first, then invasively forward towards the woman.

Jane puts a hand on her hip, eyeing him at that casual greeting. "Yeah? And how long did it take you to get to the neighborhood?" That question is only half-serious. She might ask later and actually expect an answer, but for now, she seems to be content with teasing him. When he pushes off the door frame and wobbles, Jane steps forward to catch him.

Nevermind that she's significantly shorter than him, she puts an arm around him to support and guide him into the house. The door gets kicked closed and she angles him toward her couch. It's a side effect of her time in the military that she knows how to maneuver a much larger, much drunker person and Luther ends up sat in a corner of a comfortable sofa. "Stay put," she says, leaning in to kiss his cheek in her own belatedly greeting. But then she's off. To bring back some water. Because he is obviously going to need it.

If Luther has an answer for how long it took him to get here, he takes his sweet time with it. The man’s mind works a little sluggishly in matters of calculation. “Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?” His retort is a counter to her tease, humor residing in his tone. He’s glad to see her.

He’s even gladder that she’s there to help him along, until he eases into the sofa cushions with a long and deep sigh. The chaste kiss on his cheek draws a faint smile. He’s too late in reaching for her, or rather by the time he’s decided to, she’s gone off to the bring back water. Luther’s hand drifts back down, and his head leans back against the couch. When she returns with the glass, he opens his eyes again and reorients himself with his surroundings.

“Like what you’ve done with the place.” It’s an easy observation not requiring of much thought to make. But at least it sounds genuine in the sentiment. And utterly unaware of the time of night he’s interrupted her activities for a random visit.

"And I'm glad you're here," Jane says with a chuckle as she makes her way back into the room. Water, aspirin. They're set on a side table before she sets herself on the sofa next to him. "Hmm. They told me the pink flamingo theme was too ostentatious. But this is good, too." The compliment is taken in good humor, even if she's not pointing out that he's drunk enough for the decor to be swimming.

She looks over at him, seeming undecided on how to direct this conservation. But just for a moment.

"So, what has you pickling yourself tonight?"

Investigative is what she settles on. Because she's worried. And because he's too drunk for the more tawdry ideas she might have floating around her mind.

The idea of pink flamingo decor gets a snorted laugh from the drunken man. Luther’s just drunk enough to find that funny, and maybe also drunk enough that he could hallucinate flamingos wading around in that swimming decor. He’s also gone quiet in the next moment, waiting for the world to take a moment to right itself in the whole feeling of it, but finding that moment not coming immediately. He should be used to that feeling by now, the feeling of helplessness and guilt while still seeking to struggle and survive. That was an issue of his decades in the making.

Tonight, though, that feeling was stronger than ever. And it often lead to such drastic measures as drinking til one’s head was numb to it. Unfortunately, Jane’s question posed to him brings back that prickle of a reminder of events that transpired earlier. And the man frowns in his contemplation. Grey eyes shift to look to her, and Luther heaves a sigh. “You’re going to think I’ve been drinking too much,” he says at first. Which would be true, for one. But he then supplies, quieter, “I was out in Kansas, business trip with the big bosses.” She already knows his still fairly recent promotion up from the lower rungs of custodial. But with great power…

“Things got… strange, to say the least.” Luther wipes a hand down his face, trying to clear up the alcohol-fogged thoughts some more. He sits up some more, almost regretting that instantly. Even seated, he wobbles.

"You have been drinking too much," Jane says with quirk of a smile. "But that doesn't mean I'll think you're imagining things." In her time, she's handled a lot of soldiers, their experiences and how they cope with them. Luther might not have been military, but he was a soldier all the same. Still is, in a lot of ways.

"Easy there," she says, when he tries to move and can't manage it— not gracefully anyway. "So your boss brought security along to some shindig out here. And it was weird enough to get you a couple bottles deep." There's a pause before she adds, "Did someone get hurt? Did you?" He doesn't seem to be in pain, but then, would he even feel it at this point?

"Drink some water. You're gonna need it."

His response to her fact check is, at first, a rueful glance up to Jane’s smiling face. Ok, he really had a few too many. But, circumstances. Luther swallows dryly, then with water after he’s carefully reached for and lifted the glass of liquid she’d generously placed within range. His breath comes in ragged, goes out steadier. “Do you remember, there were some stations still operational during the war?” He turns the glass in hand a few times, squinting down to the water as if contemplating if it’s safe to risk another drink. Or if he might miss his mouth and spill it on Jane’s lovely couch. He risks it. Succeeds. “Mr. Ray - Richard - gathered a group to head out there, to the Ray bunker, to see about messages he received.”

The situation described is not exactly a reason for needing full security, let alone the head of security. But Luther seems to have trouble working up to it, whether because of an alcohol-addled mind or because the concepts he’s trying to describe are far beyond what he can understand. But he answers her question of anybody getting hurt with a slow shake of his head. “No, nobody got hurt,” he says with a feeling of relief for it, “not physically anyway.” He takes one more sip of the water, throat clearing as he turns his face slightly to eye Jane somewhat cautiously. “You promise to keep this quiet? And maybe not think I’m too crazy for it?” Whatever this and it is, Luther drops his volume to near whispers. Confidential levels. But he’s trusted her discretion for quite some time, enough that he doesn’t bother in his drunken haste to reveal, “I think my boss is an alien.”

Jane has spent a lot of time listening to drunk ramblings. And giving her own drunk ramblings. So the idea that Richard Ray is an alien is not the craziest thing she's heard under these circumstances. But it is pretty up there.

"Because of the radio," she comments, doing her very best not to sound like she thinks he's crazy. Way too drunk, certainly. "Lu, I think we better talk about this in the morning," she says, diplomatically. "It's late and we'll have clearer heads after some breakfast. I'll make those green onion pancakes you like." Refusals are not acceptable in this, it seems, and Jane doesn't really think he's in a state to really give one. Or that he'll be awake much longer once his head hits pillow. Couch pillow, but still.

The Next Morning

In the morning, his couch happens to be in the worst place as the rising sun cuts right through a crack in her curtains and hits him dead in the face. And that's not the only disturbance. There are the sounds and smells of food cooking in the kitchen, but more than that. Loud Korean music plays over her speakers— from the other room, she's not that cruel— a poppy sounding boy band no less. Jane herself is in front of her stove, in pajamas, dancing and watching to make sure she doesn't burn anything.

Luther’s eyes squeeze further as the light streaming right into his face finally pierces through the alcohol addled drunkard’s sleep. What dreams of green onion pancakes may have come to him in the night, spur him further awake by the scent of said dreams becoming reality. He could probably have done without the poppy fast boy band beats coming from the other room but that’s familiar enough to keep him from being startled awake.

He’s risen from the couch, made his way to the kitchen entry and leans there in a half buttoned, couch-rumpled shirt and pants. Somewhere behind him, the jacket hangs off the back of a chair and the shoes are by the door. Blinking slowly, he drinks in the sight of her at the stove, an appreciation in his expression. He lingers only a little longer before stepping over to come up from behind, looming a little before closing the distance to slide a hand around her pajama clothed waist. “Those smell like heaven,” he comments into the crook of her neck. He might not mean the green onion pancakes, but they’re certainly included. He, though, still reeks a bit from the drinking and the travel he had mostly showered off.

“Sorry I crashed… You’re not mad, are you?” He didn’t mean to just show up like that, evidently. He’d meant to be presentable.

The music is enough to cover his approach, although she seems to notice once he gets close enough. A smile spreads across her face when his hand moves around her and she leans back into him. She doesn't bother to mask the fact that she appreciates him being there in the flesh— however distracting their communication may be, it isn't quite the same.

"I'm not," she confirms, turning her head enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye. And for him to see the crooked smile on her face. "Saved me from staying up all night working. But if you feel the need to make it up to me, I'm not going to stop you." She reaches forward to turn off the stove so she can be worry free when she turns around to slide her arms around him as well. "There's coffee," she says, nodding her head toward the pot. "You want breakfast or a shower first?" Because he needs one. Even Jane has a limit, somewhere.

Having had to bend so that he could in fact plant a short kiss of affection on her, Luther seems ready to act on that crooked smile, to provide an extra bit of distraction to her cooking task or any further work she might have had to do, to make up for his unannounced arrival into her couch and care. Even the song bumping louder in the kitchen doesn’t seem to bother him, despite that bass beat delivering an extra throb to his skull. Luther just focuses a little more on her.

But, he straightens as she turns about, a glance spared in the direction of the coffee indicated. Tempting. But there she is, arms around him, even more tempting. “That’s a hard choice,” he considers aloud of breakfast or shower. One would mean having to leave the room she’s in, albeit a shower could probably be done much quicker than breakfast.

Plus… “I… probably didn’t bring anything with me from the hotel,” he notes with a glance down to his rumpled shirt and pants. Although the crooked smile that follows as he looks back to her is quite suggesting of the idea that he won’t need a change immediately, if. He curls his arm around her a touch tighter. “You want to join me in the effort to save a little water?” So his pick up lines are still terrible. Classic hungover Luther.

Jane watches him as he debates the pros and cons of the choice put before him. His crooked smile has her pressing closer to him, which might be a promising response indeed. Except that he goes on and she rolls her eyes and groans at his pick up line. "You're so corny," she says, but there's enough amusement there to prove that a cheesy line isn't too much of a deterrent.

And, too, she makes it that much clearer a moment later when her fingers curl around his shirt and she pulls him along as she walks backward toward the stairs. It seems that whatever she has planned for them for his visit, clothing is optional.

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