Fiona; Magneto
12/13/2007
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A small, comfortable little place, this: a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea; the atmosphere is thick with comfort, not desperate sophistication.
After an hour or two of trying to get something accomplished in her apartment, Fiona steps into the White Room, somewhere she's never been but walked by a few times. Looking around slowly, she wanders towards the counter, glancing over their menu. After lunch, she's in the mood for something sweet. Hopefully they have desserts, like a brownie or something. That sounds good.
The woman who enters after Fiona is a bit less meandering. She enters with purpose and bustle, hand resting firmly on the strap of her briefcase as she falls into place behind Fiona and settles her gaze on the other woman rather than the menu.
Feeling someone behind her, Fiona briefly glances back to confirm that there is someone there. She makes her order, pays for it, then steps aside as she waits for it to be brought out, glancing at the clearly impatient woman once again, tucking her hair back a little from her face. She seriously needs to wear braids more often if it's going to continue to be windy. Blah.
The clearly impatient woman glances back and then pauses. Brows lift at Fiona, expectant, before she steps forward to place her own order with the swiftness of one accustomed to the shop.
Patience is something that Fiona has, fortunately. Now that she has a better look at the woman, she smiles a little. "Hello, again." She tries to strike up a conversation. "How is Lethe?" She asks, partially out of curiosity, partially to maybe jog the other woman's memory.
"Lethe." Elizabeth turns to study Fiona with an exceedingly dry expression as memory jogs to place her. It may have been better if it had not. After a weighty pause, she replies, "Lethe is doing fine."
Fiona nods quietly. She can't personally think of anything unpleasant about their last meeting, but apparently the other woman has. Not that Fiona is quick to pick up on this. "That's good. I apologize if I made a bad impression last time I saw you." She offers honestly, taking her drink and plate from the barista, nodding to Elizabeth politely as she turns to survey the seating for a place to sit.
Dark brows rise oh-so-slowly as Elizabeth studies Fiona. "On the contrary," she assures, quite polite. "You made very little impression at all."
Fiona nods quietly. "Well, no impression is better than a bad one." She states quietly with a small smile, suddenly feeling a little uneasy about having said anything to Elizabeth. Also, this leaves her at a loss for anything else to say, so she covers that by taking a drink from her coffee mug.
"Is it?" The question is, to all appearances, a serious one.
"In my experience, at least, it implies that an opinion has not been formed about the person. Or the person has decided just not to care. Which may be the same reaction as a poor impression." Fiona muses quietly, shaking her head as she thinks about that for a few moments, then shrugs again.
"You would prefer to be entirely forgettable?"
Frowning, Fiona considers this. "Well, when you put it that way, no." Sighing a little, she takes another drink out of her coffee cup.
"I didn't realize I had put it another way," Elizabeth responds dryly.
Fiona is getting a little annoyed at this point, shaking her head. "I suppose you didn't." She concedes, glancing at Elizabeth for a moment before looking away again.
Ah, annoyance. It is an emotion with which she is quite familiar. A vague smile crosses Elizabeth's features before she turns to accept her drink, now ready.
"I will not keep you. You seemed to be in a hurry." Fiona states with a brief nod to Elizabeth, picking at her brownie slightly.
"How terribly kind of you," Elizabeth remarks.
Fiona snorts a little, suddenly having the desire to return home. A slight look of disgust is given, but she doesn't speak, not really having anything to say. In this battle of wits, she fails. So instead, she slowly moves away from the counter and towards a seat.
Elizabeth procurs her coffee, a seat, and her work. Another few moments and then she's lost to concentration.
Mystique is nice to strangers.
=NYC= Erik's Loft - Stvol's - The Docks
A smallish, rundown loft apartment over Stvol's, this place has an aged-but-unfinished look about it that makes it feel more like an attic than a living space. The half-kitchen is open to the living area, which features a single couch and a black and a small television on a wooden crate. The floors are unfinished wood, as is the peaked ceiling, and the walls are a simple white. Aside from a single warm lamp in the living area, lighting is scarce.
Magneto has not been home for very long. He has, however, taken the time to shower before dropping down onto the corner of his couch nearest the television with a banana, dressed semi-comfortably in black slacks and a blue dress shirt. He is watching national geographic. There is a rhinocerous.
The woman who enters Stvols is not Elizabeth Kane, however much she may dislike abandoning that guise with any regularity. She does, however, carry a bag of purchases bought with Elizabeth Kane's money, and it dangles heavily from one hand as she mounts the stairs to the apartment above the bar and knocks swiftly. She's ridiculously young today, early twenties at latest, with a bounce of blonde hair and a bubbly smile.
Scruffy jaw working slowly about a bite of banana as one rhinocerous makes an awkward attempt to mount another, he looks aside at the knock. Caught somewhat off guard, he finishes chewing and swallows to manage a somewhat strangled, "Who is it?" while he reaches for the remote control.
"Amanda!" Says the perky blonde, and she positively bounces up on her toes in chipper cheer. She lifts the bag, as if someone is watching, to show that she's brought him /gifts/.
With the rhinocerous finally on mute, remote in one hand and banana in the other, Erik squints at the door. "Wrong apartment," he decides eventually.
"Come on, grumpy pants," Amanda chides happily. "I've brought you some /pressies/!"
After a moment of odd silence, Erik drops the remote control and pushes to his feet. He paces around the couch, black socks silent over wooden slats until he has reached the door, which he then unlocks and cracks open enough to peer suspiciously through.
In the wait, Amanda has aquired glitter eyeshadow and lip gloss that positively /glistens/ in the light. She smiles sunnily and wedges as much of her as will fit into the door. "Gonna let me in?" she wonders.
Not anticipating another forced entry, the door jarrs in to catch Erik in the shoulder, but he does step back out of the way, banana and all. He looks disconcerted.
Amanda's smile widens a touch and she bounces up to press a kiss on Erik's cheek before she swings her way toward the couch with a cheery giggle. She lifts the bag again. "Wanna see?"
Magneto's cheek is like sandpaper, and rather than really respond, he leans to peer out through the door and down the staircase. There is no one else. This determined, he closes and locks the door, then paces back towards the kitchen, taking another bite of banana as he goes. "Alright."
From the bag, Amanda pulls out a set of sheets - rather nice sheets, mind, with a suitably high threadcount and a deep, dark wine color. She turns with a wide, /wide/ smile, and now she's acquired braces. They shine cutely at her teeth. Bling!
"That's domestic of you," says Erik once he has swallowed, and also once he has acquired a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet that is devoid of anything else but a loaf of bread. He pours himself a glass.
"I /know/, right?" Amanda says, eyes widening to sorority-girl seriousness. "C'mere," she requests, dropping the sheets to the couch as she crooks a finger and beckons at him with a smoldering (sparkling) look beneath her lashes.
Banana and whiskey. The very picture of class tonight, Erik manages to down the glass in two swallows. The second serves to knock the breath out of him, but his right hand is stable enough as it recaps the bottle, and he's managed to inhale again by the time he's padded tolerantly back to the couch.
Amanda reaches out to curl her fingers into the fabric of Erik's shirt and reel him in, laughing a low, quiet laugh as she does. "Come now, Erik," she says. "Have a little fun."
"I am having fun," says Erik, who concedes to loop an arm around her waist before lifts his other hand to take the last bite of his banana. "Also, I am having a banana. You're in a good mood."
"It happens occasionally," Mystique murmurs with a silly, perky smile. "I saw her on the way home this evening and I found it difficult to resist." A flash of metal and she adds, "I added the braces. A nice touch, I think. I might try this one the next time I break someone's bones. So /unexpected/."
No comment from Erik, who chews his final bit of banana in considering silence, only to find that he has no excuse not to speak once he's swallowed it. His chewing slows.
"How's the banana?" she wonders sweetly. Blonde brows arch delicately upward.
"An eight. On a scale of ten." Earnest in his rating, Erik finally does swallow.
"Excellent." So judged, Mystique pulls back from the grip around her waist to dig into the bag. She pulls the sheets free once more, and in her bend she gains several years and loses a substantial amount of shine. If Erik doesn't want to /play/. "I brought you tolerable sheets," she announces. "I considered a duvet, but I thought it might be a bit much for you."
Magneto exhales mild relief when she pulls back and ages, whiskey and banana breath an interesting sort of aroma in proximity. "They are very nice. I do not know what a duvet is, so I will trust your judgment there."
"It is a bed covering, Erik. Rhinocerouses?"
"I enjoy the occasional rhinocerous."
"I see. Is it the wrinkles?"
"No."
Blonde brows, somewhat less delicate, rise again as Mystique looks up from the task of opening new sheets to focus on Erik.
Tired, and decidedly somber despite the whiskey tracking quickly through his system, Erik knits his brows back at her. They are distinctly less delicate. "What?"
"Rhinocerouses," Mystique promptps in patient reminder.
"They have a fascinating physiology." Mildly defensive, he looks at her rather as if her own persistent curiosity is suspect.
"Also wrinkles," Mystique says, and she straightens to watch him seriously for a few seconds before she winks at him and gathers sheets in her arms. She disappears shortly toward the bedroom.
"Hff," says Erik, who turns to resume his previous seat once she has gone. His right hand eventually lifts to rub over his face, self-conscious of his own prominant wrinkles, perhaps, but he does not reach to unmute the television.
From the bedroom, the sounds of a bed being stripped and then systematically remade are clear. It is not a particularly quick process.
Stirred awake by the redressing of the bed that he may well have been sleeping on, Achilled stumps out of the bedroom and into the living area to nose after the banana peel resting upon the couch arm next to Erik. Rather than tell him not to, Erik simply lowers the hand at his face to push it down over Achilles', blocking his access.
Mystique returns eventually, arms loaded with bedding of a rather lesser nature, which she dumps in a pile near the door before glancing toward Erik with a frown.
Unaware that he is being observed, Erik is in the process of pushing the loose skin bunched down over Achilles' eyes up onto his forehead. Facelift!
That teases a faint smile from Mystique's frown, and she moves forward to lean into the back of the couch. "He's very tolerant," she murmurs.
"I feed him," says Erik, who pushes the dog's brows back down again.
"Very kind of you."
"I tend to think so." For all the mild abuse that he is suffering, Achilles wags his tail in a slow, dopy arc.
There is a period of silence from behind the couch, in which Mystique alternately watches Erik and the dog.
Magneto pulls the dog's jowls into a mildly retarded grin, but can hold it only for so long before he chuckles and settles back into the couch. Meanwhile Achilles nips the banana peel off the armrest and skirts it off into a corner to tear it into tiny pieces. He will have interesting poop later.
Another smile flickers and then fades as Mystique watches them. Her arms fold light against the back of the couch and her weight shifts into it with the lean.
Denied further distraction in the form of Achilles, Erik dusts dog hairs off the palms of his hands and simply sits for a few seconds. "Well. In light of the fact that I've no new ideas on saving the planet, we could give the new sheets an experimental run."
The suggestion is met with a silence of several seconds. Long enough for the pause to seem somewhat awkward. Eventually Mystique wonders in tones dropped to her native hollow voice and edged with something dangerously close to concern, "Are you quite all right, Erik?"
There is a pause from Erik as well. His forehead creases, and his brows knit. "I'm not entirely certain." There is another pause, then he turns enough to peer dubiously up at her. "I think that I may be hallucinating."
That was clearly not the response she expected. Mystique straightens abruptly and circles the couch, scaled and blue in the comfort of his company. Her perch on the edge of the couch is light and careful. "At this moment?"
"Er," says Erik, who sits up a bit straighter and considers the benefits of a backpeddle when she appears concerned. "Perhaps not."
"Just in general." There is a dry undercurrent to her tone. Simply clarifying.
"No." This is awkward. Erik eyes her.
"Erik." The note of exasperation is both clear and familiar.
"Yes?" Likewise, Erik's obstinance in a lack of explanation is familiar.
"You think that you may be hallucinating," Mystique reminds.
"I wasn't entirely serious."
"You weren't entirely unserious."
"So -- that is a no on the sex, then." Chin tucked somewhat, Erik attempts a subtle subject change.
Silence. Mystique studies Erik with a gaze gone somewhat cool and considers her composure. Eventually she says carefully, "I am confused, Erik."
"So am I," Erik admits after a moment -- less coolly, if somewhat warily. "Are you feeling alright?"
"I was feeling quite well until I walked in your door, and now I have no idea what it is that I should feel. Why am I here?"
"Do you not know?" Now it is Erik's turn to look mildly concerned.
"I thought I did. But we seem to be running in the same circles we always have." Mystique's gaze remains on his, steady.
"Circles? I -- Raven. You came in wearing...braces." More muddled than he is frustrated, Erik furrows his brow at her while Achilles smacks and chomps happily away on his banana rind.
"It was a /joke/, Erik. If it bothers you, I won't do it again. I cannot walk in the door as myself, you know." Mystique's frown creases slightly as she stares at him. "I fail to see what that has to do with your refusal to talk to me."
"I am not refusing to talk to you. You are strangely cheerful, that is all." Uncomfortable, now, Erik pushes up onto his feet, one knee popping along the way.
"Circles," Mystique says again, head lifting to watch his rise.
Now there is frustration. Erik's chest puffs. His shoulders set. His hands lift in exasperation. "What do you want me to talk about?"
"I was thinking the part where you just told me you were hallucinating," Mystique suggests.
"Likewise, it was a joke, my dear." His hands fall. Simple explanation!
Elizabeth falls into a silence that could be taken as disbelief or acceptance. Most probably the former. She does not, however, protest further. She watches him steadily, yellow eyes a bright glow.
Mystique falls into a silence that could be taken as disbelief or acceptance. Most probably the former. She does not, however, protest further. She watches him steadily, yellow eyes a bright glow.
"I am fine. Simply unaccustomed to you bouncing into my apartment with glitter and /pressies/. Achilles, /no/." The last is tacked on in a gruff aside when the dog's smacking finally eats through the last of his patience.
"I'll restrain myself in the future," Mystique answers in a tone that says very little and eyes that say she does not quite believe him.
Magneto chuckles. He can't help it. It is an odd, worn out and not particularly humor-inspired chuckle. "You don't believe me."
"You don't generally work so hard to avoid a subject when you are simply making a joke."
"I was trying not to hurt your feelings with the truth, which is that I have no idea what you are here for." Back to the kitchen. That is where the booze is!
"You would prefer that I were not here," Mystique surmises, rising but not following him.
"You are more than welcome to be here. I enjoy your company, Raven. Moreso when it is not entirely bizarre, admittedly." The bottle cap goes plunk, and Erik tilts the whiskey to pour himself a second round.
Mystique's sigh is quiet, but still entirely audible. Her footsteps are less so, unless one is quite accustomed to the way she moves across the floor in bare feet. Her arrival in the kitchen may have some small measure of surprise, then, and her shift to adjust things so that she can pin Erik between the warm press of herself and the counter another.
It is many decades of experience that keeps Erik from spilling his whiskey even in the process of being pinned even when it catches him off guard. Some adjustment is needed to sip with her in such close proximity, but he does manage it. "Hello again."
"Hi," Mystique says, and she lifts a hand to take the glass from him and slide it safely to the counter behind him. The tug of her other hand urges his head the short distance down to hers and she kisses him.
Magneto does not protest. If anything, he is rather comfortable about the whole affair of kissing and respositioning his whiskey hand upon her rear. Satisfied that he is no longer being monitored, Achilles goes back to the banana.
There is a different sort of sigh now, one of faint satisfaction and anticipation that breathes into Erik with a breath that smells primarily of coffee and sugar. She remains there for awhile, pressing him back into the counter with the lean of her weight while she reaccustoms herself to kissing him when not in the throes of violent passion. For the moment.
Nose wrinkled against coffee breath, Erik pushes away from the counter with clear intent to turn her back around into it so that he may have greater leverage in repositioning his hands somewhat roughly to their customary positions for this sort of thing.
In the first try, Mystique responds with a clear shove backwards, counter to his push, and she breaks away just long enough to grin briefly at him before she leans in again and spends a moment considering the line of his jaw. A second attempt would find her more willing.
The next shove is less of a question and more of a certainty forceful enough to jar the cabinets, which makes her compliance convenient. The line of his jaw is made somewhat inhospitibal by the abrasive bristle that resides there anyway.
Magneto and Mystique miscommunicate. Surprise!
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A small, comfortable little place, this: a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea; the atmosphere is thick with comfort, not desperate sophistication.
After an hour or two of trying to get something accomplished in her apartment, Fiona steps into the White Room, somewhere she's never been but walked by a few times. Looking around slowly, she wanders towards the counter, glancing over their menu. After lunch, she's in the mood for something sweet. Hopefully they have desserts, like a brownie or something. That sounds good.
The woman who enters after Fiona is a bit less meandering. She enters with purpose and bustle, hand resting firmly on the strap of her briefcase as she falls into place behind Fiona and settles her gaze on the other woman rather than the menu.
Feeling someone behind her, Fiona briefly glances back to confirm that there is someone there. She makes her order, pays for it, then steps aside as she waits for it to be brought out, glancing at the clearly impatient woman once again, tucking her hair back a little from her face. She seriously needs to wear braids more often if it's going to continue to be windy. Blah.
The clearly impatient woman glances back and then pauses. Brows lift at Fiona, expectant, before she steps forward to place her own order with the swiftness of one accustomed to the shop.
Patience is something that Fiona has, fortunately. Now that she has a better look at the woman, she smiles a little. "Hello, again." She tries to strike up a conversation. "How is Lethe?" She asks, partially out of curiosity, partially to maybe jog the other woman's memory.
"Lethe." Elizabeth turns to study Fiona with an exceedingly dry expression as memory jogs to place her. It may have been better if it had not. After a weighty pause, she replies, "Lethe is doing fine."
Fiona nods quietly. She can't personally think of anything unpleasant about their last meeting, but apparently the other woman has. Not that Fiona is quick to pick up on this. "That's good. I apologize if I made a bad impression last time I saw you." She offers honestly, taking her drink and plate from the barista, nodding to Elizabeth politely as she turns to survey the seating for a place to sit.
Dark brows rise oh-so-slowly as Elizabeth studies Fiona. "On the contrary," she assures, quite polite. "You made very little impression at all."
Fiona nods quietly. "Well, no impression is better than a bad one." She states quietly with a small smile, suddenly feeling a little uneasy about having said anything to Elizabeth. Also, this leaves her at a loss for anything else to say, so she covers that by taking a drink from her coffee mug.
"Is it?" The question is, to all appearances, a serious one.
"In my experience, at least, it implies that an opinion has not been formed about the person. Or the person has decided just not to care. Which may be the same reaction as a poor impression." Fiona muses quietly, shaking her head as she thinks about that for a few moments, then shrugs again.
"You would prefer to be entirely forgettable?"
Frowning, Fiona considers this. "Well, when you put it that way, no." Sighing a little, she takes another drink out of her coffee cup.
"I didn't realize I had put it another way," Elizabeth responds dryly.
Fiona is getting a little annoyed at this point, shaking her head. "I suppose you didn't." She concedes, glancing at Elizabeth for a moment before looking away again.
Ah, annoyance. It is an emotion with which she is quite familiar. A vague smile crosses Elizabeth's features before she turns to accept her drink, now ready.
"I will not keep you. You seemed to be in a hurry." Fiona states with a brief nod to Elizabeth, picking at her brownie slightly.
"How terribly kind of you," Elizabeth remarks.
Fiona snorts a little, suddenly having the desire to return home. A slight look of disgust is given, but she doesn't speak, not really having anything to say. In this battle of wits, she fails. So instead, she slowly moves away from the counter and towards a seat.
Elizabeth procurs her coffee, a seat, and her work. Another few moments and then she's lost to concentration.
Mystique is nice to strangers.
=NYC= Erik's Loft - Stvol's - The Docks
A smallish, rundown loft apartment over Stvol's, this place has an aged-but-unfinished look about it that makes it feel more like an attic than a living space. The half-kitchen is open to the living area, which features a single couch and a black and a small television on a wooden crate. The floors are unfinished wood, as is the peaked ceiling, and the walls are a simple white. Aside from a single warm lamp in the living area, lighting is scarce.
Magneto has not been home for very long. He has, however, taken the time to shower before dropping down onto the corner of his couch nearest the television with a banana, dressed semi-comfortably in black slacks and a blue dress shirt. He is watching national geographic. There is a rhinocerous.
The woman who enters Stvols is not Elizabeth Kane, however much she may dislike abandoning that guise with any regularity. She does, however, carry a bag of purchases bought with Elizabeth Kane's money, and it dangles heavily from one hand as she mounts the stairs to the apartment above the bar and knocks swiftly. She's ridiculously young today, early twenties at latest, with a bounce of blonde hair and a bubbly smile.
Scruffy jaw working slowly about a bite of banana as one rhinocerous makes an awkward attempt to mount another, he looks aside at the knock. Caught somewhat off guard, he finishes chewing and swallows to manage a somewhat strangled, "Who is it?" while he reaches for the remote control.
"Amanda!" Says the perky blonde, and she positively bounces up on her toes in chipper cheer. She lifts the bag, as if someone is watching, to show that she's brought him /gifts/.
With the rhinocerous finally on mute, remote in one hand and banana in the other, Erik squints at the door. "Wrong apartment," he decides eventually.
"Come on, grumpy pants," Amanda chides happily. "I've brought you some /pressies/!"
After a moment of odd silence, Erik drops the remote control and pushes to his feet. He paces around the couch, black socks silent over wooden slats until he has reached the door, which he then unlocks and cracks open enough to peer suspiciously through.
In the wait, Amanda has aquired glitter eyeshadow and lip gloss that positively /glistens/ in the light. She smiles sunnily and wedges as much of her as will fit into the door. "Gonna let me in?" she wonders.
Not anticipating another forced entry, the door jarrs in to catch Erik in the shoulder, but he does step back out of the way, banana and all. He looks disconcerted.
Amanda's smile widens a touch and she bounces up to press a kiss on Erik's cheek before she swings her way toward the couch with a cheery giggle. She lifts the bag again. "Wanna see?"
Magneto's cheek is like sandpaper, and rather than really respond, he leans to peer out through the door and down the staircase. There is no one else. This determined, he closes and locks the door, then paces back towards the kitchen, taking another bite of banana as he goes. "Alright."
From the bag, Amanda pulls out a set of sheets - rather nice sheets, mind, with a suitably high threadcount and a deep, dark wine color. She turns with a wide, /wide/ smile, and now she's acquired braces. They shine cutely at her teeth. Bling!
"That's domestic of you," says Erik once he has swallowed, and also once he has acquired a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet that is devoid of anything else but a loaf of bread. He pours himself a glass.
"I /know/, right?" Amanda says, eyes widening to sorority-girl seriousness. "C'mere," she requests, dropping the sheets to the couch as she crooks a finger and beckons at him with a smoldering (sparkling) look beneath her lashes.
Banana and whiskey. The very picture of class tonight, Erik manages to down the glass in two swallows. The second serves to knock the breath out of him, but his right hand is stable enough as it recaps the bottle, and he's managed to inhale again by the time he's padded tolerantly back to the couch.
Amanda reaches out to curl her fingers into the fabric of Erik's shirt and reel him in, laughing a low, quiet laugh as she does. "Come now, Erik," she says. "Have a little fun."
"I am having fun," says Erik, who concedes to loop an arm around her waist before lifts his other hand to take the last bite of his banana. "Also, I am having a banana. You're in a good mood."
"It happens occasionally," Mystique murmurs with a silly, perky smile. "I saw her on the way home this evening and I found it difficult to resist." A flash of metal and she adds, "I added the braces. A nice touch, I think. I might try this one the next time I break someone's bones. So /unexpected/."
No comment from Erik, who chews his final bit of banana in considering silence, only to find that he has no excuse not to speak once he's swallowed it. His chewing slows.
"How's the banana?" she wonders sweetly. Blonde brows arch delicately upward.
"An eight. On a scale of ten." Earnest in his rating, Erik finally does swallow.
"Excellent." So judged, Mystique pulls back from the grip around her waist to dig into the bag. She pulls the sheets free once more, and in her bend she gains several years and loses a substantial amount of shine. If Erik doesn't want to /play/. "I brought you tolerable sheets," she announces. "I considered a duvet, but I thought it might be a bit much for you."
Magneto exhales mild relief when she pulls back and ages, whiskey and banana breath an interesting sort of aroma in proximity. "They are very nice. I do not know what a duvet is, so I will trust your judgment there."
"It is a bed covering, Erik. Rhinocerouses?"
"I enjoy the occasional rhinocerous."
"I see. Is it the wrinkles?"
"No."
Blonde brows, somewhat less delicate, rise again as Mystique looks up from the task of opening new sheets to focus on Erik.
Tired, and decidedly somber despite the whiskey tracking quickly through his system, Erik knits his brows back at her. They are distinctly less delicate. "What?"
"Rhinocerouses," Mystique promptps in patient reminder.
"They have a fascinating physiology." Mildly defensive, he looks at her rather as if her own persistent curiosity is suspect.
"Also wrinkles," Mystique says, and she straightens to watch him seriously for a few seconds before she winks at him and gathers sheets in her arms. She disappears shortly toward the bedroom.
"Hff," says Erik, who turns to resume his previous seat once she has gone. His right hand eventually lifts to rub over his face, self-conscious of his own prominant wrinkles, perhaps, but he does not reach to unmute the television.
From the bedroom, the sounds of a bed being stripped and then systematically remade are clear. It is not a particularly quick process.
Stirred awake by the redressing of the bed that he may well have been sleeping on, Achilled stumps out of the bedroom and into the living area to nose after the banana peel resting upon the couch arm next to Erik. Rather than tell him not to, Erik simply lowers the hand at his face to push it down over Achilles', blocking his access.
Mystique returns eventually, arms loaded with bedding of a rather lesser nature, which she dumps in a pile near the door before glancing toward Erik with a frown.
Unaware that he is being observed, Erik is in the process of pushing the loose skin bunched down over Achilles' eyes up onto his forehead. Facelift!
That teases a faint smile from Mystique's frown, and she moves forward to lean into the back of the couch. "He's very tolerant," she murmurs.
"I feed him," says Erik, who pushes the dog's brows back down again.
"Very kind of you."
"I tend to think so." For all the mild abuse that he is suffering, Achilles wags his tail in a slow, dopy arc.
There is a period of silence from behind the couch, in which Mystique alternately watches Erik and the dog.
Magneto pulls the dog's jowls into a mildly retarded grin, but can hold it only for so long before he chuckles and settles back into the couch. Meanwhile Achilles nips the banana peel off the armrest and skirts it off into a corner to tear it into tiny pieces. He will have interesting poop later.
Another smile flickers and then fades as Mystique watches them. Her arms fold light against the back of the couch and her weight shifts into it with the lean.
Denied further distraction in the form of Achilles, Erik dusts dog hairs off the palms of his hands and simply sits for a few seconds. "Well. In light of the fact that I've no new ideas on saving the planet, we could give the new sheets an experimental run."
The suggestion is met with a silence of several seconds. Long enough for the pause to seem somewhat awkward. Eventually Mystique wonders in tones dropped to her native hollow voice and edged with something dangerously close to concern, "Are you quite all right, Erik?"
There is a pause from Erik as well. His forehead creases, and his brows knit. "I'm not entirely certain." There is another pause, then he turns enough to peer dubiously up at her. "I think that I may be hallucinating."
That was clearly not the response she expected. Mystique straightens abruptly and circles the couch, scaled and blue in the comfort of his company. Her perch on the edge of the couch is light and careful. "At this moment?"
"Er," says Erik, who sits up a bit straighter and considers the benefits of a backpeddle when she appears concerned. "Perhaps not."
"Just in general." There is a dry undercurrent to her tone. Simply clarifying.
"No." This is awkward. Erik eyes her.
"Erik." The note of exasperation is both clear and familiar.
"Yes?" Likewise, Erik's obstinance in a lack of explanation is familiar.
"You think that you may be hallucinating," Mystique reminds.
"I wasn't entirely serious."
"You weren't entirely unserious."
"So -- that is a no on the sex, then." Chin tucked somewhat, Erik attempts a subtle subject change.
Silence. Mystique studies Erik with a gaze gone somewhat cool and considers her composure. Eventually she says carefully, "I am confused, Erik."
"So am I," Erik admits after a moment -- less coolly, if somewhat warily. "Are you feeling alright?"
"I was feeling quite well until I walked in your door, and now I have no idea what it is that I should feel. Why am I here?"
"Do you not know?" Now it is Erik's turn to look mildly concerned.
"I thought I did. But we seem to be running in the same circles we always have." Mystique's gaze remains on his, steady.
"Circles? I -- Raven. You came in wearing...braces." More muddled than he is frustrated, Erik furrows his brow at her while Achilles smacks and chomps happily away on his banana rind.
"It was a /joke/, Erik. If it bothers you, I won't do it again. I cannot walk in the door as myself, you know." Mystique's frown creases slightly as she stares at him. "I fail to see what that has to do with your refusal to talk to me."
"I am not refusing to talk to you. You are strangely cheerful, that is all." Uncomfortable, now, Erik pushes up onto his feet, one knee popping along the way.
"Circles," Mystique says again, head lifting to watch his rise.
Now there is frustration. Erik's chest puffs. His shoulders set. His hands lift in exasperation. "What do you want me to talk about?"
"I was thinking the part where you just told me you were hallucinating," Mystique suggests.
"Likewise, it was a joke, my dear." His hands fall. Simple explanation!
Elizabeth falls into a silence that could be taken as disbelief or acceptance. Most probably the former. She does not, however, protest further. She watches him steadily, yellow eyes a bright glow.
Mystique falls into a silence that could be taken as disbelief or acceptance. Most probably the former. She does not, however, protest further. She watches him steadily, yellow eyes a bright glow.
"I am fine. Simply unaccustomed to you bouncing into my apartment with glitter and /pressies/. Achilles, /no/." The last is tacked on in a gruff aside when the dog's smacking finally eats through the last of his patience.
"I'll restrain myself in the future," Mystique answers in a tone that says very little and eyes that say she does not quite believe him.
Magneto chuckles. He can't help it. It is an odd, worn out and not particularly humor-inspired chuckle. "You don't believe me."
"You don't generally work so hard to avoid a subject when you are simply making a joke."
"I was trying not to hurt your feelings with the truth, which is that I have no idea what you are here for." Back to the kitchen. That is where the booze is!
"You would prefer that I were not here," Mystique surmises, rising but not following him.
"You are more than welcome to be here. I enjoy your company, Raven. Moreso when it is not entirely bizarre, admittedly." The bottle cap goes plunk, and Erik tilts the whiskey to pour himself a second round.
Mystique's sigh is quiet, but still entirely audible. Her footsteps are less so, unless one is quite accustomed to the way she moves across the floor in bare feet. Her arrival in the kitchen may have some small measure of surprise, then, and her shift to adjust things so that she can pin Erik between the warm press of herself and the counter another.
It is many decades of experience that keeps Erik from spilling his whiskey even in the process of being pinned even when it catches him off guard. Some adjustment is needed to sip with her in such close proximity, but he does manage it. "Hello again."
"Hi," Mystique says, and she lifts a hand to take the glass from him and slide it safely to the counter behind him. The tug of her other hand urges his head the short distance down to hers and she kisses him.
Magneto does not protest. If anything, he is rather comfortable about the whole affair of kissing and respositioning his whiskey hand upon her rear. Satisfied that he is no longer being monitored, Achilles goes back to the banana.
There is a different sort of sigh now, one of faint satisfaction and anticipation that breathes into Erik with a breath that smells primarily of coffee and sugar. She remains there for awhile, pressing him back into the counter with the lean of her weight while she reaccustoms herself to kissing him when not in the throes of violent passion. For the moment.
Nose wrinkled against coffee breath, Erik pushes away from the counter with clear intent to turn her back around into it so that he may have greater leverage in repositioning his hands somewhat roughly to their customary positions for this sort of thing.
In the first try, Mystique responds with a clear shove backwards, counter to his push, and she breaks away just long enough to grin briefly at him before she leans in again and spends a moment considering the line of his jaw. A second attempt would find her more willing.
The next shove is less of a question and more of a certainty forceful enough to jar the cabinets, which makes her compliance convenient. The line of his jaw is made somewhat inhospitibal by the abrasive bristle that resides there anyway.
Magneto and Mystique miscommunicate. Surprise!