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| Where The Sky Is Clear; 5/22 - evening/night - (Forge, Kara) | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 8 2014, 05:05 PM (211 Views) | |
| Purple Girl | May 8 2014, 05:05 PM Post #1 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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[Cont'd from No Surface, All Feeling] Saying brief good-byes to Hone, Kara parted ways with the tall, Maori man and turned for her own room, fingers of one purple-skinned hand pressing at her left temple. It was a small ache, though, in the schemed of things. It could've been worse. It could've been much worse. For everyone. It was bad enough, as it was, for some. What Jean Grey and her husband had to make their way through still, she didn't envy them that. It wouldn't be easy. It would be a long, difficult road full of pain and turmoil. Merging two people - who were the same person, but not - into one person. If it were her, would she even know how to begin? That was a question too complicated for her aching head and it told her so with another, pointed throb. A few aspirin, a long soak in a warm bath. That would do the trick. It always did and she'd be fine soon and she might as well get started. All they could do, whatever they could do, for the woman whose life they'd torn to pieces this afternoon out of necessity, they'd done already. Tomorrow was another day, waiting in the wings with things that still needed attention. Whether she had sore muscles and a headache or not. She should check in with Clarice, Kara reminded herself, finding her way to her room by rote, then decided it could wait a little while longer. Mantis would pass along, in her own cryptic way that Blink had learned to more or less sort out, that they'd all gotten back - alive, and in one piece if not exactly well. Stopping at her quarters, Kara reached for the door, then hesitated. A strange, empty room wasn't all the appealing, but neither was more company. Gods knew, right now she wouldn't be fit company for most. Just a quick stop over then, she settled on, as she went inside, grabbed the first clothes she could find - a t-shirt and pair of leggings that'd been washed and worn so many times they'd faded from black to gray - one of Angie's romance novels that she'd picked out of a box of books at random, and the herbal bath salts Mantis had given her that always seemed to work magic for taking that ache out from behind her eyes when she over did it. All that in hand, Kara did an about face, walked back out of her room and a littler farther back back down the hall the way she'd come. To Forge's room. Still with Calvin, she was sure. He was just a broken in his way as Jean Grey was. Life number two left in tatters by necessity. Forge would be back, though, eventually. When he could. In the mean time, she didn't think he'd mind the intrusion as she stepped into that room instead. It felt somehow more...something than her own. Or less something, maybe. Less solitary. Possibly that was the word she was looking for. Something of the Cheyenne man's presence was still there even if he was somewhere else. Wishful thinking, maybe. It was just as quiet as hers had been, but it was where she'd rather be right now and that was enough. She only took a cursory glance around before dropping the clothes on the side of the bed and starting for the bathroom. Started the water in the tub, downed probably more aspirin than she should, but she already knew two wouldn't even make a dent. Poured in some of the bath salts, stripped off her stealth suit and climbed in. Took a deep breath. Mint and rosemary and sage. Other things she couldn't identify, but they were immediately soothing all the same. Let that breath out slowly and felt knotted muscles begin to loosen the same way. Let the heat and the steam and the silence do their work, too. Soak away the vague aches and pains. Sooth her head until the throbbing was down to a dull, more manageable ache. Stayed there, letting her thoughts float like the fragile soap bubbles on the surface of the water. Not quite meditation, maybe, but close. It helped. Help smooth the ruffled surface of her mind, calm the rough texture of worried thoughts. Jagged snags of concern. Stayed until the water was almost cool, the stepped out, feeling better than when she'd gone in. Drained the tub and wiped it down. Took one more aspirin for good measure (someone could yell at her later if they wanted about the dangers of aspirin overdose), toweled her hair and herself as dry as she could manage before going out and slipping into familiar, worn, comfortable clothes. Comfort. Something all of them needed after today and her thoughts went back to Forge and Calvin Rankin, and Jean Grey and Scott Summers. To the Jean Grey they hadn't been able to do anything for but give an end to the pain and misery. A successful mission, Kara mused somberly as she curled up on one side of the empty bed, propping the pillow up and curling her legs around as she settled in to wait. They couldn't deny that they'd done what they'd gone to do. What they had to do. Stamford was still in one piece. Ahab had lost his best Hound. A different kind of price had been paid. Would keep being paid by at least two of them. Reaching for the book and putting those thoughts aside again, Kara already knew by the cover it would just be pure fluff. Manufactured melodrama and ridiculous situations and it all working out in the end for a happily ever after. Not anything she'd had any interest in reading since she was around fourteen. Right now, though, the dark haired woman realized, a little senseless happily ever after might actually be a welcome thing. |
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| Forge | May 10 2014, 09:52 PM Post #2 |
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Anointed Prophet of the Atheists
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[Continued from The Grey Room] I’ll be here, he’d told his best friend, and that was a promise that Forge had kept, and would continue to keep, even though at this moment, several hours after making that vow, he found himself pacing steadily back down the hallway that led to his own assigned quarters on the Helicarrier, with Rankin floors away, still in that lounge where he’d spoken his story, and done his best to try to drown the things that came with it and the shattered pieces of his life in a flood of rye whiskey. That he could do this, he owed Clarice Ferguson once more for her freely-offered kindness. Not twenty minutes before, she’d appeared softly just outside the door to that lounge, making no more business of herself than a gentle look and a quiet voice. ’I thought I might be able to spell you for a little while,’ she’d told him, and since Rankin was asleep, or at least unconscious in some unhappy state that was likely more stupor than slumber, the Cheyenne man had acquiesced, and taken his leave. A little while. For now, with the big Fucker mercifully free from the heavy burden of awareness and thought, if only temporarily, there was a window for others. The Dance, in theory, though in practice with the speed other teams had taken to the notion Rogue had put to him that morning of seeing the children distributed amongst them for more personal oversight and training had eased his mind about them more than a little. He had already missed Nezhno’s return to the United States, and there was a regret there, and knowing that the boy would likely forgive him, or rather not even think there was anything to be forgiven was a larger one, but there had been good people there to take that slack too. Tomorrow, he would see the Wakandan boy, the Maker promised himself. Tonight though, the need had lain with Calvin, and now with one other. Perhaps that had been the other reason that Clarice had come to offer her services watching Rankin, Forge thought idly. He hadn’t asked, nor had she intimated anything toward that point, but perhaps it had been there, not needing to be spoken. In any case, for now his thoughts and his time were bent in that direction, and so, when Forge quietly opened the door to his room and stepped inside, the sight of the woman curled up on the bed brought a smile to his lips. He stopped there for a moment, letting the door close behind him but not moving further into the room. Watching her silently, taking in the clothing - loose t-shirt, fitted leggings - the book in her hands, the way she’d drawn her limbs up into that neat space. She looked, if not perfectly relaxed, at least more so than he’d seen her last, fine violet features wearing perhaps less signs of strain and tension. She looked, in fact, quite, quite beautiful, though perhaps this was hardly the moment for that particular observation to intrude once again upon his thoughts, any more than the corollary of how pleasant it was to find her so comfortably situated on a bed that was, he supposed, in some way ‘his’. “When I went by your room, it was empty,” Forge remarked then, from his vantage near the door, tone serious, though not without some hint of a smile, “So I hoped I might find you here.” |
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| Purple Girl | May 13 2014, 02:04 PM Post #3 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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The headache was still there, but down to a slight, dull ache now. A minor pinch behind her eyes that Kara could ignore without much effort. Along her shoulders and the back of her neck, the tight knots of tension had loosened, too, leaving her with less of a feeling that she'd been strung together at her joints with stiff, inflexible wire. Even the book was better than she'd expected. Still pointless fluff, but easy enough to follow and entertaining enough. Enough that the purple skinned woman stopped glancing toward the door every few minutes after a while. Enough that her thoughts stopped drifting off to worry over things she couldn't do anything to change or even help with right now and making her lose her place or read the same paragraph over three times. Enough that she finally felt some measure of marginal peace seep back into her skin and bones, largely unnoticed. And enough that she didn't even hear the quiet opening of the door, or the equally soft steps that went with it. Kara heard it close, though, felt the weight of a pair of eyes on her and she looked up. Not surprised to find Forge standing there. Relieved, in fact, even if he looked tired and worn at the edges in the same way she'd felt tired and worn when she'd first come in here. Maybe not obviously, but she could see it, etched in shadows and tiny lines around his eyes, at the corners of his mouth. Subtle tension in the line of how he stood. She wondered if Calvin had finally worn himself out, or maybe just numbed himself to the point of passing out with whatever they'd found at hand. And who was with him now? She knew Forge wouldn't have left him alone, unconscious or not. Whoever it was, Kara was grateful. Even if it was only for a few moments. “When I went by your room, it was empty,” Forge remarked then, from his vantage near the door, tone serious, though not without some hint of a smile, “So I hoped I might find you here.” Meeting his eyes as she sat up, the ghost of a smile crossed over her lips. "That's convenient," the lavender skin woman answered, "I hoped you'd find me here, too." Was very, very glad he had, despite knowing there were probably others he'd feel a need to look in on, too. She was still holding the paperback she'd been reading, Kara realized. Hmm. A half-second's thought and she shoved it under the pillow as nonchalantly as she could manage. Finding her place again later wouldn't be that hard and that got it out of the way. Swinging her legs off the bed, Kara stood up then and padded over to him, one hand lifting and palm sliding up his arm lightly from elbow to shoulder. "How is he?" she asked, concern settling itself onto her features again. Not that she expected very much had changed in the last hours, but she hoped there'd been some progress, a burning through the initial worst of it, perhaps. Even if the road ahead of that would still be a long one. For Calvin Rankin and for Jean Grey. |
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| Forge | May 19 2014, 06:30 PM Post #4 |
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Anointed Prophet of the Atheists
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In spite of everything, what was past and what was ongoing in this night, there was still some singular pleasure to be found in the way those fine eyes started, looking up to him as the door closed. Forge could hardly help but be struck by that, as he watched the woman who had found her way to his bed, apparently as a convenient location to find what peace might be available in solitude and a book. He’d been looking for her - had certainly hoped to find her here, since her own room had been empty, and was not too proud to admit that, if indeed pride entered into the matter at all. The Cheyenne man wasn’t sure that it did, but considering that would take a backseat to enjoying the way the suggestion of a smile was playing across Kara Kilgrave’s lips as she sat up and turned her eyes to meet his. “That’s convenient," the lavender skin woman answered, "I hoped you'd find me here, too.” Simple, and direct. That too seemed singular, and was more than enough to bring something more of a smile to the inventor’s eyes as he continued where he was, standing still and doing little but watching her. Saw her pause a moment, then tuck the book - a slim paperback, the identity of which eluded his gaze - away beneath the pillow in a quick, casual movement that for all its nonchalance nevertheless raised Forge’s curiosity a notch. Only for a moment though, for at the next, she was moving smoothly off the bed, stepping toward him with an easy, comfortable grace that was sufficient to clear the inventor’s thoughts of all but her approach for the few seconds that she was moving. A hand, placed over his elbow, sliding up his arm, as his own rose to rest against her shoulder blade, then descended, running down her side to rest just above her hip. “How is he?" she asked, concern settling itself onto her features again. There could only be one ‘he’ that was referred to tonight, of course. Forge’s own expression tightened somewhat once again, bionic fingers tensing briefly against her waist. “As might be expected,” he answered. No need to elaborate too far on what precisely that meant under the circumstances. Especially not, Forge thought, with Kara Kilgrave, who’d not only been there to see Rankin through all of this day up to that news, but who seemed to have that sense for humanity that belied her years. “Passed out for now, on a load of rye whiskey,” the inventor added a moment later, instructing his face to smooth itself as best it could once more, “Clarice is sitting with him. For now, I suppose that’s as close as can be got to optimal.” There was, after all, little option for tonight but to carry that pain, numb it down till it became something like endurable. Tomorrow, perhaps - no, no perhaps about it, they would see to that - there would be something more tangible that could be done to offset the blow, but for tonight… “How is she?” Forge asked then, for he owed finding that answer to Rankin too, and the memory of the way the green-haired woman had looked, curled in misery on a bed not dissimilar to the one Kara had just arisen from, could not help but engender solicitude of its own accord. Though there was another question, at least for him, whose answer seemed near as pressing, so he brought his other hand up to lay against her shoulder, and looked carefully in her eyes, then asked it. “And how are you?” She’d had no easy 24 hours either. |
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| Purple Girl | May 21 2014, 01:51 PM Post #5 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Yes, she'd hoped he'd find her here, when more pressing things could spare him for a moment. Kara knew she wasn't the only one Forge would likely want, or need, to look in on. Maybe he'd done that already, but even if he hadn't she wasn't going to feel even one iota of guilt for whatever time she could steal. There was a suggestion of a smile in those dark eyes as she tucked the book safely under the pillow as casually as she could manage (it wasn't her book, it was Angie's, but that seemed like a good place for it, all the same) and stood to walk over to him. Meeting him where he still was standing, one palm sliding lightly along his upper arm. His hand settled at her back, over her shoulder blade, before skimming down her side to her hip and Kara took a single step closer. Just that small thing, that light contact, and the world seemed to settle itself back into place a little more than before. It didn't stop the concern on her face, though, as Kara asked the inevitable question. Knew she wouldn't have to elaborate on who she meant by 'he'. Watched his expression pull a little more taut and her fingers tightened marginally on his arm. It was an answer all by itself, along with the slightly increased pressure of his hand at her waist, but not one she hadn't already expected. How else could Calvin Rankin be, after the trial by fire he'd been dragged through today? “Passed out for now, on a load of rye whiskey,” the inventor added a moment later, instructing his face to smooth itself as best it could once more, “Clarice is sitting with him. For now, I suppose that’s as close as can be got to optimal.” She nodded, stroked her hand over his shoulder lightly, an unconscious effort to ease away some of the tension. Even if she already knew there wasn't likely anything that could do that right now. "She'll take care of him," Kara replied quietly and without any doubt that Blink would do exactly that. And she'd do it in that same gentle, efficient, no nonsense way that she had that seemed to come completely naturally. For Calvin, oblivion was probably the best thing for now. Sometimes it was the only thing that could help at all. “How is she?” Forge asked then, not at all unexpectedly but any smile left there on her face dimmed and was replaced by lingering concern, though not as much as there had been. Forge's other hand moved to her shoulder and those searching, intelligent eyes seemed to almost look through her own. “And how are you?” Some semblance of a smile found it's way back to her face, then. It was a little wry, but still there. "Jean...was touch and go for a little while," the purple skinned woman settled on as maybe the best way to describe that. "We had an unexpected adventure, all inside her head." Not exactly what any of them had expected to be doing, but in the end they'd seemed to make some progress toward what the other woman needed. "And I think I've developed a fondness for hats," she added, expression moving a little closer to a real smile, even if it might be a little tattered at the edges. "We left her with her husband. She'll never be the person she was before this again," though that probably went without saying, "but I think she'll be able to start sorting it out, now, with some time." With some support, too, but Kara still wasn't sure how much of that would come from Scott Summers. No quick thing, though, regardless. It couldn't be, but she felt like something had been accomplished toward whatever mending could be done. That was all anyone had a right to expect, after something like this. Something that changed lives and people so quickly and completely and irrevocably. "I'm better," Kara added, sliding her other hand to his back. "Tired, but I think we all are." Weary, at least. Body and soul. A day like this, that's what it did. "The headache's nearly completely gone. I'll be fine." Compared to the ones who had by far the worst of this, she had absolutely nothing to complain about and as far as physically, she'd been through worse. Fingertips stroking lightly along his back, it was her turn, now, to search his eyes. Ask her own question about more personal and just as important concerns. "And you?" she asked softly. His closest friend had been emotionally destroyed. It wasn't an easy thing to see or to deal with and just as draining as anything physical. Maybe more so, because it came with a feeling of helplessness when all you could do was be there. Watch it happen and hope that you could somehow help them pick up the pieces. |
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| Forge | May 26 2014, 07:09 PM Post #6 |
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Anointed Prophet of the Atheists
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How was Rankin? Not an easy question, though the answer, at least, was not altogether complex. As might be expected. To this woman, Forge suspected, those few words would be enough sketch out a good understanding of the essentials of the matter. As far as concrete details that could be rendered accurately in words, though? Passed out, beneath more rye than it probably paid to think about, and with Clarice sitting with him. For now, the Cheyenne man suspected, it was as close to optimal as the reality of the situation could permit. There was no solution here that could be generated in a flash of insight. Certainly no quick one, Kara Kilgrave seemed to understand that without question, or a need for more words than he would have been able to give her, had she asked for them. Instead, she met his eyes, nodded quietly, while her fingers moved over his shoulder in a gentle motion that did more good at easing the tension in his hand than all his own efforts to loosen his muscles. “She’ll take care of him,” was all she said, and it was enough, with what he’d seen for himself of Clarice Ferguson thus far, to ease away whatever might have been left of that worry about having left his friend, even while sleeping. Had it been only a few days earlier the big Fucker had been joking about pink as a substitute for red? No question of that, now, but the teleporter and cell leader - Kara’s friend - had a quality about her, gentle but practical that spoke its own truth to the purple-skinned woman’s words. As for the other who’d taken this blow today though, the woman who somehow couldn’t be thought of as anything but a redhead, however green her hair might have looked these last days, the same question needed to be asked. If for no other reason than that Rankin would want to know whenever he woke again, and needed to not feel the need to go looking for himself, but even Forge could not but feel the need for her sake too. Whatever his opinion might have been of whatever incarnation of Jean Grey it was that he’d first known, there was no question of feeling anything but sympathy for the woman who’d been on that bed today, as broken and adrift as she’d so obviously been. How was Jean Grey, or Jean Summers - though as he moved his other hand to Kara’s shoulder, searching the fine dark eyes for what they might tell him, Forge couldn’t help but add another one to follow that quickly. How was she? A smile, even if it was a wry, pale version of what he already knew her face to be capable of, met him, speaking of an answer that perhaps couldn’t be quite as bad as one might have feared. “Jean…was touch and go for a little while," the purple skinned woman settled on, clearly condensing together the essentials from a more complex tale than she cared for speaking to. ”We had an unexpected adventure, all inside her head.” Inside her head? Forge’s eyebrows lifted, not without a certain degree of concern. A telepath’s head, especially one as powerful as Jean Grey, or as damaged as she’d appeared, seemed no place to enter lightly, or unexpectedly. That Kara had not only survived, but weathered it without any major harm, was clear enough from the fact of her presence, but no less of a relief for being a logical corollary of that fact. “And I think I've developed a fondness for hats," she added before the inventor had had time to formulate a response, whether query or statement of that relief, and that curious addition had either of those possibilities evaporating from Forge’s mind entirely, leaving him able to manage little in return but a further lift of his eyebrows. A fondness for hats. Somehow, in whatever he might have been imagining of the consequences of an adventure in the mind of a broken, desolated telepath, that had failed to figure at all as a possibility. Nor had the smile that came with it, but that was welcome for the extra note of genuine, if less than perfect calm that it carried. “We left her with her husband. She'll never be the person she was before this again,” she went on, and that might be even more true, given what they’d said about what she’d acquired in that last fight, than it even was of Rankin, "but I think she'll be able to start sorting it out, now, with some time.” Forge nodded, dropping his hand from Kara’s shoulder to her back to provide a little more of whatever support he could offer. “We’ll hope for it,” he told her. For the woman herself, and for Calvin, who needed to not have the irrevocable loss of another Jean Grey on his conscience and in his memory. Then, and only then, did the remarkable woman in his arms go on to answer his other question. “I’m better," [she] added, sliding her other hand to his back. "Tired, but I think we all are.” No doubt of that, and Forge nodded slightly again, and lifted one of his own hands to her cheek, brushing back a dark lock of hair that had strayed across her temple. ”The headache's nearly completely gone. I'll be fine.” It was the sort of thing too many people said simply as a means of establishing themselves in the role of some sort of martyr. The sort of thing he himself might have said to turn aside inquiry, or to hold onto a badge of pain for his own purposes. But when he met her eyes, Forge could see nothing but a general air of straightforward truth from Kara Kilgrave. Not as well as she might be, or he might wish for her, but with a clear-eyed assessment of herself, and what she might need. She wanted neither nurse nor congratulations on her stoicism. “Good,” Forge said then, with simple feeling. He wanted, very much, for this woman to be fine, but perhaps that would go without saying any more directly than that. “And you?" she asked softly, making it Forge’s turn to turn his mouth into a semblance of a smile. She’d given him honesty in her answer, and she deserved no less than that in return, so that was what he gave her. “A little worn at the edges of the soul.” Watching that, watching another friend - as close a friend as he’d ever had - struggle to try to bear the unbearable, grappling himself with how or whether there was any real way to help him do that was certainly within the bounds of what could be borne, but it, too, took its toll. “But as that simply makes it yet another day to join that category, I’ll avoid refining too much upon it,” Forge added matter-of-factly. Too many days, both in the Camp and in the few that had followed it had happened to not have become, if not resigned, at least accustomed to managing that state, and what came with it. Though now, tonight, the inventor, the Maker, found the moment, and the feelings, eased in some subtle but tangible way now that he came to be back in this room, with this woman. “It’s better for seeing you,” he finished honestly. |
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| Purple Girl | May 27 2014, 11:10 PM Post #7 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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How was Jean Grey? The answer wasn't clear cut, or easily given. The best that Kara could manage was to say that it had been touch and go for a while. More so than she wanted to strictly dwell on just now, when it was all still too fresh, that unexpected down the rabbit hole and into someone else's head. Into a psychic landscape as broken and scattered and skewed, as fragmented and confused as the woman it belonged to. Or women, perhaps, but they were both the same women in more ways than they weren't, Purple Girl suspected. The concern on the face of the man in front of her - this remarkable, amazing, not-easily-known man - was clear and not surprising. Neither was the lift of his brow over dark brown eyes as the purple skinned woman relayed her possible new-found fondness for hats. And, after that bit of probably unexpected trivia, that they'd left her with her new husband to mourn the loss of who she'd been and put the pieces together of who she was going to be. Or Kara hoped that had been the case. In time, she thought it would be but there would be a lot of sorting to be done before that. His hand moved from her shoulder to her back, settling there in a way that was maybe more comforting than something that simple had any right to be, but was all the same. Kara let herself lean toward him a little more, welcoming that comfort. “We’ll hope for it,” he told her and that's all they really could do. Hope for her, and for her husband, and for Calvin Rankin, too, who was almost as inextricably bound into this now, too. He had enough guilt and loss without having to bear even more. Compared to all that, her own minor aches and pains and fatigue seemed minor. Next to nothing, but she answered that question, too. She was better. Tired, as they were all tired, but her headache was only a fading ghost of what it had been. All in all, she was fine. Would be fine. “Good,” Forge said then as he met her eyes with tired ones of his own that showed the strain of the last hours around the edges. One simple word, but nothing simple in the feeling she knew was behind it. In her own that matched them. Made her feel the need to turn that question back to him, receiving the bare bones of a smile in answer. “A little worn at the edges of the soul.” Said with the air of someone accustomed to that feeling and she gave a short nod. Too many of them were, weren't they? Hadn't had any choice but to be. “But as that simply makes it yet another day to join that category, I’ll avoid refining too much upon it,” Forge added matter-of-factly, with an air, again, of someone with a collection of days sorted into that category already. Even outside the Camp, it didn't seem there'd been much in the way of respite or rest. Having to tell Scott Lang about his daughter. The attack in Florida. Now this, and Kara's arm slid around him farther, bringing herself in closer. Maybe she couldn't lift the weights from his shoulders, but she could at least understand that they were there. “It’s better for seeing you,” he finished honestly and the corners of her mouth lifted a little along with the hand at his shoulder, fingers brushing at his temple, lightly along his hairline. "And for seeing you, too," she answered as frankly. It eased something inside. Something that had still been knotted a little too tightly but lessened when he walked through the door. "Come here," Kara added quietly, hand moving to the back of his neck and settling herself against him, arm tightening again for a moment. Tonight, they wouldn't have much more than that and, under the circumstances, she couldn't have begrudged it even if she'd wanted to. Nothing to begrudge, though, as far as she was concerned. But a few moments to just be here, just be, that she'd take and be thankful for it. |
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| Forge | May 30 2014, 09:18 PM Post #8 |
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Anointed Prophet of the Atheists
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He was tired. Worn. Frayed, or perhaps bruised at the edges. However one chose to describe it - and Forge chose to do it as sparingly as possible - Kara seemed to understand, as he’d felt sure that she would. A brief nod, a look in those remarkable eyes that held understanding, without intruding. For that he was glad, as he seemed to be glad about so many things about this woman already in the short space of time they had known each other. For this feeling was not one that Forge desired, or chose to dwell upon. The wearing at the soul had long since become a way to mark the ordinary passage of a day, rather than any distinguishing badge. In the Camp, it had been habit. Yesterday, with Scott Lang, it had nearly been too much. Tonight, though? Tonight, it seemed, despite once more being found in the position of bearing witness and presence to a friend who had lost a daughter in the cruellest possible way, like there was already a way forward, a path through which it could be born. Because of her. Kara. The arresting, but still curiously unassuming presence that seemed to characterize her, and the way she’d pulled yet closer since he’d spoken, offering that presence, and the indefinable calm that it brought with it. That feeling? It was better, for seeing her. He could tell her that, for it was the truth, and because it eased that sense even further to have put it into words. Her hand lifted, and so did the corners of her mouth, tilting upward into the kind of smile that would have looked out of place in this moment on any other face, but seemed to speak to some deeper source of comfort on hers. Fingers at his temple, brushing stray strands of black speckled with gray back from where they’d escaped the thong he’d found to tie his hair back. “And for seeing you, too," she answered as frankly. Forge nodded silently, allowing his thumb to draw down her back, then trail lightly back upward. Reassuring itself of her presence, the reality of her, while his eyes drank in hers to do the same. “Come here," [she] added quietly, and pulled herself against him, head tucked beneath his where it was all a matter of natural ease to lower his chin slightly to rest against her hair, tightening his arms in silent response to the brief pulse of strength in hers. She’d come to him. Allowed herself to admit, without even being pushed to the limit of what she could endure, that there was comfort she could take from him. Not a goddess, and not a queen, but a woman, and a strong one at that, to whom he had a place beyond a convenient but less than ideal tool that could be made to suit for the present. Though when it came to it, had he ever been that honest with Ororo? Had he ever allowed himself to put words, or even expression, to the burdens he’d carried with him, even then? No, there had been fault on both sides then, and in the end, it was hard to imagine that even correcting those mistakes would have made any real difference. For now though, Forge did the only thing he really wanted to do, which was to put all thoughts, except those of Kara Kilgrave, aside entirely for the space of whatever time he could spare on this night. And after another moment holding her close, he pressed his lips softly against the part in her hair, then eased back until he could see her fine eyes once more. “I have a little time yet where I can afford not to be elsewhere,” he told her, in sober tones that fell away themselves to be replaced by the suggestion of a smile as he continued. “And I have to admit, I’m a little curious about this book that you seem to have buried under my pillow.” Quite a telling location to have placed it, one had to think, especially given the empty nightstand that had been right at hand beside the bed. Telling of what, Forge wasn’t yet sure, but for now, and in the state they were both in tonight, it seemed as good a place to begin knowing Kara Kilgrave a little better than he did as any other. |
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| Purple Girl | May 31 2014, 04:06 PM Post #9 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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It was just the same for her. Better for seeing him, for having him standing there, a few inches away. For hearing his voice, being able to look in his eyes. Feel the light stroke of his hand along her back. All of that, easing a little of the heaviness in her chest, the weight that the day had settled into her muscle and bones. Weariness of the spirit that needed more than aspirin or rest. In just a few days, he'd become that more. Slid almost seamlessly into her life as if there'd always been a place there for him, just waiting. Maybe there had. Or maybe she'd made that place, that space for a remarkable, intriguing man who'd caught her attention and held it. Maybe it didn't matter. What was, was. What was there, was there. It didn't need questioning or analyzing and Kara didn't feel any need to try to do either. What she did feel the need for, she did, stepping in closer and tightening her arm around him. Found that natural fit that didn't need any thought as Forge's chin came to rest against the top of her head, arms tightening around her in turn. Like a moment of peace in the eye of a hurricane. That calm that you knew wouldn't last, because the storm was still out there, whirling around you. They'd weathered enough of those in Florida over the years to know how it worked. But she'd take this peace and this calm for as long as it could last. They both would. The press of his lips against her hair after a long moment and then he pulled back a little. Enough that she could look back up to his face with a feeling of being able to breathe a little easier than a few seconds before. A long, long time since anyone had made her feel that way. Since she'd even wanted them to. “I have a little time yet where I can afford not to be elsewhere,” he told her, in sober tones that fell away themselves to be replaced by the suggestion of a smile as he continued. “And I have to admit, I’m a little curious about this book that you seem to have buried under my pillow.” One eyebrow lifted a little, even if she wasn't really all that surprised he'd noticed that, no matter how casual she'd been about it. Very little, Kara suspected, got past his notice. Actually, she more than suspected it and she had by the time she'd known him half a day. "I'm not sure 'buried' was the word I'd use," she hedged a little, one corner of her mouth twitching upward. He was as bad as Clarice. Probably a good thing she'd never been one for much in the way of secrets. "I think I prefer 'stashed'." That at least made it sound a little less like she'd been trying to hide it. Which she hadn't been, really. She'd just happened to...put it somewhere out of sight. "It's not mine," Kara added, maybe as a preemptive alibi, with a glance toward the stashing place in question before looking back to Forge with a generally innocuous expression. For all the good that would do her, the purple skinned woman imagined. "I borrowed it from one of Angie's boxes. To pass the time." And if she'd happened to have read a few others by that particular author, well, that was really just a coincidence. Of course it was. |
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| Forge | Jun 2 2014, 07:18 PM Post #10 |
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Anointed Prophet of the Atheists
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There was a singular pleasure that could be found in just the slightest of arches in a purple-tinted eyebrow. Forge had discovered it for himself only two days before, but it struck him again as he looked down at Kara, not quite giving full rein to the smile that had started to insist on playing about his lips. Because there was also a singular amusement this time, and that came from the look she was trying to give him. If she were trying to defuse his curiosity about that book she’d buried under his pillow when she’d noticed him come in, she was certainly making a less than successful job of it. “I’m not sure 'buried' was the word I'd use," she hedged a little, one corner of her mouth twitching upward. "I think I prefer ‘stashed’.” He would not smile outright. He would not. Though even for Forge, it was a close run thing when faced with that hint of smile that was creeping over her lips as she made her attempt - and a rather obvious one at that - at stalling. “Ah of course,” he agreed genially, permitting himself only the smallest increase in smile to invade the serious air he was cultivating. Stashed, not buried, then, if that was the way she wished to play it, he could follow the idea out to a logical end point. “For safest keeping. You mean to retrieve it at the first suitable moment,” he suggested. “It’s not mine," Kara added, looking as innocent as only a person who thought they had something worth hiding could look. Forge allowed himself to loosen another notch on the winch of smile, and lifted his own eyebrow a trifle once again. In his experience, leading with disavowal of ownership even before the identity of the thing itself was uncovered could be quite, quite telling. “I borrowed it from one of Angie's boxes. To pass the time.” So… they had item, a book. A book that Kara preferred to set aside well out of sight, for which she was quick to disavow ownership, and apparently felt the need to justify reading. “The plot thickens,” Forge commented, abandoning his attempts to curb his own instincts, and smiling outright. “Or at least my curiosity does.” And with that, letting her out of his arms and catching up one slender purple hand in his own, Forge headed toward the bed, having waited only long enough to satisfy himself that the fine-eyed woman wouldn’t be perturbed beyond the bounds of mild amusement if he insisted on following up on this further. Not today, it seemed - and indeed, he’d have owned himself surprised indeed had the potential for whatever mild embarrassment she’d been no more than half-heartedly trying to avoid seriously discomposed Kara Kilgrave - for she’d made no concerted effort to stop him by the time Forge had managed to fish the slim paperback out from its place of safe-keeping beneath the pillow one-handed. Stroking his other thumb over the line of hers, he lifted the book into easy view, casting an appraising gaze over the cover, which came complete with a rendition of a couple in period dress, struggling in some sort of outdoor scene. “Venetia,” Forge read aloud, deciding that this must be both the title and the name of the woman in the picture. Who was blonde, and wearing a rather arrestingly blue and purple high-fronted sunbonnet that had him looking back across to Kara, smiling again and nodding toward that particular feature. “I have to admit, I do hope this wasn’t the origin of the new fondness for hats.” In that particular piece of the lost art of millinery, he could only imagine that this remarkable, beautiful woman would come out looking rather like an unripe blueberry, still shedding its petals. But pressing onward, Forge turned over the book, perusing the short blurb that had been written to entice the reader (the Angelicas of this world, of course) into discovering the rest of the contents with still gently increasing amusement. “Lord Damerel found Venetia to be the most truly engaging and wittily perverse female he had encountered in all his thirty-eight years…” he read, before turning back to Kara with a smile that might well have held something beyond just amusement. “Well, she certainly sounds like someone worth passing some time with.” Engaging and perverse? He thought, perhaps, he might know of someone who could do justice to that particular choice of description. “Venetia knew her neighbor-“ the inventor continued all the same, before pausing with a tilt of his head to give the words some not-entirely serious consideration. “Whom I think must be some significant degree older than her, no? Given the context and what I’m guessing is the period, more than decade, I should think…” he added as another amused aside, before returning to the actual words on the back of the book, “-for a gamester, a shocking rake, and a man of sadly unsteady character.” There was another sentence or two there, but for now, Forge left it unread, in favor of looking once more to the young woman whose hand he was not proposing to relinquish his claim to just now. “Well, well,” he declared. Of course, it wasn’t her book. |
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| Purple Girl | Jun 3 2014, 04:33 PM Post #11 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Buried? No, she hadn't been trying to bury it. Put it out of sight, maybe. All right, definitely. Kara, however, preferred to think she'd just stashed it there. For safekeeping. As you did with books you were reading that you might or might not want to advertise you were reading. Even she couldn't manage that with a completely straight face and she didn't think Forge was doing much better. It was obvious all she'd managed to do was make him even more curious about that book. That silly fluff of a book. She'd blame the whole thing completely on Angie, but she felt a little bad about that. “Ah of course,” he agreed genially, too genially for any hope he'd move onto something else and with more of that smile that Kara knew stalling would only encourage. “For safest keeping. You mean to retrieve it at the first suitable moment,” he suggested, trying to work her toward that corner of admission she had every idea he was angling for. "Maybe not the very first one," she countered, just as guilelessly as she managed to deny ownership of the thing. And blame it on Angie after all, since she didn't feel all that bad about it. Not that she thought for a second that would do anything at all but encourage him. Maybe she was hoping that book would manage to make itself vanish, though, if she kept him from seeing about it long enough. It was just something she'd picked up to pass the time after all. Really. Those keen, dark eyes and the even keener mind behind them weren't missing anything at all, though. Not that Kara had really expected them to, but the attempt still had to be made. Perhaps as a matter of pride, since she didn't think she'd have very much of that left once he actually saw it for himself. “The plot thickens,” Forge commented, abandoning his attempts to curb his own instincts, and smiling outright which didn't do anything at all to help her keep her own in check. “Or at least my curiosity does.” Then he had her by the hand, heading for the bed when she didn't fling herself in front of him as a human obstacle to stop him. With a soft laugh - something she hadn't thought she'd be doing much off for a while only an hour or so ago - Kara gave her head a bemused shake and followed along where she was pulled. "Don't say I didn't warn you," the purple-skinned woman pointed out, but still didn't bother doing much to keep him from finding that paperback and pulling it out to have a good look. Maybe she could blame it on Heather Hudson, for corrupting her in her youth. She'd always liked those kinds of books, too. And there was the cover, in all it's historically romantic, completely silly glory and Kara sighed in resignation but no real bother. So her secret was out, but she tightened her fingers on his briefly as the pad of his thumb brushed over her skin and he took a good, long look at her personal guilty pleasure. Or one of them. The man whose hand she was holding was turning out to be another, though without any actual guilt at all. “Venetia,” Forge read aloud before smiling her way again and nodding to the cover, “I have to admit, I do hope this wasn’t the origin of the new fondness for hats.” Oh gods. "I always did want to look like a rhubarb with an iris growing on its head," Kara returned dryly, but with no little amusement flickering in dark purple eyes, "I think I should stick with bowler hats, not bonnets." If that changed, she really did hope Clarice or somebody would have her looked at. That wasn't enough, though, of course, so the book had to be turned around and the back read. Aloud, of course, to make things complete. Maybe she should've thrown it under the bed, instead. “Lord Damerel found Venetia to be the most truly engaging and wittily perverse female he had encountered in all his thirty-eight years…” he read, before turning back to Kara with a smile that might well have held something beyond just amusement. “Well, she certainly sounds like someone worth passing some time with.” Smile softening, Purple Girl tilted her head up again, away from the book cover and up to him. "I can only think she'd hope so." Though Venetia didn't seem all that complicated and Kara couldn't imagine that she was herself. What she knew of this man next to her so far more than suited her. “Venetia knew her neighbor-“ the inventor continued all the same, before pausing with a tilt of his head to give the words some not-entirely serious consideration. “Whom I think must be some significant degree older than her, no? Given the context and what I’m guessing is the period, more than decade, I should think…” he added as another amused aside, before returning to the actual words on the back of the book, “-for a gamester, a shocking rake, and a man of sadly unsteady character.” With effort, she managed to hold her smile in check at least a little, lifting a brow in consideration instead. Actually, next time, she'd just set the book on fire. Explaining that would be easier than this, even if she was more amused than self-conscious or embarrassed. She had to wonder what on earth he'd have come up with if she'd been reading Lord of the Rings instead as he turned to her with a declaration of, “Well, well.” "They're the best kind of men to know," she insisted with an entirely amused look and, after a moment, another shake of her head, "Too much steady character, and all they'd end up doing is sitting around and reading sonnets. Poor Venetia would be bored to death." Age differences, those were just numbers, at least as far as she was concerned. She'd been fourteen or fifteen to Whitt's twenty six and hadn't thought anything of it. One more time, Kara looked over at the book, then back to Forge again. "It's an interesting coincidence, isn't it?" she commented mildly, "That I'd pick that exact one out of the whole box of books." Not that she'd read the backs of any of them before she'd picked it out. At least not that she was going to admit right now. |
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| Forge | Jun 9 2014, 10:49 PM Post #12 |
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Anointed Prophet of the Atheists
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Very well, she’d warned him. In spite of that though, or perhaps because of it, Forge hesitated not at all as he retrieved this book from its ‘stashing’ place beneath the pillow, reading the title aloud and surveying the cover with the beginnings of a smile. He did have to profess the hope that that blue and fuchsia bonnet wasn’t the source of this new stated fondness for hats. “I always did want to look like a rhubarb with an iris growing on its head," Kara returned dryly, but with no little amusement flickering in dark purple eyes, "I think I should stick with bowler hats, not bonnets.” Bowler hats? Noting this with a smile that he couldn’t help but think would have been impossible with almost anyone else in the midst of this night, Forge turned to regard the purple woman with some slight consideration, before nodding. “I think so too. You should have seen some of the thing my ancestors did to women wearing bonnets,” he told her, then paused to reflect and renege on that. “Or possibly shouldn’t have, truth be untold.” The Cheyenne might never have managed to equal the Comanche, but certainly they had done their part to render the term ‘noble savage’ particularly ironic. Some passages of history might well be better staying buried. For now, Forge was happy to let that drop, and instead busy himself in reading the blurb handily provided at the back of the book. World-weary lords meeting perversely witty and engaging ‘females’, it promised, and with that description in hand, he certainly felt the need to turn his gaze back to the most definitely engaging female who still had possession of his hand. She certainly sounded like someone worth passing some time with. This Venetia, of course, that was to whom he’d been referring, though the smile that was being turned up to him right at this moment was very close to enough to remove any other thoughts of books or other women, even imaginary ones, from Forge’s mind. “I can only think she'd hope so,” said Kara Kilgrave as she met his eyes with the singularly remarkable pair she had in her possession. Still, there was more of the back cover to be read, and Forge was not so far lost to the service of teasing amusement that he could let that opportunity go. He turned back to the book, reading aloud on the subject of what this ‘Venetia’ knew of her neighbor, then taking the opportunity to add in an observation or two about certain suppositions that seemed likely to be true about this particular pair of romantic leads, before finishing this part of the description. A gamester, a rake, and a sadly unsteady character. Well well. A solemn look, completed by the shade of a rising brow met his gaze, while the suggestion of a smile hovered on purple lips. Charming, not least for the fact that in all of that, there was no sense that this was a woman who was indignant or embarrassed. Amused, for sure, but that merely lent an extra light to her eyes - one that seemed, at least for the moment, to have eased a part of the shadows that had been lingering there when he’d found her in this room. Temporary, very likely, but Forge could feel much the same gentle lessening of weight in himself, and it for now, it was certainly welcome. “They’re the best kind of men to know," she insisted with an entirely amused look and, after a moment, another shake of her head, "Too much steady character, and all they'd end up doing is sitting around and reading sonnets. Poor Venetia would be bored to death.” Was that so? Matching her amused look with one of his own, Forge lifted his eyebrows once again. “I can be sure to pass that opinion on to Gambit, if you like,” he suggested, seizing on the man of their acquaintance who seemed most likely to strive to meet all the components of that particular definition. “I imagine he’d be rather pleased to hear it.” Curious, that Ororo’s old friend had somehow placed himself in the position he seemed to have attained amongst the self-titled Resistance, but presumably there was more to him than the front he seemed to still be so dedicated to preserving. There would almost have to be. Kara though, was looking back at the book, and then up to him once more, and while that was happening, there was no thought of considering the odd-eyed Cajun. ”It’s an interesting coincidence, isn't it?" she commented mildly, "That I'd pick that exact one out of the whole box of books.” Forge tilted his head to one side, surveying the book once more. “I’d have to see more of the original distribution to agree to that,” he pointed out. “For all I know, you sought it out. Or the entire box is of a piece…” Tales of older, rakish men, setting aside histories of casual conquests for just the right ingenue. For Firestar’s sake - presuming that her mind could heal enough to make such matters relevant again - one did have to hope there was something more varied than that within the reading material she’d gathered about her. But that was a thought for another day, and here and now, there was only one young woman Forge proposed to occupy his thoughts with. The woman whose waist he slipped his arm around, tugging in gentle suggestion to bid her to join him as he dropped onto the bed, sitting up with his back to the headboard, leaving enough space for her to slip in beside him. Thus arranged, he turned back to the book he’d kept in hand, letting the words flicker beneath his hand as he thumbed idly through the pages. Catching sentences here and there, till one particular phrase leapt out of a page and stopped his hand. “I thought you said they weren’t sitting around and reading sonnets,” Forge remarked, glancing back toward Kara, before reading from the page. “Since there’s no help, come - let us kiss, and part.” Drayton. If not the last thing he’d expected to spot in the pages of an idle romance novel, the old sonnet he knew by heart was close to it. But Forge continued to recite aloud, ignoring whatever context the chapter might have given as he frowned, voicing the second line. “Nay, I have done. You’lll get no more of me.” It seemed an age, since he’d last thought of those lines. That day in the Camp’s interrogation room, that must have been the last, though it had been in those months after the Goddess had made her choice plain that he’d found those lines and burned them to his memory. “And I am glad,” Forge resumed, setting the book down on his thigh. The rest of the stanza had not been on its pages, but he knew it still. “-yea, glad, with all my heart, that thus so cleanly I myself can free.” No, not what he’d expected from the pages of a romance novel at all. |
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| Purple Girl | Jun 11 2014, 10:36 AM Post #13 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Bonnets. Bonnets that would make her look like a rhubarb with a frilly perennial growing out of its head. Kara was going with no on that and sticking to bowler hats if she had any kind of choice. Admitting that, or maybe hoping for it, under the circumstances, drew a smile from the Cheyenne man in front of her. For that, it might even be worth looking a little like a mutant rhubarb. Even if the next moment he seemed to be taking something of her measure before nodding at whatever conclusion he'd come to. “I think so too. You should have seen some of the thing my ancestors did to women wearing bonnets,” he told her as her brows sailed upward with some speed, helped long by undeniable amusement, especially when he seemed to reconsider. “Or possibly shouldn’t have, truth be untold.” From history classes in high school and a score of old westerns, she could at least make a vague guess, Kara was sure. "Well, then, that settles it. The bonnets are definitely out," she replied decidedly before giving in to the fate she'd known she was destined for as soon as she knew he'd spotted the book she'd stashed under his pillow. Following (or technically possibly being pulled, though she wasn't putting up any resistance at all) over to the bed, the purple skinned woman listened with general equanimity as he insisted on reading, and commenting, on the blurb on the back of the book. A tale of a rakish Lord and an unconventional girl who tended to say what she thought and go about things her own way. Someone worth knowing? What she'd read about Venetia so far seemed to point that way. She couldn't help thinking the heroine would hope she was. Just the same as Kara hoped she was herself, at least where certain people were concerned. That number had swiftly come to include the intriguing man watching her right now. What she saw in those dark eyes told her she just might be and did more to dispel some of the fatigue of the day than any aspirin or historical romance ever could. As for the rakish Lord who was, by all accounts so far, much more beneath the surface than his reputation and some of his actions would give most people to believe, well, all she could say for that was that those were generally the best kind of men to know. Too much steady character and it would probably bore poor Venetia silly. If she was going to go for that sort of thing, she'd have already run off with Oswald and they could sit around reading sonnets all day, boring themselves to death. That earned her a little more amusement, along with a raised eyebrow, and Kara knew she'd just walked right into something before he told her exactly what it was. “I can be sure to pass that opinion on to Gambit, if you like,” he suggested, and she couldn't even manage a decent protest, though a brief, soft laugh managed to escape. Gambit. Of course. “I imagine he’d be rather pleased to hear it.” Of course he would. A little too pleased, probably "And that's more than enough reason not to ever mention it at all," she countered, though not very seriously at all, "He already seems to find more than enough to be pleased with himself about." Likable enough in general, but already full enough of himself from all that she'd ever seen of him. Amusement had replaced some of the lines of worry on Forge's face, though. Lifted a few of the shadows out of his eyes. Not permanently, there was still too much left to deal with, but even for now it was good to see. Touched something in herself that lightened a little in response. Even if she still thought she should've probably found a better stashing place for that book. Interesting coincidence that she'd picked that one out of the whole lot. Without reading any of the back covers. At least that she'd admit to at all. He looked back at the book again consideringly, head tilting to one side as she watched him. More interested in that than the book itself. “I’d have to see more of the original distribution to agree to that,” he pointed out. “For all I know, you sought it out. Or the entire box is of a piece…” "They were all Angie's, though they all weren't exactly like that one." They were all pretty much alike. At least that they were all romance type paperbacks. Firestar hadn't been much of a fan of that particular author, though. She'd rather read Harlequin or Silhouette. Gods, she hoped the other girl would be back in some kind of shape to read them again soon. Tomorrow, she'd go up to see her. See if there was any change, Kara decided, as Forge's arm slipped around her, pulling her back to the here and now. There wasn't any need for urging as she settled herself back onto the bed, next to him, using the headboard as a backrest. Watching him as he flipped through that spur of the moment reading choice and feeling more at ease than she'd imagined could be possible when she'd made her way to this room. “I thought you said they weren’t sitting around and reading sonnets,” Forge remarked, glancing back toward Kara, before reading from the page. “Since there’s no help, come - let us kiss, and part.” Curious crease forming between her brows, she leaned over enough to skim the page. Sure enough, there was one. Or part of it. "I hadn't gotten that far," Kara told him, shaking her head with the hint of a wry smile. "Venetia just had to go and prove me wrong, didn't she? I'm not sure I know what to think of her now." It wasn't a passage she recognized, but Forge seemed to, as he proved a second later. “Nay, I have done. You’ll get no more of me.” What thoughts or memories, she couldn't help but wonder, had his expression moving back to a frown? “And I am glad,” Forge resumed, reciting it from memory, since he'd set the book on his leg. “-yea, glad, with all my heart, that thus so cleanly I myself can free.” Turning toward him a little more, Kara curled her legs around slightly, regarding him for a few moments. Feeling there, behind those words. He might not make them obvious, but they were there. Enough that he'd memorized them. Or maybe the poem had come first, and then the memories had matched themselves to them. "I don't know that one," Kara told him after a moment, still watching his face, "Who is it? It reminds me of another one, though," she added, giving her head a light, bemused shake, "but if that one turns up in there, I'll be even more surprised than I am already." Not the sort of sonnet you usually came across in an historical romance, she mused, reaching over for his free hand and slipping her own into it. Shakespeare seemed more the norm for that sort of thing, even for Austen. Heyer seemed to have a little different thoughts on how these things should go,apparently. |
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| Forge | Jun 17 2014, 09:12 PM Post #14 |
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Anointed Prophet of the Atheists
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Yes, Forge thought on the whole there was no reason not to agree with Kara’s contention about Gambit. Plenty of reasons not to mention the matter of her opinion about rakish gamesters to the Cajun, and indeed, plenty of reasons not to mention him at all either. Ororo’s old friend interested him far less than the woman whose hand clasped his, and who was engaging in another round of inspecting the somewhat battered paperback, before looking back up at him and claiming coincidence for its presence out of a whole box of the things. Whether one believed that, of course, as Forge didn’t bother keeping to himself, rather depended on whether you believed that the lottery hadn’t been rigged, either by her own bias in choice, or some underlying bias in the distribution on offer. They might, of course, have all been in a similar vein for all he knew. “They were all Angie’s,” she answered, which Forge chose to interpret as meaning that they would all be found to be romances, at least, “though they all weren't exactly like that one.” There was a renewed tension in her expression though for a moment, slight but noticeable. and not, Forge thought, due to any particular worry or care about the contents of those other books. Firestar herself, perhaps, or some memory intruding back into this moment from their world. Exactly what didn’t matter, as he shifted an arm, and drew her down beside him as he took to the bed, smiling softly with the look it seemed she only needed to be near to put onto his face. “Do you mean that the protagonists appeared to be less worth knowing, or just that there were less bonnets, more sonnets, and more bosoms?” Though that question quickly gave way, as he took the book in hand and began leafing through the pages, skimming over words and conversations till one particular phrase jumped out to take his attention. Drayton? Here, in this rather tired-looking old paperback with the rather unfortunate art on its cover? Not to mention - though he did, all the same - that Kara had claimed an absence of sonnets for this pair. But that was Drayton, and he read aloud from the page the first line of one he knew well, glancing back at her. “I hadn't gotten that far," Kara told him, shaking her head with the hint of a wry smile. "Venetia just had to go and prove me wrong, didn't she? I'm not sure I know what to think of her now. It seemed from the page as though her unworthy lover had been the one to choose them, though Forge didn’t mention that. He’d begun the words, and they’d spent too long in his consciousness since he’d found them, almost six years ago not to go on from there, finishing the couplet and the next two lines to complete the opening quatrain without need to consult the book, which he set aside, facedown on his thigh. A shifting followed from Kara. A subtle one, noticed more by Forge’s body and his arms, which lifted to match it, accommodating the way she’d turned to him, than by his thoughts. They took longer to retreat from thoughts of the past, and by the time they had, he found that the remarkable purple-skinned woman was curled in toward him, inside the arc of his arm, and regarding him with carefully. “I don't know that one," Kara told him after a moment, still watching his face, "Who is it? It reminds me of another one, though," she added, giving her head a light, bemused shake, "but if that one turns up in there, I'll be even more surprised than I am already.”[/i] Forge smiled back at her - a quick motion, and one that was still somewhat stiff, though less so than he might have thought for a question about that particular poem, however carefully phrased. “Michael Drayton. A lesser contemporary of Shakespeare,” he told her, drily enough. “This was one of his better efforts, though it undercuts itself by the end.” From a forceful beginning, attesting to pride and independence, it foundered in caveats and contradictions, promising whatever the unnamed object might wish, should she only deign to grant the slightest of hopes. Forge shook his head, lifting one eyebrow in a somewhat satirical arch.“I suppose it’s to be expected of poets.” Or, perhaps, the people who read and remembered them, though that was easy enough to forget - or at least to set aside - here and now, and with Kara Kilgrave. “What was yours?” Forge asked her, losing his irony in favor of a far more genuine interest as he looked down to the pair of singularly fine eyes once more. |
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| Purple Girl | Jun 18 2014, 06:07 PM Post #15 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Once again, she felt - not compelled, exactly. That wasn't quite the word she was looking for, since she didn't feel she really needed to defend her book choices to Forge. Maybe him, least of all people, under that easy, teasing light she could catch a glimpse of behind dark eyes. He wasn't trying to hide it at all, but she felt inclined to oblige him by defending it all the same. Yes, inclined. She'd go with that one, since they were all Angie's books and they weren't all exactly like that one. It could've been a lot worse. She could've been caught up reading something called Savage Torment and gods knew what he'd have made out of that. “Do you mean that the protagonists appeared to be less worth knowing, or just that there were less bonnets, more sonnets, and more bosoms?” "Less bonnets, a lot more bosoms," she told him as she followed him to the bed, stretching out in the place he'd made for her next to him. "Heaving bosoms, I'm sure," Kara couldn't resist adding before Forge discovered that Venetia had managed to prove her wrong and work in a sonnet or two after all. Back near the end of the book, apparently, as Forge flipped through it. One that she didn't recognize but that he obviously did. One he seemed to know by heart and that also seemed to have real feelings, old emotions, behind it. It reminded her of another poem, though, as she shifted to turn toward him, his arm shifting comfortably around her and into a new position when she did. If he found that poem in the book, she'd be even more surprised than she was already. But surprise wasn't what she felt as she watched his face, as he turned to smile back at her. A brief, still not easy expression. If it was for the poem or the situation behind it, or the mess of the day they'd all had, or maybe all of it mixed together, she didn't know and didn't ask. As much as she wanted to know him better, know about his life and the things that had made him who he was, intuition - and those faint shadows still in his eyes - told her the particular bit that belonged to those words was land where she'd need to tread carefully. Even a clean break didn't always mend like new and sometimes left the ghost of a persistent ache. “Michael Drayton. A lesser contemporary of Shakespeare,” he told her, drily enough. “This was one of his better efforts, though it undercuts itself by the end.” He dismissed that fault, or maybe the poet himself, with a shake of his head, one brow lifting. “I suppose it’s to be expected of poets.” Yes, she'd like to hear the memories behind that some day. When he was ready, or at least willing, to tell her. Not to day, they had enough on their plates without pulling more up from the past. "And a lot of other people, too," she agreed easily enough and with a small smile. Gods knew, she'd done it to herself a time or two. Nearly everyone she knew had. "Drayton," Kara mused a second later, "I'll have to look him up." If for no other reason than to see the rest of that sonnet. “What was yours?” Forge asked her, watching her with those dark eyes that seemed to draw her in more and more every time she saw him. Her smile widened a touch, maybe a little wryly. "I guess it's only fair, isn't it," the purple skinned woman agreed, taking a second to get the words in order. It'd been a while since she even thought of it. "Take this kiss upon the brow," Kara began softly, crease forming between her brows as she pulled the poem from memory, "And, in parting from you now," they came back more easily than they probably had any right, she'd definitely had her periods of angst as a teen. "Thus much let me avow—" crease smoothing away, she looked up to meet his eyes again, continuing, "You are not wrong, who deem, that my days have been a dream." Yet if hope has flown away, in a night, or in a day. In a vision or in none, is it therefore the less gone? Days in the past, when those words had come back to her. When she'd wondered if hope really had flown away. Had been certain it was gone and how hadn't mattered so much as that it was. The day Whit walked away, went back to his medical internship and his perfectly normal life like he'd never left. Leaving her behind, the girl who'd thought she was more to him than just a passing diversion. Losing most of Alpha and Beta Flight and realizing that what was happening here was more than the temporary skirmish they'd half expected it to be. That this was life now, though it felt like some sort of waking dream she couldn't get out of. "Poe," Kara told him, in the off chance he didn't know, smile tipping a little to one side. "It's such a cliche' I should probably be embarrassed, but I was only about fourteen or fifteen. At least I've always thought it was one of his better ones," she added, not really embarrassed at all, whether she should be or not. It wasn't any worse than being caught hiding historical romances under someone's pillow. "Even if it goes a little downhill in the second half, too." And at least it wasn't The Raven or Annabelle Lee. |
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3:33 AM Jul 11