(no subject)
=XS= ComSys Room - Lv B3 - Xavier's School
The Communications Systems are located just off to the side of the infamous Danger Room, a plethora of beeping, flashing, ever-working computers used as the X-Men's unofficial headquarters and briefing room, as well as linking into the Danger Room master control. A well-oiled grid of collected global information concerning and helpful to the mutant activist team, and even mutants themselves, displayed in enormous monitors stretched across the walls linked into television broadcasts, with smaller rows of viewscreens stationed between them for relaying security camera images. The whole of the unit seems to run just fine on its own, although occasionally a staff member runs to and fro checking the systems with the area being totally off-limits to students, and most anyone but the X-Men.
Wednesday evening. The hours are ticking away. 59 and counting. And Wesley emerges from the Danger Room quite literally drenched in sweat. His forehead gleams with the stuff, at least the part where locks of blond hair aren't plastered to it. A white tee-shirt clings to his upper body, near transparent now, long since soaked through, and his shorts aren't in much better shape. He reaches for a readied towel on the safe side of the door, stepping out into the com room to begin toweling at least the hair dry. Or dryer.
With pirating adventures to be planned and a need for distraction, Kitty intends on spending some time alone with the Danger Room controls, adjusting the texture maps and meshes for the planned program. She is not alone. Lockheed has been very reluctant to leave her side since she returned home, and right now is no exception. Despite recent weight gain, he is securely wrapped around her shoulders with no intention of removing himself from his human perch any time soon, provided that perch remains tangible.
Kitty had not been expecting to find anyone else in the room, and she is momentarily taken aback by the sight of sweaty Wesley. "Hey," she greets him, wagling her fingers in a casual wave. "Don't mind me, just here to get my geek on."
Wesley finishes that task, draping the towel around his neck. "Kitty!" he greets her with a bright smile. "You're home! That's great. When'dya get back?" He glances at the door behind him. "It's no problem, really. Was just practicing. Like you hadn't figured that out already," he says, plucking at the shirt's material to pull it away from him.
"I am! And very glad to be," she responds with a smile that mirrors his. "Still falling through floors occasionally, but I think I'm getting things under control. Well, obviously," she says with a thumb pointed to the purple beast on her shoulders before begining to pry him off. "Lockheed- no, let go. I'm not going anywhere, promise." There is a sad warbling from the smaller of the two of them as the damsel battles the dragon and wins. He is deposited on the floor, where he looks forelornly up at the humans in the room. "He's um... having a bit of seperation anxiety, I think."
Wesley offers a small wave toward the purple dragon. "S'ok, Lockheed," he encourages. "I won't let her get away." The towel is stretched, pulling back and forth around his neck. "Geek on?" he says, looking toward the control panels. "Whatcha planning?"
Lockheed pouts, and curls up by Kitty's feet, but not before giving Wesley a careful once-over. It appears there are some territorial issues to be worked through on top of the clingyness. "Kurt wants to give the kids a bit of a treat, so we're putting together our own custom high seas adventure. I'm working on getting the details up to the standards of the Fuzzy Elf," Kitty answers, pulling a small black plastic device from her pocket. It is roughly the size and shape of a matchbook, and once connected via Bluetooth to the controls, projects a full-size QWERTY key layout in red laser light on the flat surface below it. Once it is hooked up, Kitty relaxes, returning to her phased state and perching on thin air above the seat of a rolling desk chair. The laser keyboard makes simulated typing noises as she begins to enter commands. "Isn't it neat?" she can't help but gush. "It uses lasers and motion sensers, so I can type while phased."
"Okay, that?" Wesley says, eyeing the display of powers. "Totally cool. Feel free to geek out around me anytime." He wanders over her way, bending down to attempt to scritch Lockheed on the neck. "So like /pirate/ high seas? Awesome. Always wanted to be a pirate. The bandanas. Earrings. Tugging ropes, hoisting sails. Parrots. What's there not to like about pirates?"
"And it isn't even made by Forge. I ordered it off the internet," she adds, continuing to type away as she speaks. "With Kurt? Are there any other high seas?" she says, grinning. "You're welcome to join in on our fun. We're hoping to get some more of the staff to take on some swashbuckling personas. I've got the perfect role for Scott planned out, if I can convince him to play along." Tap tap tap. "How do these NPC's look to you?" she asks, as the images of three pirates appear on seperate screens, their three-dimensional forms rotating to display details. "I'm trying to vary the background characters enough to keep it from feeling too much like a living MMO. Fighting the same guy four or five times in a row takes costs some suspension of disbelief."
"Scott?" Wesley chokes, trying to seal off the laugh. "If you can get him to wear an eye patch, I'm /so/ there." As the images appear, he begins to circle around them. "Not bad. Not bad at all, actually. Try adjusting their height a bit more maybe? You do really good work, Kitty."
"I was going to have him be an English Naval admiral, actually. I'm thinking it'd be more fun if most of the staff were cast as antagonists of one kind or another. I'm sure they wouldn't mind making us walk the plank," she says, playing around with the height and build of the virtual pirates. With three basic meshes, and randomized features, skin tones and wardrobe pieces for different groups, she should be able to keep most of the background characters from being too repetitive. "Thanks," she says to the compliment. "Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have gone into game design. Except then I'd have to work with hardcore gamers on a regular basis. I'd end up phasing someone in to a wall after the millionth argument about which console is superior." After all, the /true/ ultimate gaming system is the one right in front of them.
"With a mischevious streak too," Wesley says appreciatively. "Walk the plank, hmm. Can't say as I've /ever/ really had fear of the water. Sharks either, really. Guess it comes with the territory. Gamers, though. Terrifying. Well, unless we're talking Mario Kart. I play a mean Toad."
"I just need to track him down and get him in a good mood to talk him in to it," she says, regarding their fearless, visored leader. "I wonder if I can talk Logan into it. Or ask Jean to talk Logan in to it. Hm." There are a few more taps, and she begins to move on from pirates to pirate ships. "Hm. I need a name for the ship," she says. "Any suggestions?"
"Yeah, well, best of luck with that one," Wesley sniggers, leaning his weight against the console behind him. The ships are examined a moment, interrupted as he grasps the base of his shirt, lifting it to wipe his face. "Well, there's always the obvious. Enterprise X. Voyager X. More traditional... The Jean Grey. Seems we need something a bit more unusualy. Unexpected. Astonishing."
"I'll have to think on that," Kitty says, agreeing with the sentiment. "Maybe we should ask Cassy to name it," she proposes. If anyone can think of an unexpected name for a pirate ship, it's Cassy. "Hm. Speaking of Cassy, remind me to make sure any weaponry she gets her hands on for this thing is purely holographic and won't exist outside of the Danger Room."
"Oh, gawd, consider yourself reminded," Wesley winces visibly at the thought. "I'm not going /near/ her with a sword. Not that I couldn't take her, of course. I just rather like my face unscarred."
"You think she'd go for something as mundane as your face?" Kitty replies without looking away from the screen. "She's far more creative than that. You'd have scars in places you didn't know had skin," she teases. "So what part do you want to play in our adventure here?" she asks, nodding to the nearest screen.
"Thanks for the mental picture," Wesley eyes her warily. With that, though, he pushes off from the console, wandering the length of the monitors. "Pirate captain, of course. "Avast, my mateys. Yer walkin' the plank," he says, an affected accent. "Remember that time way back when when I was Peter Pan? Got pretty good with my sword," he spins, giving her a long look. "Course, I'm all grown up now. Forgotten how to fly, but still handle a sword pretty well.""
"Hmm, you might have to battle Kurt for that one," she says, sounding amused. "I think he's already practicing his Errol Flynn impersonations. Uhm. Not that he needs that much practice." If only she were actually -in- the Danger Room, because then the figurative lightbulb above Kitty's head could actually be visible. "Woah, idea! Can you manage the Sparrow swagger? I think there needs to be a Captian-off. Old versus new. How do you feel about eyeliner?"
"Pish. Can /I/ manage a Sparrow swagger?" Wesley repeats, falling into his version of the walk. "I /made/ the Sparrow swagger. Anything for the show, Kitty, anything for the show."
Kitty is impressed, and nods in approval. "You've got the part. Now I just need to program in the undead monkey." She grins. "Your next bottle of rum is on me."
"Don't make promises you don't want to keep. I might just hold you to that, Kitty," Wesley flashes her a grin, then pulls the towel from around his neck, giving it a flick as he heads toward the door. "If you'll excuse me, I need a shower like yesterday."
"Yeah, I was going to say something, but..." she trails off and shrugs. She's too nice for her own good at times. "Try not to drip on anything valuable on your way there," she teases, waving an intangible hand as he leaves.
"Yeah, well, when you're as good as I am," Wesley grins, "It's kinda hard not to leave little reminders in your wake." With that, he ducks out into the hallway.
Kitty, Wesley, and Pirates. Yes, let's not forget the pirates.
=NYC= Food Court - Manhattan Mall - Midtown
This section of the mall is constructed simply. Major food vendors are arranged on the outside in a circle, with individual seating, and there is additional seating in the center in the peak hours. Any seating from booths to barstool-style seating can be seen, and the polished white surfaces give vague memories of Mom's kitchen. Well, Mom's kitchen plastered with commercial fast-food.
Among the culinary selections are the Panda Pavilion, Ruby Tuesday, Wendy's, Twisted Pretzel, Pizzaria Uno, and every teenager's staple, Taco Bell.
Taco Bell. Haven of the poor and hungry. Unfortunately, today, the cashier seems exceedingly slow, as Wesley taps out an uneven rhythm on his knee, waiting for the line to move.
Lucy lights up a cigarette, as per usual, and ignores the No Smoking signs plastered about the place that smells decidedly of three-day-old cheese. All she wants is to sate her craving for mediocre pseudo-Mexican food. The mall may not have been the best place to get it.
The very paragon of the type people stare at in a mall, Beckah approaches the end of the line and joins in behind the others. A plastic bag from the mall's flavorless and soulless music store hangs from one hand. Her dreadlocks are tied back neatly, or at least as neat as the fire-engine red locks will cooperate with being, and she is by and large, hidden beneath a draping leather coat. "Why does it take so long to assemble immitation tacos? Christ, it isn't like the use real food," she grumbles. The complaining isn't directed at anyone in particular, nor is it sincere enough to draw her away from the line.
"They say it's 95 percent edible meat," Wesley leans forward to look to the back of the line, peering at the owner of the comment. "Makesya wonder what the other 5 percent is, huh?" He glances at the person next to him, adding a "Got some guts. Trying to see how long before someone says something?"
Beckah is, of course, smiling beneath the shadow of the ring through her septum. "It's probably the same kind of stuff they let fly in hot dogs," she shares. "There's government standards of how much bug bits and rat crap is allowed in those. Flavorants, I guess." Her shoulders shrug under the leather. "I figure maybe if I'm loud and rude enough, they'll figure I'm a native and won't spit in my food." Her New York philosophy is perhaps a bit exaggerated.
Lucy laughs and takes a long puff of her cigarette, nodding at the young man in front of her. "Babies," she says casually, and gives her eyebrows a little conspiratorial wag.
"I hear they powerwash it right off the bones onto the floor," Wesley says with something nearing glee, apparently not the least bit squeamish himself. "And still, how many places can you get a whole meal in New York for six bucks?"
"This is very true," Lucy says, glancing the menu over to decide if she wants tacos or a gordita. "I suppose the babies are what make it so appetizing. I always thought it was cocaine."
"There's Burger King. They're uh, every bit as creative with their ingredients, I bet." Beckah snickers a little and shifts from one leg to the other. "I wonder if I should ask them if the tacos are authentic," she muses aloud.
"Well, the way this one's going," Wesley says, nodding toward the source of the line jam, "He'd probably just stare at you. Maybe drooling a little bit."
Beckah runs her free hand back through her dreadlocks with a laugh. "You two're both ahead of me. If either of you makes some complicated order for 35, I promise, I'll break your legs with a burrito."
Lucy sighs and nods, pulling her ipod out and playing with the dial. Talk of baby-tacos has lessened her craving. "You're probably right. I don't think I can support such service," she says with a put-upon sigh, and steps out of line. "Perhaps pizza."
"Hey, I'm /really/ hungry," Wesley says, giving his chin a mock scratch. "But I just can't decide if I want the taco meal or the burrito meal. Or maybe both. And then there's sour cream or baja sauce." He gives a glance to the one stepping out of line. "I had pizza twice this weekend, or I'd join you."
"Pizza isn't suitable celebration food. I'm living it up today, as you can see." Beckah lifts the bag, which contains a spindle of blank compact discs. And then she sweeps her hands up to indicate the glory that is Taco Bell.
Lucy shrugs, tapping cigarette ash out into a nearby planter, and hooks her ipod headphones into her ears. "S'alright," she says casually. "I didn't say I definitively wanted pizza. I may go get some Thai."
"What's all that, then?" she asks, peering at the girl's bag.
"Thai. Taco Bell," Wesley weighs the words aloud. "Well, they almost sound the same, I guess. You buy a CD Burner or something?"
Beckah shakes her head and answers both curiousities in one reply, "Material for a job interview a friend got me." She gives a smile that is tilted off sideways. "These empty plastic chunks represent the first step in my ascent to fame and fortune." The sarcasm in her tone isn't especially sharp, for how prominent it is.
"Well, Thai isn't anything like Taco Bell, really, but whatever." She extinguishes her cigarette under a wedge heel and waits hardly a moment before pulling out another. "By the way, I'm Lucy."
"I'm Wes," Wesley glancing between the two for introductions to both. "Fame and fortune, huh? Guess that's what everyone in New York wants. What kinda interview do you need those for?"
"Beckah," she adds, with a little wave of her free hand. "A music job. DJing at a club this friend of a friend owns." The line moves forward. By one person. Beck is eager to shuffle forward.
"Yeah?" Lucy says, intrigued. A new club is always a good opportunity. "What club?"
A little ringing is suddenly heard from Beckah's pocket and she retrives a cell phone. Her cheeks flush slightly, "Hey uh, new kind of boyfriend on the phone. I really need to take this." And she scuttles out of line to talk, wandering into the depths of the mall.
"Cool. Where's that at?" Wesley starts to ask before the phone cuts him off, and he gives a shrug toward Lucy. "Not that matters. Can't get in for a few more months anyways. No real luck with the fake IDs."
Lucy laughs. "What, you too young?" she asks, taking a long drag.
"Six months from tomorrow," Wesley sighs, the dismay part for show and part real.
"And fakes don't work for you, eh?" She can't help but chuckle a bit. "You know, I never understood this whole 21 year rule you Yanks have," she says. "Seems so abritrary."
"Tell me about it! And no," Wesley gives a helpless shrug, followed by a quick grin. "Guess I'm just too young. Part of my charm, though. Where're you from?"
Lucy laughs. "Charm, huh? You blokes always seem to call on that when you say something silly," she says, and runs a thin hand through her messy hair. "I'm from Chelsea. In London."
"Yeah, whatever gets attention, really," Wesley joins in the laugh. "/London/ Chelsea. Nice. A bit nicer from our version, huh?"
Lucy nods. "Loved it there. Height of shopping." She grins. "The Village isn't too shabby itself, though."
"Eh, don't have enough /space/ here to do much shopping." The line finally moves enough for Wesley to pause while giving his order. "See how long it takes to actually /make/ the tacos now," he says, stepping back to wait for his order.
"Oh, God, not that long, I shouldn't think," she says watching the taco builders go about their work. Watching their plastic-gloved hands dig around in the meat and lettuce makes her even happier that she stepped out of line. There was food at the flat anyway. "Plenty of space for people-watching though." After a pause, she continues. "You from New York?'"
"Yes, but not the city," Wesley replies, looking away while the food is being prepared. "Buffalo. Home of the eight feet of snow every winter. Been here for a few years though. Think I'll stick around for a while."
Lucy groans and removes her cigarette for a moment, an air of nostalgia and irritation overcoming her. "It /never/ snows here. Just slush..." She heaves another groan and jams the cigarette back in her mouth, puffing away emphatically. She never thought she'd miss snow, having to shovel it off their walk back in Chelsea, but Christmas just wasn't Christmas without it.
"I hear maybe this weekend," Wesley says, cautiously optomistic. "/Maybe/. It's just not fair. Shouldn't be allowed to be this cold without snow. Though /shoveling/, yeah. Soon as I moved away, my dad bought a snow blower. Figures, huh?"
Lucy laughs, a delighted giggle unexpected from her. "My father always told me it was good 'work ethic.' You get that as well?"
"The whole 'character' spiel, huh?" Wesley asks, sparing a glance over toward the counter. "Yeah, my dad was a pro at it. Guess I gave him enough practice."
"Ah, first the charmer, now the troublemaker," Lucy says sagely, giving a small nod and trying to hide her grin. "...Honestly, how long does it take to make a bloody taco?"
Wesley glances at the receipt in hand, just as the voice calls out his number. "/Finally/," he breathes. "Thought I was gonna faint or something." He snatches the bag from the counter. "You say it like those two are mutally exclusive."
Lucy gestures over to a free table nearby, talking over her shoulder at Wesley as she moves towards it. "Just commenting on the habits of young men trying to chat up a girl," she says casually, and sits in the chair with one knee pulled up against her ches. "You all are so predictable."
"Hey, don't mess with what works," Wesley grins, dragging out a chair and settling onto it. "But hey, when it's all true, what else am I supposed to say?"
She taps her chin in mock solemnity, as if this is a very difficult thing to come up with. "Oh, I don't know. 'I've got a huge nob'?"
"Well," Wesley says, beginning to unwrap his taco. "I don't like to /brag/ or anything..." he grins, before biting into his taco, the shell crunching and scattering cheese onto the wrapper below.
Lucy laughs and picks up a piece of fallen lettuce, chucking it at Wesley's head. "You smart arse!" she says between giggles, and nearly chokes on her cigarette. "Besides," she continues, composing herself and leaning in conspiratorially, "it's only blokes who seem to get a kick out of a giant--well, you know."
"Hey, careful now," Wesley cautions. "I prefer it when people don't choke to death in my company." He pushes one of the wrapped meals her way. "Here have one. Since /I'm/ probably partly to blame for making you get out of line."
With a prod of one her bitten fingernails Lucy inspects the wrapped meal, looking at it from the side and poking it again. "You know, I was craving mediocre tacos...but I don't know so much anymore. What is it?"
"Taco Supreme," Wesley says apologetically. "It's the cheapest thing on the menu. Well, after the bean burrito, which is just not fit for eating."
"Oh well then," she says and rips the paper off, carefully settinng her cigarette down and biting into the ungainly beef concoction. It is too hot and a little mushy, but in the end hits that craving she had been pacifying with cigarettes. "So...what do you do, anyway? You a student?"
"Hardly," Wesley responds, his face suddenly lighting up. "Well, /I/," he say, looking down at the table, the wide grin giving lie to the false modesty, "Just /happen/ to be the newest addition to the New York Fire Department's call list."
Lucy can't help but grin herself, and though she has just taken a rather large bite of taco, says incredulously, "No shit! You're a fireman?" After some careful chewing she swallows the sticky mess, and laughs. "FDNY and all that?"
"Well, eventually," Wesley grins, all to glad for someome to share the news. "Just got the call this morning. Took their tests the past couple of weekends. Climbing ladders in 20 degree weather is /not/ my idea of fun, let me tell you. So now, I'm on their list. Could be a couple months, could be a couple years before they call. Just depends on how many people they need."
With a coy little smile she lifts her cigarette up and takes a few casual puffs. "My flatmate says New York firemen are some of the sexiest guys on the force."
"Yeah, well..." Wesley trails off, his head nodding side to side with a half-smirk. "How about you? What brought you to New York?"
Conveniently sitting at the table right next to Wesley and Lucy, Danny has a grin on his face. He has a letter in front of him that he is reading, but he can't help but hear what is being spoken about. At the mention of sexiest guys, Danny slowly looks over towards Lucy before he says, "Well, so if I were to be a fireman I would be sexier?" His accent is very Irish, and a smile spreads upon his face as he says it. He waits another moment before he says slowly, "Oh, apologies. I didn't mean to just jump into your conversation, mate."
Lucy notes his avoidance of her compliment with a curious arch of her eyebrow, but lets it go, seeing as the boy nearby has spoken. She gives him a decided once-over, though probably less approving than it could be, and taps cigarette ash into the taco wrapping. "My flatmate might say so," she says wth a laugh that borders on patronizing. "What are you, sixteen, little Irishman?"
"Wow, what's with the accents?" Wesley asks, turning to carefully examine the interrupter. "Feeling left out. Though I guess to you, I'm the one with it. People over there think American accents are as awesome as we think of yours?"
"Hardly!" Lucy scoffs and takes another puff of her cigarette. "I don't know why you're all so fascinated by English accents." She clears her throat dramatically, sitting up straighter, and in a voice altogether not hers, her accent flat and distinctly belonging to Manhattan, continues. "Honestly, we find your American English to be a bit of a degeneration of the Queen's, across the pond." With a laugh, she reverts to her normal tones. "Good impression of you Yanks, eh?"
Raising an eyebrow towards Lucy, Danny doesn't really know what to say. He just sort of looks at her with a slightly confused look on his face. He just sort of looks at Lucy for a few moments before he looks back to Wesley and says slowly, "Well, accents come when you are from somewhere other than here. And to be specific, I come from over the pond in Galway. And...well, it isn't so much the American accent as the word choice. I almost never hear the word tosser or wanker." He still is quite confused by Lucy before he adds in too, "Heh, yeah. Sort of stopped saying Yank for my safety in the dorms."
"Gawd, that's not what I really sound like, is it?" Wesley exclaims in mock horror. "Sounds so...fake. Well, at least on you. Your natural's much better. Eh, Yank doesn't bother me," he comments in response. "Though I'm probably a bit more easy-going than most."
"I think people are less offended by Brits than the Irish," Lucy says calmly, and returns Danny's stare. "Oy, mate, what are you looking at?"
Looking at Lucy for a moment, the Irish shrugs quickly. He raises a bottle of water to his lips and takes a sip of it before he looks back towards Lucy and says slowly, "Well, er, not much. Just rarely see anyone from the other side of the pond. Remind me of home, a bit." Danny offers a quick wink to himself before he slowly looks back to Wesley and says slowly, "Nah, you don't sound bad. And reason I stopped was that I had a real red neck as a roomate my first semester over here. He didn't take to kindly to me."
Lucy glances at Danny from the corner of her eye, unsure if his staring is solely because she's from the UK. Surely she isn't the only English person in New York. Well, it doesn't matter. "My ex is like that, a bit. From here, the stupid blighter, but so intolerant I don't know how he gets through the day." For a second she shivers in her seat, and slowly slides the leg pressed to her chaest down and over the other; she looks less confident with her legs crossed, though this doesn't seem the norm.
That earns a small chuckle from Wesley. "Yeah, I suppose that'd do it. So /you're/ here for school," Wesley says, a nod at the boy, "And /you're/ here apparently to check out the hot firefighters. And I'm here for Taco Bell. Make a pretty good team."
She laughs again, heartily, and though the odd gleam is not gone from her eyes, she speaks as if it were never there. "Well, I'm really here for the bikers," she says around her grin. "You know, /racing/ bikes. Drives me wild. But a fireman will do."
Danny snorts with laughter for a moment at the comment from Wesley before he looks more towards him that Lucy. He certainly isn't trying to creep her out. He waits another moment before he slowly says, "Yeah, I am here for school. Most blokes around this place are so uptight and filthy rich. Kind of interesting...though. It certainly is funning coming from a side of the Atlantic where we think the American Colonies just fought us cause they were like spoiled children." Danny snickers a bit at that comment before he realizes what he has said and then adds in, "Well, some of the people over there do."
"Can't say much there, mate," Lucy says. "Wouldn't want some government arse to mistake my nationalism for a terrorist threat and take away my visa." She reaches across the table for the boy's water bottle. "Mind if I have a sip?"
"Well, you're just full of barbed compliments, aren't you?" Wesley chuckles, more teasing than mean-spirited, before turning to give Lucy a wink. "Yeah, well, the police have their bike cops, but firemen tend to do it in teams, y'know?"
Lucy flashes him a wink, taking the bottle from Danny's table. "Sounds kinky," she says with a grin. "You offering?"
Passing his bottle over towards Lucy, Danny just smiles. He waits one more moment before he slowly says, "Sir, are you proposing a gangbang?" He then hears Lucy mutter something along the same lines and smiles. He waits another moment before he says slowly, "Yeah, Homeland security is just full of prats these days..."
"Depends," Wesley leans back in his chair, a silent laugh, before adding to the tease. "Either of you firefighters?"
"Not just them," she says quietly, and takes a modest sip from Danny's water bottle before handing it back. The moment is gone before she lets it get to her. "I'm a fashion designer. I could make some cute little firefighter outfit."
Looking at the two of them, Danny offers a slight shrug as he slowly says, "I could be a firefighter. Though, I generally prefer jobs where I don't have the serious threat of dying. Kind of ruins the whole living forever thing..." Danny raises his one hand to take back the bottle before he looks back to Lucy to say slowly, "Oh, are we going to see you on that Project Runway?"
Lucy shrugs. "Nah, I don't think so. Not a fan of reality TV. Although I could definitely use a Tim Gunn peering over my shoulder all the time."
"At least the dying would be an exciting death," Wesley shrugs, not concerned in the least. "Better than sitting around with a boring, safe life. Besides. It's a way to make a difference."
She mulls it over, but agrees with Wesley. "I couldn't stand being--normal." The word catches in her throat. "You know. Boring," she amends quickly, and picks at the remains of her taco.
"Bollacks. I can't stand that bloody reality television myself. And wanker, dying is dying. No real reason to say otherwise. I intend to live a nice long life...unlike some idiots in my family. I intend to be one of those boring wankers who doesn't make too much money to get noticed but enoug hto be happy." Danny smiles a bit at that before he looks back to Lucy and says slowly, "Well then, what kind of clothing do you design?"
Wesley snorts. "Did you really just call me 'wanker'?" he asks, a disbelieving laugh at the other. "Well, have your nice long comfortable life. Guess I can understand that. Maybe a bit. Your house ever catches on fire, though, just remember it'll be people who are willing to take some risks that'll hopefully keep you from losing that 'enough to be happy.'"
"Feisty, boys, feisty," Lucy says, arching her eyebrows in amusement at them. Young men were always so quick with their tongues.
"Course it would be good to know there are people braver than me. My point was just that I don't want some exciting life, I just want a life." Danny grins a bit at that before he slowly uncaps his water and takes a sip from it before he adds in slowly, "And I call everyone a wanker. Don't be too offended."
"All right, all right," she says, placing her hands on the table. "Back to your corners, you gits."
"Eh, takes more than that to get under my skin," Wesley shrugs it off, reaching instead for Taco # Three, and busying himself with its paper wrapping. "Excitement. Just don't see the point in life without it."
"I am no git. I much preffer the term dork, loser, or idiot!" The Irish lad smiles again as he says that before he looks back to Wesley and says slowly, "So, do you play any sports? Football perhaps? Oh, well, I should say soccer...I guess." Danny smiles faintly at that as he turns to Lucy and adds in, "You know how much confusion using football causes?"
"Tell me about it," she sighs, "I got so confused trying to find it on tv. Kept getting damned American football."
"Eh, I like both," Wesley shrugs. "Play them when I can. Not on any teams or anything, though. Too busy." Crunch, crunch, goes the taco.
Looking at the two of them one more time, Danny offers the faintest of shrugs before he raises his bottle to his lips one more time and takes another sip from it. He waits another moment before he adds in, "Yeah, part of me loves the sport for the sport...and the other part helps me afford this school I go to. So, it all works out in the end..." Danny offers another polite nod before he takes another sip of water.
Lucy pauses and shoves a hand into her bag, tugging her cell phone out. "Oh, geez...well, as stimulating as this conversation is, lads, I've got to be going. Can only sit and listen to sports chat for so long."
"Well, nice sharing my spot in line and a taco with you," Wesley offers a small wave at her departure.
Lucy reaches into her pocket and tugs out a recepit and a pen, scrawling a series of numbers across, sliding it across the table to Wesley. "Give me a call sometime, mate," she says and gives a ruffle to Danny's hair. "And you stay outta trouble, boyo." With a grin and wink, she lights up yet another cigarette and departs.
Nodding to the lady, Danny winks and says quickly, "Hope to see you again, on either side of the pond." He gives her his classic smile one more time before turning back to Wesley and saying, "Well, I think I have some rather annoying homework waiting back in the dorms. I am sure I will see you around at some point." Danny grins one more time before he slowly stands up from his seat.
"Homework. Yeah, don't miss that at all. Good luck with it, though," Wesley nods, polishing off the last of his meal. The receipt gets a smile, and tucked in his back pocket as he stands, retrieving his garbage and tossing it in the nearby bin.
Just a bit of chatting (up) at the mall. Purely innocent. Well, mostly.