Ellen; Laundry
I still think it's killing. Maybe with little spy gear masked to look like makeup. Shit, that'd be cool.
Ellen has returned to the laundry room too early to transfer her load of clothing from the washer to the dryer. Anticipating this eventuality, she is perched on the ratty couch in the corner, sitting quite straight with ankles crossed, skimming through the pages of a book, all be it somewhat inattentively.
Sometimes one is just /forced/ to do laundry. Layers of dirt have finally given a natural starch quality to Toad's favorite sets of clothes, and measures are being taken. He waddles in, clothes up to the brim in his arms. Behind him a shirt falls down in the doorway, but he simply dumps his load down on the ground and leaves it. Suspicious eyes take in Ellen for a moment before he turns attention to the knobs on the machine. "How long?" Toad demands.
Ellen's gaze skips up to center on Toad. She stares at him for a moment without replying, a faint puzzled knit touching her brow. She slides the book neatly closed and sets it down beside her on the couch, letting hands fall to lace loosely together in her lap. "Three minutes," she says, "approximately." She tips her gaze towards the washer in use.
"I'll be wantin' those three minutes o'my life back," Toad says lazily, opting to turn and clamber up on the dryer. The heels of his boots kick against the metal door of the machine, a littering of dirt and caked mud falling to the ground.
Ellen eyes first the dirt, and then Toad's boots, and then the mutant himself.
"Hi luff, aren't we past these awkward silences?" Toad wonders with a slightly annoyed smile and tilt of his head.
"Are we?" Ellen's frown deepens as she tips her head up, still not looking away from him. "May I ask you a personal question?"
Toad's feet wag, the smile growing even more. "Oooh, I dunno. What's considered personal to a Toad?"
Now that she has asked if she can ask the question, Ellen must figure out how to do so. She hesitates. "Have you spoken with Yuriko recently?"
"Slice 'n Dice. Eh, not really. She dun' come over much inter the warehouse s'much as I can figure. 'Ow's that personal?" Toad wonders, sticky hands curling over the smooth edge of his perch.
"Well--" Ellen's gaze slides away from him to contemplate the track of mud and dirt that he has left upon the floor. "I was wondering if she had noticeably flirted with you in recent memory." The words are pronounced with the extreme precision of the /rather/ uncomfortable.
If Toad notices the uncomfortable tone, he doesn't acknowledge it right away. Instead he flops back on the dryer, head getting propped up on the control panel at the back. "Harr! Why? Would that make yer /jealous/?"
Ellen looks wholly baffled by this question. "Why would it?"
Toad folds his green fingers over his chest, peeking up at her with an annoyed question. "Second mutation. Sucking the bloody fun out'ter everything. Was that yer only question, Sherlock?"
"She merely indicated to me," Ellen says, with a certain confused stiffness born of the fact that she's not exactly sure what fun she's sucked out of what, "that she had the intention of, er, becoming reacquainted with the process, and of practicing on you. I was attempting to ascertain ... what that means."
"Huh?" Toad grunts, sitting up quickly. His heels knock heavily against the metal that gives a hollow think of protest. "Wot... like--? Wait. Fuck. Process. She means flirtin', right? Not killin'?" Toad's hand rushes through greasy hair. "'Ell. Dunno which of those is worse."
"I am not entirely sure what she meant," Ellen admits, "and I was a little ... startled, to say the least." She rises from the couch in a slow unfolding of limbs as the washer's cycle draws to a close, and eyes Toad atop the dryer with a mildly trepid expression. "But I do think that she at least is quite familiar with the process of killing and probably does not require additional practice."
Toad peers back at her. "She meant, like... fuckin'?" He does not move from his seat.
Ellen blanches, and afterwards, continues to look pale. "Well, if I had said something similar, that would have been what I meant," she says. "Yuriko might have meant something else entirely."
Toad pulls his feet onto the ledge of the dryer. His eyes float away from Ellen. "Shit, yer right. She could mean... 'ell, anything. Catchin' damn butterflies. Fuckin' nuts, she is. No idea at all?" The little man's attention snaps back to the woman.
Ellen lets her hand fall to the edge of the dryer as she waits for him to vacate it such that she might drop her wet clothes into it, and shakes her head. "I think she said something about getting makeup," she says. "Really, I have no idea whatsoever."
"Well, that's bloody ridiculous. I dun' need makeup," Toad grumbles. He gets the hint after a few more seconds longer that necessary and hops down, starting to gather up his own clothing. "Can't she practice wotever the fuck this is on /you/?"
"Apparently you are the more attractive prospect," Ellen tells him, solemn as a stone as she opens the dryer.
Toad straightens with his load, brow creasing into thoughtful lines. "Can't argue wit' logic, eh?" He snickers as the washer is unfortunate enough to have his clothes shoved into it.
Ellen closes the dryer upon her clothing and sets it to start a normal load, shaking her head slightly. "If you say so," she says. She turns to retrieve her book from the aging green couch, thereby hiding the laugh that threatens, but does not break.
Toad's chest is puffed a bit as he pours a hefty sum of bleach into the load and slams the top. He glances over his shoulder at her, leaning up against the washer and not saying anything else.
Having picked up her book, Ellen gives Toad another long look. After a moment, she shakes her head, and turns to walk out of the laundry room again. "Good luck," she says. "I suppose."
There is a pause. "Thanks fer the warning," Toad says suddenly, looking back and watching her go. Even he looks surprised at himself, his yellow eyes turning down to the machine.
Ellen glances back over her shoulder at him. She inclines her head once in a somber nod, and then she is gone and he is alone in the laundry room.
Ellen has returned to the laundry room too early to transfer her load of clothing from the washer to the dryer. Anticipating this eventuality, she is perched on the ratty couch in the corner, sitting quite straight with ankles crossed, skimming through the pages of a book, all be it somewhat inattentively.
Sometimes one is just /forced/ to do laundry. Layers of dirt have finally given a natural starch quality to Toad's favorite sets of clothes, and measures are being taken. He waddles in, clothes up to the brim in his arms. Behind him a shirt falls down in the doorway, but he simply dumps his load down on the ground and leaves it. Suspicious eyes take in Ellen for a moment before he turns attention to the knobs on the machine. "How long?" Toad demands.
Ellen's gaze skips up to center on Toad. She stares at him for a moment without replying, a faint puzzled knit touching her brow. She slides the book neatly closed and sets it down beside her on the couch, letting hands fall to lace loosely together in her lap. "Three minutes," she says, "approximately." She tips her gaze towards the washer in use.
"I'll be wantin' those three minutes o'my life back," Toad says lazily, opting to turn and clamber up on the dryer. The heels of his boots kick against the metal door of the machine, a littering of dirt and caked mud falling to the ground.
Ellen eyes first the dirt, and then Toad's boots, and then the mutant himself.
"Hi luff, aren't we past these awkward silences?" Toad wonders with a slightly annoyed smile and tilt of his head.
"Are we?" Ellen's frown deepens as she tips her head up, still not looking away from him. "May I ask you a personal question?"
Toad's feet wag, the smile growing even more. "Oooh, I dunno. What's considered personal to a Toad?"
Now that she has asked if she can ask the question, Ellen must figure out how to do so. She hesitates. "Have you spoken with Yuriko recently?"
"Slice 'n Dice. Eh, not really. She dun' come over much inter the warehouse s'much as I can figure. 'Ow's that personal?" Toad wonders, sticky hands curling over the smooth edge of his perch.
"Well--" Ellen's gaze slides away from him to contemplate the track of mud and dirt that he has left upon the floor. "I was wondering if she had noticeably flirted with you in recent memory." The words are pronounced with the extreme precision of the /rather/ uncomfortable.
If Toad notices the uncomfortable tone, he doesn't acknowledge it right away. Instead he flops back on the dryer, head getting propped up on the control panel at the back. "Harr! Why? Would that make yer /jealous/?"
Ellen looks wholly baffled by this question. "Why would it?"
Toad folds his green fingers over his chest, peeking up at her with an annoyed question. "Second mutation. Sucking the bloody fun out'ter everything. Was that yer only question, Sherlock?"
"She merely indicated to me," Ellen says, with a certain confused stiffness born of the fact that she's not exactly sure what fun she's sucked out of what, "that she had the intention of, er, becoming reacquainted with the process, and of practicing on you. I was attempting to ascertain ... what that means."
"Huh?" Toad grunts, sitting up quickly. His heels knock heavily against the metal that gives a hollow think of protest. "Wot... like--? Wait. Fuck. Process. She means flirtin', right? Not killin'?" Toad's hand rushes through greasy hair. "'Ell. Dunno which of those is worse."
"I am not entirely sure what she meant," Ellen admits, "and I was a little ... startled, to say the least." She rises from the couch in a slow unfolding of limbs as the washer's cycle draws to a close, and eyes Toad atop the dryer with a mildly trepid expression. "But I do think that she at least is quite familiar with the process of killing and probably does not require additional practice."
Toad peers back at her. "She meant, like... fuckin'?" He does not move from his seat.
Ellen blanches, and afterwards, continues to look pale. "Well, if I had said something similar, that would have been what I meant," she says. "Yuriko might have meant something else entirely."
Toad pulls his feet onto the ledge of the dryer. His eyes float away from Ellen. "Shit, yer right. She could mean... 'ell, anything. Catchin' damn butterflies. Fuckin' nuts, she is. No idea at all?" The little man's attention snaps back to the woman.
Ellen lets her hand fall to the edge of the dryer as she waits for him to vacate it such that she might drop her wet clothes into it, and shakes her head. "I think she said something about getting makeup," she says. "Really, I have no idea whatsoever."
"Well, that's bloody ridiculous. I dun' need makeup," Toad grumbles. He gets the hint after a few more seconds longer that necessary and hops down, starting to gather up his own clothing. "Can't she practice wotever the fuck this is on /you/?"
"Apparently you are the more attractive prospect," Ellen tells him, solemn as a stone as she opens the dryer.
Toad straightens with his load, brow creasing into thoughtful lines. "Can't argue wit' logic, eh?" He snickers as the washer is unfortunate enough to have his clothes shoved into it.
Ellen closes the dryer upon her clothing and sets it to start a normal load, shaking her head slightly. "If you say so," she says. She turns to retrieve her book from the aging green couch, thereby hiding the laugh that threatens, but does not break.
Toad's chest is puffed a bit as he pours a hefty sum of bleach into the load and slams the top. He glances over his shoulder at her, leaning up against the washer and not saying anything else.
Having picked up her book, Ellen gives Toad another long look. After a moment, she shakes her head, and turns to walk out of the laundry room again. "Good luck," she says. "I suppose."
There is a pause. "Thanks fer the warning," Toad says suddenly, looking back and watching her go. Even he looks surprised at himself, his yellow eyes turning down to the machine.
Ellen glances back over her shoulder at him. She inclines her head once in a somber nod, and then she is gone and he is alone in the laundry room.