May Logs: Part III
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Thursday, May 15, 2008, 11:38 PM
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=XS= Front Yard - Xavier's School
The woods thin out two hundred yards from the school, tapering into a massive and well-groomed lawn that encircles the house that Xavier built. Set in wood-enclosed patches of pea gravel like islands in the sea of grass, a giant metal jungle gym and swing set tempt both children and teenagers alike. Tucked up against the mansion is a cement basketball court, the middle of it split with a mysteriously regular hairline crack. A grand wood and stone porch with a table and a scattered few chairs graces the front of 'Mutant High', the paved drive circling in front of it before halting by a carriage house turned garage.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias XSFrontYard to watch here.]
[Exits : [F]ront [G]ates, [F]ront [P]orch, [T]he [G]arage, and [L]ake [P]ath]
[Players : Logan ]
Riding is exercise and therapy as well as pleasure to one Jean Grey, and thus the odd coupl of hours down at the Xavier's stables or out in the woods can be scheduled into her day without nearly as much niggling guilt as, say, sitting down to try and get caught up on a favoured televisin show. It's from the barns that Jean is returning now, crossing the vast and verdant sward of lawn dressed in neat but well-worn buff breeches and a green quilted jacket worn unbuttoned over a t-shirt. Fitted and black, it bears an icon of Jean's patron saint in silver: a caffeine molecule.
From the garage an engine revs down belonging to a very particular motorcycle that has been absent from it's other friends way too long. After a moments silence from inside, long directed strides move Logan out and back towards the yard. While he may have spent the last several weeks in the City, there is a certain edge in his appearance that is more akin to his long wilderness journeys instead. His face is a little bit harder than it usually sits, his body a little more grizzled, and his mind a little more closed. While there is no mistaking that the man that returns to Xavier's is Logan, is is a month closer to the feral loner that the bald one adopted all those years ago than he was when he left.
The space between stables and mansion is not insignificant. While this is normally a blessed relief to a Jean whose sensitivities, no matter how extraordinary, no matter how unchained, peter out at five hundred meters or so, it does mean that her first sense that something has changed comes not in the form of a mind brushed against her own, but the sounds of the motorcycle engine on the crisp spring air. The change to her posture is slight but immediate: a subtle shift of shoulders, a lift of her chin, a lightness to her eyes and Jean comes alive. "Logan?" she calls over, breaking into a quicker walk and then to a quicker run. "Logan! You're back!"
Logan does not quite break into a run himself, but his long strides do pick up in pace and find a new more direct target. "Jean!" he calls back, the glint of red hair teasing a pleasant mood and a wide grin away from even the harshest internal deterrent. As he closes the distance, his arms swing wide for an embrace. "Oh God, Jean, I didn't mean to be gone this long."
A hundred and forty odd pounds of slender redheaded woman is a much more pleasing collision at speed than a greater weight and the adamantium bones at the heart of it. The fierce kiss that greets Logan is the source of a little hooting from a couple of students near enough to see, but Jean is not of a mind to care. Her mind is for Logan's as her arms wrap around him, whispering of longing, worry, passion and gladness, and a fine little ribbon of humour with bear-trap teeth along the edges. Reoxygenating but not withdrawing, she leans back a bit to smile without squinting, and notes that "Creed's a bit more wiley than your average nasty alley cat. I'm just glad you're back now."
With this many days between them, one fierce kiss is just not enough for Logan and he leans back in again for a repeat performance. As his arms wrap around Jean's light form, there is a reluctance in them to do anything but keep the embrace going, just a little longer. He pays no mind to the mocking students, but it should be no surprise who his next set of 'volunteers' will be in self defense. When he leans back again himself he shakes his head. "He always was the one person who could shake me. I think I was gettn' close but... Your arm, it all better?"
"Yeah," Jean assures, the arm in question wrapping firmly around Logan's neck. "It had four weeks of normal healing time, and then I decided to let Aidan fix the rest of it as an end of term project... did yours -itch- when they knitted, before the adamantium?" she wonders, an aside delivered with a crinkled nose at the remembered sensation, a squirming bone-deep tickle which leaks across the mindspace and is shared. "And if solo tracking didn't work, you'll just have to have some company, hmm?"
The tickle earns a laugh from Logan, and a shake of his head, his own nose twitching at the unfamiliar sensation. "Still dose a little, Red, when they crack inside." Logan half explains, though his tone is light enough. With the link already there, he shares a similar tickling sensation in return as best he can remember it, but this one a little more restrained as the bones heal beneath metallic gift wrapping. "And yeah, the more the merrier, but later. Much later. Right now Victor Creed is the last thing I want to think about. Is everything all right?" It's mostly a rhetorical question, humor built into the words automatically when Logan asks them any more.
"No new explosions," Jean assures, a shiver running along her spine at the shared memory. One final kiss, light and promissory, sees her releasing him only to settle an arm around his waist instead, the better to walk with their talking. "Some trouble with reporters, one of whom tried to bug Tim's shoes and another who seems to think that mutation causes homosexuality, but for the most part quiet. Ororo's back," she catches up further, warm delight in her tone and just a little bit of added ease to her muscles at having both lover and best friend now back where she can see them. "We're planning on doing something horribly irresponsible on Saturday night that might leave us needing to be bailed out."
There is just too much there to keep laughter in check, the thought of a reporter desperate enough to bug Casper's sneakers, or a rather snarky thought shared that given their experience maybe the second reporter isn't too far off. Logan keeps pace at no particular hurry to be anywhere else but here right now, he lets the laugh loose. "About Time." he eventually belts out with much approval before a teasing glance is spared down to Jean at his side. "What have you two talked yourselves into?"
"Oh, just a little civil disobedience," Jean carols back, the laughter loosening some knot in her chest that, by the odd relief to her expression, she'd not been aware of until its absence. "The Bay Horse is one of the places with signs up, and that was -my bar- when I was living in the City. So we're going to pay a visit and just do a little talking to people. Until they have to carry us out. Scott and Charles don't get to know -- we wouldn't want to upset them."
"No, of course not." Logan agrees with questionable sincerity in his tone. "Guess I should go ahead and set aside the bail money then. No sense waisting time about it." But soon Logan shakes his head and a fair chunk of his good cheer fades away. "It is getting worse in there. I swear I'm seen' more of those signs every day. That riot sure as hell didn't help."
"From the sounds of things, it was a one-person riot, and a bunch of everyone else in the wrong place," Jean offers with a soft snort. "Poor kids. Ororo and I have the advantage that -our- bit of disobedience can be made to go as -we- like, more easily than not... and I'll give you my account info for a transfer, if it comes to that," she assures, one arm squeezing gently. "It's my bit of stupidity, after all. But you want to hit up Sweet Basil after?" she wonders. "-They- seem to actually have some integrity about them, and I think they deserve patrons for it. Also," she informs him, one hand lifting to rest warm against his cheek, "You look like you need downtime."
"You don't even know the half of it." Logan agrees with a nod and a brief unintentional mental flash of a pitch black subway car and a sensation of pain and ribs that should be broken. Eventually wandering steps have brought them to the front porch and just a little bit closer to having to share the moment with a school full friends and students. "Its a bit of stupidity that really should be done. But everything considered, probably be one of our quieter nights out, even if I do have to sneak a file to you at the end of it."
Jean seems reluctant to head back into the school proper, instead easing down to sit on the steps and look up at Logan with a moment's mischief in her eyes. "I got to hear at least a -little-. Your partner in subway breakdowns is one of the people I give some adult education on their abilities to. I never knew you kept a picture of me with you," she admits, and the mischief vanishes, replaced by something soft and just a little touched, even after a few days to think on it.
"You'll be happy to know, then, that your student kept her head and stepped up when a whole lotta other people wouldn't've." The phrase comes out with a strong measure of respect from Logan for Jean's friend. A rare sentiment from him indeed. And Logan heeds the reluctance himself, letting his hand stretch out a little bit as Jean leaves his side to take a seat on the steps. He follows shortly afterworlds too, landing heavy limbed. Calloused fingers undo the breast pocket's button on his jacket and and reach in to take the picture out and hands it to Jean. Its edges are worn and a crease crosses the center just bellow Jean's chin. On the back of the photo a spreading permanent fingerprint has worn a spot on the photo smooth. "Reminds me that I've got a place, and someone to come back to."
"She's good people," is Jean's own praise of Elliott, delivered with a little nod. "Her younger brother may be enrolling here, if his parents consent." As Logan settles, Jean's head finds his shoulder quite naturally, the scents of clean hay, saddle soap and just a bit of the spicy scent of horse clinging to her clothes to tickle at the nose with a not unpleasant aroma of times even older than the man himself. One finger reaches over to touch the worn photo, and the smile's wearing blossoms just a little bit more. "I'm glad," says she, simply, before a pair of students pelting out the front doors nearly trample them in a hurry to get to the lawn. Gasping "Oops! Hi, Professor Logan!"s trail in their wake, and Jean looks tolerably amused, the private joy tucked back away 'til some other time. "Want to go take off some place a little out of the main flight path?" she wonders practically, stretching out her long legs in a prelude to rising. "I know I need a shower. I set up a couple brush jumps just off the main trail and they're working out wonderfully."
Logan simply smiles and nods, standing himself. "Lets get out'a here."
A man and his bear trap return home. Jean has enough sense of self-preservation to throw herself at the former only.
> (Storm)'>
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, May 18, 2008, 9:14 PM
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=NYC= The Bay Horse - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A large room with a mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England. In the far corner from the door is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for karaoke nights and visiting music alike. There's also a fireplace with a mantel with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have, along with older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, of no particular pattern or style. A long bar stretches across an entire wall: behind it are many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and several large casks of import ale. Behind the bar is a door labeled 'Employees Only' and another opposite the entrance that indicates the beer garden. A sign in the window says, NO MUTANTS.
OOC Note: If you are a physical mutant, an obvious mutant, or a well-known mutant, expect to be shown the door.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias TheBayHorse to watch here.]
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Storm ]
Where do the telepath and her weather witch friend sit in a mutant-unfriendly cop bar? Why, when the individuals in question are Jean Grey and Ororo Munroe, the answer is "Right at the front, in the middle of the bar." Jean's eyes are lightly abstracted as she enters, one hand light on her friend's arm for steering purposes as her mind reaches out to tickle the perceptions of those around them, whispering little surface suggestions of nothing to see, nothing to notice, to blur the nascent sense of recognition here, or here, and not-yet-here into simple appreciation of the striking pair of women that enter, white and auburn, creamy brown and olive-tinted white. Cadbury and Doc. "Yes," murmurs Jean, with dry appreciation curving her lips. "I think I can keep this balanced more than long enough for us to have our drinks in front of us." She is wearing dark slacks and a rich red silk halter top blouse, cut on the line between liberal and conservative which shows skin without overexposure. Just another two women out at a bar.
Ororo wears a tank top with a leafy green and white interlace for straps, the rest of the shirt finely woven white and apparently plain: it fits closely to her body, leaving leanly muscled arms and smooth shoulers mostly bare without dipping too low into cleavage territory. The skirt is matched to the tank top, a knee-length flow of interwoven white with green, and the high-heeled white sandals look more geared toward summer than toward spring. Her long white hair falls loosely about her shoulders, and although there is a thin twang of nerves to shiver through her blood, she does not show it in her carriage or in the slight curve that touches rose-dusted lips. "And won't they feel sheepish," she returns to her friend with low warmth drawn through desert intonation. "Let's see ... something fruity and light, I think. We are about to be very sweet."
"Sweet, friendly, terribly earnest," Jean agrees, still in the absent tones of a working telepath, but with the little smile growing still more. She takes a moment to rid it of its predatory edge before she lifts her voice in a pleasant "Can I get an appletini, please?" to the bartender. "And... what is it that you'd like?" she turns to Storm, leaving names coded or otherwise out of the equation as something more difficult to pass unnoticed.
"I'll have a mai tai, please." Ororo follows Jean's lead as to the use of names, leaning forward past another prospective patron to lay a palm flat on the bar and make their presence a little more difficult to ignore, at least in terms of obtaining orders from the actual bartender. Her fingernails gleam with silvery polish, and a couple of bangle bracelets fall forward about her wrist. "I am dressed for the tropics, after all."
"If one is going to get arrested, one should at least look good for the mug shots," is Jean's sage appraisal, interrupted by "That shade really -does- look amazing on you," as her attention too is drawn by the fingernails. Her own are short and unpolished, but are pearl-smoothed and pretty all the same. Their drinks are not long in arriving. Jean tips well, but not so well as to cause yet another spike in identification-patterns to need flattening out. And then, lifting her glass to Ororo, she wonders a quiet "Shall we begin?"
"Goes with my hair," Ororo murmurs to acknowledge her nail polish, with the faint breath of a snort. She raises her drink and reaches across to clink her glass against Jean's, the twitch of her smile broadening. The faint whisper of her nerves chitters a little louder, but it is unreflected in the smoothness of her expression save for the slight lift of her head. "Here goes," Storm says to Jean lightly, lifting her glass to her lips for a delicate sip of the fruited rum.
There is a moment's bracing brush of Jean's thoughts to Storm's, not free of her own nerves, but with them stowed away neatly in the overhead compartments as her mind readies for takeoff. Just beyond the borders of perception is the feeling of focus and tension, before the myriad little feather-touches connecting her mind to the shape and surfaces of those around her are ruffled back in all at once. Jean's eyes lose their abstracted quality. And behind them, the first few puzzled murmurs start.
The shimmer of Ororo's silver-white hair against the mocha dark of her skin is unmistakable, especially paired with the lustrous tresses of the redhead beside her. She takes a calm swallow of her mai tai, the tight press of her fingers to the glass the only reveal of the falseness of her nonchalance: collected and regal, she ignores the murmurs with the quiet elegance of poise. << I'm almost afraid to look round, Jean. >> "Anyone we know?" she murmurs aloud, with lashes lowered over her eyes.
"I think Ken Yamaguchi is over at that table in my peripheral vision," Jean murmurs, and takes a slow sip of her drink, her motions carefully controlled to hide the adrenaline-trembles that are threatening. "He's trying to ignore us." << So far no thoughts of immediate ID from behind, >> she reports silently. << Your hair is starting to make a few wheels turn. >> Back in a far corner, her mind finds no wheels, but an ugly little pocket of new regulars, not present before the signs. They are not Friends. They would like to be, but have not yet found any to induct them. Perhaps one might term them Acquaintances of Humanity. Pen-pals, perhaps. Jean's thoughts shy away. The bartender is studying them with his brows steadily knitting and his lips steadily compressing, a flash of fear across his face. "You," he says to Storm. "You... and her. I know you."
"I've been around," Ororo says to the bartender with a slight inclination of her head, her smile's curve a warm gleam in her eyes beneath the fall of dark lashes. Pleasant, friendly; just the barest shadow of flirtatious, that air of a woman toying with the edges of her unattainability. "Now and again." She sips delicately at her drink again, and glances sidelong at Jean. << They'll figure it out eventually, I'm sure. >>
"No," says the bartender, an older specimen of his profession than the wet-behind-the-ears twenty-somethings tending at the dance clubs. -He- is in the mold of the estimable Harry, if obviously minus the laissez-faire attitude towards the X-Factor'd. "That's not it. I mean, I -know- you." Beside Ororo, Jean's face remains tranquil, even as her stylishly-shod feet begin to press tightly against the legs of her bar stool. << Better them than the people in the back corner. >> is all she says, and outwardly applies herself to her drink.
The bartender snaps his fingers. "Ororo Munroe and Jean Grey," he pronounces, lips so tight as to have been sucking on a tequila factory's worth of limes. "I'm going to have you two... ladies... to leave. You know why."
The general chatter around the bar has lessened, not quite to the point where the names result in silence ... but it is clear that the whispers nearby have changed their tone, and there are more eyes turned their way than there were a moment again. Ororo breathes out in a low exhalation, and takes another delicate, deliberate swallow of her drink. "I'm sorry?" she says. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, I think I do, Ororo," replies Jean to her friend, with a pretty tip of her chin, and her drink placed on the counter but her hand not removed from it. "I think he's referring to the sign out front. We're mutants, and we're not supposed to be in here, according to the sign. But you see," she tells the bartender, letting earnestness creep into her tone as she looks to him, "We're actually in here because we'd like to talk about that sign. We've bought drinks because we don't want to waste your bar space or cut into your profits in any way... May we speak to the manager?"
"After all," Ororo says, roofing her hands over mai tai with a pleasant smile, its purple umbrella sticking out from between two of her interlaced fingers, "we wouldn't like to hold you responsible for refusing to serve people on account of an accident of birth." Her head cants slightly to one side as her eyes lower, hiding whatever light might glint in her vivid blue eyes. Her voice is cool silk, lent exotic richness by the layering of her accent. "You're only following policy."
"You wouldn't refuse to serve my friend as a result of the colour of her skin, after all," Jean ventures, with another bright smile that does not have as reassuring an effect on the bartender as such smiles are usually meant to. The man is well aware that while this is a bar full of off-duty police officers and rather large firemen, there are no Sentinel suits here. And there is little reassurance for him in either a smiling telepath or a polite woman who commands the lightning. He has -overheard- the joking about Detective Rossi's girlfriend. He backs away to the back of the bar just a touch accordingly, eyes on the women and a fine few beads of sweat on his forehead. "Policy, yeah," he agrees to Ororo. "I don't want trouble here. You really should just leave."
"You really should just go get your manager," Ororo says lightly, straightening slightly and glancing briefly at the silver glints of her nails. "Please."
The manager in question emerges from the back, neatly dressed and with an Irish cast to his features, hair salted and expression growing dourer by the moment as he comes to the rescue of his employee. He moves toward the bartender on slow steps, assessing the situation with a sharp flick of his eyes over his clientele: the ones already here, and the new problem.
Jean straightens as the mental markers of management appear behind her and approach. "-Thank- you," she says to the bartender with all sincerity, and perhaps just a pinch of calculated creepiness in displaying awareness usually kept carefully restrained when out in public. She turns her stool around to face the incoming man with a smile and an offer of a hand. "Thank you for coming to speak with us, Mr...? I know you must have a busy schedule at this time of night, but we were hoping to discuss a few things with you."
"Rich Morton," the manager says. He shakes Jean's hand with the casual courtesy of a man who knows it would be making one hell of an uncomfortable statement if he refused to, and his hands are clammy. He gives both the telepath and the weather witch a narrow look. "It is something of a bad time, ma'am," he says thinly. "Busy night, you know. Why don't you try calling us up sometime it ain't Saturday night. In the meantime, we'd really appreciate it if you and your friend here left. I'm afraid you're bothering the customers."
"Actually," Ororo says, her voice as pleasant as ever as she lifts her mai tai, "I think you'll find we're paying customers." She sips it with steel in her gaze, watching him and waiting for him to start squirming.
"Indeed," Jean agrees with Ororo, her own grip as cool and firm as ever as she shakes Rich Morton's hand, although she does him the courtesy of keeping it brief in doing herself that same courtesy as well. Nevertheless, nerves transferred from him to her via the skin contact slice at her inwards poise like mad and animated razor blades until they can be shaken loose again. "We have bought and paid for our drinks tonight, and I used to be a frequent patron of this bar, on trips into the City. I liked your atmosphere. I know many of the people who drink here. What can we do to change your mind about those signs, Mr. Morton?" Cue the bright smile, cue Jean ignoring those words such as 'please leave' that do not fit with her plans. "If it's a matter of financial concerns, such as Bad Ass Coffee's fallen into, I do have a few solutions I'd like to propose..."
"Really, ma'am." Morton's eyes glitter as sharp as shattered glass. "If it's a matter of changing my mind, I'm sure you could do that. In fact, I'm sure most of our patrons are sure you could do that. So what's it look like, lady, if I don't ask you to leave?" He spreads his hands wide before him, and shakes his head, clearing his throat. "This pub is a business. It's run as a business and it's run for the benefits of our customers. I think you know the color of our customers if you say you know our atmosphere, and frankly these people don't need to think about mutants coming in here and busting up the place with your 'accidents' after a long day's busting their butts."
Ororo's head lifts, her eyes narrowing even as her nostrils flare with the slow burn of her temper, undercutting the edge of nerve and replacing it with something darker. She says nothing at all, but her presence at Jean's side is certainly solid, with all the heat and strength of the contained fires of a furnace.
"Ah, I see. A telepath made me do it," Jean responds, and while her lips curve in a smile, her eyes are abruptly lacking in humor. "Very convenient, and something that I happen to know for a fact the men and women in MA have heard used as an excuse for everything from shoplifting to murder... speaking of things they're tired of hearing. I'm afraid you've just slandered me, however, Mr. Morton -- I have no intention of using my abilities in such a way, and I feel that you're damaging my reputation to suggest it. Do you agree, Ororo?"
"Not at all, ma'am," Morton says with the pull of a smile across his face, as false as the fake leather of his shoes. "Who'm I to say what you'd do or wouldn't? Not me. What I'm saying is what it looks like. And what I'm saying is what me and this bar don't want to deal with. Nothing personal, you understand. I've got no problem with you people. But I've got customers to look out for, and a bar to run. Mutants are bad for business."
Ororo breathes out in a low snort, and sits a little straighter on her stool as she very slowly lowers her drink. Glass clinks against the counter audibly as she cants her head to look at the manager. "If we were planning on using our abilities to make you uncomfortable or to change your mind, you must know that we would already have done so," she says. Her accent has drawn a little thicker over the words, perhaps deliberate emphasis on the difference between them. "We are having a quiet drink, and we are discussing a policy that does your bar more harm than good. You lose custom and reputation, Mr. Morton, and you perform the steps of a dance this country has not seen since the 1960's."
"Not to mention attracting undesirables of other sorts," Jean murmurs, and reclaims her appletini, the better to thread the glass through her fingers and thus show off the alcohol they have gladly accepted her money for. "A bar necessarily serves alcohol, and we all know what sort of remarkably dumb ideas can occur when there is too much hatred and too little sobriety. -You- may not have a problem with my 'people' as you term them, Mr. Morton, but a bar that is advertised as mutant-free will doubtless attract the sort who are. Have you ever had to treat a victim of a hate crime before?" she questions, her hands trembling just slightly at emotion stirred by memory to rise beyond the surface of her mental shields. Carefully, she lets her hands rest flat on her neatly-together knees. "I have. Are you prepared for your bar becoming a gathering place for the Friends of Humanity? And are you prepared for a drop in clientele if that happened and word got out that this was a cop bar?"
Morton is unprepared for this level of logic, or perhaps for this level of passion. He is a simple businessman, managing a simple business. "Lady, this is hardly a hangout for terrorists and extremists," he says, brow furrowing heavily over his blue eyes. "Anyway, like I said, it's a busy night. Saturday. Not a good time for this kind of thing." (Like there's a good time.) "I'm gonna have to ask you to go. Door's right over there."
Ororo raises her eyes to his face, arches her eyebrows, and leans back deliberately against the bar, her weight balanced on the prop of her elbows. She is clearly and physically not going anywhere.
"Well, then you're either going to have to wait for me to finish the drink I paid for," replies Jean, all five feet eleven inches of her remaining in her seat, "Or you're going to have to call some of the on-duty brother officers of your patrons here to come remove us." Her tone remains perfectly reasonable, as if discussing a matter of class scheduling. "We will, of course, not resist arrest."
Morton hesitates a moment longer, looking from one mutant woman to the other. He scruffs a hand through his thinning hair and gives them something of a hangdog look, and then shakes his head. "Okay, ladies," he says, glancing toward the bartender with a slight jerk of his chin. "If you insist."
Ororo runs a fingertip calmly along the rim of her glass, and then licks it, tasting the frost of sweet and sour that has been left there. Then she picks up her purple paper umbrella and fiddles with it, taking her sweet time with that mai tai.
"Oh, we most certainly do, Mr. Morton," Jean assures, turning her stool around and hooking her long legs around it with a gentle rustle of fabric. "As I said, I like this bar. I wouldn't dream of doing anything to hurt your business, no matter your opinions of me and mine. I'm not even intending to call the ACLU, since really, this is just a -first- meeting." With a last smile, she turns her back and turns back to her drink, and broadcasts a << Dear God, now comes the fun part... >> to Ororo packed with all the suppressed nerves she's ordering her face and tone not to let show.
"Real sweet of you, ma'am," Morton says sourly, shrugging his hands into his pockets as he takes half a step back. It won't be long now before the problem is off his doorstep ... at least in one sense.
<< I shall keep this umbrella as a souvenir. >> Ororo turns it over in her fingertips, and sights down it at Morton. There is no chance of a stray lightning bolt, but the curve of her smile is edged. << Gods, Jean, we're 'disturbing the peace,' aren't we. >>
<< We really are. I'm not sure if my father would be proud or apalled. >> There's a touch of giddiness to Jean's mind, adrenaline and anticipation mingling with the fey joy of Doing Something Stupid For Good Reasons. She curls her feet around the bar stool the other way this time, in a bit of a nervous fidget as she waits, and very slowly sips at her drink. The tables of men and the odd woman of the Finest and Bravest seem to have settled in to a mixture of watchful waiting and attempting to ignore things. A few, having the sort of days that drive cops into bars, haven't even bothered to look up from their beers. There are no approaches, either to help, hinder or advise.
Ororo closes her eyes, tapping the paper umbrella against the purse of her lips. << Poor Chris, >> she does not say regretfully, and takes a breath as she closes the fingers of her other hand around the mai tai again.
It is not at all long before the cops, duly summoned, make their entrance: as discreet as possible, because no one really wants to be the one to break up the party at the Bay Horse.
<< He'll get over it... although I asked Logan to be on hand to bail us out, just in case. >> Jean predicts, starting out airy and then moving into prudent. Her drink is perhaps half gone by the time the police arive, and she sets it down on the counter as the minds with little regretful flags of on_duty come walking into a place where they cannot, at the moment, order drinks. "Good evening, officers," she greets them, losing the aggressively pleasant, and falling back on businesslike.
<< Oh, good. >> For whatever reason, Ororo's mental tone sounds more aggrieved than otherwise by this turn of events -- but she has a pleasant enough smile to share for the police officers who have turned up in their immediate orbit.
"Evening, ma'am," says one of the uniforms. "I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to come along with us..."
"I'd be disappointed if we didn't," Jean assures the uniform, with a smile that's pure Church Sewing Circle in its kindliness. "Will you be needing to handcuff us?" Gathering her purse and tucking it in the crook of one arm as she rises, she offers her forearms in front of her, just in case.
The uniforms look at each other. One of them is thinking very hard about ducks. The other one just says a little nervously, "I don't think that'll be necessary, ma'am, if you two will just come with us."
Ororo straightens the strap of her own bag, and takes one last sip of her mai tai as she rises from the stool. Her eyebrows arch, but she has retreated to a reserved silence, at least aloud. << No handcuffs, >> is for Jean's 'ears' only. << Almost disappointing, isn't it? >>
<< Incredibly disappointing, >> Jean confirms, with a polite bob of her head to the uniforms and a brief pause to see whether it's in front, behind, or right in between them that she's expected to walk. << I realize that they'd bruise my wrists, and that they really wouldn't keep -either- of us actually confined, but... it's the -principle- of the thing. >> She moves into position with her head held at an angle poised and proud, and calls a "Good night, Mr. Morton. I'll look forward to speaking with you again!" as a last cheery greeting. And then, giving a new definition for cooperative prisoner, she suffers hersef to be escorted out.
Mr. Morton takes on an expression rather like a man who has just bitten into a lemon, but this is perhaps not surprising. He moves off to go have a quiet word with his bartender, perhaps about just how those mutants ended up /paying customers/ before their identities were called to his attention, and what have we said about carding people under 40? Meanwhile, Ororo straightens the fall of her skirt with a few flicks of her fingers, and falls in with Jean and the uniforms, who flank them both, getting that sorted out with only a few mutters this way and that. "--Good night," she calls after Morton, and then shares the gleam of another warm smile with the men arresting her. "Off we go, then," she says. Once they are out into the sultry evening, and listening to their Miranda rights being rattled off out of bland habit, she exhales a breath with a hint of a tremor in it. << Gods. 'No Mutants'. Enforced and all. >>
Right to remain silent. Right to... Right to... Right to... Jean's eyes and ears are paying attention, but her mind is elsewhere, offering a brief mental hug to Ororo's. << And we're challenging it. >> her thoughts murmur back, steady and driven, if not without a certain dark humour for their situation, in this supposedly enlightened present. << I think Rosa Parks had better luck, admittedly, but we have to start somewhere. And we're going to have to go back, now, >> she decides, shuffling a little closer to Ororo and resting a brief hand on her arm. "Are we going to be held in your cells specifically for mutants?" she wonders of the uniforms as the rights are concluded.
The uniforms exchange glances, as they near their parked vehicle at the curb. "Uhm," says one.
"I'm sure you'll find the accomodations are adequate," says the other one, opening the door to the car with a hint of sweep to his gesture as he indicates they can get in. His tone is only lightly ironic. He is having a weird night.
<< Have to start somewhere, >> Ororo echoes, wavering between a sour note and a laughing one as she slides smoothly into the back seat of the car. She shivers a little involuntarily at the close quarters back here, and takes a deep breath as she closes her eyes. The back seat of a patrol car is not designed with claustrophobes in mind.
"Oh, I'm sure they will be," Jean assures the hand-sweeping uniform. In response to his bit of theatre, she settles herself like a socialite entering a limousine and tips him a wink as she goes. "I am sorry if this is pulling you off anything bigger," she admits. "I really -had- hoped they'd be reasonable in there, but c'est la vie, I suppose." As the heavy doors close and lock them in with knees stuck up against the seats in front, her good humour vanishes into concern as she studies Ororo. << If you want to tap out on the next time, I wouldn't blame you, >> she offers, mildly apologetic for the realities of squad cars.
<< I'm fine, >> is almost reflexive, although the quirk of Ororo's rueful grin in Jean's direction is self-aware enough. << We'll see, >> she adds, smoothing fingertips through the loose fall of her white hair as she glances toward the front. It is not long at all before the car is in motion and they are headed for jail.
TOTALLY a cunning plan. Set elsewhere during the Times Square Tornado.
=XS= Jean's Room - Staff Wing - Lv 3
Large and airy this end of the hall room; the door from the hallway bisects one wall. To the right, an office area complete with overstuffed bookshelves and a desk with computer, docking stations for peripherals, and piles of papers both research and student. To the left, privacy screens in black lacquered wood and white rice paper enclose a sleeping area containing a bedside table and lamp, and a double futon with many pillows and an addictively comfortable duvet. The outer wall features two bay windows with cushioned window seats on either side of a small fieldstone fireplace. An oriental rug stands in front of the hearth, with a small cream coloured sofa perfectly placed for a quiet evening in. There are two additional rugs in the sleeping and office areas, otherwise the parquet floor is bare. Walls hung with gray-blue wallpaper and with acccents in black and white, the simple empty space allows for both visual and mental tranquility, aided and abetted by candles scattered about on black worked-metal stands. A door on the left wall leads to a fairly nice bathroom, and a matching one on the right opens into a large walk-in closet.
The Xavier gossip system is a fearsome thing in its own right, but isn't there an expectation that those outside its doors shouldn't be privy to it's breaking news feature? There should be. Alas though, Jubilee works outside all known dimensions of time, space, and information, and thus, a mere few hours after release, there is a phone call placed to Jean's direct line.
The modern telephone has at least some advantages over its rotary predecessor. A very large one is that the strident BRRRRRING BRRRRRING has been replaced by a demure and pleasant sounding electronic tone. It is, alas, no less persistant, and thus the duvet covered lump in Jean's bed makes muffled noises and stirs. A flash of red hair appears, and a flash of grumpily departing cat soon follows. With a groan Jean sits up, spitting out a mouthful of her hair and blinking owlishly at the light. She glares at the phone, but lacks either the heart or the will (Or the stomach for a pained lecture about finances and property damage from Xavier.) to put anything else behind the glare. A flailing hand grabs it, smashes the call button flat, and Jean mutters "Hello?"
"Good morning, Jail Bird! Or act'lly /afternoon/. You delinquents keep such late hours," chides an obnoxiously cheerful and familiar voice through the line. On her end, Jubilee leans over to pull a sock on one-handed. She lifts her foot and leans back in the slouchy chair to bring gravity to her assistance.
"Jubilee." Jean does not groan, but she -does- hold the phone a touch farther away from her ears, wincing slightly and sinking back into her pillows. The recognition is apparently why Jean doesn't simply just hang the phone back up again. "If you make too many wisecracks, be advised that Logan bailed me out, and those jokes about just-released-from-jail sex have a basis in fact."
"I don't know /anythin'/ about those jokes," Jubilee retorts, dropping her foot heavily and draping across the chair's seat. "You'll have to fill me in, now that you're such a hard-luck case. Or maybe I'll ask Storm. She's gettin' to be /real/ familiar with the big house, huh?"
"Little house, technically," says Jean, words slightly muffled as she decides the best course of action is to slide back out of sight under her duvet with the phone, all the better to block out the sunlight with. "Very nice, new holding cells with plastic toilets, in case they ever get lucky and catch Magneto, apparently."
"Riiiight. Cause the, you know, metals /bars/ aren't enough. Just what did you /do/? To what-- disturbin' the peace? Did you an' Stormy decide ta have a Margerita night outside the mansion? Tsk. How many times I gotta tell you, Jeannie? The whole topless bikini look should only happen in the staff tub."
"Leaving aside how the information made it all the way out to California..." drawls Jean, ina fine tone despite heavy fatigue and a pounding head. "And whether The Smoking Gun is in possession of mug shots already, we were actually making a statement. You've heard of the No Mutants signs, yes?"
Jubilee grins and the wide and innocent eyes are almost heard in her voice. "Now, Jeannie. You know I can't reveal my sources." Up she bounces, and scuffling, tinkling sounds can be heard as she searches for her other sock and a pair of shoes. "But yeah. There's been one or two places that tried that here, but you got a couple faces looking for a cause-of- the-month who made waves so fast, they got pulled in less 'n three days." She finally takes a breath, then asks, "Figures it'd be somethin' totally borin' like makin' a statement. You make it really hard ta tease you, ya know?"
"Hah. How do you feel about Xavier's moving out to California after you, then?" Jean wonders, with a bark of a laugh as she lets her head flop back amongst her pillows. "But I suppose I've earned a -little- teasing. Most people probably don't actually ask the officers arresting them if they'd like them to wear handcuffs."
"Oh man. You rebel." Jubilee makes a face and sticks out her tongue. The gesture familiar enough it doesn't need video to convey it.
"Bad to the bone, that's me," Jean agrees, eyes closing. "Of course, I fully intend to go back and do it again, even if I won't make Ororo join me... We forgot about how small the back of police cars are."
"Am I now obligated ta inform the police about your intent ta commit a crime?" Jubilee chirps, sitting down with a whump to pull on her newfound sock.
"Ah," says Jean with a hint of smugness creeping into her tone behind the yawns, "You see, that's the beauty of it. All I'm intending is going into a bar, and buying a drink. Nothing criminal there, and it's the management's call on whether they try and enforce their sign or not."
"Well, if Storm's outta the protestation process, you could take /meeeee/ out for a drink when I come visit in a couple weeks."
"You do realize I'm not actually -trying- to start anything," Jean murmurs, lifting one hand to rub gently at a temple and the headache that dwells behind it. "It's really probably likely to be quite boring and repetitive, although the uniforms were nice young fellows. But... I think maybe in a couple weeks, if we don't get any more idiots letting tornadoes loose in Times Square. Now is not the time to be irritating the police."
"Tornados? What?" Jubilee sputters in confusion, though she has to slip in, "Right. Cause doin' somethin' you know's gonna make a certain /other/ somethin' happen totally isn't tryin'."
"Something defined to mean 'violence'," Jean clarifies, and rubs at her temple some more. "But watch the news. Some idiot with a grudge against humanity tried to destroy Times Square with a tornado. They put him in the cell across from ours, although he was still out cold. Also... I think there was a robot or something. Haven't watched the news."
"A robot? Dude. Next you'll be tellin' me it's the runnaway love child o' the Danger Room and one o' Forge's experiments gone wrong."
"Couldn't tell you... I'll know more -after- I get a couple more hours sleep," Jean decides, with perhaps a hint or two. What hint there is is belied by the fact taht what she says next, with a shift beneath the blankets, is "So, how -is- the Californian life?"
"Lazybones," Jubilee accuses cheekily. "Pretty good! I'm almost done with the semester. I got ta take some film classes this time cause all my credits transferred. The academic class lady tried to hook me up with campus counseling services an' an area support group for 'my kind', but they haven't really freaked or anythin'. An' I was in a commercial!" she blurts out excitedly.
"-Definitely- going to have to talk to Charles about relocating," is Jean's verdict, on the heels of a relieved sigh. "God, that's good to hear. I was getting worried that the First Students were going to be the only ones to get a college educatio-- commercial?" Beneath her duvet, Jean goes still, as if this will help her brain think better.
"Weeeell, it's not /all/ pixie-sticks and cupcakes. I mean, a couple of people in the 'dustry have 'come out' and gotten their guild licenses yanked. There's talk about formin' a new one but it hasn't gotten very far. It's kinda weird. Like... it's cool for weekends and fairs and concerts but they don't really wanna /work/ with ya. It was for a coke ad! Saw some flyer on campus sayin' they wanted 'ethnic diversity'," she singsongs. "I'm in the background on blades and stuff, but you can totally see me!"
"Good. If it was Pepsi, I wouldn't be able to speak to you again," says Jean with the sort of gravity that doesn't need a visual to confirm that her eyes are sparkling. "But... that's really great," she murmurs, relieved from fears of who-knows-what and burrowing deeper into her bed. "I'm really proud of you, you know."
Jubilee nods her head enthusiastically and chatters on something about getting an agent and stunt doubling and other stuff that all links together in the most haphazard ways before climbing to her feet and grinding to a stop as she looks around the little hole in the wall apartment room she and Rogue are sharing. "Welp. I gotta run. I'm supposed to meet up with this guy and sign some stuff 'fore class." She stops and giggles. "Now /I'm/ the one who gets ta say 'stay outta trouble!'"
Jean, seduced by the comforts of a warm, soft bed, a lack of jail cell doors rattling and thumping, and the return of a car to curl up on her feet like a purring hot water bottle, really only catches about one word in three. Nevertheless, her laughter is warm and proud, an echo of the approving mental hug she's far, far out of range to bestow upon Jubilee, and she gives a little nod that doesn't naturally transfer over the phone lines. "I'll make sure any trouble is for good reasons," she promises. "And I'll let you know if I need any cakes with files in them. Give Rogue my love."
"I would, but you know how she is," Jubilee laughs before blowing a very loud kiss into the receiver. "I'll talk to ya later! Bye!" And with her bright voice still ringing in Jean's ears, she snaps the phone shut and drops it into a pocket before spinning and making a grab for a set of keys to head out the door with.
On the other side of the country, Jean sends her phone back to its charger with a wave of a hand thrust out from under the covers, considers a moment, and then reemerges from her duvet once more. There is a touch more grace to her movements this time, as she reaches down, scoops up Curie, and then pads for the bathroom with one hand muffling a yawn and her pet draped over her shoulder. "I guess I may as well go face the gossip," she informs her.
Visiting prisoners may be good karma. Waking them up when they're home and freed is pure Jubilee.