ArchivedLogs:Give and Take

Give and Take
Dramatis Personae Alice, Parley
In Absentia	2013-04-02 '
Location <NYC> Sweat - Greenwich Village
An apropos name; it is hard to escape the smell, when visiting this fitness club. Open twenty-four hours, this facility comes equipped with all the bells and whistles for those who want to train hard. All the standard gym equipment can be found and then some. In addition to private personal trainers, there are group classes in all sorts of things, from bicycling to crossfit to yoga to martial arts to more esoteric fare such as pole dancing and dodgeball. An olympic-sized pool makes this a popular draw, and the sauna rooms by each locker room are nice spots to unwind after a heavy workout. The story begins technically two days before, at a DMV on the other end of town. A phone bill, a bank account, paper envelopes under Parley’s name providing proof of residency, a form to sign, a snap of a camera (“-don’t smile-”) come together to form the state id Parley now carries. Working for a lawyer has its advantages when working out the appropriate stratagem to become a legitimate member of the work force. Beyond the window of a glass office, tucked behind the welcome desk at the gym’s entrance, he’s currently being handed back his id after a copy has been made. He hands back the form he’d been filling out in response, signed and dated at the end. He wears a turtleneck tanktop in dark gray, hiding the fur lining his nape, over which a light tan and black plaid flannel warms the last of the outside spring chill from his arms. He smiles - a wan, sincere shape - and shakes hands with the perky ponytailed blond that’s been happy to recruit him. Now... he’s loose on the property. In one hand, he carries a stack of information pamphlets about the location and brochures advertising some of its training programs - weight training, martial arts, endurance swimming notably. The other is swinging his flannel like a propeller to try and wind it around his wrist to turn it into a bundle. That he can then /cram/ under his armpit. His left shoulder bears the livid pink of a very new scar spearing past his outer bicep. With so much activity and smells and /mirrors/ on the wall and humming equipment, he has much to rove his gaze over. His progress into the depth of the facility is slow for it. Ahh, the ritual of gaining gym membership. Even Alice had to suffer it after taking up residence in the city--though admittedly, she probably had to jump through fewer hoops than Parley. Such are the perks of not falling afoul of evil corporations. Her entrance to the gym comes on the heels of Parley’s escape of the office. Lilac and black are her chosen workout colors, the three piece suit she wears Lycra rather than linen or silk, but just as smart as her typical businesswear. Yoga-style pants, zip-up windbreaker, stretchy tank top. Fashionable /and/ functional! A matching bag dangles from her shoulder, bumping against her hip as she strides through the lobby on a course to the changing rooms. But the sight of a familiar mussed head causes the woman to change course. Her outer mind is not unlike glass, cool and collected as always, but shades of surprise play over it. Surprise and bemusement to discover the young man here. Elfin eyes narrow with the warmth of her small, sudden smile. “Einen...ah, forgive me. Parley. You look a little lost, dear,” she says as she steps up behind him. Her gaze flirts over the visible scar before lifting again. Parley’s turtleneck is a thin breathing material that fits pragmatically for exercise; it makes the hard nuggets of his shoulder muscles visible when they constrict, pulling in a slight rush of air through his nose as though trying to /scent/ the woman behind him. Also visible is the arrested further motion - to run? to turn? to jump? - instead leaving his back facing her. “Ms. Lambton.” With eyes facing forward, wandering as though still admiring the premises, he exhales slightly shaky - it sounds almost like a savoring sigh, but adrenal, tighter, and while licking his lips, “I’ve never really been to an establishment like this. I would take a recommendation, if you have one, for a first time visitor.” Poor thing. Is he distressed? Alice’s hand lifts to lightly smooth over Parley’s shoulder, palm warm and firm and no doubt drinking in all of that delicious tension. A half-step closer brings the ever so faint scent of deodorant and perfume to his nose, a blend of chemicals, light florals and something beneath that that’s spicier. Cinnamon, maybe. She’s left to look over his shoulder, studying the fitness club as if she were actually interested in its contents rather than this visitor. “That would depend on your intentions, Parley. Myself, I prefer the swimming pool when I’m not here to fence. I was headed there now, actually. Care to join me?” Her head tilts just enough that her smile should be visible from the corner of his eye. There’s a challenge there of sorts, both in the expression worn by Alice and in the glassy swirl of emotion. There’s no recoil, no flinch - the tensile clench of his shoulder is overt, it exists so he just /lets/ it exist, flexing openly into her palm. The shared surface area makes his slow measurements of breathing an intimate experience between them. “Do you reserve the pool for privacy?” his voice is light, flippant, and it fits odd against the electric current swarming behind his dilated eyes when he swivels them to seek Alice’s. “It might look badly for you, otherwise.” His hand slips sideways across his chest and lays itself down /hard/ on top of Alice’s, trapping it for a moment to his shoulder, “I have not, after all, changed my spots.” “Silly boy.” Alice is unfashed by the trapping of her hand. She uses the additional leverage while tensing her arm to draw the young man closer, in fact. Hello, Parley. Would you like a half-hug? Oh but she’s enjoying this exchange. The question, in particular, sets off an array of sparkling amusement, like bubbles in a champagne glass. From a distance, they must look like old friends. Having drawn him closer, she also dips her head to murmur directly into his ear, a confidence shared between two chums. “Why would it look badly for me? I am but the messenger, Parley. The lubrication that keeps the wheels turning.” She pauses for a beat. “Would you /like/ for me to reserve the pool?” “Fraternizing with mutants has a way of drawing /grit/ into a smooth process. Distance,” which is the opposite of what Parley and Alice are sharing, as he’s pulled in with such precious little resistance that it’s a soft /sag/ into her, the cool purposeful allowance of it contrasted by his pulse rapidly fluttering in the sides of his neck, “would be by far safer.” He turns his head into her, a tense, creaking force in it that trails a light brush of eyelashes against Alice’s temple, “Are you offering, Ms. Lambton?” This comes with a queer, private smile that’s neither kind to himself nor the woman he aims it at. “And here I thought you had no taste for ‘safer’. Fraternizing as /you/ are.” Alice’s thumb brushes against Parley’s neck and then her hand withdraws. Her head remains bowed a moment longer, cheek curving with the depth of her own smile. “One of your many admirable qualities.” She slides back a step, hand going to the strap of her gym bag to adjust it against her shoulder. Her profile is presented when she turns her head to look off towards the changing rooms. Towards the hallway heavy with the scent of chlorine, masking the typical gym smell of sweat and damp clothing. “I offer nothing, Parley. I will, however, take everything. Your choice. You should make it before I go change,” Alice tells him, smile lingering as she studies the young man. So curious. So very curious--will he or won’t he. She’s /dying/ to know. Parley follows her gaze, the two of their heads turning nearly in tandem to consider the distant glass doors through which faint blue squiggles of light dance at the window frames, reflected from an unseen water source. “You’ll take,” he informs her - warns her, distilled, lips hardly seeming to move for all the viper-quiet hiss to it, “And I’ll take back. I want to swim. And I value my privacy. Reserve it.” He says it with a light ‘whp’ of his brochures being idly smacked against the front of his own chest. His feet have a lightness to them, a muted softening of sound and friction that makes his movement away from her liquid and quick, turning to walk backwards for only a moment, looking Alice up and down critically, and then finishing the same turn to face forward again, heading for the changing room. “I’ll see you inside.” “You may try.” So graciously given, this permission. Alice’s smile twists, an edge appearing therein, a matching edge curling razor-thin through her mind. But it pleases her that the kitten has claws. “Manners, darling,” she chides him before likewise turning. Perhaps she missed that moment of critical study--but no, the sound of her laughter, translated entirely through thoughts alone, chases Parley towards the men’s changing room. She visits the front desk first. The staff there are all smile, more so than is typical, as they accept her membership card and nod to whatever requests the woman makes. Notes are made on a sheet, gestures are cast towards the pool room doors and finally a signature is jotted down on a single sheet of paper before Alice too ventures off to change into her swim suit. It is a simple number in black, with lilac inserts down the sides and along the racer back, just the sort to set off the figure of a woman who--though she keeps herself in shape--has undeniably entered middle-age. When she finally emerges to poolside, it is with a towel draped over her shoulder--fluffy and white, to break the preferred color scheme. Her hair is braided back, a pair of goggles swing from one finger but she has neglected a cap. Her path towards the steps down into the shallower end of the pool are casual, slow, almost a stroll. You almost wouldn’t know it, but Parley is already here, his blip on the radar dull and washed out to lessen its significance. When he moves, however, it gets a trifle brighter. He’d been standing at the edge of the pool to the far end, wearing simple dark blue and gray trunks, with the toes of one foot hung off the edge to peer down into the ripply-nebulous depth. He’d prudently changed in a stall, and departed the locker room with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, but now he’s draped the towel over a forearm, letting all the fur that had been squashed down under the shirt breathe and bristle and fluff as it wills. He seems intent for a moment to ignore Alice, head so slightly weaving left, down, then right while toeing his way along the pool’s perimeter, looking down into the water. The pool area is otherwise deserted. Even the tall lifeguard stations are empty. In an Olympic-sized pool, that makes for a great deal of empty, echoing space. The water dampens the effect somewhat but with only a toe disturbing its surface, its rippling can’t fill the room. Alice’s intention is not to ignore Parley but he certainly makes it easy. She busies herself with draping the towel over the back of a chair, with smoothing back her hair and then pulling the goggles on over her head. They dangle like a necklace first as she glances around--and then has to blink when Parley only comes into focus when he stirs. Ah, rue. She shakes her head but takes care to keep her eyes on him while doing so, lest she lose him again. “Your privacy is assured if you care to get in,” she calls over to him, directing herself to the corner of the pool. The water is tested with a toe. Then she reaches up to arrange the goggles over her eyes, adjusting the strap for the least amount of hair-pinching. Parley doesn’t seem shocked to hear her voice, not looking up from his indulgent study, though his jaw tightens so slightly. “It’s not that.” His path is slow but not timid, something almost childlike in the way his eyes are fully open, studying rapidly, and then snapping hard to Alice’s face, “It’s lovely.” He doesn’t enflower his tone; it’s surgical-simple and doesn’t elaborate, saying directly after it, “I’m curious about your thoughts on Osborn’s announcement.” He turns to position his towel not far from Alice’s, exposing the full swatch of his markings; the tawny fur and faint rosettes are only present along his back and the tops of his shoulders, fading thinner and thinner as it circles his torso to leave normal indoor-boy pale skin in the front. It’s possible it trickles down the outsides of his thighs as well, but trunks cover it - as they partially cover the twisted-waxy scar at the base of his spine, roughly the size of a half dollar. She has so very many thoughts on Osborn’s announcement. Not all of them are easily read--she’s had /some/ training--but Alice’s initial reaction is one of muted anger and that’s difficult to disguise though it touches her expression not at all. “Mm,” she hums while she gets that pulse under control, shoulders rolling back and a breath filling her lungs. “The man is a liability. To everyone he comes into contact with, I suspect.” The weight of her study of his body is as intimate as a touch, coming as it does with emotions as well--<<(fur? Not everywhere. Curious. Tail, removed. Shorts, coming off. At some point.)>> These aren’t words so much as impulses, concepts coupled with intentions that Alice is happy to put off. For now. There is, after all, a lovely pool right there. She means to enjoy it. “The idea itself is intriguing though,” she says before drawing herself up on her toes, leaning forward with hands pressed together. Her leap and dive is tight, flawless, her entry into the water just a small splash with ripples left behind. With his back turned, Alice can’t see Parley’s eyes flutter closed while he’s studied; drinking in Alice perceptions - inconsistent and skewed by shielding as they may be - makes the depth to which she considers /him/ form a shivery self-feedback loop that ripples down his ridge of hackles as though she /had/ touched him. He turns to look over his bared shoulder thoughtfully, and get this moment to watch her slice through the surface of the pool and vanish. His jaw tightens, then eases and he drifts to the edge to crouch down, his knees pointed up and out, his arms reaching down between them to wrap fingers around the edge lip and slip his fingers into the water to catch the ripples given off by Alice’s dive. Then he turns, dips in a foot. Then a leg, sucking in a quiet chunk of air at the slight chill that sets his hair and fur up in their follicles. Maybe Alice had the right idea, just jumping in. He turns over and slips both legs over, shoulder muscles coiling up to lower himself the rest of the way through slowly. “Tsss.” If he isn’t careful, he’ll reinforce the cliche of cats being less than fond of water! Alice’s dive carries her well towards the middle of the pool. With no other swimmers present, she needn’t respect the boundaries of lanes. When she surfaces, it’s with a rush of breath, with hands smoothing back over her hair and goggled eyes turning to find...ah, there he is. She’s treated to the tail-end of Parley’s entrance into the water and he is welcomed there with a pulse of amusement. Easy strokes carry her back to the pool’s wall, several feet from him, where she hooks an arm up over the edge and reaches to push her goggles back high on her forehead. “Do you know how to swim, Parley? Should I help you?” “You may be surprised, Ms. Lambton,” Parley feels her pulse of amusement and he /eats/ it. Swallows it deep and feeds it back with a smile soft, but riddled with hidden barbs. Sharks beneath a smooth surface of unrippled water, “but over the past, mmh, three years or so, I have had very little opportunity to swim.” He curls up his legs, kicks off the wall, and begins to drift backwards. “But I’m sure I remember it. It’s one of those functions that requires very little thought. Simply,” his eyes are set on hers, a strange, unkind enthusiasm glinting, “muscle memory. Interesting timing, the attack by the mutant terrorist. I’m not terribly acquainted with this ‘Magneto’, beyond what Wiki offers.” The goggles give a burble of stretchy plastic as they’re pulled off, snapping back to their original size before they’re set aside. Alice then orders her hair again before pushing off of the wall. Her drifting course is designed to intercept and then accompany. A side stroke keeps her beside him. Oddly enough, there’s a cat in the cream style of pleasure coursing through her, at the thought of the attack. Not that she remained to watch the chaos unfold--but enough was seen for Alice to play over that moment the wall came down with a deep, abiding satisfaction. “No, I suppose you would not be,” she murmurs, cheek in water and mouth barely cresting the surface. “It was /very/ interesting timing. It makes a person wonder if they knew what he intended to speak about.” And that sets off a moment of speculation, her thoughts turning inward. Norman Osborn likes to /arrange/, enjoys attention, seemed intent on the highest level of security... She really must speak with Emma Frost. The feedback is not perfect, with the smooth glass of Alice’s mind cool and solid against the gauzy smoke of Parley’s mind; but the concept of ‘Emma Frost’ is one he’s deeply familiar with. It bears filing, with the rest. Though not relaxed to the woman swimming beside him, Parley falls naturally, even willingly into her rhythm, watching her technique and slowly remembering the patterns of traveling through water. It streams through his fur, stirring its natural grain. What he decides to say, between slight gasps as his out of shape body relearns also how to prioritize its oxygen, “We may never know. They seem to have disappeared.” With all of his features set to concentrating on his body - sensation, dexterity, roll of muscles, buoyancy, ah, it’s almost over stimulation - it’s impossible to define what his tone may mean. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention. By now, Alice surely must realize that a Parley that doesn’t seem to be paying attention is doing just the opposite. Or so she believes. The coordination of swimming and of watching him doesn’t remove her ability to smile, though it’s a half-formed thing. “Oh yes. We took them that night.” That’s a lie. More authentic is the hand that slides beneath him to correct form, brushing over water-drifty fur, pushing up, briefly supportive while she maintains a scissor-kick to keep herself buoyant and moving. Corrective though the touches may be, they are every bit as humorous-provocative as the lie just given--but there is a testing aspect to this as well. A clinician’s intent, to see how he might respond to jokes made at the expense of those who /have/ been taken. Parley laughs. It bursts out of him by surprise, a quiet ‘hahah’ that sounds delighted in just /how/ wrong it is. It disrupts his swimming, so his back sinks into Alice’s hand, body warm through his wet fur in the cool water, alive with all the complicated spring-coils and sinew-twists beneath his skin, necessary to keep legs and arms steadily in motion. Looking down at his own body, he corrects himself, obedient to her corrections, “Do you enjoy your work?” Corrections made, Alice’s hand flicks away--then returns under the guise of offering support to his lower back. If the tips of her fingers graze the knot of scar tissue there, then surely it is a coincidence. Except nothing is coincidence around Parley, is it? The experiment continues, the subject...him. She appreciates the laughter, at least. “I enjoy doing my very best,” she confirms, between kicks and strokes and helping. “To use the gifts I was given for a greater purpose...it is satisfying. And to better /myself/, as a result...I think too many people become content with the status quo. They live the same day, in and out, wrapped up in the same small concerns...” This time, the caress of that little knot at the base of his spine is deliberate, before she’s rolling onto her back. “And I enjoy the challenge.” This, above all else, rings of truth. The abrupt ‘hh!’ of air that jumps from Parley’s throat projects hard enough to echo against the high pool ceiling, the touch to his scar awakening sensitive-scrambled nerves like a live wire. His spine twitch-jumps into a slight arc, his chest pushing up from the water and his head dropping back a half inch deeper below the surface. It’s all an instant-response, silent, and when the second touch presses more deliberate he can be felt trying to resist it and failing; a million little micro-spasms wrinkle up his back and and down his legs. His eyes rolling back under descending eyelids while he reaches out a hand out for the wall to his far left, making a laugh another more /ragged/ laugh sound. Point scored: Alice. The swimming doesn’t help, he’s getting winded and aims to hang onto the wall for a minute to catch his (slightly irregular, though he’s /working/ on that hard) breath. “--I believe that,” he rasps. “Mmm.” That’s her first and only response to his gasp, to the twitching, to the laughter that follows. Her only outward response, at least--inwardly, Alice knows that the point was hers. She skims to the side of the pool, turned to face him. Her smile is rather more gentle than the previous touches would suggest. This is not a woman who gloats, though she /is/ pleased to have more data. On him. She must believe in striking while the iron is hot--or squirming--because her immediate question, spoken without a hint of shortness of breath, is, “What did you think of Mr. Osborn’s announcement?” With eyes closed and water droplets clung about his face, Parley shoves his wet hair to semi-slick it back against his skull. “I think it’s impulsive,” he allows, breathing in and out as his nerves ease. “And aligns him too far left too /quickly/ to make him accessible to his primary shareholders.” He runs his hand down the back of his neck; the fur there is soaked and clung down, so they don’t actually /need/ the smoothing. “A good point. Impulsivity of that sort always carries its risks. But did he anticipate a negative reaction? And if so, what does he intend to do about it. He won’t tolerate losing support.” The question is rhetorical--Alice is thinking aloud. She is not watching him sort himself out and perhaps that is a mistake, if it leads to this sort of musing. Her gaze roves the pool, her fingers beat a brief and gentle rhythm against the tiled edge. Then ruefulness floods in, accompanied by the small jolt she feels when she looks back at the young man. Her smile reappears and shows none of that. “But perhaps it’s early yet for us to be speaking so intimately. Do you think you can make the other side?” Silent, smoothed (or just soothed) now, Parley had been listening intently, watching Alice intently from beneath his ever down-tipped brows. He doesn’t strive to interrupt nor answer her musings, possibly -- because so much of this, he’s wondered himself. And there are so few answers. He isn’t radiant with any sort of joy, but maybe in some capacity this is a preferable state of being, because he nods, slightly frowning across the water’s surface - it will tax him. But to gain strength, it’s a tax he’ll need to pay. He nods. And curls up his legs to press against the pool wall, and together, they kick off. This time, he’ll swim with just that much more /aggression/.