oo2. partially open.

[xerampelinae]

CHARACTERS: Charles Xavier + Natasi (Caprica Six) + Peter Parker; and others as they happen.
LOCATION: To be added.
WARNINGS: To be added also.
SUMMARY: Only one of these people is getting anything done, turns out.
NOTES: Monthly catch all! This is only partially open because I'm not providing a fixed narrative thing to reply to. Hence, please let me know if you'd like to do anything, and I'll be happy to set up a thread (unless you feel ambitious).

Comments

10/02 | moves inbox thread here

[uncurse]

[ After receiving his message and stealthily avoiding actual apology, Emma makes her way to the kitchen of floor 14 for the one thing an orphan never turns down: food.

Even if it is vegan, or whatever.

She swans in with her bright red jacket pulled on, hair flat around her shoulders and frizzy around the top where the hair she'd lost has begun to grow back in—and is predictably shorter than the rest. ]

Do we even have what it takes to make a salad around here, or am I in for a surprise about what qualifies as vegetarian aboard a spaceship?

[ She's smirking, clearly not too hard-up about the scuffle he'd felt compelled to apologize for. ]

[forgodssake]

[ He doesn't owe her an apology, problematically.

Not one written, telegraphed into a cooked meal, and perhaps whatever sort of sorry he might owe for his behaviour shouldn't be further cheapened by being turned into an excuse to. Do. Whatever this is.

By the time Emma gets there, Charles is already uncomfortable, back turned as he focuses instead on just finishing off food as he stirs in the last of powder-based cream that tastes only barely tolerable when he uses it thusly, to thicken space-curry. He's dug up some form of wine-like bottle from the nearer bar, resting on a counter top for accompaniment.

Against all odds, whatever is on the stove top smells like food. Flavour pastes, oil, preserved seeds toasted off. Possibly mildly overcooked, but canned vegetable and the food reaped from the Garden can take that much. ]

It pays to get inventive. I hope you weren't excited for salad, though.

[ He glances back at her between poking at his task. He's dressed. In clothes. It is the usual fare, vaguely out dated in print and cut, loosely worn, an absence of clean lines. ]

There's plates in that cabinet, glasses.

[uncurse]

[ Her nose crinkles in a way that speaks volumes to how baffling she finds the notion that someone might get excited for salad. Aside from that and a slight cant of her head, however, she makes no comment on the subject.

Gliding smoothly into the kitchen, she opens up the proper cabinets to rifle around for dish- and glassware. It helps that most of the floors have identical kitchen set-ups. She appears strangely comfortable here, pulling out two plates, two glasses, casting him a look before she scrounges two forks out of a drawer, as if to confirm.

Stacking them all, she moves to the countertop where bar stools are pulled snugly beneath the island. ]

It pays to lower your standards. You know, I can't decide what's worse: having to kill everything you eat, or having to eat something that doesn't even resemble what it used to be.

[ A brief glance up at him. She smiles, holding up her hands in a passive, silent apology—in the event that he's one of those vegetarians that gets offended by mentions of animal violence, she figures she should at least acknowledge that he wouldn't have been making that choice in Neverland or Enchanted Forest. ]

Both just make me crave decent Chinese food.

[forgodssake]

[ The dishes are taken, food scraped into them. Some form of grain, with space-curry doled out on top. Charles won't be getting any points for presentation, although as far as as basic survival goes and some of the meals that come in the form of a square and peeled out of foil, it at least looks like it could have come from Earth.

And will, inevitably, taste a little left of centre of Earth -- like something that is familiar but unidentifiably different. There is a quirk of subtle good humour at the corner of his mouth, as he places her helping in front of her, goes to sit down with his. ]

I'm not so much one of those vegetarians as I am a picky omnivore. You can have your Chinese food, I'll take a filet mignon.

[ At least, Emma makes it somewhat easy to relax around -- he remembers, even at his worst, that as cornered as he might have felt, she did much to mitigate it. ]

This is the first I've cooked for anyone since coming back, so you're obligated to like it.

[uncurse]

[ She gives the food a look of scrutiny, shifting her gaze back towards him in silent challenge, and then pulls it over towards her the rest of the way, settling onto her stool. ]

No, you know what sounds really good? [ Digging her fork into the meal, she makes it less presentable by stirring the whole thing into a mess. Whatever it tastes like, she'll eat it. Might as well make sure it's all in one go. ] Fruit Loops.

[ Emma considers gummy bears, pop tarts, and sugar cereal to be real food. Don't judge. ]

engineering. harry osborn.

[adhesion]

Let's go somewhere cool.

This is the compelling invitation that Harry had received, Peter waiting like an eager labrador by the time his shift wrapped up, brooking no bailing. There is an anxious attentiveness to it, too -- Peter might not outright accuse his friend of drinking a lot out of, to be honest, worry his friend would close down on him about it, or maybe he's wrong and doesn't know what he's talking about. But he doesn't want him to do it some more, today, if that's just what he does in the quiet of his own room.

And Peter has stuff he wants to talk about. And he wants to go somewhere cool.

And Engineering is freaking awesome. Not all of it is accessible without nanites, "maybe I should get a job here," he says, as he leads the way up metal staircase, but there is an impressive amount that is. It's huge, bigger than the West Side of Manhattan, the kind of space to think and breathe that someone like Peter craves.

They halt at a railing. There's a severe drop beneath them, fading into bleak oblivion, and Peter with his lack of vertigo leans against it, until he's facing gravity straight down. He remembers to touch fingertips to an arm of his glasses, so they don't fall off his face somehow.

[borndying]

Harry probably would've bailed, if Peter hadn't been waiting for him when he got out of Comms; he looks like he still hasn't entirely ruled it out, and he is actually wearing sunglasses indoors because he spent the last part of his shift napping at his desk, sprawled with his head tipped back over the chair, and between the pounding headache and the fact his eyes haven't quite adjusted to light again yet, he just. Doesn't care that this is severely douche-tastic of him. Whatever, it's not even the douchiest thing Peter has seen him do. On the ship. Or anywhere else.

Actually bailing would probably be up there. He's tired and irritable and he doesn't really want to be here, but hey: that's friendship, right? Doing stuff you don't want to do because you don't want to hurt somebody's feelings, or at least not if you have to do it to their face, where they can look at you with their eyes and their...hair. And their complete lack of regard for personal safety, dude-- he touches Peter's elbow, not restraining but sort of a physical cue for dude--! and his hand is trembling, perceptibly.

"Yeah?" he says; sounds a little bit more like himself. "What are you gonna do here?"

[adhesion]

Peter is doing a good job of pretending like Harry wants to be here. He can appreciate the effort being made. At touch to his arm, he settles back with a crooked half-smile, hands braced against the railing. He doesn't comment on the trembling. Maybe he should comment on the trembling.

Or comment to someone else about the trembling. "Learn stuff," he proposes. "It's not exactly the same as replacing the crankshaft in my aunt's car, but I could help out. I mean it's huge, this place, and it probably needs constant monitoring. Hank worked here, but."

He's gone. He'd mentioned that.

"How's Comms treating you?"

[borndying]

"They're not incompetent," which he manages to make sound like it's some sort of fantastic compliment, droll as ever. "Keeps me busy, anyway, without taking away too much from my extracurriculars." If Peter were to wonder what the fuck kind of extracurriculars he could possibly be referring to when he doesn't appear to leave his room without his arm almost literally being twisted behind his back, that would probably be fair enough but also indicates how much Peter may not actually want to know.

Not that it's that bad.

At the moment.

"I could see you as a mechanic." There's a joke in there somewhere, probably.

science department. gwen stacy.

[adhesion]

[ Peter should probably have put his comms device down, between contacting Gwen and arriving at the science department. But he needed to say something to Harry and maybe get some more information to bring to the table, and in the interim

just

a lot is happening. A lot of people suddenly involved. It had just been them, hours ago, alone on a platform, and one secret.

By the time Peter enters the department, he looks-- upset, but in that determined, bright eyed, holding it together way. Angry, by now, but being angry at Harry doesn't change anything. His comms device is clutched in his hand, and he moves with restless energy, peering through glass through less accessible areas. By the time he can see Gwen, clearly visible, he taps on the interior window, although she's probably already noticed him. ]

[timeisluck]

[ Gwen's been waiting for Peter.

As soon as she'd put her phone down - possibly after scrolling through her conversation with Harry and rereading his responses - she'd been on the look out, knowing that at this point, she wasn't going to get any work done. Like she could concentrate.

Between Harry's outburst over the entire network and Peter's texts to her, she's not sure what to think yet, and she's hardly the type to come to sweeping conclusions without more evidence. And a story.

She sees him even before he taps on the glass, and she's up and swinging the door open to greet him before he can do anything else. ]

Hey. Are you okay?

[ Her inquiry is more out of habit than anything. Obviously he isn't okay. There's a brief pause as she considers giving him a hug - he does look strange, a forced optimism written in his face, his movements - but first she'll let him speak. ]

[adhesion]

Yeah.

[ Despite that this isn't true-- and going in for a hug anyway, tilting them into the threshhold, suspended. The world isn't ending. Harry isn't even dying, exactly, not in this place. But hugging is nice to do, anxious energy enough to anchor his arms around her for a second, even as he says; ]

I told 'im.

[ Already loosening hold, drawing back up. ] I told him and it went really well. [ No. ]

[timeisluck]

You told him ...

[ Gwen's voice trails off as she quickly deciphers what that means. What it could only mean, what would draw so severe a reaction like that out of anyone, not just Harry Osborn. She's not entirely sure what their history is, or why Peter's best friend would react so negatively to the reveal of his secret ... but it could come as a shock to anyone; it was admittedly a shock for her.

(Not a bad one, mind, but a shock nonetheless.)

She doesn't know Harry that well. Less than a handful of interactions hardly makes her an expert whatsoever on predicting how he might usually react to things like this.

She tilts her head up towards Peter, studying her boyfriend in light of this, not quite stepping back from him because he might need her strength, what little she can give. ]

Hm. Is this usually how he takes big news?

morning after the night with alex /waggles eyebrows

[mindtricks]

[ she hasn't talked to charles since their conversation before she'd left to lead one of the teams erik had set up, and maybe she wouldn't be at his doorstep now if not for the pounding in her head and the emotional drain that had come from spending the night next to a drunk and miserable alex. he has every reason to feel that way, and she hadn't closed herself off to it-

she's tired and the world seems like it's turning a little bit, and she's in front of charles' door. why shouldn't she be? it's not like they had a fight. ( they kind of did, but it doesn't matter. ) ]

Hi. [ is said to his door, but she's reasonably certain that he'll hear it, one way or another. ]

[forgodssake]

[ It doesn't matter.

Maybe it doesn't matter after reconnaissance, and after anxiously hovering over Severus' shoulder here and there throughout the radio silence portion of such a mission, Charles can understand that kind of sentiment. Forgiveness or dismissal both. Still, there is an element of confusion radiating from his side of the door as he goes to open it.

And it kind of dissipates by the time she says hi. Rumpled and miserable. His smile breaks into the beginnings of a smile. ]

Did you catch the numberplate of the truck that hit you?

[mindtricks]

[ one of her hands is at the frame of the door to keep herself steady, or maybe to make sure that the world around her is still steady. ( she knows it is, she knows it's irrational, but she can't bring herself to care. ) ]

Alex. [ is all she offers by way of explanation, at least out loud. the name comes with a few mental images, somewhat censored in the interest of alex's privacy. the two bottles of alcohol she'd brought to alex's quarters are empty now, as is what he had.

he drank most of it, but even though anderson has, by now, had alcohol a few times, she's still, well, a lightweight. ]

[forgodssake]

--two bottles of liquor and he had the nerve to nick my scotch?

[ Really, now. But Charles' offense is limited to that much, a hand going out to touch her shoulder in additional reassurance that she's alright. He can tell from thought patterns and time progression that she is not currently hammered, although he can't say it's hangovers that usually bring people to people's door steps. ]

Come in. [ He takes her hand off the frame, ushering her inside. There still exists clutter in his room, but it is less sad than it has been before, tidied at the edges, no drinking and smoking and eating debris left around. ]

How is he? How're you?

lounge, level 14. charles.

[treasonista]

Odessa makes her way into the lounge on the 14th floor like a woman late for an appointment. She's moving at a quick clip with those ridiculous pink heels of hers punctuating every step, a black satchel held in one hand as if it might contain important documents. Its contents are important, but not in the way their container might suggest. And she isn't late for anything, precisely, but she said she'd meet him here, though she left the timing intentionally nebulous. Time is a strange construct around here, after all.

When she slides into her seat, settling her bag in her lap, it's with a smile not unlike that of the cat that swallowed the canary. There's no flutter of yellow wings to match the yellow of her dress when she opens up to speak. "I have a surprise."

Can you really surprise a telepath? Let's find out.

[forgodssake]

You can, when you say something like I have a surprise.

Raven had always gone for speed, dirty tactics like springing it on him seconds after waking up in the morning, until they had outright made a pact that he wouldn't wander around in her head without asking. Informing Charles that he ought not to look is really the only way short of helmets from Russia.

Charles is-- well he thinks he's dressed nicely. It isn't formal, which he only saves for work or if he expects it'll get him laid, these days; a shirt of questionable taste in pattern and colour, tucked into jeans that are a little high waisted, with shoes on his feet that are a little pointy. A brown leather jacket is worn by his chair, and he's poured for himself a small nip of clear liquor from the bar.

It tastes horrible, but they all have to make do. As Odessa walks in, he doesn't rise, but his body language opens up, receptive. "Really?"

[treasonista]

"Really." Buckles are unfastened and the front flap is peeled away so that she can reach into the depths of her bag. When she withdraws her hand again, it's with her fingers held straight and together, her thumb folded against her palm, concealing whatever it is she's brought. She rests that hand on the bar for a moment, brows lifting, as if in silent query. Are you ready?

With a flourish, Odessa raises her hand and reveals her small surprise: Several carefully rolled cigarettes. Teeth flash white behind painted lips parted in a wide grin. She sing-songs, "Ta da."

[forgodssake]

"Darling."

Charles places chin in hand while his other set of fingers ease across table surface towards her in silent asking for one immediately thanks. Having all important luxuries at their regularly disposal ensures that the Tranquility is only a survival situation inasmuch as their lives are constantly at risk, but the limited access to tobacco and other smokeable substances is an unwanted restriction.

But so is being able to walk outside. Books. Filet mignon. "How many hours pulling weeds is that many? I never did ask after the going rate."

014 >> 097 - charles

[sorrycharles]

[ There’s a void in the white noise of the ship when a system cuts out to rest in the distance.

It happens every so often around this time: a steady hum for hours, a heavy shift of machinery, and then nothing. Darkness.

Tonight when the quiet comes, there’s the rasp of human breath out of sync with the silence, a glint of metal in the reflected light of a control panel, the presence of a hostile mind poised on a hair trigger, listening. ]

[forgodssake]

[ In his dreams, something is happening. Something he doesn't even remember, because less forgettably, a black void is opening up like a wound, or a stain, through hazier, vaguer memory, and a figure of white and red is clawing its way through.

It's a hike of blood pressure that kicks Charles into awake, although he doesn't move, at first. He registers darkness, and a presence; thinking that runs sharp and quick. Something in his room.

The bracket of his bed creaks sudden, metal protesting over a sudden shift of weight. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ Erik is a marble-cut statue of slabbed muscle and bristled scruff posted midway into the room, breathing slow, face in shadow. Here but not here.

Shrapnel glitters toothily in the air around his shoulders, torn steel all razor edges and rust.

His Tranquility-issue boxer briefs cling black to his thighs, sparing this post a content warning.

For now. ]

[forgodssake]

[ There's a clatter as a hand comes down on bedside table that manages not to spill everything on it onto the floor, just a tremor of noise, a breath in, expelled noisier, along with Charles' voice; ] Lights.

[ And illumination is wall to wall, banishing shadow and mystery. Charles is particularly unmysterious in his own shorts, grey undershirt, bed rumpled hair and squint against the sudden brightness.

A hand is splayed out, not necessarily to shield his eyes or to offer surrender, but preparation to

do

something. His eyes tick towards hovered, glinting metal, then to Erik's face, guarded worry and wariness making the line of his jaw hard, eyes bright. ]