In the garden of the X-mansion
Sharp sun cast sharper shadows on the snowy grounds. Ororo pushed the old wheelbarrow along the path to the greenhouse. The wind knifed past her, carrying the sweetish scent of horse manure away from her.
Inside, Terry sat awkwardly on one of the old four-legged stools relegated to the greenhouse, her casted leg propped up on the rungs of another stool. Spread before her on the workbench was a row of broken eggshells, brown and white. Slam! came down her fist, smashing the shells into even smaller pieces. "Not taking care of meself," muttered Terry. Slam! "I've lived this long, haven't I?"
"Very long," Ororo said as she pulled open the door. "You are doing quite well for yourself, I would say."
Terry glanced up, a rather mulish expression still on her face. "Dr. McCoy isn't pleased with me at all, at all."
"What have you done?" Ororo braced the fully open door with her foot and levered the front wheel of her 'barrow over the greenhouse threshold.
"I've done too much, he says." Gloomily she turns back to the eggshells and blows a kiss at the remainder of the pile, pulverizing them into a heap of calcific sand. "I'll go mad before this leg heals. They'll keep me in a corner of the mansion and point me out to young mutants as an example to avoid."
Ororo chuckled deep in her throat. "Until you heal. Afterwards, they will tell stories about you when they think you are out of earshot."
"They probably do that anyway." Terry sweeps the former eggshells into a bucket, gazing at them with a critical eye before setting the bucket back on the workbench. "One of Cable's, after all."
Ororo likes Nathan Christopher. She liked him as an infant and she likes him as the man. His methods however...
The Irishwoman cocks a brow. "Aye?"
"Though there are many paths to the Dream, and I have walked several -- with more success on some than others. I am uneasy, though I trust him." Her shrug was eloquent. She was not every X-Man.
Terry makes her own shrug. "I joined X-force out of anger and a need to do something, at first. After the Shadow King. I stayed because I believed we were doing good."
Had Ororo's hands been other than covered with manure stained gloves, she would have put at least one on Terry's arm. "You were. At least some of the time." She parked the barrow next to Terry and her stools. "I cannot always say that and I have been at this far longer than you."
"Thank ye." Her expression is a mixture of sorrow and regret and determination. "I still think it's good work. I just don't know if I'm the one to be doing it now. So here I am."
Without thinking, Ororo nodded. "So here I am."
"And here is me leg, cracked on my first real mission, like I was some wet-behind-the-ears rookie." She glares down at the cast, then lets her shoulders slump. "Saints. Filthy Celtic twilight gets me in its clutches sometimes."
"Is that as good an explanation as any?" Ororo asks in honest curiosity.
"I suppose." She drums her fingers on the workbench. "I'm not allowed t'fly, which is what I'd like to do. I've read until my eyes are aching. I can exercise my brain all I want, but I can't keep meself from thinking of all the things I'd love to do, had I two legs."
Ororo stands. Then she sits, crossing her legs. She nods. She listens.
"I'd like t'run. Or even just walk the grounds, without having to fear for where my crutches land. I don't much fancy the worry in Da's eyes, either, though he tries to hide it."
"His worry cannot be helped. The others, most understandable." When her powers had been taken away from her...it was hard to even breathe.
"No, though I wish he'd realize I'm not Waterford crystal." She grimaces resignedly. "I'd like a Danger Room session, practice dodging things like adamantium shields being thrown at me, so I'm never caught like that again."
"Therein lies disappointment," Ororo observes. "Surely not all Danger Room scenarios have been forbidden to you?"
"They might as well be." Terry carefully brings her casted leg back to the floor and reaches for her crutches, taking the bucket of eggshells and letting it dangle from her right hand. "Well, you've got a fine mess o' wet organic matter there, and I've the dry here, plus the leaves that were brought in earlier. Shall we layer? Since Dr. McCoy hasn't forbidden me to garden yet."
"Let us layer."
The two women move outside the greenhouse to the compost pile: a 9 x 9 square formed by stacked haybales, already half-filled with decomposing material that is well on its way to becoming compost. Ororo smiles to herself. "Smell that?" she asks?
Terry sniffs. "Tis coming along nicely," she judges.
"Are you warm enough?" Ororo inquires and steps forward. Movement can be glimpsed in parts of the stack. The heat should be palpable.
"Oh, yes. It gets much colder than this in Castlebar." Terry hobbles closer and peers at the pile. "Go on, ye wee microbes. Feast away."
((written with the Storm player))
Inside, Terry sat awkwardly on one of the old four-legged stools relegated to the greenhouse, her casted leg propped up on the rungs of another stool. Spread before her on the workbench was a row of broken eggshells, brown and white. Slam! came down her fist, smashing the shells into even smaller pieces. "Not taking care of meself," muttered Terry. Slam! "I've lived this long, haven't I?"
"Very long," Ororo said as she pulled open the door. "You are doing quite well for yourself, I would say."
Terry glanced up, a rather mulish expression still on her face. "Dr. McCoy isn't pleased with me at all, at all."
"What have you done?" Ororo braced the fully open door with her foot and levered the front wheel of her 'barrow over the greenhouse threshold.
"I've done too much, he says." Gloomily she turns back to the eggshells and blows a kiss at the remainder of the pile, pulverizing them into a heap of calcific sand. "I'll go mad before this leg heals. They'll keep me in a corner of the mansion and point me out to young mutants as an example to avoid."
Ororo chuckled deep in her throat. "Until you heal. Afterwards, they will tell stories about you when they think you are out of earshot."
"They probably do that anyway." Terry sweeps the former eggshells into a bucket, gazing at them with a critical eye before setting the bucket back on the workbench. "One of Cable's, after all."
Ororo likes Nathan Christopher. She liked him as an infant and she likes him as the man. His methods however...
The Irishwoman cocks a brow. "Aye?"
"Though there are many paths to the Dream, and I have walked several -- with more success on some than others. I am uneasy, though I trust him." Her shrug was eloquent. She was not every X-Man.
Terry makes her own shrug. "I joined X-force out of anger and a need to do something, at first. After the Shadow King. I stayed because I believed we were doing good."
Had Ororo's hands been other than covered with manure stained gloves, she would have put at least one on Terry's arm. "You were. At least some of the time." She parked the barrow next to Terry and her stools. "I cannot always say that and I have been at this far longer than you."
"Thank ye." Her expression is a mixture of sorrow and regret and determination. "I still think it's good work. I just don't know if I'm the one to be doing it now. So here I am."
Without thinking, Ororo nodded. "So here I am."
"And here is me leg, cracked on my first real mission, like I was some wet-behind-the-ears rookie." She glares down at the cast, then lets her shoulders slump. "Saints. Filthy Celtic twilight gets me in its clutches sometimes."
"Is that as good an explanation as any?" Ororo asks in honest curiosity.
"I suppose." She drums her fingers on the workbench. "I'm not allowed t'fly, which is what I'd like to do. I've read until my eyes are aching. I can exercise my brain all I want, but I can't keep meself from thinking of all the things I'd love to do, had I two legs."
Ororo stands. Then she sits, crossing her legs. She nods. She listens.
"I'd like t'run. Or even just walk the grounds, without having to fear for where my crutches land. I don't much fancy the worry in Da's eyes, either, though he tries to hide it."
"His worry cannot be helped. The others, most understandable." When her powers had been taken away from her...it was hard to even breathe.
"No, though I wish he'd realize I'm not Waterford crystal." She grimaces resignedly. "I'd like a Danger Room session, practice dodging things like adamantium shields being thrown at me, so I'm never caught like that again."
"Therein lies disappointment," Ororo observes. "Surely not all Danger Room scenarios have been forbidden to you?"
"They might as well be." Terry carefully brings her casted leg back to the floor and reaches for her crutches, taking the bucket of eggshells and letting it dangle from her right hand. "Well, you've got a fine mess o' wet organic matter there, and I've the dry here, plus the leaves that were brought in earlier. Shall we layer? Since Dr. McCoy hasn't forbidden me to garden yet."
"Let us layer."
The two women move outside the greenhouse to the compost pile: a 9 x 9 square formed by stacked haybales, already half-filled with decomposing material that is well on its way to becoming compost. Ororo smiles to herself. "Smell that?" she asks?
Terry sniffs. "Tis coming along nicely," she judges.
"Are you warm enough?" Ororo inquires and steps forward. Movement can be glimpsed in parts of the stack. The heat should be palpable.
"Oh, yes. It gets much colder than this in Castlebar." Terry hobbles closer and peers at the pile. "Go on, ye wee microbes. Feast away."
((written with the Storm player))