(no subject)
OOC: Er, I might try and journal this in the morning when I am not ... drunk.
Ellen is seated at the desk, her ankles crossed beneath her as she perches in the chair. Her gaze is intent on the binder before her, her capped pen tracing old lines of typed text; once in awhile, she'll uncap it to cross something out or circle it. Her wardrobe is unsophisticated: sweats in grey and black, hair bound in a severe tail. A half-full water bottle sits forgotten at the corner of the desk.
For a few minutes now, it's been apparent that someone or something is attempting to feel its way down the stairs from the upper level. If they are attempting to do it quietly, they are doing a poor job - a muffled cough cut off startled and short but a thump and a pained grunt. Erik reaches immediately to press a hand over the top of his head. Ouch.
Ellen's head turns, pale gaze alert as her pen drops to the desk; it rolls until it falls to the floor. Heedless, she draws to her feet, hands straightening the loose warmth of her sweatshirt.
"Grmph." says Erik, blinking hard in the darkness. Magnetism wraps firmly around the offending piping, and jerks it out of the ceiling halfway down the stairs. Bits of concrete and dust shower down the steps. Stealthy.
The shine of Ellen's flashlight is abandoned behind her, casting weird patterns of light and shadow over the white pages of the open binder. She paces with neat steps toward the door, frowning.
Clang, goes the pipe, quite a ways across the open area of the lower level. Someone will deal with it later. For now, Erik is striding with purpose towards the shine of that flash light, socked feet quietly accumulating dirt with every padding footfall. "Hello?"
Ellen's boots scrape backwards across the concrete as she straightens and clasps her hands behind her back. "Sir?"
"Ms. Dramsdadt." the scrape of her boots is calculated for, and Erik coughs again, into his raised fist. "It's only me. Feel free to relax."
"Quite," Ellen answers, brisk. She turns on her heel and stalks two steps to the desk to retrieve the flashlight, aiming its beam along the floor in the direction of his voice as she turns again.
Grey eyes narrow immediately into a squint - the silver of his hair brilliant in the light, however indirect. He hasn't bothered with changing beyond the addition of socks. His light blue dress shirt is still unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves, and untucked. The khaki of his slacks is rumpled. And across his back, there are still scrapes of grey dust where he encountered the concrete earlier in the evening. He looks tired and bleary. "It's still me."
"So it is," Ellen agrees, smile faint and flickering over her mouth as her gaze drops, following her the light that beams over his socks; she looks back up at his face again, brows climbing curious. "Is there something you need?"
"I am ill." Erik replies with perfect blandness, brows still knit, and eyes still squinted, as if she's shining the light right in his face, when it is, in fact, upon his socks. "And although I do really believe that it might be best if I avoid the easiest and most convenient way out of every injury in the future, I was drinking..." Erik pauses a moment, "...thinking, I was thinking and really, I've learned my lesson after however many days ill, and I thought it might be best if I was better."
"/Sir/." Ellen's peculiar emphasis comes from startlement, her chin lifting and eyes rounding. Aiming her flashlight down, she crosses to his side in brisk strides. Her head tilts slightly as she approaches, taller than him in the thick-soled boots. She reaches to catch his cheek in the curve of her left hand. "What /purpose/ having me for a medic if you don't use my services when you need them?"
Erik looks a little baffled when he realizes he must /tilt his chin upward/ slightly to maintain eye contact. Fortunately, this is about the time contact is made, and his distraction is evident in the slight slump of his shoulders, rather than the puff upward that might otherwise be expected. "How am I to learn from my mistakes if I don't suffer occasionally from the consequences? It's a very sound idea in principal, really, but exceedingly frustrating in operation." His brows twitch inward, and his scowl deepens a bit. "It's somewhat disrespectful of you to expect to have our every scratch and scrape dealt with professionally anyway. You are a life saver, not a common...common..."
Distraction splits Ellen's attention: her ears catch every word, but the focus of her mind and mutation is on hunting through Erik's systems to see what he means by "ill." "It is not disrespectful, sir. It is foolishness not to use me."
Erik manages to turn a chuckle into a cough. Barely. By ill, apparently, he means that he has a common cold, aggrevated by a lack of sleep and overworking, his sick mind aside. "It is. Comparable to asking Mr. O'hara to provide power to a toaster oven, or Pyro heat for a warm bath. Anyway, I do think Mystique is right about me taking you for granted. I should be more careful."
Ellen hunts his cold down and kills it dead. Merciless. She stokes his immune system while she's at it. "Caution is never inadvisable," she says, reluctantly.
Magneto, in the meanwhile, is pleasantly oblivious - distracted by the mild crick in his neck that's starting to gain ground and carry some of that old original scowl back with it as he tilts his head slightly into her hand. "Pain tends to be discouraging. The ordeal with Christopher - in times past, I sincerely doubt I would have been so foolhardy."
Ellen lets her hand drop from Erik's face, the backs of her fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of his shirt before her hand falls loose to her side. "Would you prefer," she starts to ask, and then stops, because she is not certain what the end of the question might turn out to be.
Distracted by a spot on his shirt sleeve, Erik takes a few extra seconds to realize that Ellen has started a question without finishing it. Also that her hand has dropped away from his jowl, only to be replaced automatically by one of his own. His brows lift, creasing expectant lines into his forehead as he promptly forgets about the spot and looks back up to Ellen.
Ellen frowns at him, apparently perplexed. She exhales. "Did you want me to /not/ heal you, sir?"
Hesitation is her answer, grey eyes stark and uncertain in the low light. "Just now?"
Her hand lifts again, fingers' flicker dismissive. "Too late for that, but -- in general?"
"Well I wanted you to just now - er - though it might be best to allow Mystique to simply assume that I bothered with taking all of those pills...I suppose I should break the pills on those - the /seals/ on those, the foil ones." Erik explains, then pauses, eyes shifting aside as he searches back for the point of this line of thought. "When it is necessary."
Ellen still seems quite puzzled. She eyes him. "When is it not necessary?"
"When is it not necessary...not to assist me?" Erik's brows are tilting again. What?
Ellen blinks at him. She blinks again. On the third blink, her eyes stay closed. "When do you not want me to heal you, sir?"
"It's hardly that I don't desire your assistance, Ellen - merely that I sometimes deserve to hurt, as all of us do." Having regained his conversational footing temporarily, it's perhaps fortunate that the first thing to sidle into his head is the truth. As a bonus, it also makes a fair amount of sense, upon review. His brows fall a little. At least, it does to him. "You have saved my life more than once. In those situations, it would be irrational for me to deny you. However, when I am deserving of punishment that will not severely hamper my leadership..."
"Deserve," Ellen echoes, a low murmur. Her eyebrows lift with the slight widening of her eyes. "It hardly seems efficient to me to choose to suffer unnecessary discomfort, but I will not abort your penance if that's what you seek. Just please continue to inform me when you no longer choose to deny yourself."
"You may not always be in a position where you may swoop in to save my life. I may be too far away, or under guard. Pain serves as a teacher, in addition to serving as penance. One that is not easily forgotten." Erik exhales, long and slow, eyes shifting away from Ellen again a little helplessly as he drives himself to organize his thoughts, even in his current state. Stupid of him, coming down here like this to see her. "If...if someone...no. If someone were to - no, I suppose that really...Do you understand what I am trying to say?"
Ellen smiles down at her hands, her flashlight tipped towards the concrete floor. "More or less, sir."
"Mystique said it best when she said something about /dodging/ some time ago, back on the island. I sincerely wish I could relay it to you now, but to be entirely honest, I'm having a hard time remembering the conversation at all, in my current state. It was very profound and effective, and ultimately, very Mystique." Erik's right hand rolls slowly over. An explanatory gesture that explains nothing at all. "I'm sure you understand."
"I," Ellen says, and stops. Her head lifts again. "I am certain it was very illuminating, sir."
"I seem to remember being irritated at the time, and busy trying to figure out if she was after sex or something else entirely. It turned out to be sex, in the end." Erik rubs his left hand lazily over his right, Ellen-mended bones and all. "Anyway, I can assure you that anything major will be brought to your attention immediately. The last thing I want is for you to be unduely concerned."
"Thank you," Ellen says, watching him with her head tilting slightly to one side. The head of her flashlight taps lightly once against her opposite palm. "I appreciate that."
"Mmm." says Erik, not quite sure whether or not he should take her reply at face value, as he squints after her. "Perhaps we will discuss this again in greater detail when I am sober. I am supposed to be suffering alone in my quarters."
"That would be likely a wise course, sir." Ellen's face is the very height of solemn.
"Of course it is." Erik replies, only slightly gruff. He is Magneto. Everything he says is wise. Gaze lingering after her, he finally nods an unsteady farewell and turns to exit back out into the darkness of the factory. "Have a good night."
"Good night, sir," Ellen answers, something almost like mirth breathing through her voice before she turns back to the desk again.
Ellen is seated at the desk, her ankles crossed beneath her as she perches in the chair. Her gaze is intent on the binder before her, her capped pen tracing old lines of typed text; once in awhile, she'll uncap it to cross something out or circle it. Her wardrobe is unsophisticated: sweats in grey and black, hair bound in a severe tail. A half-full water bottle sits forgotten at the corner of the desk.
For a few minutes now, it's been apparent that someone or something is attempting to feel its way down the stairs from the upper level. If they are attempting to do it quietly, they are doing a poor job - a muffled cough cut off startled and short but a thump and a pained grunt. Erik reaches immediately to press a hand over the top of his head. Ouch.
Ellen's head turns, pale gaze alert as her pen drops to the desk; it rolls until it falls to the floor. Heedless, she draws to her feet, hands straightening the loose warmth of her sweatshirt.
"Grmph." says Erik, blinking hard in the darkness. Magnetism wraps firmly around the offending piping, and jerks it out of the ceiling halfway down the stairs. Bits of concrete and dust shower down the steps. Stealthy.
The shine of Ellen's flashlight is abandoned behind her, casting weird patterns of light and shadow over the white pages of the open binder. She paces with neat steps toward the door, frowning.
Clang, goes the pipe, quite a ways across the open area of the lower level. Someone will deal with it later. For now, Erik is striding with purpose towards the shine of that flash light, socked feet quietly accumulating dirt with every padding footfall. "Hello?"
Ellen's boots scrape backwards across the concrete as she straightens and clasps her hands behind her back. "Sir?"
"Ms. Dramsdadt." the scrape of her boots is calculated for, and Erik coughs again, into his raised fist. "It's only me. Feel free to relax."
"Quite," Ellen answers, brisk. She turns on her heel and stalks two steps to the desk to retrieve the flashlight, aiming its beam along the floor in the direction of his voice as she turns again.
Grey eyes narrow immediately into a squint - the silver of his hair brilliant in the light, however indirect. He hasn't bothered with changing beyond the addition of socks. His light blue dress shirt is still unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves, and untucked. The khaki of his slacks is rumpled. And across his back, there are still scrapes of grey dust where he encountered the concrete earlier in the evening. He looks tired and bleary. "It's still me."
"So it is," Ellen agrees, smile faint and flickering over her mouth as her gaze drops, following her the light that beams over his socks; she looks back up at his face again, brows climbing curious. "Is there something you need?"
"I am ill." Erik replies with perfect blandness, brows still knit, and eyes still squinted, as if she's shining the light right in his face, when it is, in fact, upon his socks. "And although I do really believe that it might be best if I avoid the easiest and most convenient way out of every injury in the future, I was drinking..." Erik pauses a moment, "...thinking, I was thinking and really, I've learned my lesson after however many days ill, and I thought it might be best if I was better."
"/Sir/." Ellen's peculiar emphasis comes from startlement, her chin lifting and eyes rounding. Aiming her flashlight down, she crosses to his side in brisk strides. Her head tilts slightly as she approaches, taller than him in the thick-soled boots. She reaches to catch his cheek in the curve of her left hand. "What /purpose/ having me for a medic if you don't use my services when you need them?"
Erik looks a little baffled when he realizes he must /tilt his chin upward/ slightly to maintain eye contact. Fortunately, this is about the time contact is made, and his distraction is evident in the slight slump of his shoulders, rather than the puff upward that might otherwise be expected. "How am I to learn from my mistakes if I don't suffer occasionally from the consequences? It's a very sound idea in principal, really, but exceedingly frustrating in operation." His brows twitch inward, and his scowl deepens a bit. "It's somewhat disrespectful of you to expect to have our every scratch and scrape dealt with professionally anyway. You are a life saver, not a common...common..."
Distraction splits Ellen's attention: her ears catch every word, but the focus of her mind and mutation is on hunting through Erik's systems to see what he means by "ill." "It is not disrespectful, sir. It is foolishness not to use me."
Erik manages to turn a chuckle into a cough. Barely. By ill, apparently, he means that he has a common cold, aggrevated by a lack of sleep and overworking, his sick mind aside. "It is. Comparable to asking Mr. O'hara to provide power to a toaster oven, or Pyro heat for a warm bath. Anyway, I do think Mystique is right about me taking you for granted. I should be more careful."
Ellen hunts his cold down and kills it dead. Merciless. She stokes his immune system while she's at it. "Caution is never inadvisable," she says, reluctantly.
Magneto, in the meanwhile, is pleasantly oblivious - distracted by the mild crick in his neck that's starting to gain ground and carry some of that old original scowl back with it as he tilts his head slightly into her hand. "Pain tends to be discouraging. The ordeal with Christopher - in times past, I sincerely doubt I would have been so foolhardy."
Ellen lets her hand drop from Erik's face, the backs of her fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of his shirt before her hand falls loose to her side. "Would you prefer," she starts to ask, and then stops, because she is not certain what the end of the question might turn out to be.
Distracted by a spot on his shirt sleeve, Erik takes a few extra seconds to realize that Ellen has started a question without finishing it. Also that her hand has dropped away from his jowl, only to be replaced automatically by one of his own. His brows lift, creasing expectant lines into his forehead as he promptly forgets about the spot and looks back up to Ellen.
Ellen frowns at him, apparently perplexed. She exhales. "Did you want me to /not/ heal you, sir?"
Hesitation is her answer, grey eyes stark and uncertain in the low light. "Just now?"
Her hand lifts again, fingers' flicker dismissive. "Too late for that, but -- in general?"
"Well I wanted you to just now - er - though it might be best to allow Mystique to simply assume that I bothered with taking all of those pills...I suppose I should break the pills on those - the /seals/ on those, the foil ones." Erik explains, then pauses, eyes shifting aside as he searches back for the point of this line of thought. "When it is necessary."
Ellen still seems quite puzzled. She eyes him. "When is it not necessary?"
"When is it not necessary...not to assist me?" Erik's brows are tilting again. What?
Ellen blinks at him. She blinks again. On the third blink, her eyes stay closed. "When do you not want me to heal you, sir?"
"It's hardly that I don't desire your assistance, Ellen - merely that I sometimes deserve to hurt, as all of us do." Having regained his conversational footing temporarily, it's perhaps fortunate that the first thing to sidle into his head is the truth. As a bonus, it also makes a fair amount of sense, upon review. His brows fall a little. At least, it does to him. "You have saved my life more than once. In those situations, it would be irrational for me to deny you. However, when I am deserving of punishment that will not severely hamper my leadership..."
"Deserve," Ellen echoes, a low murmur. Her eyebrows lift with the slight widening of her eyes. "It hardly seems efficient to me to choose to suffer unnecessary discomfort, but I will not abort your penance if that's what you seek. Just please continue to inform me when you no longer choose to deny yourself."
"You may not always be in a position where you may swoop in to save my life. I may be too far away, or under guard. Pain serves as a teacher, in addition to serving as penance. One that is not easily forgotten." Erik exhales, long and slow, eyes shifting away from Ellen again a little helplessly as he drives himself to organize his thoughts, even in his current state. Stupid of him, coming down here like this to see her. "If...if someone...no. If someone were to - no, I suppose that really...Do you understand what I am trying to say?"
Ellen smiles down at her hands, her flashlight tipped towards the concrete floor. "More or less, sir."
"Mystique said it best when she said something about /dodging/ some time ago, back on the island. I sincerely wish I could relay it to you now, but to be entirely honest, I'm having a hard time remembering the conversation at all, in my current state. It was very profound and effective, and ultimately, very Mystique." Erik's right hand rolls slowly over. An explanatory gesture that explains nothing at all. "I'm sure you understand."
"I," Ellen says, and stops. Her head lifts again. "I am certain it was very illuminating, sir."
"I seem to remember being irritated at the time, and busy trying to figure out if she was after sex or something else entirely. It turned out to be sex, in the end." Erik rubs his left hand lazily over his right, Ellen-mended bones and all. "Anyway, I can assure you that anything major will be brought to your attention immediately. The last thing I want is for you to be unduely concerned."
"Thank you," Ellen says, watching him with her head tilting slightly to one side. The head of her flashlight taps lightly once against her opposite palm. "I appreciate that."
"Mmm." says Erik, not quite sure whether or not he should take her reply at face value, as he squints after her. "Perhaps we will discuss this again in greater detail when I am sober. I am supposed to be suffering alone in my quarters."
"That would be likely a wise course, sir." Ellen's face is the very height of solemn.
"Of course it is." Erik replies, only slightly gruff. He is Magneto. Everything he says is wise. Gaze lingering after her, he finally nods an unsteady farewell and turns to exit back out into the darkness of the factory. "Have a good night."
"Good night, sir," Ellen answers, something almost like mirth breathing through her voice before she turns back to the desk again.