11/7, 11/10 - Cordelia, Jean
11/7/2008
Now that's a call one doesn't get everyday. Sure, the occasional person shows up, claiming to be related to whoever is currently in residence or notorious. More than one Frost 'family member' has been escorted off grounds. But it's still not a call one gets every day. Emma rolls her eyes as she leaves her office. The trip downstairs to confirm identity (or lack thereof) of these idiots is always so annoying. She descends, the folds of her sharp pant suit moving with minimal wrinkling, and the heel of her sharply pointed heels clicking against the steps. She is halfway down the stairs before spying the so-called 'Cordelia Frost,' and she stops in frank astonishment. Well. Shit.
In stark contrast to the pantsuit and heels that Emma is wearing, this 'family member' is dressed in a rather minimalist fashion for the season. A tight tank-top barely conceals her chest and a miniskirt in the same black clings tightly to her thighs. Her hair is dyed a tremendously obnoxious bubblegum pink and her face is high-lighted in makeup that continue the black and pink theme. Her combat boots do not quite match the skimpy theme. She stands with her hands at her hips and a brilliant smile on her face as she spots Emma descending the stairs. This so-called Cordelia Frost is the genuine article. "Emma, darling," she coos out.
Emma lifts her hand from the banister, then sets it back down as if reassured by its reality. And then she continues down to the main floor and crosses to stand in front of her little sister, where, incidentally, she stands taller. Her hair, in contrast, is cool and sleek in its platinum. "Cordelia," she says, returning the greeting with some little bogglement in her voice. She glances around suddenly, then looks back at her. "What are you doing here?"
In spite of the childish color of her hair and the interesting choices in her fashions, Cordelia's smile takes on a decidedly sharp edge as she bathes in Emma's discomfort with her sudden arrival. "Oh, did I not send you a text? I mean to send you a text. I'm moving to New York."
Emma rocks back a step, the normally coldly composed businesswoman totally knocked aside when confronted with... family. "You're what? Says who?" She looks around again, this time with narrow-eyed suspicion. "Who's with you?"
Cordelia's amusement only grows as Emma finds herself caught so off-guard. The younger sister looks so tremendously pleased with herself, her smile spreading her pinkened lips. "I am moving to New York City. I've already started looking for an apartment. Why? Should I have checked with you first?" Her brows arch in feigned concern and she tilts her head just slightly.
Emma glowers and folds her arms in front of her chest, cocking her weight to one hip and radiating disapproval. "No," she concedes, then tacks on, "But it would have been /nice/."
"I like to think, Emma dear, that I am old enough to decide where I would like to live without checking with my sister first." Her smile is unfading, fed by Emma's disapproval. "I do think I will stay here at the Club until I've found an apartment. That won't be a problem, will it?"
"Well, now /there's/ something I never thought I would live to hear. /You/ liking to think. Imagine what fad you'll find next," Emma purrs with sweet venom, then drops her arms and spins. "You know the Club rules. Just /try/ not to stain anything pink while you're here."
"Well, now /there's/ something I never thought I would live to hear. /You/ liking to think. Imagine what fad you'll find next," Emma purrs with sweet venom, then drops her arms and spins. "You know the Club rules. Just /try/ not to stain anything pink while you're here," she tosses back over her shoulder as she stalks for the stairs again.
"I'm sure I'll find /something/ to entertain myself with in New York, sis," Cordelia calls after Emma, the sugary tone carrying none of the threat that her choice of words implies. "I'll see you around!"
11/10/2008
Pushing her way out of some shop or another, Cordelia Frost leads the way out onto the street. She has a couple of bags hung from one arm, evidence of the fact that she and her loving older sister have been bonding via the time-tested method of retail. Corrie is dressed in her own special style, with boots laced up to her thighs over wide holed fishnet stockings. Her skirt is short and her silver, fake-velvet shirt is tight. Black and white-striped arm-warmers do wonders for setting off the brilliant pink of her hair.
Over her shoulder, Cordelia smiles brightly at Emma. "See, isn't it fun to be out and doing things together? We have years to make up for now that I'm here!"
Emma exits with a small bag under her own arm, though not from this shop, and definitely not in Cordelia's style. Her lips thin and she makes a small does of non-committal and turns her wrist up to glance at the time. "Terribly fun. But aren't you hungry yet?" So how did this lunch date turn into a shopping trip? Who knows.
Oh look, a restaurant! It is a rather nice one, free of fast food, and with the only dull-eyed teenagers foot-dragging within it belonging to keepers who have taken them out to get fitted for Something Nice -- It's Almost Thanksgiving, Dear. Inside it, free of teenagers, one Jean Grey is the lone occupant of an alcove with a couple of tables set within it, sipping at a cup of coffee while perusing a menu and her Palm Pilot with equal intensity. She is dressed is restrained and tasteful grey business wear, a touch of colour at her throat in the form of a rich red silk scarf, and an attache case resting beside her chair completes the image of a mid-afternoon lunch break from meetings.
Cordie's blue eyes, drowned in pink eyeshadow as they are, slash a glance at Emma's middle. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so into lunch." With a happily vapid smile on her glossy lips, she leads the way up the street. There is a restaurant there. A nice one! Free of fast food and minimal on teenagers. High on telepath, though. "Will this work, Emma?" she checks innocently.
Emma doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, she simply returns the look and purrs, "I know you are, and I worry so," as she pushes through the door ahead of her younger sister.
Telepath indeed. The alcove is a pleasant place, empty of crowds on the physical plane, and with the present-absent knot in the mental aether of a psionicist capable of keeping her thoughts and her emotions to herself. Tick-tick-tick goes Jean's stylus against the Palm's screen, as her free hand lifts to adjust the set of a slim pair of reading glasses.
Those 'I'm not really here' blotches always fascinate Cordelia. Through the emotional din of the crowd, her own psionic ability pushes at the blankness Jean presents. Hello, what is this? Meanwhile, she steps up to Emma's side to make sure that no one will miss the pair of them. "I met a fascinating man the other night, Emma," she shares, as the pair are quickly noticed and conveyed toward a seat. The area around that alcove is such a nice area! They're led that way. "A Doctor al-Razi. He said he knew you?"
Emma is used to being noticed, but not quite in the same way as Cordelia. REALLY. An incipient headache is already pinching the corner of her eyes, and she shields harder as she slides into a chair. Bahir's mention only increases the tension. "Bahir. Yes. We are acquainted." No doubt their voices carry, if nothing else.
The voices, the own viciously intense little bubble of not-here that surrounds Emma... The name, in particular, is what causes Jean's head to poke up from her consideration of the relative appetizer merits of scallops in a Bearnaise sauce versus French Onion soup. There is the mental equivalent of a narrow-eyed << Ah. >> before her attention drops to her menu again, hiccuping a bit as it intercepts Cordelia in passing.
Without being able to poke and prod at Emma's reaction to the conversation, Cordie amuses herself psionically by chasing after not-here bubble in the next booth. Empathy pushes it's curious tendrils at Jean firmly. "Acquainted," she says aloud, picking at the choice of words. "You don't like him?" she asks, her pierced bottom lip pursing out in a tremendous little pout.
"I don't /dislike/ him. He is simply someone I am familiar with. Nothing less." Nothing more, oh no, not at all! A waiter approaches with remarkable speed to take drink orders, Emma settling for water. Jean's mental 'ah' is like a buff of air against Emma's mental fortifications, it stirs little.
Unfurled enough to be communicative, the well of not-there that is Jean stirs in a slow gyre of interest, meeting the curious tendrils of empathy and giving them vague hints of lively curiosity, glimmering in the depths like shipwreck gold. Ticky-tick-tick goes the stylus again, before Jean stows it away at the waiter's approach. The soup it is, and a quiet-voiced request directs a bottle of ice wine be sent to the other women's table, compliments of Jean. Smiling at some private joke in the message, she settles back in her seat, and studies the menu once more. Entrees are even more of a challenge than appetizers, apparently.
Cordelia likewise goes with water. Though hers with lemon! "Hm. Well, he did mention something about a brother...?" Again, the combination of being unable to chase Emma's reactions and the temptation of Jean's shipwreck send empathy's tentacles surging after the gold buried below like some horrible octopus or squid. 20,000 League Under Jean's Braincase.
Emma goes stiff, her shielding flashing a neon sign of red and black that fades into a stain. "He had a brother," Emma confirms stonily. The waiter is REMARKABLY quick with that wine. It arrives, along with Jean's message, and Emma's brows raise. She doesn't do anything so gauche as to crane her neck to look, but she does extend an invitation to join them through the waiter. How polite they all are!
Waiters in restaurants such as this one are spared the everyday drama of the hoi polloi finding something amiss with their french fries. Can we blame them for being quick to engineer something of potential interest to spy on? The thought-octopus is made swiftly aware of the dangers of shipwrecks, as the questing arm is all of a sudden caught in a toothy grip, and a toothy mental grin. << Careful. >> is suggested on a private band, twirled and twined back up the tendril to its source. The pressure releases, and the depths swallow the gleam of gold as the waiter reappears and ferries the message. Emma may not look, but there is the scrape of a chair to herald Jean's place, followed shortly by her appearance at the sisters' table, all politely serene smile. "Emma, how kind of you to invite me."
The octopus pulls back. Cordelia is not used to playing with this kind of resistence. This is far from fair. The sulk bleeds out in a weak broadcast, sure to darken people's moods at the tables around them. However, she is all pink and smiles at the redhead appearing at their table. "Doctor Grey," she immediately purrs. "I've seen you on TV." The younger Frost sister is so very tacky.
Nothing at all like her sister. RIGHT? Emma curls forward, lacing her fingers under her chin and pinning a napkin under her elbow. "It's the least I could do. The wine is lovely." Something of quiet desperation leaks through the raw, stained shielding. "My sister, Cordelia." Doesn't that explain a lot? Cordelia obviously already knows Jean. "Please, join us if you haven't already eaten."
What restrained-once-more emotions colour Jean's own mind are a complicated thing. There is, naturally, a hint of schaudenfreude as even St. Grey can't help see the humour in the contrasts between the siblings, 'nor in that leaking desperation. But, oddly enough, there is the shy peek of sympathy as well, one older and wiser woman to another, for all it is most jealously guarded. "Just ordered, not yet delivered," she assures, smile widening a moment as she bobs her head. "The scallops seemed tempting, but a good Bearnaise sauce is so hard to get right, and I've never eaten here before... and a pleasure, Cordelia," she assures, offering a brief handclasp across the table as she seats herself. Because she is well-mannered and well-trained, she refrains from visible winces at the younger Frost's fashion sense, and instead wonders "Are you visiting New York, then? I'm sure your sister will be a wonderful guide to the culture."
"Oh no, I'll be staying," Cordelia bubble to Jean. The smile as devoid of intellect as Paris Hilton in an acting role shines once more as she clasps the older woman's hand in return. "I have already met so many interesting people here, yourself included, that I couldn't /dream/ of going back to the mundanity of Boston." She looks across the table, playing the part of the younger sister seeking approval in her smile to Emma. Under the surface, however, the warning she recieved from Jean and the connection of the face to it makes things so much more intriguing. She is definitely keeping a psionic eye on the redhead.
Emma's nose crinkles slightly, and she barely refrains from sighing in the face of that well-acted puppy-dog look. Not that she, oddly, even bothers to keep it out of her thoughts. "She is looking for an apartment. I don't suppose you know of one?" << Preferably as far away from me a possible. >> She folds her menu and reaches for the water glass.
"Oh, Boston's got its own charms," Jean reflects, idly twirling the stem of an empty wineglass between finger and thumb. "Ignore the smell of the harbour, and there are few things finer than sitting on a patio on a warm fall day, watching the sailboats go by." Small talk as much an automatic reflex for her as it is for the Sisters Frost, her mind is free to peer back at Cordelia's, edged with gilt amusement. "But I have to confess, my own apartment-hunting is a bit limited. I was keeping a flat at the Greenwich Apartments, but then there was that missile... have you considered the East Village or SoHo?" << Tried convincing her that slumming it with the proles is the way to go? >>
Cordelia looks a little baffled and a little dumb. "I don't really know why you would want to look at boats. What's fun about that?" She waves a hand airily though, dismissing the confusion. "I thought maybe somewhere overlooking Central Park. I hear those places are really nice!" And cost many millions. A strand of pink hair is brushed back from her face by a hand with nails polished in black. "Do you not live in the city now, Doctor Grey?"
<< She'd just try to bring them all back to the Club with her, >> Emma retorts dryly, taking a sip from her glass as she does so.
<< I am suddenly very glad -I'm- the younger sister. >> Jean murmurs mentally, eyes twinkling as she turns her empty wineglass into a full one. << Although I have to say I was never involved in a hit-and-run with a Hot Topic. >> But the humour in the mental tone is delicate, almost kindly, the sort derived from years of studying the sartorial fashions of teenagers, even if Cordelia is a good decade older than most of them. "Not permanently, no," she says aloud. "I took a year's sabbatical from teaching to focus on setting up my biotech firm a few years ago, but I'm now back to spending most of my time out in Westchester, with trips in for the hospital or the business. But honestly, I find the Central Park View apartments to be a little overrated," she offers, in the tones of a confidence and with a lean in to match. "The majority of them seem to be for people with more money than brains..."
Emma chokes a little on her water glass and shoots Jean a wickedly amused glance.
Cordelia looks like she missed any potential for a dig there. Her blue eyes blink and she looks to her sister. "Do you have one of them, Emma?" Her tone is a little hushed, a little conspiratorial. She is just checking!
"Oh, I'm sure if Emma does, it will be one of the exceptions to the rule," Jean offers smoothly, with a bat of her lashes over green eyes.
"I do not, but feel free to look, Delia. I'm sure you would fit right in there," Emma carols sweetly to her younger sister. She even refrains from pointing out that /actually/, Cordelia doesn't have either!
Cordelia immediately looks wounded. Her bottom lip pushes out again, her eyes a little widened and looking as if tears may appear at any moment. "That's mean," she complains, as a wave of empathy designed to stir pity for her pushes outward on habit. It pushes with a perhaps surprising strength against Jean's shields and seems to ignore Emma entirely.
Jean's shields flex against empathy's push, deforming like a sheet of rubber and pushing the influence away. (The unshielded waiter, bringing in the appetizers, is left to feel wholly guilty over some mental commentary about whether or not Cordelia's outfit is complete with a tramp stamp and perhaps Britney Spears on an iPod.) Nevertheless, even if blatant manipulation fails, Jean is left looking thoughtful, and offers that "You know... I probably have a few contacts left over from my own apartment hunting. If Emma can be convinced to lend you to me for an afternoon some time, I'd be glad to go with you if I can find a free space in my schedule."
Poor waiter. Emma startles, the reflexive action shielded mostly by a covert glance between the two, and a tiny pause before a slow smile spreads across her lips. "I'm sure that can be arranged, if you don't mind, Jean, darling?" she asks, as if the pair of them were society matrons deciding on a social engagement for a sheltered young virgin. As if.
Cordelia's virtue is spotless, thank you. She smiles brightly and vapidly at Jean. "That would be really nice of you. It's so hard, trying to put roots down in a new city. I hardly would know where to begin without my darling sister to guide me." Because clearly, Cordie is highly influence by Emma.
There are, after all, creams that can help with cases of virtue-spots in this era of modern medicine. "Oh, not at all, Emma dear," Jean assures, with a little flutter of one hand, and an appraising study of Cordelia. "I assume I can reach you through the Club when I've sorted out my schedule?"
Emma returns the smile with just as much sincerity. "Jean is quite the little saint," she murmurs archly.
Cordelia smiles brightly to Jean. "You can. I am staying there until I have an apartment sorted out. Maybe with your help!" She is oh so sincere in her thanks. These three women are just so genuine and warm!
"And if not, at least you'll have been able to get some ideas on the housing market. If you're looking to buy, it's one of the few upsides to the usual New York City chaos that there's been a reasonably steady drop in prices over the past few years." Jean's emotions may be guarded, but as her soup arrives, and the guilty waiter finds himself most uncharacteristically bringing Cordelia an on the house lobster bisque, there's a bit of genuine, if wry, amusement shading her smile. "Outside predictions say that Grand Central Station should be fully restored in time for people to panic over the remains of Loki in February. One might be able to take advantage of panic selling then, and secure a place nice and near to the transit hubs."
Emma takes the opportunity herself to settle back and watch the exchange, for once being able to watch her sister interact without being the focus of her attention. More or less.
Pleased with herself, Cordelia nibbles at her ill-gotten soup gains. She spends the rest of their shared lunch chatting and generally portraying herself as harmless and dumb. Probably grating on Emma the entire way.
Probably.