(no subject)
So he does /not/ know. It makes little enough difference.
He is young.
They are so many of them so young.
Ellen has raided the Brotherhood's supplies for peanut butter and bread and sits, cross-legged on the ground by the cave wall, quietly consuming the resultant sandwich without much heed paid to the chill, the damp, the discomfort -- well, with some heed paid.
Jason has emerged, once again with his cello. Today, though, he deliberately pays Ellen no mind. He crosses to the other side of the door and unclasps his case to draw out the instrument.
Ellen tracks him with her gaze, blue-grey eyes lit with quiet interest as she chews.
The cello is drawn upright and the bow is hooked over the front. Jason braces himself against the back of the instrument, closes his eyes, and draws his bow long and somber over the strings.
Ellen draws slowly to her feet, brushing crumbs away from her hands as she rubs them together; spine straight, fingers clasping neat and prim behind her back, she watches him still at a distance, head cocked slightly as though to better catch the sound.
The notes are sedate and mournful and draw up into a minor cry, then saw back and forth in unhappy indecision before landing on a slightly more scratchy progression and regression. The colors in the cave slowly fade into a darker set.
Step careful along sometimes treacherous stone, Ellen's booted feet move at a delicate pace towards the cellist, her hands loosed from their clasp only in the interests of balance. She is silent, listening.
The notes become more repetitive, a simple up, two low, up, two low, and then the progression and regression, the heights never very high, but when the last of the regressions dips it is low indeed, and scratches on the edge of the cello. Jason nods slowly in time and the cave darkens almost black, save for light luminescence near the floor.
Ellen stills but a few paces away and clasps her hands again, this time in front of her. She does not as yet speak; she stands silent and motionless in the dark.
Jason raises his head and suddenly grins. The cello stops, then pulls across singularly in a stabbing sound. Pause. Again. With every stab, the cave lightens in a lightning flast of red. The stabs become more frequent, until they're sawing up and down the scale in rapid, breathless jolts and the cave is just on fire. Visually.
Ellen does not retain her impassivity; her head whips with the first flash, nostrils flaring as her hair flies with the movement -- her hands drop, flying out to catch herself as boots flatten against the floor. As color and light flash and flash into finally a continual burn, she goes still again, and slowly, she smiles.
The sawing grows uncomfortably fast, then suddenly draws out in a trembling squeal and stops. Jason's pinky twangs the lowest string. The pinky in itself trembles. But Jason's grin is all the wider as the cave's proper lighting system reasserts itself. "Good evening."
Silence answers him for a long moment, Ellen watching him with smile in place and eyes intent. "And to you," she answers eventually, breath uneven for a throaty air to her solemnity. "Quite a performance," and she says his name with a tremor of something a little like laughter hiding in the depths of the word, "Jason."
"I wouldn't trust it. There's a good half chance I cheated." Jason droops his bow off the strings and lets the cello fall back to the crook of his arm. His grin remains. "But I'm glad you like it. I don't expect to get much audience here."
Ellen lifts a hand, two fingers rising and falling in almost a dismissal. "All the world's a stage, the bard said," she says. "I never learned much about music. But thank you for sharing it with me, nonetheless."
Jason snerks. "You're welcome." He bends around the cello to lay the bow down in its slot, and gathers the cello to lay it down after it. "I'm sorry about the other day."
Ellen tilts her head slightly to one side, apparently perplexed. "Apologizing, fire-spirit?" she asks, low amusement wreathing the question. "To me? For what offense?"
"For," he waves at the air, "playing the trick. I didn't know if you'd take it /seriously/ and, then, when you did, I should've stopped." Jason knocks the case closed and displays his palms. "I'm not really a fire-spirit or anything at all but a mutant, you know."
Ellen watches him for a silent moment. Then she laughs: brief and light, escaped from the column of her throat as teeth flash white in sudden unabashed mirth. "What are any of us but mutants?"
"/Exactly./" Jason points a would-be victorious point at Ellen. "Exactly. I'm an illusionist and, beyond that, a punk kid masquerading as a punk. You shouldn't take anything I do seriously and if I offend you, you should tell your boss."
"He will hear of it if your games are too wild, trickster," Ellen says, mirth fading, smile fought back to linger only at the edges of her mouth and the glint in her pale eyes.
"Good. Good attitude." Jason points again. "Be . . . empowered. And remember they're only games. Not real. At all."
"I understand, Jason," Ellen answers gently; she does not trip over his name this time even a little. Her head lifts, her mouth solemn and her eyes grave. "You are your guise, even as I am mine."
"Guise?" Jason sighs and glances upward. "Okay, if you're going to speak symbolically -- you mean we are all spirits encased in mortal bodies, but in the end, we will all go to heaven, or however you ... believe, but something of the sort, right?"
Ellen looks at him. She lifts her eyebrows. "Something of the sort," she echoes, concurrent. She clasps her hands neatly behind her back again.
"Uh, good. Because that, I can understand. Not believe, but understand." Jason attempts to meet her eyes. "No offense."
Ellen's head tilts, her eyes on his not unamused. "You are free to believe as you will. What offense?"
"Some -- ah -- emphatic religious types get offended. Possibly?" Jason is just so accomodating and understanding, too.
"Probably," Ellen says. Her hands loose from their clasps such that she can lift one of them, showing him her palm. "I am not such. I do not require everyone to know my gods."
"Good. Who are they?" Jason asks, accomodating /and/ rapid fire.
Ellen hesitates, words caught on the tip of her tongue. Then she looks away, glance chasing the middle distance. "A private matter."
"Oookay, well." Jason waves his hands. "Good to know. This has been a nice little getting to know you . . . session."
Ellen gives him an inclination of her head, gaze returning his direction. "Yes. Thank you for your apology. It was consideration I did not expect."
"You're welcome to demand it. I'm a peon." Jason lowers his hands. "And instructed /not/ to play with the other recruits. See?"
"You chose it on your own," Ellen answers. "Undemanded." Her regard upon him is contemplative. "We are none of us peons. There is hierarchy, discipline, order -- there must be. We need them. But I am your comrade in a cause." She smiles, slight, as she adds, "A sister, if you like. If you should not play with me, it is so I may trust you."
"You shouldn't trust me. I'm no one's comrade." Jason goes down to a crouch to fasten the case fully closed. His eyes are downward.
Voice soft and cool as her gaze follows him down, Ellen asks: "Do you plan to betray us?"
"If I did, I'd be awfully stupid to say so. But, no. I'm just saying." Jason presses the clasps in. "I'm no team player yet."
"If you would serve Erik Lensherr and fight for our cause, then you are my comrade, Jason." Ellen's arms fold over her chest and she adds, "I am -- not group oriented either. I have had occasion to hate some of my fellows here with a flame lodged deep in my gut. But I serve. It's enough."
"Good and good." Jason turns the case on its side and picks it up by the handle. He sways it back and forth. "I don't do much raw hating, though. I'm a cheerful man."
"It is perhaps a better way," Ellen answers mildly. "I never learned it."
"It's more dangerous." Jason tilts his head and begins to whistle.
Ellen cocks her head, frown slight. "Is it?"
Jason stops whistling long enough to put in, "Yep! Do things without thinking, since they don't matter to /you/."
Ellen watches him whistle for a moment in quiet contemplation. "I cannot," she says eventually, "imagine."
"Most people can't."
Ellen shakes her head, wordless. She blinks once, slowly.
Jason a-swings his cello case. "Anyway, unless you're lonely, I could probably go."
"Your company is not objectionable," Ellen says, mild. And then, she adds, "Though I am something of a creature of solitude."
"And I tend to start -- yeah. I should probably go." Jason clears his throat. "It's late."
"I will go," Ellen decides. "I think I should like to wash my hair."
"Oh." Jason lifts an eyebrow, but immediately pivots. "Heavens."
This seems to puzzle Ellen somewhat, even as she starts to turn. "What?"
"You just gave me the ultimate 'I don't want to go out with you but am being polite' line," Jason calls over his shoulder. "And it wasn't even in context!"
Ellen stops moving, wholly baffled. She turns back around to eye him as on his apparent way out. "I hardly meant any such," she starts to say, and then stops, because the implications of denying such an implication occur to her.
"I know you didn't. It's hilarious." Jason keeeps going.
Ellen baffles some more. To herself, she says, "I am unintentionally funny."
Jason has resumed whistling as he exits.
He is young.
They are so many of them so young.
Ellen has raided the Brotherhood's supplies for peanut butter and bread and sits, cross-legged on the ground by the cave wall, quietly consuming the resultant sandwich without much heed paid to the chill, the damp, the discomfort -- well, with some heed paid.
Jason has emerged, once again with his cello. Today, though, he deliberately pays Ellen no mind. He crosses to the other side of the door and unclasps his case to draw out the instrument.
Ellen tracks him with her gaze, blue-grey eyes lit with quiet interest as she chews.
The cello is drawn upright and the bow is hooked over the front. Jason braces himself against the back of the instrument, closes his eyes, and draws his bow long and somber over the strings.
Ellen draws slowly to her feet, brushing crumbs away from her hands as she rubs them together; spine straight, fingers clasping neat and prim behind her back, she watches him still at a distance, head cocked slightly as though to better catch the sound.
The notes are sedate and mournful and draw up into a minor cry, then saw back and forth in unhappy indecision before landing on a slightly more scratchy progression and regression. The colors in the cave slowly fade into a darker set.
Step careful along sometimes treacherous stone, Ellen's booted feet move at a delicate pace towards the cellist, her hands loosed from their clasp only in the interests of balance. She is silent, listening.
The notes become more repetitive, a simple up, two low, up, two low, and then the progression and regression, the heights never very high, but when the last of the regressions dips it is low indeed, and scratches on the edge of the cello. Jason nods slowly in time and the cave darkens almost black, save for light luminescence near the floor.
Ellen stills but a few paces away and clasps her hands again, this time in front of her. She does not as yet speak; she stands silent and motionless in the dark.
Jason raises his head and suddenly grins. The cello stops, then pulls across singularly in a stabbing sound. Pause. Again. With every stab, the cave lightens in a lightning flast of red. The stabs become more frequent, until they're sawing up and down the scale in rapid, breathless jolts and the cave is just on fire. Visually.
Ellen does not retain her impassivity; her head whips with the first flash, nostrils flaring as her hair flies with the movement -- her hands drop, flying out to catch herself as boots flatten against the floor. As color and light flash and flash into finally a continual burn, she goes still again, and slowly, she smiles.
The sawing grows uncomfortably fast, then suddenly draws out in a trembling squeal and stops. Jason's pinky twangs the lowest string. The pinky in itself trembles. But Jason's grin is all the wider as the cave's proper lighting system reasserts itself. "Good evening."
Silence answers him for a long moment, Ellen watching him with smile in place and eyes intent. "And to you," she answers eventually, breath uneven for a throaty air to her solemnity. "Quite a performance," and she says his name with a tremor of something a little like laughter hiding in the depths of the word, "Jason."
"I wouldn't trust it. There's a good half chance I cheated." Jason droops his bow off the strings and lets the cello fall back to the crook of his arm. His grin remains. "But I'm glad you like it. I don't expect to get much audience here."
Ellen lifts a hand, two fingers rising and falling in almost a dismissal. "All the world's a stage, the bard said," she says. "I never learned much about music. But thank you for sharing it with me, nonetheless."
Jason snerks. "You're welcome." He bends around the cello to lay the bow down in its slot, and gathers the cello to lay it down after it. "I'm sorry about the other day."
Ellen tilts her head slightly to one side, apparently perplexed. "Apologizing, fire-spirit?" she asks, low amusement wreathing the question. "To me? For what offense?"
"For," he waves at the air, "playing the trick. I didn't know if you'd take it /seriously/ and, then, when you did, I should've stopped." Jason knocks the case closed and displays his palms. "I'm not really a fire-spirit or anything at all but a mutant, you know."
Ellen watches him for a silent moment. Then she laughs: brief and light, escaped from the column of her throat as teeth flash white in sudden unabashed mirth. "What are any of us but mutants?"
"/Exactly./" Jason points a would-be victorious point at Ellen. "Exactly. I'm an illusionist and, beyond that, a punk kid masquerading as a punk. You shouldn't take anything I do seriously and if I offend you, you should tell your boss."
"He will hear of it if your games are too wild, trickster," Ellen says, mirth fading, smile fought back to linger only at the edges of her mouth and the glint in her pale eyes.
"Good. Good attitude." Jason points again. "Be . . . empowered. And remember they're only games. Not real. At all."
"I understand, Jason," Ellen answers gently; she does not trip over his name this time even a little. Her head lifts, her mouth solemn and her eyes grave. "You are your guise, even as I am mine."
"Guise?" Jason sighs and glances upward. "Okay, if you're going to speak symbolically -- you mean we are all spirits encased in mortal bodies, but in the end, we will all go to heaven, or however you ... believe, but something of the sort, right?"
Ellen looks at him. She lifts her eyebrows. "Something of the sort," she echoes, concurrent. She clasps her hands neatly behind her back again.
"Uh, good. Because that, I can understand. Not believe, but understand." Jason attempts to meet her eyes. "No offense."
Ellen's head tilts, her eyes on his not unamused. "You are free to believe as you will. What offense?"
"Some -- ah -- emphatic religious types get offended. Possibly?" Jason is just so accomodating and understanding, too.
"Probably," Ellen says. Her hands loose from their clasps such that she can lift one of them, showing him her palm. "I am not such. I do not require everyone to know my gods."
"Good. Who are they?" Jason asks, accomodating /and/ rapid fire.
Ellen hesitates, words caught on the tip of her tongue. Then she looks away, glance chasing the middle distance. "A private matter."
"Oookay, well." Jason waves his hands. "Good to know. This has been a nice little getting to know you . . . session."
Ellen gives him an inclination of her head, gaze returning his direction. "Yes. Thank you for your apology. It was consideration I did not expect."
"You're welcome to demand it. I'm a peon." Jason lowers his hands. "And instructed /not/ to play with the other recruits. See?"
"You chose it on your own," Ellen answers. "Undemanded." Her regard upon him is contemplative. "We are none of us peons. There is hierarchy, discipline, order -- there must be. We need them. But I am your comrade in a cause." She smiles, slight, as she adds, "A sister, if you like. If you should not play with me, it is so I may trust you."
"You shouldn't trust me. I'm no one's comrade." Jason goes down to a crouch to fasten the case fully closed. His eyes are downward.
Voice soft and cool as her gaze follows him down, Ellen asks: "Do you plan to betray us?"
"If I did, I'd be awfully stupid to say so. But, no. I'm just saying." Jason presses the clasps in. "I'm no team player yet."
"If you would serve Erik Lensherr and fight for our cause, then you are my comrade, Jason." Ellen's arms fold over her chest and she adds, "I am -- not group oriented either. I have had occasion to hate some of my fellows here with a flame lodged deep in my gut. But I serve. It's enough."
"Good and good." Jason turns the case on its side and picks it up by the handle. He sways it back and forth. "I don't do much raw hating, though. I'm a cheerful man."
"It is perhaps a better way," Ellen answers mildly. "I never learned it."
"It's more dangerous." Jason tilts his head and begins to whistle.
Ellen cocks her head, frown slight. "Is it?"
Jason stops whistling long enough to put in, "Yep! Do things without thinking, since they don't matter to /you/."
Ellen watches him whistle for a moment in quiet contemplation. "I cannot," she says eventually, "imagine."
"Most people can't."
Ellen shakes her head, wordless. She blinks once, slowly.
Jason a-swings his cello case. "Anyway, unless you're lonely, I could probably go."
"Your company is not objectionable," Ellen says, mild. And then, she adds, "Though I am something of a creature of solitude."
"And I tend to start -- yeah. I should probably go." Jason clears his throat. "It's late."
"I will go," Ellen decides. "I think I should like to wash my hair."
"Oh." Jason lifts an eyebrow, but immediately pivots. "Heavens."
This seems to puzzle Ellen somewhat, even as she starts to turn. "What?"
"You just gave me the ultimate 'I don't want to go out with you but am being polite' line," Jason calls over his shoulder. "And it wasn't even in context!"
Ellen stops moving, wholly baffled. She turns back around to eye him as on his apparent way out. "I hardly meant any such," she starts to say, and then stops, because the implications of denying such an implication occur to her.
"I know you didn't. It's hilarious." Jason keeeps going.
Ellen baffles some more. To herself, she says, "I am unintentionally funny."
Jason has resumed whistling as he exits.