[Charles had been up all night so far. He thought he had been tired of training with Hank all day long, but when he had finally gone to bed, all he could do was toss and turn. Eventually, Charles ended up getting back up again, sneaking through the house to the living room to pick up a book or something that would keep him busy until he'd finally feel tired]
[Sean has nightmares. Gut wrenching, gasping for air, traumatizing nightmares. The kind that as a kid made you run screaming into your parents bedroom, waking every single person in your house up until you fly into their bed and huddle between them to chase away the shadow types of nightmares. So, after waking up drenched in sweat and tears, his face buried in the pillow to muffle his screams, Sean was slightly surprised to end up outside Erik's door. One would think it would be Charles, with his calming influence that Sean would seek out, but they would be wrong.]
[ After the day spent training, Erik's worn out; and he had fallen into bed earlier without much decorum, bidding Charles goodnight on his way up the stairs-- with an obligatory nod to the rest of the household. Erik appears to take a conscious effort in sleeping; his cheek pressed against the pillow, hair swiped carelessly across his forehead. Despite the apparently deep slumber, he's still wakeful; the pause of footsteps outside the heavy oak door is enough to have his eyes cracking open, his breathing quieting in order to listen. In all likelihood, it's Charles-- the telepath seemed to keep odd hours himself, working in his study with papers and papers of old Oxford research (made now more relevant by the recent events). He waits, uncertain, for the expected knock. ]
[Sean studied the door, lifting his hand several times to knock, only to stop himself. Erik knew about his nightmares, they'd had a long talk about the kidnapping the experiments that Sean had gone through earlier in his teen years and the escape that set him free. Maybe that was why he sought him out, Sean mused to himself. Erik knew what Sean had gone through more than anyone in the mansion could ever guess, he had lived through something terrifyingly similar and come out the other side with a purpose. Sean lifted his hand again, rapping on the door with his knuckles.]
[ Sitting up and reaching over to switch on the bedside lamp, Erik glances towards the door, stepping out of bed and unlocking it with a wave of his hand. Opening, it reveals Sean-- the red-haired boy seeming more unkempt than usual (which could, in light of his usual state of scruffiness, be saying quite a lot) and Erik frowns, leaning against the doorjamb, an eyebrow quirking in the other's direction curiously. To the question, he answers, ] So it would seem.
Nightmares. [Sean wasn't exactly sure of what to say. Usually he was a chatterbox, hardly ever shutting up, but now he wasn't quite sure about his capability to string words together. Erik was pretty intimidating under usual circumstances, so with Sean already unnerved from his dreams it threw him into way intimidating territory.]
[She shuffles into the kitchen, stops at the main cupboard, and starts looking at what was there. It was one of those nights again. Not tired enough to go to sleep and mind incredibly too active to even bother. Something was on her mind, but she didn't have the words to describe what it was. Annoyance maybe? There wasn't any one thing she was annoyed at, either.]
Ahh, we gotta have some cookies. [She mumbles and reaches for the box of Corn Flakes.] Where are you, Oreos?
[ Unused to sleeping at any particular designated time, Erik is still downstairs-- standing beside the kitchen counter and stirring a cup of tea; not a habit that he had been prone to through the string of hotel rooms-- favoring the more easily accessible black coffee. Though Charles apparently has started to have some influence; instilling some latent taste for bergamot. Not giving any other indication of awareness other than the most slight arch of an eyebrow, he concludes stirring the tea; his spoon taking itself to the sink while he turns around to face the other mutant; leaning against the countertop. ]
You're up late. [ It's said mildly; something disinterested coloring it. Living, and traveling alone for the years that he did, Erik is still somewhat unsettled by the constant presence of people around him ]
[And there were the cookies, in back of the Ritz and the jars of peanut butter and marmite. She replaces the corn flakes and carries the cookie box with her to the refrigerator. She glances at Erik over her shoulder and gives him a slight smile.] I'm not the only one.
[It wasn't the first time this had happened, either. There had been a number of times in the early morning where she had ran into Erik in the kitchen, or the library, the den, and even once on the porch. Sometimes they would talk and other times they would sit in silence with one another.
She pulls out the milk, closes the fridge door with her hip, and pulls a glass tumbler from the cupboard.]
I thought you hated bergamot? [She deposits the milk, cookies, and tumbler on the table and sits.]
[ There's a non-committal hum for her comment, and his eyes flick up at the smile, a nod of his own meeting it. Watching the other mutant make her familiar way around the kitchen, Erik takes up his preferred spot, leaned against the counter-- cup of tea in hand; another mug on the counter; the tea leaves still soaking. ]
It's an acquired taste, apparently.
[ Taking an experimental sip of the tea, he considers her over the brim of the cup. ]
Oh, apparently. [She says mirthlessly with a roll of the eyes, but ends up smirking. She fills her tumbler three-fourths of the way with milk and leaves the carton by the box of cookies. She then removes two cookies from the box and sets one on the box, letting it wait in the wings, and begins dipping the second one into her milk.]
We gotta stop meeting up like this. People might start getting ideas. [Getting half her cookie nice and mushy she bites into it and munches on it when she starts dipping the bottom corner of her half of a cookie.]
[ That gets a flicker of humor in his face, though it's entirely in the upward movement of his eyebrows, and remains incredulous. The metaphorical implications are enough to make him roll his eyes, and he takes a more considerable drink of the finely scented tea-- which he had come to associate with Charles, who was so often equipped with a cup of it that it would seem the odor clung to those knitted cardigans and sweaters. ]
Is that right? [ He turns to continue fixing the second cup of tea, stirring in honey and a spot of milk. Over one shoulder he continues, ] I wasn't aware that the household was so involved in gossip.
[Of course she didn't mean a word of it, but she was only going for a reaction. Though he isn't smiling or laughing, she knows enough by his facial expression that he was amused by it.]
Yep. A lot of the time we're a group of bored teenagers. We need something to chat about. [She finishes her cookie and picks up her second one. Getting serious now, she says,] I know you don't want to talk about it, but if you did, I'd like to listen.
9. Sounds about right.moiramactaggertSeptember 22 2011, 18:36:26 UTC
[Moira walked quietly down the stairs, not wanting to disturb anyone. She didn't understand how they could sleep at a time like this. Since learning of Shaw's plan in Russia, she'd been unable to close her eyes without seeing mushroom clouds.
Her hand tapped against the side of her leg as she walked into the den. At this rate she was never going to sleep. She even contemplated going for a run to burn off some excess energy, but it was too dark out.]
[ The den is almost entirely dark, lit only by the light from the un-curtained windows and the flicker of the fire. Sitting cross-legged on the expanse of Persian carpet, on the floor beside the mantelpiece's grate, Erik takes a drag on the cigarette huffing out a nondescript spiral of smoke; the end of the thing glowing. He's reading, as he has taken to doing often; the modern, paperback copy of The Fountainhead is bent in his hands, the edges of certain pages dog-eared and a little worn. It's not his own, he'd found it among the long-untouched stack beneath Charles' bedside table; the house is filled with books-- cramming the library bookshelves and the bookshelves scattered throughout the corridors and numerous spare bedrooms.
In the background the scratch of the record is almost enough to drown the near-inaudible waver of a long-dead French singer, accordian piping in the background; emitting from the brass horn of the gramophone. He does not notice her abruptly, or does not choose to give any indication. ]
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Erik, are you awake?
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[ A frown, and his head tilts-- ] What is it?
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Can I ask you a question?
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Ahh, we gotta have some cookies. [She mumbles and reaches for the box of Corn Flakes.] Where are you, Oreos?
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You're up late. [ It's said mildly; something disinterested coloring it. Living, and traveling alone for the years that he did, Erik is still somewhat unsettled by the constant presence of people around him ]
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[It wasn't the first time this had happened, either. There had been a number of times in the early morning where she had ran into Erik in the kitchen, or the library, the den, and even once on the porch. Sometimes they would talk and other times they would sit in silence with one another.
She pulls out the milk, closes the fridge door with her hip, and pulls a glass tumbler from the cupboard.]
I thought you hated bergamot? [She deposits the milk, cookies, and tumbler on the table and sits.]
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It's an acquired taste, apparently.
[ Taking an experimental sip of the tea, he considers her over the brim of the cup. ]
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We gotta stop meeting up like this. People might start getting ideas. [Getting half her cookie nice and mushy she bites into it and munches on it when she starts dipping the bottom corner of her half of a cookie.]
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Is that right? [ He turns to continue fixing the second cup of tea, stirring in honey and a spot of milk. Over one shoulder he continues, ] I wasn't aware that the household was so involved in gossip.
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Yep. A lot of the time we're a group of bored teenagers. We need something to chat about. [She finishes her cookie and picks up her second one. Getting serious now, she says,] I know you don't want to talk about it, but if you did, I'd like to listen.
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Her hand tapped against the side of her leg as she walked into the den. At this rate she was never going to sleep. She even contemplated going for a run to burn off some excess energy, but it was too dark out.]
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In the background the scratch of the record is almost enough to drown the near-inaudible waver of a long-dead French singer, accordian piping in the background; emitting from the brass horn of the gramophone. He does not notice her abruptly, or does not choose to give any indication. ]
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