OOC: New Years Eve Logs:
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, December 31, 2006, 11:48 AM
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=XS= The Garden - Xavier's School
A traditional Victorian garden, the mansion's formal garden favours strong, geometric shapes, bright colours, and an emphasis on plants of straight out of Jane Austen's novels. Roses in reds, whites, pinks and yellows steal the show and are stolen in turn by many a lovesick teenager, but tulips, daffodils, irises, columbines and all the other best-loved bulbs grow as well, in steady succession through spring, summer and fall. A tall marble angel surrounded by a long rectangular fishpond is the garden's centerpiece, rather ostentatious and slightly ugly, but kept in deference to whatever Xavier ancestor first commissioned the thing to resemble his wife. Grey slate pathways radiate from that center point with one path leading towards the back patio of the mansion, another to a corner of the garden where a tree and bench is, and a last that loops and spiders out in small connecting paths around the cultivated area.
[Exits : [F]ront [Y]ard, [B]ack [P]atio, and [A]ncient [O]ak [T]ree]
[Players : Storm ]
It is snowing.
Face turned to the sky, Ororo sits with her legs folded beneath her and her hands curled idly in her lap. She is dressed for winter in black wool, the somber image of the coat cut with the bright multicolor of her scarf. The flakes drift leisurely in their journey to the white-blanketed ground, some interrupted by the obstacle she presents, touching cool kisses to her skin, clinging to her eyelashes and her hair. Her eyes are closed. She is the very image of stolen peace. Her serenity quiet, yet complete, she lets the snow fall, and breathes.
Denver has been stealing the East Coast's snow. Thus is is that there's surprise in the minds of the workmen repairing the Great Hall when the snowfall begins, and rare delight in the mind of one small redhaired boy as all of them, one by one, get glimpses out the window. Even a Jean caught up in one more eternal and interminable argument with the dedicated souls of CPS can't help but notice, and so it is that the serenity in the garden has one more soul seeking it out. Likewise clad in thick black wool, likewise brightened by a cardinal's flash of red in scarf and cap, and burnished bright hair, she walks down slate paths muffled by new snow and stops to crouch by the meditative mistress of the elements. A laugh hiding in her tone that's been missing for some weeks, Jean wonders "Did Denver finally play nice, or did you just get tired of the green?"
Her silence broken by the rush of breath that breaks past her smile, Ororo leans back with her bare palms pressed to the snowy slate behind her and cants her head. "It's winter," she says. She rolls her head on her shoulders with a slight crackle and pop, and lets her gaze encompass the white-blanketed landscape with the faint curve of a lingering satisfied smile. "Why shouldn't it snow?"
"That," Jean notes, the laugh a little closer to the surface, and a smile bubbling up to match it. "Is a very good point, my good woman." Despite the fact that the ground is cold, and her rear lacking in insulation, she too takes up a seat cross-legged, the better to look on Storm's face with a small, fond nod. "Happy New Year's Eve Day," she offers a proper, if non-standard sort of greeting. "Got any plans for the eve, yet?"
Storm shakes her head. "Nothing especially," she says. She holds out two fingertips, letting a snowflake fall on them, and watches it melt against her skin. "I might see what Chris is doing." Her mouth quirks up at one corner, her voice touched with laughter that does not otherwise escape. "It has been awhile since I kissed at midnight."
"It's usually past midnight by the time I notice, these past couple years," Jean admits, smile seasoned with just a pinch of rue. "So maybe I'll have to make an effort this year too. How -is- Rossi?" she wonders, the surname kept despite the fact that he's dating her best friend. Leaning back, she braces herself on one gloved palm, the other fishing idly about in hopes of gathering a snowball. "I haven't seen him since before-- I guess he wouldn't be allowed on the case, really. Conflict of interest."
Ororo's nose crinkles. "Busy," she says. "We both are. They do say when something is important you make the time." More words hover, unspoken and unnecessary; beneath her scarf and coat, the X rests silver just beneath throat's hollow. She rubs her hands together in a slow drag of skin on skin.
"Something or someone," Jean agrees, eyes absent as she lets her mind free to seek and briefly find Logan's, mental analog to a fond look across the room. "Welcome to the world of having a love life while being a superhero... although I guess I have it easier since I tend to shop on the base. If you ever need help shifting schedules around so you can make that time, though, let me know."
Ororo breathes a quiet laugh and lowers her eyes to the loose interlock of fingers resting in her lap. "I may take you up on that," she says. "When he still lived in Westchester it was easy enough to delude myself into thinking I was in easy reach." She lifts her hand out to flick at the comlink coiled digital watchlike upon her wrist. "It feels very strange now, like -- there's some part of me that needs to ask Scott for permission to go sleep with my boyfriend."
Jean brings her handful of gathered snow forwards now, squashing it into a snow cake rather than shaping it into a snowball, and repeating the procedure to keep idle hands idly occupied as she shifts from cross-legged to legs in front and bent at the knees. "If it helps," she offers, smile crooked and full of amused reminiscence. "I felt that way a lot of the time when Scott -was- the boyfriend I wanted to sleep with. But don't listen to that part of you -- if we don't take time for ourselves as people, not X-Men, then we forget a lot of just what it is we're fighting for."
Upon the first point, Ororo says, "Hah." She walks her fingers through the snow before her, making a tiny two-foot trail (bigfoots for some insectoid explorer to find). "It's not only /my/ schedule that needs corralling, of course. But thanks, Jean. Are you and Logan doing anything tonight?"
(The news will be all over the ant tabloids by dawn.) Jean makes snow cake anew, and this time sections it into sixths with one index finger trailing through. Caught by a caprice, she silently, gravely offers it to Storm, before falling into a considering stillness of the question. "Nothing formal. We'll probably find each other, though. Someone's got to scandalize the locals down at Harry's, after all." Another pause, and she admits that "I think the locals are actually hoping for it. Sign that things will be OK up at the Xavier place."
"Maybe I will go to Times Square," muses Ororo, glancing up into the snowfall with a dry twist to her smile. She takes Jean's slice of cake and considers it for a moment, even as she speaks. "Destroy the ball. Ruin everyone's celebration with a well-placed lightning strike."
"You horrible dangerous mutant, you." Jean agrees. "Ought to be locked up. Everyone knows those powers of yours mean that you're going to be evil."
Ororo flops back into the snow without warning, grinning up into the sky. The slate beneath is hard, but enough soft white has fallen by now to serve as decent cushion. "I would hate to disappoint."
"Your audiance demands you play to them." Jean remains upright, as her bum is already nicely chilled, despite the wool and other fabrics between it and the chilled slate, and she feels no need to add the rest of herself to the 'freezing off' list. "Speaking of which, CNN called and wanted to know if we had any home videos of life at the school. Apparently, someone wants to do 'Lifestyes of the Rich and Mutated' or something they didn't explain."
Ororo /snorts/. "Home videos," she says. She closes her eyes again and draws in a deep breath of snow-chilled air. Its exhalation puffs past her lips in a long sigh. "I wish I thought you were kidding."
"I thought about springing some of our old formal dances on them," Jean admits, dropping her snow and getting a fresh handful to prod at. There's a brief interjection of "Y'know, this is really good snow. Good call on the temperature," before she finishes that "But I realized that the sight of us in the height of 80s fashion would be just too scary for the evening news."
"Oh gods." Ororo sits up suddenly, laughter trembling in the expostulation. "You had better not," she warns, shaking her head as snow clings with white damp to her silvery hair. "Especially not the one with that damn tiara."
"That tiara was -awesome-," Jean protests. "It's my leg warmers, -I'm- worried about."
"I looked like some kind of lacquered -- why haven't we /burned/ those home videos?"
"Because," Jean informs, with a solemn raise of one finger. "They're -historical-."
Ororo laughs and laughs, folding in on herself to bury her face in her hands.
Jean holds her solemn pose for a few seconds longer, before she, too, dissolves into laughter, aided and abetted by Ororo's collapse. Indoors, the workman peer out through windows, the spectacle of the snow joined by the spectacle of grown women laughing, and it's the bleed of their curiosity across the mindscape that eventually brings Jean back to a sheepish silence, a few remaining snickers escaping as she wipes at her eyes and smoothes her hair. "Ahem. Anyways, I imagine it would be hard to see us as a secretive and threatening schol of unknown danger after a few clips of -those- got shown. We wouldn't even need to show video of Cassy's birthday and Jubilee landing in the pool."
Ororo's laughter peters off to breathlessness, and she scrubs her face with both hands, groaning into the press of her fingers. "Ohhh," she says, and sighs. She starts to her feet, clambering up with limited grace and then offering Jean the support of her hand to rise as well. "Next staff meeting you should raise that point," she says blithely. "See whether we all think the humiliation is worth it."
"I think I'll mention it in the email," Jean decides, taking the offered hand and pulling herself to her feet with a muffled 'Ooof' of effort. Hands immediately turned to brushing snow off of her coat, she points out with a twinkle in her eye that "Those who don't attend lose the right to object... like picking the sex ed teacher for the year."
Ororo snickers. "I'm sure we can find some suitably humiliating videos of everybody," she says, ducking a nod. Wiping snow off of herself seems like a lost cause, although a few swipes of her hand make a cursory effort at it. "Want to go see if there's hot chocolate?"
"You know it -- and I should probably try and detach Nate from his dog long enough to get him some too." With that and a smile both for Ororo, and for the thought of Nate and mutt, Jean slips her arm through the elbow of her friend's, and strolls back towards the mansion with more joy in her face than she left it with. Along the way, the ugly stone angel recieves a snowball facial mask. It can't hurt.
In which Storm gets tired of Denver stealing the snow and makes some of her own, Jean reveals the latest nefarious media plot, and plans for individual Happy New Years are exchanged.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, December 31, 2006, 11:34 PM
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=WES= Harry's Bar - Salem Center
An old tavern that stands from Revolutionary Times, Harry's is a common hide-away place for humans and mutants alike, although surprisingly quite a bit of the latter can be found, for all of the owner's devil-may-care attitude towards them. Modestly furnished in dark woods, it holds a relaxed, comfortable atmosphere that appeals to many, although almost never crowded. Up against one wall stretches the bar itself with several red leather barstools stationed in front of it and an impressive selection, behind the counter. Most of the rest of the room, however, is occupied by a few tables and booths, for people to dine at. Definitely not any kind of white-collar establishment, but the company it keeps is good.
[Exits : [O]ut]
Logan teleports in.
Outside the immediacy of the Xavier Mansion, there's still no snow on the ground, but New Years, unlike Christmas, is not so focused on what the weather's like. Indoor and nocturnal, and hiding hungover from the painful light the next morning, that's what -this- holiday's about. Excess without regret in the last hours of 2006, with only the pleasures of 2007 to hope for, and the inevitable pain to be ignored until it comes. This is the tenor of the ever-increasing toasts at Harry's Bar, bright little beacon on the outskirts of Salem Center, packed full of a collection of locals from all across the town's (admittedly stopping at lower middle class) social strata. Like all small towns, the gathering is -traditional-. And this year, something's missing, with a half-hour before the ball drops on an over-the-bar television screen.
Missing, if not overtly remarked upon. (This is not the Way It Is Done.) Where are the people from the school on the hill?
Outside, an engine cuts off, nigh-inaudible beneath the festive chatter and toasting. Car doors open and close. The engine ticks, quietly, as it begins to cool in the night air. Footsteps approach, just two sets, one heavier and one lighter. The door opens, letting a swirl of icy air into the bar.
"Heeeey!" come the greetings, generic and given to all newcomers, but cheerful over the din of the music, (Golden Oldies, and don't even think of touching Harry's radio.) from a bevvy of the younger, college set who've taken up residence near the doors and in the drafts, in deference to older patrons' declaiming that their spines/knees/wrists/joints of choice are not meant for such weather any more. "Happy New Years!"
Stepping in through the door in a swirl of long, dark wool coat and bright hair, the mild tension that had built in Jean's shoulders over the short trek from car to bar dissipates in a glad rush. << Guess we're still welcome after all, >> she sends back behind behind her, with a small smile over her shoulder, and a "Thanks! Same to you!" in return to the greeting party. And then it's on to the bar, where Harry demands, in another years-old ritual, to see some I.D. of hers. A few older faces nod approval -- the party is now fully represented. A few others look grim. The school on the hill brings trouble, these days. But in general, there is noise and shouting, and someone is singing karaoke, and a couple in a corner are getting an early start on New Years' kisses.
[!] Happy New Year, NYC!
[!] Incidentally, NaRPMo is on now.
<< We're their freaks, >> comes the silent reply as Logan steps in behind her, taciturn shadow to the Phoenix's cheery flame. He nods a greeting to the welcome party, and winds his own way towards the bar. While he is no more truthful about his age than a teenager trying to cadge booze, he is -not- asked for I.D. as he makes his request.
Have you ever really loved a woman? A very earnest fellow in his forties is trying very hard to ask this question in musical form. Like all good bar karaoke singers, he's asking it in a way that ensures a lot of alcohol is being drunk to make him bearable to listen to, but is doing his best anyways. Some isolated cheers join the applause when he finishes.
At the bar, Harry scrutinizes Jean's I.D., hems and haws, clasps his hands at the back of a barrel chest, and eventually consents to mix her up an apple martini. Logan receives beer, import, cold, and nothing beyond a narrow-eyed smirk and a "No trouble, you."
Jean, meanwhile, finds no seats at the bar, but does point out a "Table over by the karaoke machine," with an avid-eyed glance at the equipment, and the thick book of song options available.
Logan chuckles and feigns a look of innocence that is, were anyone to believe it in the first place, utterly destroyed by the amusement in his hazel eyes. "Never." He raises the bear in a salute, and moves back from the bar. His gaze follows Jean's indication of the open seating as he steps to join her, one hand dropping to encircle her waist. He notes her interest, too, in the possibility of karaoke. His gaze slides towards the nearest male presence, a fourty-something man enjoying a celebratory drink with his wife. There is an exchange of looks, dripping with wholly masculine sympathy.
Martini glass held with a casually graceful curve of a wrist, Jean's free arm sneaks out to capture Logan's waist for herself as she grins over at him, cheerfully emphatic in her statement of claim as her fingers sneak downwards and find the back pocket of his jeans to hide in. Forgetfulness and a focus on the moment seem to be the order of the night, her pace determined and her bearing moreso, despite attempts to look casual. Uncertainty may still surround the future of the school on the hill, but there will be a few hours' escapism. Dammit. "Oh, come -on-," she chides, sensing, if not seeing the look. "It's not like I'm going to try and sing -opera- or something."
But here is the table, and here is Jean's seat at it. Her hand releases its hold, and she separates to set down her martini glass, and swoop off her coat, the better to drape it over the back of the chair. The next in line for Karaoke advances, in the form of a trio of already-tipsy girlfriends. Shania Twain is already starting.
Logan cringes, taking a swallow of beer and bracing himself for the inevitable assault on his eardrums. He does not doubt that he could bet money on the trio's inability to hit the proper notes and not lose a penny. "If you do," he threatens gravely, "I'm taping it." He sheds his own coat, and drapes it as well, though there is no swooping. His gaze flits towards the karaoke line. Warily.
"And just," Jean wonders with a grin and a lean forward across the table, "Where did you manage to hide a video camera, huh?" Martini glass resting between hands clasped and outstretched, the position of her arms emphasizing the scooped neckline of a burgundy peasant's blouse, she casts an inquiring eye over the now coat-free Logan, and grins all the more.
On the stage, two out of three girls on their night out can actually manage to hit the right notes in the right order. Unfortunately for Logan's ears, the third is quite capable of outbellowing them both. But the crowd doesn't mind tonight, a steady clapping in time to the beat soon starting up and lending some aural support as well as moral. At their table, Jean pulls in her apple martini and takes a sip with eyes closed, and a slack ease to her features as she lowers formidable mental shields to soak up the general emotional atmosphere of the bar. A smile blossoms.
"You'll see," Logan replies with a wink. His gaze, briefly, traces that neckline. He sits, taking another swallow of his beer. The bellowing girl elicits a wince - heightened senses ain't all they're cracked up to be, especially on New Years. "Too bad the Elf ain't here. Think he'd have fun with that." 'That' is clarified by a tilt of his chin towards the poor, abused karaoke machine.
Shutters of her mind cracked open, barely a sip of her drink taken, Jean's already wearing the slow, dreamy smile seen in early intoxication as the web of fifty-odd minds all around her sparkles and flashes through feelings and stray images intensified and buoyed by the alchohol coursing through fifty-odd bloodstreams. The sweet spice of young lust and love in a dark corner, the gentle, sad reminiscence of an old man alone at the bar and silently watching the crowd. Effervescent bubbles of high spirits and fun rise high from the trio of singers. There are darker emotions elsewhere, the everpresent fear and worry about what the future holds, in times like these, but for now it remains a bitter undernote, contrasting the light and good cheer.
Thus distracted, it takes a moment and a startled twitch before she opens her eyes again, and flashes Logan a smile over her martini glass in the wake of a long gulp. "God," she laughs. "We'd have to pry him off it with a crowbar. Friday nights," she informs, with a gradual lift of her shields again, half-strength to temper the empathic hit of the crowds without removing it entire. "We're finding a way to convince Harry to break out the machine when the staff's visiting."
"Bribery?" Logan suggests with a laugh. He looks towards the machine again, then back to Jean. "We can call 'im, tell him to drag his fuzzy blue ass down here. Locals'd get a kick out of it, too." There is a note of - almost unease - to his tone. There are too many of them missing tonight. On some level, the breach of tradition unnerves him.
"Man, I FEEL LIKE A WOMAN." "Ner-ner, ner-ner, NER-NER!" In addition to singing the words, the karaoke trio has also apparently decided they'll sing along to the music, too.
"Some of them would," Jean agrees, sunny and smiling just as dreamily as before, albeit with enough attention kept to talk, now. She toasts the songstresses with her martini glass, leaning back in her chair with her legs sprawling under the table to nestle up beside Logan's. "Some of them... not so much." Briefly, her expression clouds, as the few minds forming the dark undercurrent to the feelings of the bar are brought from backbrain to forefront of her thoughts for consideration. Exasperated, she snorts low and quiet, and switches topics to "Storm's got plans to go find Rossi and kiss him at midnight." with an enforced, if not quite forced, mischievous grin. "Can't blame her for not being here."
Another wince at the "ner-ner"ing. It is more than a little painful. "'Least she's got plans." One denim clad leg shifts to brush her nestling ones. There is no pretense at an accident. "You got any? Aside from starting a musical duet with the Supremes there?" An eyebrow is raised, teasing.
"Only if I get to be Diana Ross," is Jean's ultimatum on any faux-Motown dreams of hers, giving the eyebrow a smirk, and toasting Logan with her martini glass. Under cover of the table, her ankle stretches and circles, running the tip of one boot up along the back of one of his calves as Jean herself looks entirely innocent. "But I'm thinking Storm's not got a bad idea... although -Rossi- isn't the one I plan to be kissing."
"Good. Man's not bad, for a cop. I'd hate to have to kill him." This is, of course, entirely joking, humour warm beneath the faux-dangerous tone. Logan grins.
"And Storm would kill -me-, so probably just as well all around that I've got other plans," Jean replies, grinning back, before attempting an innocent look. "So, d'you think Scott will still be up at this hour?" A dangerous joke, perhaps, but warmed by martini and the crowd, Jean dares it, as the toe of her boot walks just a little higher up the back of Logan's leg.
Logan favours her with a glower. There is an edge of honest sentiment to it, but it is mostly as joking as her question - mostly. "You need someone to sing bubblegum pop that badly, Jeannie?" His legs shift to trap hers between his calves. His eyebrows rise. << Gotcha. >>
Jean's eyes widen in overdramatic alarm. << Oh no, >> her mind murmurs, trailing sparkling laughter from the words as her leg flexes against his. << Whatever will I -do-? >> Cheating in the way only a telekinetic can, thought pulses and transmutes to sensation, tickling unseen fingers up along the line of Logan's spine as Jean herself, ever so innocently, nurses her drink and notes that "Hey... this guy's actually pretty good." For indeed, Shania Twain has ended, and has been replaced by Billy Joel, and a a young man, arts student by his piercings and his NYU jacket, sings The Pianoman.
Logan bends away, though it is not the sort of assault one can escape by such common tactic. "Cheater," he accuses, eyes glinting cheerful malice at her across the table. There is definite heat, beneath the gaze. It has nothing at all to do with anger. "You know I'll get my revenge."
"I'm counting on it," Jean murmurs, her own gaze heated and heady above a Mona Lisa smile. Her foot twists again, toe stroking once further, before lying still and quiescent in its snare. For a snatch of time, the swirling, noisy, celebratory rest of the bar is out of sight and out of mind.
"I wouldn't want to disappoint." One hand snakes out to snare hers, the one she does not have devoted to the martini glass. His thumb strokes her wrist, along the pulse point. There is a bar there? What?
To that, (Perhaps mercifully,) Jean has no words. The spiral of lame comments neither is particularly paying attention to stops there, as skin to skin contact sparks mental closeness along with another mysterious smile. The bar further subsuming beneath the heated rush of emotions and imagery that spill across the link between them, with the presence of others is noted only in a half-formed regret over what might be done if said others weren't there.
But even the intense focus of Phoenix upon Wolverine can be interrupted... particularly when the entire bar begins to chant. Numbers. Descending. "Ten...! Nine...! Eight...!"
Logan starts, only slightly but enough to show that his mind had indeed been miles away. He glances towards the ball descending on the screen. "Well, well," he murmers.
People are pairing off, shuffling together to uphold another old tradition once the clock finishes counting down. "Seven...! Six...! Five...!"
"Four...! Three...! Two..!" And Jean, grinning sheepishly at the distraction of seconds earlier, abandons her martini to rise, cross the single step separating their chairs, and settle herself astride Logan's lap. "No students," she murmurs to him, leaning in and leaning down.
One arm settles around Jean's waist to shift her closer. Logan's eyes glint as he leans up, breathing out warm against her lips. "One...!" And that last inch is claimed, mouth closing hungrily on hers.
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!" the crowd erupts, or at least those amongst it who can spare lips and breath for such a shout. A chorus of 'Auld Lang Syne starts up amongst the regulars claiming the barstools, directed by a genial Harry who smiles, although he does not grin, and waves a bottle scrubber as an impromptu conductor's baton.
<< Happy New Year. >> whisper Jean's thoughts to Logan's mind, before coherency is lost in a fierce embrace. Farewell, 2006, and welcome the uncertain future. But not, it seems, quite just yet.
Jean's half of the above-mentioned plans for a Happy New Years. The party at Harry's Bar, during which there is karaoke, people who can and cannot sing, and Logan and Jean are about as mature as the teenagers they teach.