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| No Surface All Feeling; 5/22 early evening - Rugby crew + others | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 17 2013, 06:01 PM (572 Views) | |
| Purple Girl | Apr 25 2014, 09:00 PM Post #61 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Emma, of course, snapped back at Scott Summers. In her place, with tempers and emotions fraying and unraveling at the edges here in this surreal, tattered mental landscape, Kara would've likely done the same. But he wasn't helping. Neither of them were, and that's what they'd come here to do. Help this woman they'd inadvertently put into this position because there'd been no other choice. Neither of them happy with that, but she hadn't expected them to be. Too used to being in charge of things, directing things. Both of them. But this wasn't about them and Purple Girl turned her attention back to the one it was about. Jean Grey, turning to Hone now as he asked that question. Then the other woman followed it with one of her own, after a fashion and as a type of answer. One that didn't have a ready answer and that would have a completely different answer for everyone here. Different for her, different for Hone, and for Mantis and Emma and Scott. Some did it with determination, or hope, or even bitterness. To spite the things that tried to bring them down. Or to rise above them. Her own, that Kara could give her after a moment, as the redhead moved in close to Hone. Face to face. Nose to nose. Forehead to forehead. Take the pieces they were left with, those chipped and cracked bits of themselves that were left after something shattered them , and fit them back the best they could. With what help they had to do it. Mend the gaps and spaces from there as they moved forward. “By mourning where you need, for what is and what was, and no more than that,” Hone added, meeting the redhead’s eyes again as she pulled back and settled on the tabletop, then reaching out to lightly tap the top of her sternum with his hand. “Keep this much of your heart for your dead, Toroa. Then keep the rest for living.” He'd lived a very long time, buried his share of loved ones, Kara knew. If anyone knew how to move forward from loss when there was no other choice, it would be the Maori man. Then Mantis, reminding Jean Grey of who she was. Just that, in the end. Jean Grey. All of her, no more and no less and making it sound so deceptively simple as the telepath seemed always able to do. All of her was Jean Grey, and she should begin with that. whatever that was and would mean to her. To Jean Grey. One or both. The other woman looked down at the table and Kara leaned back in her seat, letting violet eyes sweep around the company again. Feeling that expectancy in the air. Whose, she couldn't have said. “I’m sorry, Emma,” she said aloud, sincerely, as she looked to the White Queen. No elaboration, simply that, before turning her attention to the Knight. Her husband. Standing stoic there. Waiting. Jean stood and went to him, the landscape around them shimmering and shifting. Wonderland disappeared and she was walking toward him down an aisle. Hands going to his shoulders as she stood in front of him. “I’m Jean Grey-Possibly-Summers,” she told him. “I married you three days ago.” He barely moved from what Kara could see. Just a hint of that smirk he seemed very fond of on his face, maybe. “I married the fuck out of you,” Jean corrected, and the purple skinned woman's mouth curved up slightly at the corners. Felt some measure of relief well up. Not fixed, not mended, but a start down that path. Better. "It's too bad there's no tea," Kara commented tiredly to the others, as Scott Summers answered his wife. Tea would've been welcome right now, even if it was only mental tea. “You did.” The smile was gone again already, but there was a smirk at least, one she knew all too well, just as she knew the love, the concern, the care that ran beneath it. “What do you want to do now?” “I think I’d like you all to be out of my head,” Jean told him thoughtfully and that was something Purple Girl was sure they could all agree on. The next moment, they were. Out of that mental landscape. Back in that bedroom. Her limbs were stiff as her awareness felt at first. A brief moment of disorientation that passed away and she straightened from the position she'd been frozen in while her mind was otherwise occupied. Her head was still pounding. They were all here, though, back in the room, gathered around the bed. How long it had all taken, Kara had no idea. It didn't matter. Looking over at the still green haired woman, Kara managed a hint of a smile, giving her arm a light squeeze before breaking contact. "Do you need us to stay?" she asked, having an idea of the answer already. They'd done what they could, she thought. Now it was up to Jean, and her husband. And that was for them. They wouldn't need or want spectators. For herself, when she left here, she was going to find some aspirin, a comfortable chair, and close her eyes. And wait to hear from Forge and Calvin and hope the winged man managed to find the start of his own path out of this as well. |
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| Kiwi Black | Apr 28 2014, 08:46 PM Post #62 |
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International Bloke of Mystery
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Begin there, eh? Well as advice went, there had probably been worse in the history of the world. Maybe even in the history of Jean Grey. Plenty of scope to take it where the redhead wanted, at any rate, and not too much else in the way of anything to do for the rest of them as she looked down at the table, like she was thinking it over. “I’m sorry, Emma.” That was the first thing out of her mouth, or however that worked while they were all inside her head, and Hone watched her look over that way, to the white-haired woman with a pause that seemed to stretch out for a moment or two before she looked on again. Over at Summers next, and if anything, that silent pause was even longer, not to mention a good bit more awkward. Two people, supposedly married, staring silently at each other with blank expressions until the redhead finally moved, taking a step through a table that wasn’t there any longer as soon as she moved, and walking slowly over to where the brown-haired bloke waited in his pale suit of armor, placing her hands on his unmoving bloody shoulders. “I’m Jean Grey-Possibly-Summers,” she told him. “I married you three days ago.” Didn’t get much of a reaction out of the bugger, maybe a twitch of the lips here or there, but that didn’t seem to bother her any, she just kept watching him, and kept going. “I married the fuck out of you,” she continued, like that was important, and… well, wouldn’t you know, now the bloke was even smiling. “You did.” Hell, he didn’t give an inch, did he, even when he did move his hands over to her. Well, no accounting for taste, or any of that, Hone supposed, sticking where he was, nothing moving but his eyes, and them only a little, flicking between watching the pair of them, and glancing at the other three in this odd bloody tableau. “What do you want to do now?” With eyes for no one but Summers, Grey Ginger seemed to consider that for a moment. “I think I’d like you all to be out of my head,” she said in the end, and just like that, with a sensation that felt a bit like what Hone imagined it would feel to be in the midst of a cat’s fur ball (a concept that was a little closer to home than he’d have liked, just now), there they were, back in the middle of the Helicarrier bedroom, standing round the bed once more, and feeling protests from muscles that felt like they’d been standing for… …well, he didn’t know how bloody long, and Hone wasn’t sure he needed to either. Glanced toward the edge of the room, back where Gates had been - and still was, of course, because the old bugger was mint like that - with a gaze the teleporter met solemnly. He’d know, if anyone cared to ask, just how long they’d been out, down to however precise a body might want, but didn’t seem to be anything to be gained by asking just now. Maybe ever. Back to looking to the bed then, where Mrs Summers was in her husbands arms, back in that odd green hair and half-wrapped up and all looking like she had no intention of shifting in the next week. Purple, next to him, she reached out and squeezed the telepath’s arm lightly, getting her to look up for a moment with eyes that were red-rimmed but mostly focusing. “Do you need us to stay?” She shook her head, then turned it again, nestling against Summers’ shoulder and turning her face away, like she was settling in for a long haul. Crying softly, maybe, though Hone wouldn’t have sworn just anything on that, but he watched her for a few moments longer, before lifting his gaze up to meet the steady - though visored - gaze of the husband. “We’re not done,” said that Alpha Pup, in a voice that seemed like it might be used to be listened to. “You and I.” With what he had to admit was a mite of difficulty, Hone managed to keep his eyebrows from shooting up. Back reunited with a wife that was clearly a good bit less than ready for the races, who clearly didn’t want anything but to cling to him, and he was still thinking of scores he had to settle with people who’d wronged him. Well, it took all sorts. And you couldn’t say the bloke didn’t have some point, calling him out for being, in the end, the bugger who was responsible for this. What had to be done, best possible outcome, none of that meant shit in the end beside the responsibility you took on, so yeah, he’d take that, nod in acknowledgement, as long as the young idiot buck wasn’t looking to deal to him right at this moment. “Yeah, okay mate,” Hone agreed, holding the bloke’s gaze for a moment before turning toward Purple and placing one hand on her shoulder in a gesture of support he thought she might not hate. She’d pushed herself too today, as much as she had to, which was a damn sight more than anyone ever really wanted to, given the choice. Plus, Blink’d string him up if he didn’t make damn sure she got herself looked after when they’d gotten the all clear. “When you have the time, you come look me up. I’m never that hard to find,” Hone told Summers, which seemed to be enough for that bloke for now, then glanced around the others in the room and looked toward the door. Time for them all to be getting out of here for now, and let Toroa see about finding her pieces from the hard stony place she’d apparently chosen to keep them. |
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| White Queen | May 3 2014, 01:24 AM Post #63 |
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Top class breeding, darlings.
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How did that quaint saying go about trying the same thing and expecting a different result? Well, by all means, if group therapy via tea party would help Jean pull herself back together, then they were welcome to utter whatever nonsense sprang to mind to their heart's content. Perhaps later they could all hold hands and sing. Emma was sure if this went on long enough someone would eventually suggest it or something similar. So what would Jean do this time when bid to start with herself and build from there? The White Queen, crown askew, watched with calculated impassiveness. She was here at their request, not her suggestion. And should conditions reach a point where her talents would be of any actual use, she would deliver as promised. Until then, she would have to content herself with maintaining the anchors holding them within Jean's mind in the first place, and perhaps making arrangements for that fruit hat Scott Summers apparently wished to wear. “I’m sorry, Emma,” Jean said, looking toward Emma for a moment. The blonde telepath's face tightened. Is that where she wished to start. With sorry. A word Emma had not heard directed her way since leaving the Hellfire Club. And even then only by those fearing her reprisal for failing to meet her expectations. Sorry. For what, exactly? Her lack of receptiveness to Emma's attempts to help her? She'd anticipated that, even if a few of Jean's remarks had cut deeper than expected. For throwing Emma's mind into a state of such absolute, alien misery it had jarred loose a truth she had no idea how to handle or what to do with? Not so different from what Jean had done in the past. Except this time, instead of doing so in self defense, or rage or the cold meting out of her own idea of justice, she'd inflicted all that Emma out of spite. For daring to have a thought Jean had taken exception to. And people had the gall to consider Emma the irredeemable one of the pair. Sorry. What use was sorry to her? Or to this? Or to Jean herself? The redhead had already moved on, however, her attention shifting to her husband, sitting stiff and stoic. Jean shifted her legs as the table faded away, and she walked down the newly empty space toward him. He hands rose to meet his shoulders and she proceeded to declare herself the man's wife, seeming to see right past his armored visor as she did so. “I married the fuck out of you,” she concluded which, wonder of wonders, managed an actual smile from him. Or what passed for one in his case. “You did.” he answered, while Kara bemoaned the lack of tea. Emma would have preferred a fine glass of Moët & Chandon herself. Or an entire bottle, all things considered. “What do you want to do now?” Jean's reply was simple enough, even if she appeared to give it some consideration first. “I think I’d like you all to be out of my head,” she said, and Emma felt herself, as well as all the others, fold their way out of her mind, once again in the bedroom where this had all begun. The instant it was done, Emma shifted into her diamond form. The lie given to her to perpetuate other lies, but it had its uses, and at the moment there was one in particular she sought. "Do you need us to stay?" Kara asked the green-haired woman, who shook her head at the kind request before turning to bury her face in Scott's shoulders and cry some more. That certainly appeared to settle the matter. It was more than good enough for Emma, to be sure. Scott, it appeared, had other ideas, issuing a warning, or a challenge, or both, to the leader of the Jokers. Hardly a pause from the Maori man before he uttered a simple, “Yeah, okay mate,” How refreshing to see that even in a moment like this there was plenty of room the spare for posturing and machismo. Emma did hope that when they got around to it, they'd have the decency to arrange some place where they could all watch and supply the proper admiration. Hone then put a hand on Kara's shoulder. “When you have the time, you come look me up. I’m never that hard to find,” he added to the other man, before indicating the door to the rest of them with a look. Turning toward the door herself, Emma walked calmly, but with purpose toward it. "If you'll all excuse me, I have some matters which need to be seen to." Any issues or discussions they wished to bring forth with her regarding this little session would have to wait. She had neither the patience nor the fortitude for such things, and as for Jean Grey-possibly Summers herself? Well, congratulations, Emma supposed. Perhaps she'd send her and Scott a fruit basket. |
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| Jean Grey | May 6 2014, 07:13 PM Post #64 |
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Can kill you with her brain.
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It was a folding. Or perhaps an unfolding. Peeling herself away from inside to out, from a safely folded tesseract where what was safe and under control was all together, curled up in one little place, to the way a mind was supposed to be worn, together on the outside, and with all the spines and quills held together inside it. All the pain, back within her, with nowhere else to go. But she was back within the walls of this gray, gray room, on the bed that she’d sat on with Scott only this morning and called ‘a nice bed’ while trying to keep him from rubbing at his duct-taped removal rash. Perhaps she should have just given into that urge to stay there then, and done what he’d wanted, and said no to all of them. But she hadn’t. So she was here again, with her husband, and four - no five, with Gateway’s silent presence - but four again, as her awareness of Emma Frost faded away almost as quickly as it had been - standing around the bed, watching her with eyes she could feel, even without raising her head to their faces. One dark, one green, one purple, one brown and black, and one purest, palest diamond. A team of Watchers of her very own. A hand squeezed her arm - Kara’s, Jean knew that even without the color - and she brought her eyes up to meet the other woman’s steady almost-smile. “Do you need us to stay?” Stay, and watch me fall apart. No. Jean shook her head quickly. Thought about trying to speak, but even that was enough to set all the pain coursing up through her throat, nearly choking her before she turned and found that spot - her spot - in the hollow of Scott’s shoulder, just where she’d known it would be, however long it had been since he’d put the hole in her head, because he was always there, always, when she needed him, and she knew that. She was crying. But only against him, face buried against his stealthsuit, so maybe no one would have to know, because she wasn’t someone who cried, and she didn’t know how she was ever going to stop. “We’re not done,” her husband’s voice said, grim and authoritative, and sounding to Jean very, very much like something out of a movie that was playing elsewhere, about things that she had nothing to do with. Why else would he be talking now, to Hone Heke, about settling scores about responsibility for a mission that hadn’t gone right? “You and I, he said, and there was the answer, right there, though still hanging apart, belonging to someone else. He was Scott. This was how he made the world make sense, just like he was the way that she made the world make sense, by touching him. “Yeah, okay mate,” Kiwi Black replied, and something else that Jean only barely registered. It wasn’t for her, and neither was the look she could sense him turning on the others, and on the door. Emma’s words, though… “If you'll all excuse me, I have some matters which need to be seen to.” So crisp, so clean, and without a trace of a mind behind them, as though the woman had been speaking over a communicator. Jean turned her head then, watching the transparent woman stalking in the direction of the door. What was she thinking, Emma Frost, inside her crystalline armor? More of what had been inside her mind when it had been inside Jean’s, a book that could be opened and read at any page? Something more, or something less? “Reckon we all do, mates.” That was Hone Heke, of course, quietly serious as he straightened once more and led the others to moving in the same direction. When he turned back, old dark eyes met Jean’s for a moment, then passed on, settling on Scott. She was glad of that, at least, because it meant that she could turn again, find her spot to tuck herself in against, and go back to letting the words wash past her as though they were really about someone else. “You need anything, you call. She needs anything, you call, more to the point. Not going to lack for people who’ll help if they can, eh.” Silence followed. Silence, but a silence that came with a tension she could feel building through the muscles of her husband’s chest, and with words that were forming in his mind. Angry words, accusing words, frustrated words. She couldn’t sit through that, and stay together. Jean knew that, and so she lifted her head, turning back toward the others, and answered for Scott, before he could begin to speak. “…Thank you,” she said, sincerely, and as firmly as she could, tightening her arms around her husband to ask him, very sincerely, to leave it there. It worked, at least long enough that soon the others were out of the door, which closed behind them, and then, here they were once again. Home Sweet Helicarrier. Scott Summers, and Jean… Grey. A visor he was easing off, eyes shut tight, reaching blindly but assuredly for the glasses that were on the nightstand as she relaxed again, leaning to keep close contact with his torso as he made the reach, and hold back the worst of what was in her head by touching him. “Jean?” Red shades looked down at her, when she twisted her head to meet the softer note in his voice. “Mhmmm?” she asked. “What now?” Soft. Gruff, at least, and quiet, but he was asking her, not trying to tell her. She didn’t like to think about how scared he had to be to be doing that. Closed her eyes, because the thought of finding an answer seemed a little less scary when she did that, and breathed in deeply through her nose, forcing all of the panic back down away from her throat before she answered. “Now we start on putting me back together again,” she said slowly, and paused, meeting his eyes where she knew they’d be behind his glasses. “Just like Alaska.” “You remember that.” There it was again, welled up in her throat, all the way up to her tongue, where she could taste the bile and the horror and every last piece of sorrow there could never be enough tears for. “I remember everything,” Jean told her husband, then had to bite down on her own lip for a moment to keep that back. It subsided though, enough for her to lift one hand to his face, brushing along the line of his jaw toward his neck, and then enough for her to speak. “But I remember that we did that together.” Her Scott. Her husband. He’d always been there for her. Never let her go. Never let her break, never ripped that part of her mind that was his. She had everything in her mind. But she had him, and they’d find a way to make that enough to do what they had to, because they had to, and because that was what they did. Begin at the middle, and go around until you’re back to the middle again, because that’s how you found a way to keep going. [Fin] |
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3:33 AM Jul 11