(no subject)
Derek sits on one of the benches, dressed in casual workout clothes: a loose muscle shirt and long, baggy shorts over running shoes. His sunglasses are firmly in place and his eyebrows are drawn together above them, glowering down at his own bicep. He seems to be doing curls, not with a dumbell, but with the bench press bar, loaded with what is clearly far more weight than an unaided human body can handle. His curls are notably slow, but the weight is definitely moving.
The bulky form of Padraig strolls easily into the room, decked out in three-quarter trousers and a muscle vest, as is his wont. He pauses on sight of the other occupant, and dips a greeting nod. "Alright, Derek?" he says, as he starts up again.
Derek does not look up immediately on Padraig's greeting. He does pause for a moment, then he finishes his curl and turns very slowly to deposit his bar back above the head of the bench. Then he lets out a breath. "Huunnh. Hey, Blitz." His tone is not at its most inviting as he rubs some sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist.
"You're stronger than you used to be," Padraig says, by way of observation, as he approaches the pull-up bar. Warmups? For wimps. However, the Irishman does allow a roll of shoulders.
Derek takes a few minutes to relax and shake out his right arm, which looks to be feeling a little bit like spaghetti. "Been working on coordinating the Tee Kay with my actual movement. Glad we got some heavy ass stuff for Creed." There are several hundred pound circles on each side of the weight; clearly most of the work was done by his power rather than his bicep.
"Plannin' on punching like a truck, are we?" Padraig wonders, with a thread of humour sketching into his voice. "It'd surprise the fuck out of the big-ass ugly furry bastard."
Derek grunts his agreement. "It ain't really Creed I'm thinkin' about beating with this. I been more thinkin' of usin' it out in the field. If I walk out and you don't know me, you just know I'm with Magneto, you ain't gonna be surprised if I turn out to be a super-strong tank, right? But if I've been tankin' it, who's gonna suspect that I'm also makin' heads explode?" He rises to his feet and contemplates the heavy bar.
"Point," Paddy concedes, as he reaches fingertips for the bar, for first tentative touch. "In fact," he continues, "I've done the same. I've not used my range on a proper operation, yet." He contemplates, then grasps, tensing bulky muscles towards a proper grip. "You seen the fridge?"
Derek smiles faintly behind his glasses. "Yeah. I ain't opened it. Was tempted, but I really don't think I wanna know what or probably /who/ is in there." He turns over onto his back and settles beneath the bar, apparently ready to start bench presses with the same weight he was using for curls.
"It's like the button that would end the world," Padraig says, regretfully. Head shakes, before he tugs himself up to a full pull-up. "Can't help but want to see what it -does-, what's in there. Not like I'm volunteering-- hang on, you seen Jason recently?"
Derek is just getting ready to lift the bar when his momentum is paused by Padraig's question. "No, now that you mention it," he admits, looking up at the other mutant. "Shit, you don't think the old man would leave /him/ in the freezer, do you? I don't think he'd survive that very long."
The Irishman releases the bar, dropping the inches to the floor and spinning on a toe in one swift movement. "-What-?" he says, suddenly. "I just meant to get him to open it." Lips pout together, before a grin flashes wide. "Figure it's probably an experiment; maybe something Ellen's working on."
Derek is relieved that Padraig doesn't think it's Jason. Not that he particularly knows the unstable young mutant, but it is a disquieting thought. "Ah, yeah, that'd follow. Wonder if it's some human whose genes she's been splicing or something." He settles back and stares at the bar for a moment. Then, with a grunt, he heaves it up and off the uprights.
"It does say 'reprimand', though," Padraig counters. "Maybe an experiment gone wrong?" Thought obviously crunches his brows to a frown, though it lifts with ease and another smile. "It also only says don't tamper with -contents-."
Derek lets the bar lower and raise as he contemplates Padraig's words. "Ungh. Reprimand. Hah, I wonder if someone fucked a civilian and Magneto had Ellen put their business on ice." His head flickers to the side briefly, then back to the bar. "You ain't thinkin' of fuckin' around with that, are you?"
A sharp breath draws in through teeth, in concert with a wince. "Ouch, man. Very ouch. Who, though, is stupid enough and full of testosterone?" A hand shifts to his trousers; a jest as he cups to make sure. "I get the feeling he -wants- someone to look, to find out. No point in a punishment if it's secret, eh?"
Derek does not reply to Blitz's first question; he just smiles faintly. "You can punish someone in private. If the punishment is painful enough. I think have your nads locked in the freezer is bad enough for just about ANYthing." Once he finishes speaking, he lowers the bar again and grunts as he pushes it back up.
A shudder forces across Padraig's shoulders. "Surely he wouldn't do that to someone?" He turns back to the bar. "I mean, there's things you just don't -do-."
Derek lets the bar back down after only a few reps. With more weight than he can carry above him, it is difficult to find a spotter capable of holding the weight, and thus, it is best not to perform so many repetitions that his control starts to waver. "I doubt he'd actually think of that," Derek admits as he sits up again. "And he might hesitate. But I betcha Ellen wouldn't. For an /instant/."
"Too true," Paddy mourns, as he glances to the floor. "Ellen's far too hot to be that callous. Damn fine medic and comrade, mind." Fingers wrap again around the bar. "Would you?"
Derek rises to his feet. "Hell yes," he replies. "But only if I were pretty sure she didn't have any reason to want to turn my cock into an innie. And I don't think I'm gonna be pursuing." He reaches for a towel, using his hands rather than his power to get to it and starts to move for the door. "Would you?"
"Only if she signed a contract not to tear my banjo string for shits and giggles," the Irishman returns, over the top of a humoured grin. "In fact, fuck it. I just would. She's -hot-."
"No shit," Derek agrees. "I imagine if you could control every molecule of your body, you'd probably be hot, too. Later, Blitz." And he starts moving for the exit before Padraig can get a real response to the backhanded slight, apparently repressing a smile.
"Better ugly than gay," Padraig calls after him, as he begins to tense around the bar. Then he moves into pull-ups, swift and powerful. His real regime -- no testosterone involved -- starts a minute later.
Derek and Paddy with a brief interchange in the weight room.