OOC: Log! For Jubilee the DEMANDING. <3
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Tuesday, February 20, 2007, 5:28 PM
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=XS= Staff Lounge - Lv B3
Covered in 60's-style fake wood panelling and a carpet of robin's egg blue and turquoise shag, the staff lounge is done up in a retro style full of mod couches and occasional lava lamps, guaranteed to induce relaxation. Of course, if the lava lamps aren't enough, a kitchenette with fully-stocked bar is located to the right of the staircase from above. To the left of the stairs is a sunken lounge area containing two sleek white ultrasuede couches, a faux fireplace, an egg chair and a coffee table, all arranged around a large flatscreen TV. At the back of the room and up a couple of steps, there's a hot tub with a half-height partition of glass bricks curving between the tub and the lounge area. The hot tub itself can fit up to 8 people at once, the area around it tiled in white and blue stripes. A triangular sauna fills the corner opposite the hot tub, more glass bricks forming the outer wall. There is an exit to the main hallway between the sauna and the hot tub, through a small sliding door with a discreet thumbprint scanner beside it.
[Exits : [H]idden [S]taircase and [H]allway]
Ah, that blessed time twenty minutes after school's out for the day. With the hangers-on after class banished and the ones planning to corner a teacher after school not yet appeared, it's an excellent time to disappear. And when the teacher's lounge is as secret a fortress as that of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, the disappearace is a thorough one. Safe on the right side of biometric locks, Jean Grey has decided that the hot tub is in order. After a drink. And thus there is one tall and slender redhead standing at the bar, a sarong skirt wrapped around a bikini, and spa sandals on her feet.
To say that Moira is sitting in the egg chair would be a technically accurate but largely unfair description of the elegant sprawl the good doctor has assumed, regal, dignified, and utterly at home. She is not dressed for the hot tub, but instead is resplendent in an enormous russet sweater that several decades ago was merely out of fashion, but now counts as a heinous crime to rival Kurt's worst fashion choices. Having avoided teaching the last period of class today, she has had plenty of time to precede Jean's raid upon the alcohol, and is holding a rather interesting and thoroughly sickly looking cocktail in one hand. It is four different colours.
Jean is going for something simpler. There is a martini shaker out. There is also a bottle of pomegranite juice. Meet, and be merry, oh future pomtini. Jean is more Bond Girl than James Bond material, but drinks are simply more -fun- when shaken, rather than stirred. Shake-shake-shake. "Neat way of getting the Baileys to stay uncurdled," she approves of the horrifying drink in Moira's hands. "Trapping it between two alcohol layers like that. I'd suggest Hank teach it to his chemistry students, but they'd probably get the wrong idea."
"The kids wouldnae appreciate its sheer brilliance," Moira comments with a disapproving wrinkle of her nose at the lack of alcohol-related resourcefulness displayed by kids these days which is followed quickly by a melodramatic sigh, in case Jean did not notice her initial, subtle gesture. "Give them three different types of alcohol, and they'd drink two and spike the punch with the other."
Jean, engrossed in communing with the martini shaker, did not, in fact, notice the nose crinkle. She looks up at the melodramatic sigh, however, and offers a crooked smile. "At least they're a little easier to keep track of, if they're falling over drunk somewhere. And I'm not going to have to carry you upstairs if you drink all that, am I?" She pauses, unscrewing the martini shaker, to concentrate on pouring the now pleasantly red-purple contents into a martini glass, brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration. Success! Over to the hot tub she wanders, shedding sarong and sandals to slip into the water and address the egg chair, next door and down a level as it is. "Did we have many victims from the dance's punch? I missed the morning after."
At that Moira laughs, a hearty laugh that is perhaps closer to a cackle on reflection, and she pushes herself laboriously out of the chair with a creaking of bones and a rough shoving of her sweater sleeves up past her elbows to make her resemble the Michelin Man even further, bringing herself and her cocktail up the steps towards the hot tub. "That punch claimed more than a few in the morning, I think," the older woman opines sagely. "Myself among them, I'll admit. It apparently took a fair bit of the mansion's common sense with it on the night itself, as well."
The cheerful bubbling of the hot tub's jets steals away most of the noise of Moira's motion, but a particularly good joint pop catches Jean's ears, and quirks her lips. "Sounds like it ought to be you in here, not me," she points out, before sinking down under the water with a wriggle and a sigh. Head and martini glass still above water, she lifts an eyebrow. "Sounds like I missed some good gossip."
"I'm fine," Moira assures Jean archly, bringing herself and her drink to sit down at the hot tub's edge. Quietly. Just fine, see? "But no, I wouldnae say there was all that much gossip that you missed out on." Her innocence is serene, her cheeks flushing with a faint glow of petal pink that is definitely not caused by wearing an altogether too large jumper close to a hot tub, as she checks that Jean is not currently drinking -- she's not cruel, after all -- and then projects furiously at the younger woman what only the drunk, old and shameless can possibly get away with seeing and repeating. Poor Wesley and Jubilee.
Storm teleports in.
It's just around 4 PM, and with the students banished for the day, there are drinks, and there is a hot tub. There are two women present, but only Jean is actually in the hot tub. Currently, she's engaged in accidentally dropping a full martini glass clear to the bottom of the tub, in the wake of mental imagery. Glump. Silence, broken only by the hiss and bubble of the hot tub water. And then Jean begins to laugh. "Oh God," she manages to get out between peals of laughter. "Oh -God-. Moira. You -didn't-. Oh. My. God."
Laughing loudly and harshly in time with Jean, Moira has a delightedly devious look on her face as she replies cheerfully, "Well, I was rather drunk at the time." Not, it would seem, drunk enough for her memory to have hazed over in the slightest, unless some of the images she shared were pure fabrication; probably not. She gives a defeated harrumph, and places her disgusting cocktail down at the side of the hot tub next to her to remove her enormous and horrific orange sweater.
Into this tableau of good cheer and mirth drifts another woman: lean, dark, tall. She is garbed only in the loose fold of a white terrycloth robe, her feet bare and her hair wind-fluffed and wild. She pauses in the lounge's doorway, a fine brow lifted as she bears witness to what is within. Not unamused, Ororo greets, "Ladies."
The red of the lost pomtini quickly swirls out to nothing in the churn of the hot tub. "Well, that explains why there was a Jubilee at my door as I was getting ready to go out," Jean reflects, feeling around with her toes to try and suss out where the martini glass landed. "Poor duckie. Seems Wesley hoofed it after your little interruption-- Storm!" she greets, the quiet reflection lasting not long in the face of a new addition to the room. Someone to focus on while Moira performs her prelude to a striptease, Jean quizzes her to "Guess who Moira caught in the attic in the aftermath of the dance?"
"Not really hard to guess," Moira volunteers helpfully, beginning to fold the sweater and then giving up, rolling it into a large puffy ball instead and dropping it down beside her to reach for her drink instead. "I'll give ye a clue, though. It was the only wee couple at the dance not scuffing their feet and looking as if they were waiting around for sex to be invented. Uh-- barrin' Cassy and her little catch, that is."
Ororo is not a terribly astute guesser, but she does have ears in her head, and so hazards a hypothesis along these lines. "Wesley and Jubilee?" she asks. There are no stripper-free places in this lounge; as the sliding door draws shut behind her, so Ororo strids forward across the lounge towards the hot tub, and undoes the knotted sash holding her towel-robe closed. "I do not really think of the attic as especially romantic," she says in a musing sort of tone. "Were their clothes on? -- Goddess, as to Cassy and Jay I don't think I /want/ to know. How old is that girl?"
"Hah!" The martini glass emerges from the artificial waves, stem clutched between two of Jean's toes, which still show a wine red polish to the nails. Leaning forward to snag it more conventionally, she sets it on the side of the hot tub, and admits that "Moira's given me more details in ten seconds than Jubilee gave me altogether, but I don't -think- they actually got any farther after being interrupted. Honestly, the attic?" A shake of her head. "I always liked the stables better, myself."
"Ach, but what about the /smell/?" wonders Moira in evident and unsubtle distaste, her nose wrinkling in tactile memory as she shakes her head. "Honestly, you'd think they'd just use a room. I mean, the roof, aye, in the summer when it's warm out and the stars're shinin', that has potential, but the attic in the winter when anyone could walk in? I think that Wesley needs a few lessons in how to wow a girl."
"I like the roof," Ororo observes, letting the terrycloth robe fall to the floor to reveal the biniki-clad body beneath. She joins Jean in the hot water at a slinking pace, folding herself down into it. "I suppose we could take him aside and offer him instruction," she says ingenuously. "Do you think he would appreciate that?"
"Hayloft and a blanket," Inspecting her nails, (As short-cropped and clean as ever.) Jean looks up to offer a twitch of an eyebrow, and her opinion that "Just as long as Jubilee doesn't find out about it. Although she could probably do with a few pointers in not taking it too seriously..."
Ororo's suggestion sends Moira into fits of laughter, and she has to place her glass down beside her to avoid spilling the coloured layers of alcohol as she doubles over at the mental pictures that induces. "Och, can ye imagine the puir lad's /face/?" she wheezes between breaths, her eyes dancing with delight as she looks over to the two younger women. "Think he might just explode."
Lounging back against the side of the tub, Ororo takes gales of laughter as her due, the shadows of a smirk curling her lips as her eyes half-close into the steam. "I think it would be remarkably charitable of us," she says, mirth a tremorous thread through the rich exoticism of her voice. "He would never know what hit, that is to say, he would surely be deeply grateful for our assistance."
"I think Jubilee would thank us if we made sure he -didn't- explode prematurely..." Jean reflects, all innocent thought.
Laughter quietens to a chuckle, and chuckling to an unladylike snigger at Jean's comment. "Oh aye, he'd appreciate it, I'm sure." The slight haze of alcohol-enduced amusement prevents her having anything more to say on the matter right at this moment, though chortling thoughts along the lines of 'three witches' float their way off Moira's surface thoughts just a little louder than is strictly necessary.
Ororo dissolves into laughter and skims a splashing wave at Jean.
The wave splashes Jean. She counter splashes with a laugh of her own, a sweep of one arm taking out both Ororo and Moira alike. "I -could- dig up that copy of the Kama Sutra I tried to give Scott one year... I think he's still got it buried in the depths of his underwear drawer."
White hair flattens wetly against Ororo's head. She giggles like a girl twenty years her junior and returns the splash fight with another gout of water. "Are you going to go digging in Scott's underpants?" she cackles.
"It's not like I've never done it before," Jean points out, a quick interjection with a smirky smile.
"Scott's underwear an' anythin' connected to it isnae something I want to contemplate," Moira announces, standing. "I'll leave you two lovely ladies to talk about it all you like." So saying, she stands and retrieves both her drink and her sweater. "I'll mebbe get changed and join you later," she tells them, with clarification pending should her player's connection decide not to be an arse.
"All right," Ororo says, pointing at Jean. "You obtain the kama sutra. I ..." she considers, and proceeds to slither out of the hot tub. "I will get you another drink. Then Moira will come back and we will plan in earnest."
"I like this idea," Jean awards. "It's a good way to forget about the whole Sword of Damocles set to drop down in Washington." Because mentioning it is an even better way to forget.
Moira, Jean and Storm. There is a hot tub, drinks, and much laughter and plotting at the expense of Jubilee and Wesley. Poor kids.
=NYC= Wesley and Bobby's Apartment - Midtown - Apartments in the Sky
It's evening. Too early to be out on the town, too late to still be at work, it's prime hours for catching people at home. Thus, outside the door to an apartment belonging to one Bobby Drake and one Wesley Flynn stand one Jean Grey and one Ororo Munroe. Jean is holding a small wrapped package in one hand. There's a bright red bow on it. The wrapping paper? Little hearts. Knock, knock, knock.
Ororo stands flanking her, holding nothing whatsoever. Her hands are at her hips, smoothed neatly over the fall of navy denim that is the jacket over her cream shirt. "I wonder if they're expecting pizza," she murmurs to Jean, evidence presented of a rather stupid sense of humor.
Wesley is watching TV. Channel surfing, more accurately. Because that is a frivolous thing to do, and he is without responsibility this night. And most of the day, as the unkempt figure answering the door attests. Showered, at least, but not much more. He blinks at the unexpected sight through the peephole, pulling open the door. "Hi. C'mon in."
"Ding-dong, it's Domino's calling." Jean murmurs back, cracking a grin. She herself is in the long black wool coat she's taken to wearing ever since the weather turned cold. The festively-wrapped little present is quite contrasted by it. "Hi, Wes," she greets, with the sort of bright-beaming smile that anyone who's known Jean long enough and well enough should identify as mischief. "Thanks -- it's not as cold out as it was a while back, but it's much nicer inside. How's the Roomba working out?"
Ororo's low voice chimes a quieter greeting, more sedate in counterpoint to Jean's friendly cheer. "Wesley," she says. Her smile lingers, playing at the corners of her mouth and gleaming in vivid blue eyes. She takes in his appearance with a flick of her glance, and her smile broadens a trifle with the inclination of her head. "Good afternoon." Ish. Afternoon-ish!
"Pretty good," Wesley says, eyeing them carefully as he holds the door wider for them. "We've both been pretty busy lately. Well, until today, for me. Not seen a lot of him. Haven't a clue where he's at tonight, actually. So..." he says, wariness at their expressions. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I meant the vaccuum I got you two for Christmas, not Bobby," Jean corrects with a soft chuckle, stepping in and peering past Wesley in the hopes of seeing some sign that the two males of the apartment are interested in robotic housekeeping. Setting the tantalizingly wrapped present on the nearest flat surface, she unbuttons her jacket, then picks the present back up again. "But what you owe the pleasure to... well, Ororo and I are here to give you some help that you really, really need." Expression solemn, she shares a glance with her best friend.
Ororo meets Jean's gaze with the lift of an eyebrow and then turns her attention to the young man, leaving her light jacket on as she drifts in to the apartment. She gives it but a cursory inspection, expecting bachelorhood and well familiar with its trappings. "Indeed," she says. "You may have left the halls of Xavier's School but I am afraid that with a community as small as ours you shall simply never escape the care of your teachers."
Alas, the vaccuum cleaner is nowhere in sight, no doubt having gotten itself stuck under or behind some stack or another. And the situation is not dire enough yet that Wesley or Bobby have gone to hunt for it. He glances Jean to the the package, then to Storm, then back to Jean. "My mom already got me a copy of Cooking for Dummies, y'know. Might as wellbe written in Russian."
"Well, this one was originally written in Sanskrit," Jean offers, the bright smile intensifying, and now best described as as gleaming. Just a -little- bit like the edge of a knife. But a friendly knife. "And trust me, you can get by without knowing how to cook. You -need- to learn this. Jubilee will thank you."
"Indeed," Ororo says, glancing at her nails with the utmost of serenity. "There is always the option of delivery, or takeout, when it comes to food, or merely eating out of a box of cereal. I do not think that there are similar solutions for /this/. At least, none that I choose to consider, particularly."
"Sanskrit?" Wesley squints an eye at them. "Okay, now I'm curious. And a little terrified," he adds with a chuckle, trying to glean something from their faces as he glances between them. "Mostly curious, though. What's this all about?"
A sudden spark of amusement fills the apartment at Ororo's comments, tickling the mind with a memory of a feminine laugh and the scent of cinnamon and coffee. Jean's shields are, apparently, not -quite- their normal selves yet. Solemnly, she holds up a hand, asking for a pause. She removes her coat, hangs it over one arm, straightens the blouse and vest beneath it, and only then offers over the book. "Part Three, chapter two and three," she advises. "Parts two and seven, I don't want to hear about. But read them anyways."
Ororo grins.
By now, Wesley is completely baffled, both at the antics and the cryptic messages. He takes the give, glancing back up, then flips it over, slowly sliding a finger along the back to separate the tape. "Should I be like fearing for my life..." he trails off as the paper falls off, and to the floor, with Wesley making no attempt to catch it. He turns the book over, smile momentarily stunned in place, and he finally looks back up at the devious pair. "For real?" he asks, head shaking as he laughs, the situation suddenly histerical. "Wow. I can't believe you--wow."
Jean meets the laughter with a benevolent smile. "It's actually Scott's," she admits, because there's no way that Cyclops is that easily freeing himself of owning The Book. "But I think you could get more use out of it." A pause, and a quirk of her lips. "Or actually read it. But we talked with Moira, you see."
"She thought you were in dire need of our assistance," Ororo says, though laughter threatens to break through the deadpan. She laces her hands together in a loose clasp before her.
"Wait, this is /Scott's/? Thought that was just a rumor. I feel kinda violat--" Wesley breaks off mid-sentence as the rest of their comment settles in. "Oh. You heard about that, did you. I /knew/ it was too much to hope she wouldn't recall that in the morning. So wait," he looks down at the book, turning it back and forth. "What makes her think I need this?"
"You were tring to have sex with a girl you really care about. I'm assuming for the first time." Jean pauses, and peers down at Wesley, severely. "In the -attic-."
Biting her lip, Ororo shaks her head as forbiddingly as she can muster while fighting back laughter.
"What, it was gonna be /romantic/," Wesley shrugs, giving the book a little toss to land on the couch. "People hardly ever go up there anyways. Especially on a night when /everyone's/ got plans. As much home to her as anywhere, a little bit dangerous, after a nice evening. Shoulda been perfect. I blame whoever spiked the punch."
Jean's answer is a look over at Ororo, and a slow shake of her head.
Ororo pins the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "An attic is romantic?"
"Under the right circumstances," Wesley bobs his head back and forth, hoping for at least /some/ bit of credit. "It could be. With enough flowers. Maybe."
"With a lock on the door," Jean murmurs. "And fewer spiders... Wes, you have to realize that women don't usually -want- 'a little bit dangerous', their first time," she explains, mirroring Ororo's gesture with her own thumb and finger pinching away.
Ororo slides her fingertips through the loose silvery fall of her hair and lets her hands drop to her hips again, raising her eyebrows at Wesley. "That would require an awful lot of flowers," she says.
"/She/ seemed to think it was," Wesley says, their opinions on that particular matter falling on deaf ears. It was a good idea. Really. The thought of the book brings a conspiratorial smirk to his face, though. "Guess there's always more to learn, though. Hopefully, she /will/ thank me for it."
"Don't go off what she -seems- to think or want," Jean advises, shaking her head slightly. "Know. And if you don't know, then -ask-." Another vague thought leaks out, a suggestion of Pyro and Alyssa, well washed with old, tired irritation, muted by the knowledge that youth will be youth. "But if you mess up, we'll just go see Jubilee," she finishes, with a return to bright good cheer.
Ororo gleams another grin. "Of course," she says. She glances at Jean, cocking another eyebrow for old memory. "Girls are notoriously difficult to read, you know."
"Psh, /tell/ me about it," Wesley rolls his eyes, frowning slightly as an out of place comparison with his fellow students slips into thought. He dismisses it, then adds, "Here she storms out on me, then next thing I know, she's calling every five minutes. We'll work it out, though." Of the argument since, he says not a word.
"Remember short phrases," is Jean's advice. "'I care about you'. 'Are you OK'." A pause, and a soft chuckle. "'I'm sorry' is a good one, too. Definitely."
"My personal favorite," Ororo says lightly. "Don't underestimate the power of a well-placed 'wow,' if she happens to doll herself up."
"Short phrases," Wesley grins at both of them. "That I can do. It's the long ones that trip me up. I still can't believe I'm here talking about my love life with you guys."
"Trust me," Jean says dryly. "We normally stay out of things... but well, consider yourself a special case."
Ororo laughs. "Well-meant," she says, "if surreal."
"A special case, huh?" Wesley beams in response. "Well, I like the sound of that better than 'Screw up and I'll kill you.' I don't think /anyone/ at Xavier's ever learned how to 'stay out of things.'"
"One big, happy family," Jean agrees, shifting her coat to her other arm and hugging it to her waist. "With text-message, email, and incriminating photographs. And drunk Scottish matriarchs."
"I don't imagine we'll need to kill you, if you screw up too badly," Ororo adds helpfully, on the edge of further laughter.
"Right old Brady bunch," Wesley grins. "At least it's nice to know I have at least a semi-vote of confidence or two." He glances at her coat. "Geez, here you come bringing me gifts and I don't even take your coat. You guys want to stay a bit? I probably have something I can offer you to drink, though I'm not sure /what/ right now."
"I've got a few things to do down at Gradient," Jean admits, "I've been thinking I might start a new line mice on the idea that research into certain X-Factors could be used in better understanding cancer cells, and there's some really tricky cell cultures I'd like to have some spare copies of at the mansion... but that's enough science," she interrupts herself. "I could manage a few minutes. Ororo?"
"I have some time," Ororo says, with a brief glance at her watch. "Not too much, though. As long as I am in the city, I do have a few ... errands ... that might demand my attention." She glances at Jean, amused and fooling about nobody. 'Errands.'
"Have a seat then," he nods at the couch, himself heading toward the kitchen. A glance in the refrigerator, then he calls back, "Not sure I'd trust the milk, so I have Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, think we have some iced tea mix. And Ice water--wait," he pulls open the freezer, and spotting the full icetrays. "Yeah, Ice water."
"Right, your 'errand' would be getting off shift in half an hour..." Jean drawls, favouring Storm with a smirk. Taking a seat on the couch, although leaving her coat draped across her lap, she opines that "If an apartment with you and Bobby living in it didn't have ice water available, I'd be worried one of you was sick."
Ororo answers Jean's smirk with one of her own and folds herself down neatly onto the opposite corner of the couch. She crosses her legs. "Just so," she says, although it is unclear to which of Jean's comments this is addressed. "Ice water will do for me, thank you."
"Just because he /can/ make ice doesn't mean he remembers to," Wesley grins past the door, before grabbing two glasses, pausing to make sure they're clean, then scooping ice into them and returning a moment later with two glasses. "For you, and for you. So I suppose this discussion is one-way, huh? Don't care to elaborate?"
"Thanks," Jean murmurs, taking the glass offered to her, and bobbing her head. But the question from Wesley earns him nothing more than a low chuckle. "Wes, for it to be two-way, you're going to have to undergo some significan surgery and lifestyle changes. I hate to break it to you, but there's no way you're going to pass for someone capable of a girls' night in."
"My boyfriend," Ororo sees fit to elaborate, and yet, no further. She leans back against the couch with an enigmatic smile, and retreats to silence.
"And lemme guess, Scott or Logan wouldn't deliver that," he says, with a nod toward the book. "Not that I think I'd actually have /wanted/ either of them to," he adds after a moment's thought.
"If Logan wants to give you advice, he'll probably do it without bothering with a book," Jean reflects with a laugh. "Of course, there's the fact that Jubilee's like a little sister to him... but you two kids be good to each other. And follow Moira's advice."
Storm and Jean stage an Intervention, and deliver a Certain Book to Wesley. This will totally end well!