Mission accomplished ((open to Sasha))
((Edit: Forgot to specify earlier, this takes place the morning of November 9th.))
Mortimer returned home in the early hours of the morning. Instead of going inside he went into the garage. He went up to his workshop and turned on the space heater, then crouched in front of it while he waited for the room to warm up. He would think better and move better if he was warm, and he didn't want to make any mistakes now, when he was almost finished.
When his fingers stopped being stiff he stood up and traded his black and grey outfit (backup of the one that was charred at Liberty Island) and put on a sweatsuit and t-shirt that he had left for himself earlier that evening. He couldn't help smiling with satisfaction. Despite his year of retirement his old work clothes still fit perfectly.
He tossed the clothes into a bucket, then started filling it at the utility sink. When the clothes were submerged he took the bar of Fels Naptha laundry soap that he usually used to get wood-stain and varnish off his hands and t-shirts and shaved some into the bucket with a small blade of his multi-tool. He always used to use Fels on his clothes after missions; it was the only thing that got the stains out without giving him a rash next time he wore the clothes. This mission had been bloodless, but there was always sweat, and who knew what kind of skin cells a CSI team could pull off of un-washed clothes?
Maybe this would be good to use on Alured's laundry. I don't think my hippie detergent can take on baby messes.
He couldn't remember who had started him using Fels. Maybe Mystique? No, he couldn't picture her doing laundry. Though once they had teamed up to ambush Sabertooth with it and a hose. He started laughing at the memory as he swished his clothes around in the bucket.
The smell was helping him calm down, even as it brought back memories. He thought about Magneto, not as he had seen him last, but as he had been when Mortimer was a teenager, before he'd gotten quite so desperate. He wouldn't be smiling, he never seemed to smile when he was actually happy, but Mortimer learned to tell by the look in his eyes when he was pleased. He would stand there with that look in his eyes and say "You're improving, Toad," and it would be the best thing Mortimer had ever heard.
He hoped Sasha would be pleased with him.
He took the bucket outside and poured off the soapy water around the edges of the yard. (Evidence gets caught in drains.) Then he took the bucket back inside and filled it again to let the soap rinse out. He let it soak while he cleaned off his boots, scraping all the dirt clumps and pebbles from the soles onto a sheet of newspaper. That got scattered around the yard as well.
He decided to leave the bucket overnight. He wanted a shower. He could feel the dried sweat on his skin, and mission-sweat felt and tasted different from, say, workout sweat. Or so it seemed. Plus, his hair still smelled like climate-control funk and Glade air freshener from that house.
He crept inside and collected a completely fresh t-shirt and sweats from his room, then took them to the shower farthest away from the bedroom. He still wouldn't be surprised if Sasha could hear the water, but that was no reason to not make an effort to not wake her up. When he was clean and dry and dressed he put his towel and the briefly-worn sweatsuit in the hamper in his room, and retrieved a manila folder from his desk. He quietly slipped into the bedroom and sat at the foot of the bed, waiting for Sasha to wake up.
Mortimer returned home in the early hours of the morning. Instead of going inside he went into the garage. He went up to his workshop and turned on the space heater, then crouched in front of it while he waited for the room to warm up. He would think better and move better if he was warm, and he didn't want to make any mistakes now, when he was almost finished.
When his fingers stopped being stiff he stood up and traded his black and grey outfit (backup of the one that was charred at Liberty Island) and put on a sweatsuit and t-shirt that he had left for himself earlier that evening. He couldn't help smiling with satisfaction. Despite his year of retirement his old work clothes still fit perfectly.
He tossed the clothes into a bucket, then started filling it at the utility sink. When the clothes were submerged he took the bar of Fels Naptha laundry soap that he usually used to get wood-stain and varnish off his hands and t-shirts and shaved some into the bucket with a small blade of his multi-tool. He always used to use Fels on his clothes after missions; it was the only thing that got the stains out without giving him a rash next time he wore the clothes. This mission had been bloodless, but there was always sweat, and who knew what kind of skin cells a CSI team could pull off of un-washed clothes?
Maybe this would be good to use on Alured's laundry. I don't think my hippie detergent can take on baby messes.
He couldn't remember who had started him using Fels. Maybe Mystique? No, he couldn't picture her doing laundry. Though once they had teamed up to ambush Sabertooth with it and a hose. He started laughing at the memory as he swished his clothes around in the bucket.
The smell was helping him calm down, even as it brought back memories. He thought about Magneto, not as he had seen him last, but as he had been when Mortimer was a teenager, before he'd gotten quite so desperate. He wouldn't be smiling, he never seemed to smile when he was actually happy, but Mortimer learned to tell by the look in his eyes when he was pleased. He would stand there with that look in his eyes and say "You're improving, Toad," and it would be the best thing Mortimer had ever heard.
He hoped Sasha would be pleased with him.
He took the bucket outside and poured off the soapy water around the edges of the yard. (Evidence gets caught in drains.) Then he took the bucket back inside and filled it again to let the soap rinse out. He let it soak while he cleaned off his boots, scraping all the dirt clumps and pebbles from the soles onto a sheet of newspaper. That got scattered around the yard as well.
He decided to leave the bucket overnight. He wanted a shower. He could feel the dried sweat on his skin, and mission-sweat felt and tasted different from, say, workout sweat. Or so it seemed. Plus, his hair still smelled like climate-control funk and Glade air freshener from that house.
He crept inside and collected a completely fresh t-shirt and sweats from his room, then took them to the shower farthest away from the bedroom. He still wouldn't be surprised if Sasha could hear the water, but that was no reason to not make an effort to not wake her up. When he was clean and dry and dressed he put his towel and the briefly-worn sweatsuit in the hamper in his room, and retrieved a manila folder from his desk. He quietly slipped into the bedroom and sat at the foot of the bed, waiting for Sasha to wake up.