Baking cookies
Well, that was a little bad. I had no idea she was coming over today. Did I? Maybe I just forgot. Typical.
Up too late on the phone last night with Jaz and Terry. Didn't wait until today, after all: I'm a good worker bee and wanted all my puzzle pieces into place for once, dammit. Jaz'll put me in touch with a stringer they use for crowd photography; he sounds like a decent guy, been around the block a time or two, and if she says he's good at his job, he is. On the other end of things, Terry and I went back and forth about publication, with her editor, the redoubtable Mr. Gilcrest, occasionally dragged onto the line before he finally went home for the night. No promises, but . . . maybe. Maybe. (Especially with all the name-dropping I did. "Jean Grey" this, "Jean Grey" that, and did I mention that I have her personal contact information? A direct line to Ms. Mutant Advocacy herself? God, the things a person will do for a job . . .) I'll keep hammering him. No job offer? Then put this in your paper, and under my byline, not some AP pool-report shit.
And then I finished off the whiskey. Because.
And the air conditioner broke some time in the night. Also because.
And Alyssa started knocking the door down while I was trying to get some air, any air, in the living room. Even more because.
What is this cop talk of hers? It must be a phase. I'll kick Rossi's ass if it's his fault. Make him go to her funeral and hand over the flag to her parents.
I think God exists because Someone is hating me these days and He's the only one with the means, motive, and opportunity. I will take it up with one of His representatives first chance I get.
8/24/2005
Logfile from Leah.
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Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
--
Elevator abandoned for the energetic pursuit of bounding up the stairs, Alyssa arrives on Leah's floor with a thud, careening 'round the corner heedless of any who might be attempting to use the stairs themselves. Fortunately, there are no such luckless souls, and so it's within a few more long-leged bounds (energy, so much energy!) that she's at Leah's door. Thud thud thud goes the knocking, followed up by a cheerily caroled greeting of, "Leeeeeeeaaaaaaaah!"
Well, at least Leah is awake. And mobile. More than that is up in the air, which is where one of her arms is currently swiping in instinctual defense against the /noise./ She removes the other arm from over her eyes and sits up on the couch. Blinks tired, puffy eyes at the door. Correction: at the Source of All Evil Known to Man. "Hang on," she shouts hoarsely back and starts prying herself free of the cushions. She even snags her shirt off the couch back on the way to meet Alyssa, and drags it over her head. The rest of her will have to do with jean cutoffs. The AC is on the fritz again. Might just open the door for the cross-breeze with the open windows...
Still on the opposite side of the door, Alyssa jitters in barely restrained excitement. There is /energy/, and it is /boundless/. "Haaaaaaang-innnnng," is singsonged back in response, and she slides her backpack over her shoulder, unzips, and starts pawing through the contents.
Leah rests her forehead against the door for a minute. Okay. She can do this. If a person can keep up with Chris Matthews's hardball bloviation on national television, surely she can manage an afternoon with a hyper teenager. Maybe. A smile gets stuck to her face like a bug on the windshield of a Mack truck going sixty on a desert highway, and her hand claws for the knob. Catches. Turns. And she peeks out, blinking only a little more than normal. "Hi! Didn't expect you, sorry. Is it cookie time already?"
Jittering stops as the door swings open, the backpack once again relegated to being slung over her shoulder. "Yep!" is chirped, followed by a muffled, "Onetwothreefourfive," before she bounds through the doorway, and flings arms 'round Leah in greeting. Look, she counted! "I brought stuff to make 'em, and /big/ chocolate chunks. Chris'll like that, right?" Cheery, chipper, she releases Leah and skips (skips!) off toward the kitchen.
With the great, bedrock determination that she has built up in thirty-four years (and counting!) of living the life of a modern woman, Leah does /not/ go back to leaning against the door. Or crawling onto the couch. No. She is stronger than that, so after the hug happens like some alien mystery arriving out of the blue, all shrouded in mist and soggy cotton balls, she closes the door, locks it, and turns to trail after her young friend. "I guess," she comes up with, stabbing it with desperate hope at what was a question in the words zipping by her at light-speed. (And screw Einstein and the E=mc-squared that he rode in on, too.) "Who doesn't love chocolate? Hang on, I'll ... get the cookie sheet. Or the bowls? Something." She puts her hands on the counter and, okay, leans. A bit. Blinks a bit more.
"Yay!" is chirped. "/Everybody/ likes chocolate, right? And the cookies he had at the hospital were chocolate, /so/." Backpack (which presumably contains ingredients) is set on the counter, and Alyssa swivels back toward Leah. "Bowls'd be good -- are you okay? You look like /you're/ the one who got shot in the chest, or somethin'." Curiousity peers brightly out at Leah, green eyes wide. "Need anything before we start? Did you just get /up/?"
Oh, Jesus have mercy: more questions. A lot of them. Leah smears out her smile again. "I'm fine. Just stayed up too late. You've probably done that before, huh?" Just maybe without a half-bottle of old, dark whiskey for company. One can hope, anyway. She pushes off from the counter, but not into the kitchen proper. Time to wander into the living room again! "And it's so /hot/ -- sorry about that. I left messages for the landlord. How 'bout I see if I can find a fan to get a breeze going, and you dig out the mixing bowls and stuff?"
Sympathy crosses Alyssa's face, and the relentless questions cease their bombardment, though the chatter doesn't cease completely. "Bouts of insomnia. 'Specially bad when I first moved to the school, but /OH/!" A hand flutters up to her mouth, "Speaking of moving, I didn't /tell/ you. My parents are moving -- dad got transferred. I'm going to stay here, though." Turning back toward the kitchen, she starts clanking and clattering around in the kitchen in her search for the appropriate bowls. "It /is/ kinda hot, though. A fan would /totally/ rock."
And Leah is certainly all about the rocking. After some clanking and clattering of her own in the hall closet and then the bedroom, she emerges with an old oscillating fan that she sets up on the dining table. As it starts swinging slowly to field the still, dead air from the windows and cast it out refreshed and renewed, she moves past the girl to the fridge. "Ice water?" she suggests. "I'm having some, anyway. I'll pour you a glass. Where's your dad transferred to? Have they left yet?"
"Let there be circulating air! And there was. And it was good." Grinning at herself, Alyssa discovers and sets out the appropriate bowls, then slews 'round to face Leah again once the out of work reporter is near the fridge. "Water woudl be /great/! Do you have eggs, while you're in there? And, um. Butter or margerine or something?" Notecard is snagged out of the backpack's front pocket, and she skims the list of ingredients momentarily, then chirrups, "And milk. Um. Back to Phoenix, which is cool, because then they can see my sister a lot more often. I'll probably still go visit them on holidays. They're packing already, and I think they leave later this week. They're taking my /dog/." Sulk.
"Well, you probably can't have your dog at the school, so." Leah leaves the sentence there. She's a writer. She can do that. Screw proper English and clauses and crap like that. They are for the weak! And she is strong! (Something like that.) Once she's got the two glasses of water poured and set aside, she dives back in for the ingredients. The cool air must be reviving her. Or the chatter. "--And you can visit them plenty, I'm sure," she continues more vividly. "Nice break from this place, huh? I've never been out there.... Okay, I'm a little low on milk, but I think this'll be enough. And here are the eggs, too. Let me find the butter. It was somewhere--"
"Yeah, but it's my /dog/! I'm gonna miss him like /crazy/." Nosewrinkle. "Possibly more than I'll miss my parents." It's said tongue-in-cheek, if the grin is any indication, and Aly starts gathering up the ingredients once Leah removes them from the fridge. "Do you have measuring cups? Nevermind, I'll look for them!" She nabs one of the glasses as she scoots, standing on her tiptoes and sipping as she looks through an upper cabinet.
Leah sets out the butter (nasty hiding butter! You can run, but--) and then nudges Aly verbally with, "Drawer next to the oven," on her way past to the dining table and fan again. The glass comes with because the glass needs to rub against her pale, tight brow and then drain half of itself down her throat. She stretches out in a chair, props her legs up on another one, and surveys the cookie-making operation with yet more life sparking in gaze and voice. "Get a webcam or something. Watch the dog long-distance. He'll be fine, don't worry. You can send him letters. Your parents can read them to him."
Alyssa crows with delight upon finding the cups in the indicated drawer, depositing them with haphazard glee upon the countertop. Figner trails down the instructions, and then she starts pulling the dry stuff out of her backpack -- flour and sugar and other such things, already premeasured so all that is required is dumping them into the bowl. Which she then does. "Oh, that would /work/. I could write him letters! And tell him about school. And Rossi! And OH!" Alyssa's thought process is nearly transparent, as whatever comes to mind is voiced soon thereafter. "I decided I'd rather be a cop than a geneticist."
Leah chokes on water. "What the /hell/?"
Bright, beaming smile, and a sketch with flour-covered hands. "I want to be a cop. Like Chris. And your family."
The glass goes back to Leah's face: she's hiding like the butter, and about as successfully. "Mary Mother of God. You aren't, Aly. Tell me you aren't. Be serious."
"I /am/! Professor Summers says I should talk to Dr. Grey about it first, but... I really think I want to." Alyssa turns back to the cookie-making, cracking eggs of the appropriate number into the bowl with the other ingredients. "Even if he /was/ nasty, and said I wouldn't be very effective if I bawled all over criminals. I /won't/, though." Drawers a rifled through until she finds a wooden spoon (because everyone /has/ to have at least one), and she pours the milk into the bowl with her free hand. Multitasking! "I really want to, Leah."
"But why?" asks Leah a little plaintively. Not so awake and with it, after all. "You could do just about anything else-- Get yourself /shot,/ Aly. Beaten up. Hell if I know what, but it's a nasty, dirty, stupid, thankless, and sometimes just damned boring job. What's wrong with being a geneticist? Make lots of money, get famous off patents, /and/ no one's gonna hunt you down for doing your job." She pauses, then allows, "Well, probably not. Never know, these days. /Have/ you talked to Dr. Grey? Or your parents?"
Alyssa rubs at her forehead with the back of her hand, and addresses Leah sideways, while stirring. Look, there be butter in there, too. All the ingredients, yay! Now it must be mashed up with a wooden spoon. Spoon! Mashmash. "I.. yeah, I could. But I could also /do/ stuff for people. Help them. Be civil servant. And other than the shooting himself in the chest part, Chris seems to like his job?" Hopeful, the tone, as she leeeeans out to peer at Leah at the table. "And being a geneticist would take a /lot/ of math. I /suck/ at math." Pause. "Havent' talked to anybody about it yet, really. Professor Summers says that I'd have to make hard decisions, but I could do that! I /could/."
Takes Leah a minute to figure out where to start with that. (Merciful Heaven, getting shouted at on TV is so much easier than--) "Being helpful is good," she finally says. "I wanted to do that, too, so I know where you're coming from. And you can make hard decisions. You're a mutant living in the world with the rest of us slobs; hard decisions are part of your life now. Aly, you're a /mutant,/" and hello, tangent! Urgent, grasping, hungover tangent! "Just imagine what they'd do to you in the academy. On the job. Are you even thinking about that? Hard enough for a woman, but mutant on top of it..."
Inner eyelids blinked for effect, though the concentrated effort it takes somewhat mitigates it before the action is even completed, Aly regards Leah with pursed lips. "I /am/ a mutant, but it's totally not obvious unless you know, or I freak out and they go all weird. I could make it through the academy fine, if I've learned to control it by then." Chin lifts, surety sweeping through her stance, "I'm not scared."
"Then we've completely failed with you." Leah slumps in the chair; the move scritches its legs on the tile in faint protest. "I'm scared. I'm scared all the damn time, and I have a lot less reason for it than you do."
Alyssa's face falls, and bravado leeches out as she abandons the cookie-making to rush toward Leah's table. Flour smudges into hair as she rakes her fingers through, then gestures beseechingly. "No, /no/... don't say that you've... no. I mean, I /am/ scared, because it'll be hard, but... I /want/ to do it. I don't want to /have/ to be scared. I want to know how to protect myself, and how to protect other people, and..." Face twists slightly, "I mean, right now? Scared of guns. They totally freak me out! But, Chris said he would... sorta... I'll have to ask him again but he kinda said he'd teach me to shoot if i really wanted to learn, and then I won't /have/ to be afraid of them like I am, because I'll know how to use one, and... do you... I /want/ to be able to protect other people, too!"
Leah's head drops forward, and her eyelids roll closed. It's an answer, in its own way: the slump, the avoidance of eye contact. The visible weariness. Resignation. "Then do it," she pulls up from the breathing hollow of her chest. Audible weariness, too: alto rubbed raw and slow. "Scott wouldn't guide you wrong. You know /that./ And I guess that -- but Chris won't be showing anyone how to do anything for a while yet." She injects humor with the determination that's gotten her this far, dammit. Even peeks an eye open at the girl. "He's still flat on his back, so to speak. Give him a couple weeks. Poor guy."
"Leah?" A hand, outstretched toward Leah's shoulder falls before the contact can be made, and Alyssa's enthusiasm (though not the passion that guides it, oh no!) dims somewhat. "Look, it's not like saying I want to do it means it's absolutely /going/ to happen. I... might not make it throught he academy, I might... I don't know. Please don't be upset?" A frown stitches itself into her expression, "I think I could do it, Leah. I really do." Chris' condition, however, returns attention to the process of cookie-making, and Alyssa bounds back off to the kitchen to stir furiously at the mix. "He -- Professor Summers -- told me I gotta count to five before I hug my friends."
"I know. Might not, maybe not -- still a lot of life you have to live first, and anything can happen between now and then." Leah sighs her head back up, and a little back in a tired loll, while her hand fumbles out over the table for her glass and another drink. "Don't mind me. Insomnia, like you said." Even if /she/ says it with black sarcasm, self-directed. A sharp headshake dispels it. Chipper Leah! Whee! "You'd be a great cop, Aly. You're smart, and you care about people, and hey, maybe your mutation would help you, huh? Be a good lookout or something. Your buddies would love it!" She needs another, longer swallow after that. Drowns more mood, but oh, sarcasm floats, however thinly. "--And what about hugging complete strangers? How long do you count for them? I hope he said something about /that./"
"Insomnia can be such a bitch, can't it?" And with that, Alyssa lets the subject begin to slide, her disappointment in Leah's reaction masked by a cheery grin. "It /could/ help. And who knows! Chris says they'r emore tolerant of gays on the force now, so maybe by the time I'm old enough to make it out of the academy, people will be more keen on mutants, too." The oven is flicked on, card consulted once again as the knob twirls 'round to the right temperature. "Ten seconds. For strangers. Twenty for Logan." Sheepish grin.
Leah picks out of hazy memory (and not entirely her fault, or the hangover's, that haze, thank /you,/ Charles Xavier), "Oh, the screen-door guy. Dr. Grey's. Right. Well, that's probably for the good. Some people you /don't/ hug, girl." She gives her a significant look, but doesn't push that subject, either. Too damned hot, and it has nothing to do with the fan's sweeping labors. "Speaking of her -- Dr. Grey -- you know about her rally, right? Are you going to it?"
"Yeah, him." Tone brightens somewhat, "He's not so bad, though, now that he's one of the teachers again. But yeah, not so much a hugging kind of guy, really." Cookie dough -- for it is indeed now dough (finally!) is scooped into little balls, and plopped onto -- but wait! "Um," comes from the Aly, "I forgot to grab a cookie sheet. Could you?" The question hangs in the air for a moment before she shrugs, "I dunno. Wasn't /planning/ on it, anyway. It sounds kinda lame."
A snort of a laugh pushes Leah out of the chair, and she rummages in a low cabinet for a sheet, offering it up over her head like a shield. "There you go, and yeah, I think it sounds lame, too. Way too hippy Sixties, or else terribly, terribly serious and so boring as dried dogsh-- well, you get the idea." She rocks back on her heels and then to her feet. Leans against the counter and loosely folds her arms. "Anyway. She asked me to cover it. Thought maybe I'd see you there."
Alyssa collects the sheet with a grin, plopping her handful of dough onto it, and wiggling otherwise sticky figners at Leah. "Yeah, that sounds about right. So, yeah. /Totally/ wasn't planning on going. But!" Figners are wiggled again, then dig back into the bowlful of dough, and Aly starts making up more cookie-globs. "If she wants you to cover it, maybe I'll go. we can find somewhere to sit and make snarky comments about it to each other, or something. Bring Chris! Make it an outing. Or someth-- oh." Disappointment sketches across features, "Wait. He might not be so keen on that, 'cause of the whole... being attacked thing. But I could always ask him when I take him the cookies?"
Leah comments, not without a little smile, "I'll be working. No sitting around and snarking. Maybe once we've gorged ourselves on the free food I was promised..." She shakes her head again. "Can't believe I'm doing it, but a job's a job. I might even get it into the Times, thanks to some late-night guilt-tripping last night. As for Chris--" 'Oy,' says expression and stance. What voice says is, tactfully, "Maybe mention it, but just as something you're doing. I don't know how keen he'd be on the whole thing, even leaving aside what he just went through. Don't get your hopes up."
"Awww. I'll still go, though, if you want me to?" The offer dangles, much like the bit of cookie that is suspended momentarily between fingers before she lets it go. Plop! "Wait, the /Times/? That would be so totally /awesome/, Leah!" Cookies and counting or no, Aly bounds over for anotehr hug. Squeeze! "I'll totally mention it. It would be /so/ much cooler with you guys there." Nose wrinkles slightly, "I could bribe him with more cookies, or something."
Leah obligingly hugs back, and her smile goes a little wider, even. But... "Hey, it's no big deal, really. Got a friend on the staff over there, and an editor who feels guilty for dangling a kinda-sorta job offer and then yanking it back because of his bosses." Not that she's /bitter./ Or /snarling./ No. Ahem. She resettles back against the counter, refolds her arms, retunes herself to slightly stiff, pallid blankness. "Just don't push him, okay? He's a bit grumpy these days. Has to heal more. It's tough on him. Even cookies can't help that." Her voice drops; she glances aside. "Or me. Maybe you can, though. He likes you."
"That's totally bogus! They /should/ feel guilty. Stupid." Aly would kick them, yes she would. If she could. As it is, she can just pull open the oven, and sliiiide the now-full cookie sheet in the oven, and make note of the time. "I'm glad they do, though. I want you to get published! You're a good writer. I, uh." Sheepish grin, accompanied by a not-quite look at Leah, "Read soem of your articles. Thanks for being friends with me, anyway." She scans the kitchen, then pounces on a dishtowel and scrubs at one sticky hand before reaching out for Leah's, "I'll do what I can, okay? You... don't worry. /I/ like you plenty. I guess bein' shot and stuff would make /anyone/ cranky."
Bemused, Leah offers forth a hand. She's very well trained that way. (Shake! Good girl!) "Well, thanks. Don't worry, I'll get published again." She produces a better, more lifelike expression, even if her eyes still reflect weary bruisedom. "A known writer like me doesn't just vanish off the face of the planet, you know. And maybe I'll show up on TV again, too. Never know. Not even talking about you -- about mutants. And the MRA." Bemusement deepens, nods politely to irritation on the way. "I ... think that the Rolling Stone article convinced some people that I switched sides. Showing up to Dr. Grey's rally won't help that. You want to talk about cranky? Better stay away from me for a while after that, Aly. I'm /not/ a freakin' liberal. God." And other assorted deities and curses. "Anyway. Rossi. Yeah. Work on him if you want, but he might not like it, is all I'm sayin'."
Alyssa captures the hand, tangling her figners with Leah's and offering a brilliant grin. "You /will/. You're too good not to get published." Eyes roll slightly, "Leah. You may not be a liberal, but just lookit you -- you've got a /mutant/ in your /kitchen/. The conservatives would /totally/ freak." Nose wrinkles up, "I'll take over Chris' kitchen and bake /you/ cookies for after the rally, how's that? Or bring ice cream." Enthusiasm bubbles, light and carefree. "Or both! Cookies and ice cream. And I'll make Chris bring you beer, 'cause I totally can't bring you that."
Leah's expression freezes at the reminder of living, breathing freakdom under her own roof. At least she doesn't pull away, though. Well. Not immediately. "Well," she mutters, "I'm not one of those Friends of Humanity idiots. You don't have to bake me cookies." /Now/ she disentangles herself, ostensibly to fetch her empty glass for a refill. She offers forth the pitcher for Alyssa's glass, too. Aww. "I'll be fine. Just cranky. I'm always cranky. As you can tell. And I can raid Rossi's place for beer on my own. It's okay."
Alyssa's brow furrows, "Chris told me about them. Like the goddamn stupid Brotherhood, only the other way around. Idiots. Thank you for not being like them, Leah." The refill is accepted with another grin, and a flick of her free hand. "You're not /always/ cranky. I wouldn't like you as much if you were /always/ cranky." Eyes twinkle, "And raided beer is more fun if someone gets coaxed into bringing it to you. But I'll definitely bring ice cream. And you can rant at me about mutant freaks, and I promise to not get too upset." She sticks her tongue out, just because.
Leah sighs and nods. "A lot of goddamn stupid idiots out there. Glad he told you about them. Things are quiet now on that front, but that's always a bad sign, huh? Look at how quiet things were with the Brotherhood, and then that jailbreak happened. Oh, well. Not our job to worry about it, huh?" Ironically, sardonically, she toasts the girl with her glass and drains a third of the water in one go. "I don't want to rant," she continues a little sadly. "I'm tired of ranting. Let's just sit and wait for the cookies to finish, and you can tell me about Phoenix or something like that. Tell me about your dog, your sister, the classes you want to take.... Anything but mutants, okay? I'm all tapped out on mutants."
"Not until I become a cop," Alyssa teases, glancing up at the clock again before she nods. "/Let's/. That sounds absolutely wonderful." Free hand gestures again, this time toward the sofa, and Aly begins to wend her way out of the kitchen. "Have I ever told you the story of how we got George...?" Fade out.
[Log ends.]
Up too late on the phone last night with Jaz and Terry. Didn't wait until today, after all: I'm a good worker bee and wanted all my puzzle pieces into place for once, dammit. Jaz'll put me in touch with a stringer they use for crowd photography; he sounds like a decent guy, been around the block a time or two, and if she says he's good at his job, he is. On the other end of things, Terry and I went back and forth about publication, with her editor, the redoubtable Mr. Gilcrest, occasionally dragged onto the line before he finally went home for the night. No promises, but . . . maybe. Maybe. (Especially with all the name-dropping I did. "Jean Grey" this, "Jean Grey" that, and did I mention that I have her personal contact information? A direct line to Ms. Mutant Advocacy herself? God, the things a person will do for a job . . .) I'll keep hammering him. No job offer? Then put this in your paper, and under my byline, not some AP pool-report shit.
And then I finished off the whiskey. Because.
And the air conditioner broke some time in the night. Also because.
And Alyssa started knocking the door down while I was trying to get some air, any air, in the living room. Even more because.
What is this cop talk of hers? It must be a phase. I'll kick Rossi's ass if it's his fault. Make him go to her funeral and hand over the flag to her parents.
I think God exists because Someone is hating me these days and He's the only one with the means, motive, and opportunity. I will take it up with one of His representatives first chance I get.
8/24/2005
Logfile from Leah.
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Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
--
Elevator abandoned for the energetic pursuit of bounding up the stairs, Alyssa arrives on Leah's floor with a thud, careening 'round the corner heedless of any who might be attempting to use the stairs themselves. Fortunately, there are no such luckless souls, and so it's within a few more long-leged bounds (energy, so much energy!) that she's at Leah's door. Thud thud thud goes the knocking, followed up by a cheerily caroled greeting of, "Leeeeeeeaaaaaaaah!"
Well, at least Leah is awake. And mobile. More than that is up in the air, which is where one of her arms is currently swiping in instinctual defense against the /noise./ She removes the other arm from over her eyes and sits up on the couch. Blinks tired, puffy eyes at the door. Correction: at the Source of All Evil Known to Man. "Hang on," she shouts hoarsely back and starts prying herself free of the cushions. She even snags her shirt off the couch back on the way to meet Alyssa, and drags it over her head. The rest of her will have to do with jean cutoffs. The AC is on the fritz again. Might just open the door for the cross-breeze with the open windows...
Still on the opposite side of the door, Alyssa jitters in barely restrained excitement. There is /energy/, and it is /boundless/. "Haaaaaaang-innnnng," is singsonged back in response, and she slides her backpack over her shoulder, unzips, and starts pawing through the contents.
Leah rests her forehead against the door for a minute. Okay. She can do this. If a person can keep up with Chris Matthews's hardball bloviation on national television, surely she can manage an afternoon with a hyper teenager. Maybe. A smile gets stuck to her face like a bug on the windshield of a Mack truck going sixty on a desert highway, and her hand claws for the knob. Catches. Turns. And she peeks out, blinking only a little more than normal. "Hi! Didn't expect you, sorry. Is it cookie time already?"
Jittering stops as the door swings open, the backpack once again relegated to being slung over her shoulder. "Yep!" is chirped, followed by a muffled, "Onetwothreefourfive," before she bounds through the doorway, and flings arms 'round Leah in greeting. Look, she counted! "I brought stuff to make 'em, and /big/ chocolate chunks. Chris'll like that, right?" Cheery, chipper, she releases Leah and skips (skips!) off toward the kitchen.
With the great, bedrock determination that she has built up in thirty-four years (and counting!) of living the life of a modern woman, Leah does /not/ go back to leaning against the door. Or crawling onto the couch. No. She is stronger than that, so after the hug happens like some alien mystery arriving out of the blue, all shrouded in mist and soggy cotton balls, she closes the door, locks it, and turns to trail after her young friend. "I guess," she comes up with, stabbing it with desperate hope at what was a question in the words zipping by her at light-speed. (And screw Einstein and the E=mc-squared that he rode in on, too.) "Who doesn't love chocolate? Hang on, I'll ... get the cookie sheet. Or the bowls? Something." She puts her hands on the counter and, okay, leans. A bit. Blinks a bit more.
"Yay!" is chirped. "/Everybody/ likes chocolate, right? And the cookies he had at the hospital were chocolate, /so/." Backpack (which presumably contains ingredients) is set on the counter, and Alyssa swivels back toward Leah. "Bowls'd be good -- are you okay? You look like /you're/ the one who got shot in the chest, or somethin'." Curiousity peers brightly out at Leah, green eyes wide. "Need anything before we start? Did you just get /up/?"
Oh, Jesus have mercy: more questions. A lot of them. Leah smears out her smile again. "I'm fine. Just stayed up too late. You've probably done that before, huh?" Just maybe without a half-bottle of old, dark whiskey for company. One can hope, anyway. She pushes off from the counter, but not into the kitchen proper. Time to wander into the living room again! "And it's so /hot/ -- sorry about that. I left messages for the landlord. How 'bout I see if I can find a fan to get a breeze going, and you dig out the mixing bowls and stuff?"
Sympathy crosses Alyssa's face, and the relentless questions cease their bombardment, though the chatter doesn't cease completely. "Bouts of insomnia. 'Specially bad when I first moved to the school, but /OH/!" A hand flutters up to her mouth, "Speaking of moving, I didn't /tell/ you. My parents are moving -- dad got transferred. I'm going to stay here, though." Turning back toward the kitchen, she starts clanking and clattering around in the kitchen in her search for the appropriate bowls. "It /is/ kinda hot, though. A fan would /totally/ rock."
And Leah is certainly all about the rocking. After some clanking and clattering of her own in the hall closet and then the bedroom, she emerges with an old oscillating fan that she sets up on the dining table. As it starts swinging slowly to field the still, dead air from the windows and cast it out refreshed and renewed, she moves past the girl to the fridge. "Ice water?" she suggests. "I'm having some, anyway. I'll pour you a glass. Where's your dad transferred to? Have they left yet?"
"Let there be circulating air! And there was. And it was good." Grinning at herself, Alyssa discovers and sets out the appropriate bowls, then slews 'round to face Leah again once the out of work reporter is near the fridge. "Water woudl be /great/! Do you have eggs, while you're in there? And, um. Butter or margerine or something?" Notecard is snagged out of the backpack's front pocket, and she skims the list of ingredients momentarily, then chirrups, "And milk. Um. Back to Phoenix, which is cool, because then they can see my sister a lot more often. I'll probably still go visit them on holidays. They're packing already, and I think they leave later this week. They're taking my /dog/." Sulk.
"Well, you probably can't have your dog at the school, so." Leah leaves the sentence there. She's a writer. She can do that. Screw proper English and clauses and crap like that. They are for the weak! And she is strong! (Something like that.) Once she's got the two glasses of water poured and set aside, she dives back in for the ingredients. The cool air must be reviving her. Or the chatter. "--And you can visit them plenty, I'm sure," she continues more vividly. "Nice break from this place, huh? I've never been out there.... Okay, I'm a little low on milk, but I think this'll be enough. And here are the eggs, too. Let me find the butter. It was somewhere--"
"Yeah, but it's my /dog/! I'm gonna miss him like /crazy/." Nosewrinkle. "Possibly more than I'll miss my parents." It's said tongue-in-cheek, if the grin is any indication, and Aly starts gathering up the ingredients once Leah removes them from the fridge. "Do you have measuring cups? Nevermind, I'll look for them!" She nabs one of the glasses as she scoots, standing on her tiptoes and sipping as she looks through an upper cabinet.
Leah sets out the butter (nasty hiding butter! You can run, but--) and then nudges Aly verbally with, "Drawer next to the oven," on her way past to the dining table and fan again. The glass comes with because the glass needs to rub against her pale, tight brow and then drain half of itself down her throat. She stretches out in a chair, props her legs up on another one, and surveys the cookie-making operation with yet more life sparking in gaze and voice. "Get a webcam or something. Watch the dog long-distance. He'll be fine, don't worry. You can send him letters. Your parents can read them to him."
Alyssa crows with delight upon finding the cups in the indicated drawer, depositing them with haphazard glee upon the countertop. Figner trails down the instructions, and then she starts pulling the dry stuff out of her backpack -- flour and sugar and other such things, already premeasured so all that is required is dumping them into the bowl. Which she then does. "Oh, that would /work/. I could write him letters! And tell him about school. And Rossi! And OH!" Alyssa's thought process is nearly transparent, as whatever comes to mind is voiced soon thereafter. "I decided I'd rather be a cop than a geneticist."
Leah chokes on water. "What the /hell/?"
Bright, beaming smile, and a sketch with flour-covered hands. "I want to be a cop. Like Chris. And your family."
The glass goes back to Leah's face: she's hiding like the butter, and about as successfully. "Mary Mother of God. You aren't, Aly. Tell me you aren't. Be serious."
"I /am/! Professor Summers says I should talk to Dr. Grey about it first, but... I really think I want to." Alyssa turns back to the cookie-making, cracking eggs of the appropriate number into the bowl with the other ingredients. "Even if he /was/ nasty, and said I wouldn't be very effective if I bawled all over criminals. I /won't/, though." Drawers a rifled through until she finds a wooden spoon (because everyone /has/ to have at least one), and she pours the milk into the bowl with her free hand. Multitasking! "I really want to, Leah."
"But why?" asks Leah a little plaintively. Not so awake and with it, after all. "You could do just about anything else-- Get yourself /shot,/ Aly. Beaten up. Hell if I know what, but it's a nasty, dirty, stupid, thankless, and sometimes just damned boring job. What's wrong with being a geneticist? Make lots of money, get famous off patents, /and/ no one's gonna hunt you down for doing your job." She pauses, then allows, "Well, probably not. Never know, these days. /Have/ you talked to Dr. Grey? Or your parents?"
Alyssa rubs at her forehead with the back of her hand, and addresses Leah sideways, while stirring. Look, there be butter in there, too. All the ingredients, yay! Now it must be mashed up with a wooden spoon. Spoon! Mashmash. "I.. yeah, I could. But I could also /do/ stuff for people. Help them. Be civil servant. And other than the shooting himself in the chest part, Chris seems to like his job?" Hopeful, the tone, as she leeeeans out to peer at Leah at the table. "And being a geneticist would take a /lot/ of math. I /suck/ at math." Pause. "Havent' talked to anybody about it yet, really. Professor Summers says that I'd have to make hard decisions, but I could do that! I /could/."
Takes Leah a minute to figure out where to start with that. (Merciful Heaven, getting shouted at on TV is so much easier than--) "Being helpful is good," she finally says. "I wanted to do that, too, so I know where you're coming from. And you can make hard decisions. You're a mutant living in the world with the rest of us slobs; hard decisions are part of your life now. Aly, you're a /mutant,/" and hello, tangent! Urgent, grasping, hungover tangent! "Just imagine what they'd do to you in the academy. On the job. Are you even thinking about that? Hard enough for a woman, but mutant on top of it..."
Inner eyelids blinked for effect, though the concentrated effort it takes somewhat mitigates it before the action is even completed, Aly regards Leah with pursed lips. "I /am/ a mutant, but it's totally not obvious unless you know, or I freak out and they go all weird. I could make it through the academy fine, if I've learned to control it by then." Chin lifts, surety sweeping through her stance, "I'm not scared."
"Then we've completely failed with you." Leah slumps in the chair; the move scritches its legs on the tile in faint protest. "I'm scared. I'm scared all the damn time, and I have a lot less reason for it than you do."
Alyssa's face falls, and bravado leeches out as she abandons the cookie-making to rush toward Leah's table. Flour smudges into hair as she rakes her fingers through, then gestures beseechingly. "No, /no/... don't say that you've... no. I mean, I /am/ scared, because it'll be hard, but... I /want/ to do it. I don't want to /have/ to be scared. I want to know how to protect myself, and how to protect other people, and..." Face twists slightly, "I mean, right now? Scared of guns. They totally freak me out! But, Chris said he would... sorta... I'll have to ask him again but he kinda said he'd teach me to shoot if i really wanted to learn, and then I won't /have/ to be afraid of them like I am, because I'll know how to use one, and... do you... I /want/ to be able to protect other people, too!"
Leah's head drops forward, and her eyelids roll closed. It's an answer, in its own way: the slump, the avoidance of eye contact. The visible weariness. Resignation. "Then do it," she pulls up from the breathing hollow of her chest. Audible weariness, too: alto rubbed raw and slow. "Scott wouldn't guide you wrong. You know /that./ And I guess that -- but Chris won't be showing anyone how to do anything for a while yet." She injects humor with the determination that's gotten her this far, dammit. Even peeks an eye open at the girl. "He's still flat on his back, so to speak. Give him a couple weeks. Poor guy."
"Leah?" A hand, outstretched toward Leah's shoulder falls before the contact can be made, and Alyssa's enthusiasm (though not the passion that guides it, oh no!) dims somewhat. "Look, it's not like saying I want to do it means it's absolutely /going/ to happen. I... might not make it throught he academy, I might... I don't know. Please don't be upset?" A frown stitches itself into her expression, "I think I could do it, Leah. I really do." Chris' condition, however, returns attention to the process of cookie-making, and Alyssa bounds back off to the kitchen to stir furiously at the mix. "He -- Professor Summers -- told me I gotta count to five before I hug my friends."
"I know. Might not, maybe not -- still a lot of life you have to live first, and anything can happen between now and then." Leah sighs her head back up, and a little back in a tired loll, while her hand fumbles out over the table for her glass and another drink. "Don't mind me. Insomnia, like you said." Even if /she/ says it with black sarcasm, self-directed. A sharp headshake dispels it. Chipper Leah! Whee! "You'd be a great cop, Aly. You're smart, and you care about people, and hey, maybe your mutation would help you, huh? Be a good lookout or something. Your buddies would love it!" She needs another, longer swallow after that. Drowns more mood, but oh, sarcasm floats, however thinly. "--And what about hugging complete strangers? How long do you count for them? I hope he said something about /that./"
"Insomnia can be such a bitch, can't it?" And with that, Alyssa lets the subject begin to slide, her disappointment in Leah's reaction masked by a cheery grin. "It /could/ help. And who knows! Chris says they'r emore tolerant of gays on the force now, so maybe by the time I'm old enough to make it out of the academy, people will be more keen on mutants, too." The oven is flicked on, card consulted once again as the knob twirls 'round to the right temperature. "Ten seconds. For strangers. Twenty for Logan." Sheepish grin.
Leah picks out of hazy memory (and not entirely her fault, or the hangover's, that haze, thank /you,/ Charles Xavier), "Oh, the screen-door guy. Dr. Grey's. Right. Well, that's probably for the good. Some people you /don't/ hug, girl." She gives her a significant look, but doesn't push that subject, either. Too damned hot, and it has nothing to do with the fan's sweeping labors. "Speaking of her -- Dr. Grey -- you know about her rally, right? Are you going to it?"
"Yeah, him." Tone brightens somewhat, "He's not so bad, though, now that he's one of the teachers again. But yeah, not so much a hugging kind of guy, really." Cookie dough -- for it is indeed now dough (finally!) is scooped into little balls, and plopped onto -- but wait! "Um," comes from the Aly, "I forgot to grab a cookie sheet. Could you?" The question hangs in the air for a moment before she shrugs, "I dunno. Wasn't /planning/ on it, anyway. It sounds kinda lame."
A snort of a laugh pushes Leah out of the chair, and she rummages in a low cabinet for a sheet, offering it up over her head like a shield. "There you go, and yeah, I think it sounds lame, too. Way too hippy Sixties, or else terribly, terribly serious and so boring as dried dogsh-- well, you get the idea." She rocks back on her heels and then to her feet. Leans against the counter and loosely folds her arms. "Anyway. She asked me to cover it. Thought maybe I'd see you there."
Alyssa collects the sheet with a grin, plopping her handful of dough onto it, and wiggling otherwise sticky figners at Leah. "Yeah, that sounds about right. So, yeah. /Totally/ wasn't planning on going. But!" Figners are wiggled again, then dig back into the bowlful of dough, and Aly starts making up more cookie-globs. "If she wants you to cover it, maybe I'll go. we can find somewhere to sit and make snarky comments about it to each other, or something. Bring Chris! Make it an outing. Or someth-- oh." Disappointment sketches across features, "Wait. He might not be so keen on that, 'cause of the whole... being attacked thing. But I could always ask him when I take him the cookies?"
Leah comments, not without a little smile, "I'll be working. No sitting around and snarking. Maybe once we've gorged ourselves on the free food I was promised..." She shakes her head again. "Can't believe I'm doing it, but a job's a job. I might even get it into the Times, thanks to some late-night guilt-tripping last night. As for Chris--" 'Oy,' says expression and stance. What voice says is, tactfully, "Maybe mention it, but just as something you're doing. I don't know how keen he'd be on the whole thing, even leaving aside what he just went through. Don't get your hopes up."
"Awww. I'll still go, though, if you want me to?" The offer dangles, much like the bit of cookie that is suspended momentarily between fingers before she lets it go. Plop! "Wait, the /Times/? That would be so totally /awesome/, Leah!" Cookies and counting or no, Aly bounds over for anotehr hug. Squeeze! "I'll totally mention it. It would be /so/ much cooler with you guys there." Nose wrinkles slightly, "I could bribe him with more cookies, or something."
Leah obligingly hugs back, and her smile goes a little wider, even. But... "Hey, it's no big deal, really. Got a friend on the staff over there, and an editor who feels guilty for dangling a kinda-sorta job offer and then yanking it back because of his bosses." Not that she's /bitter./ Or /snarling./ No. Ahem. She resettles back against the counter, refolds her arms, retunes herself to slightly stiff, pallid blankness. "Just don't push him, okay? He's a bit grumpy these days. Has to heal more. It's tough on him. Even cookies can't help that." Her voice drops; she glances aside. "Or me. Maybe you can, though. He likes you."
"That's totally bogus! They /should/ feel guilty. Stupid." Aly would kick them, yes she would. If she could. As it is, she can just pull open the oven, and sliiiide the now-full cookie sheet in the oven, and make note of the time. "I'm glad they do, though. I want you to get published! You're a good writer. I, uh." Sheepish grin, accompanied by a not-quite look at Leah, "Read soem of your articles. Thanks for being friends with me, anyway." She scans the kitchen, then pounces on a dishtowel and scrubs at one sticky hand before reaching out for Leah's, "I'll do what I can, okay? You... don't worry. /I/ like you plenty. I guess bein' shot and stuff would make /anyone/ cranky."
Bemused, Leah offers forth a hand. She's very well trained that way. (Shake! Good girl!) "Well, thanks. Don't worry, I'll get published again." She produces a better, more lifelike expression, even if her eyes still reflect weary bruisedom. "A known writer like me doesn't just vanish off the face of the planet, you know. And maybe I'll show up on TV again, too. Never know. Not even talking about you -- about mutants. And the MRA." Bemusement deepens, nods politely to irritation on the way. "I ... think that the Rolling Stone article convinced some people that I switched sides. Showing up to Dr. Grey's rally won't help that. You want to talk about cranky? Better stay away from me for a while after that, Aly. I'm /not/ a freakin' liberal. God." And other assorted deities and curses. "Anyway. Rossi. Yeah. Work on him if you want, but he might not like it, is all I'm sayin'."
Alyssa captures the hand, tangling her figners with Leah's and offering a brilliant grin. "You /will/. You're too good not to get published." Eyes roll slightly, "Leah. You may not be a liberal, but just lookit you -- you've got a /mutant/ in your /kitchen/. The conservatives would /totally/ freak." Nose wrinkles up, "I'll take over Chris' kitchen and bake /you/ cookies for after the rally, how's that? Or bring ice cream." Enthusiasm bubbles, light and carefree. "Or both! Cookies and ice cream. And I'll make Chris bring you beer, 'cause I totally can't bring you that."
Leah's expression freezes at the reminder of living, breathing freakdom under her own roof. At least she doesn't pull away, though. Well. Not immediately. "Well," she mutters, "I'm not one of those Friends of Humanity idiots. You don't have to bake me cookies." /Now/ she disentangles herself, ostensibly to fetch her empty glass for a refill. She offers forth the pitcher for Alyssa's glass, too. Aww. "I'll be fine. Just cranky. I'm always cranky. As you can tell. And I can raid Rossi's place for beer on my own. It's okay."
Alyssa's brow furrows, "Chris told me about them. Like the goddamn stupid Brotherhood, only the other way around. Idiots. Thank you for not being like them, Leah." The refill is accepted with another grin, and a flick of her free hand. "You're not /always/ cranky. I wouldn't like you as much if you were /always/ cranky." Eyes twinkle, "And raided beer is more fun if someone gets coaxed into bringing it to you. But I'll definitely bring ice cream. And you can rant at me about mutant freaks, and I promise to not get too upset." She sticks her tongue out, just because.
Leah sighs and nods. "A lot of goddamn stupid idiots out there. Glad he told you about them. Things are quiet now on that front, but that's always a bad sign, huh? Look at how quiet things were with the Brotherhood, and then that jailbreak happened. Oh, well. Not our job to worry about it, huh?" Ironically, sardonically, she toasts the girl with her glass and drains a third of the water in one go. "I don't want to rant," she continues a little sadly. "I'm tired of ranting. Let's just sit and wait for the cookies to finish, and you can tell me about Phoenix or something like that. Tell me about your dog, your sister, the classes you want to take.... Anything but mutants, okay? I'm all tapped out on mutants."
"Not until I become a cop," Alyssa teases, glancing up at the clock again before she nods. "/Let's/. That sounds absolutely wonderful." Free hand gestures again, this time toward the sofa, and Aly begins to wend her way out of the kitchen. "Have I ever told you the story of how we got George...?" Fade out.
[Log ends.]