ArchivedLogs:Friendship is Magic

Friendship is Magic
Dramatis Personae Norman, Jennifer
In Absentia	2013-05-15 Dinner date!
Location
The restaurant is one of those small, intimate places; the sort of joint that’s got - 8, maybe 10 tables available at any time - where you’re not getting in unless you /know/ somebody. Some restaurants like to put up portraits of famous people who have eaten there; this is the sort of restaurant that probably has a famous person there /while/ you’re eating. Norman arrives early. Probably a good deal earlier than Jennifer; he’s already at his table, perusing what looks to be - a tablet. Always working, Norman is. He’s seated in one of the corners, away from prying eyes; it’s a small table - two people at most. Mr. Shaw is somewhere in the crowd of diners, seated at a table for one, enjoying himself a bit of spicy chicken. Eating /very/ slowly. Keeping an eye on Norman in the calculated manner of someone trained to not /look/ like he is keeping an eye on Norman. Norman Osborn is dressed as he is /always/ dressed; at this point, one cannot help but wonder if he has anything in his closet /besides/ expensive black suits, black ties, and matching dress-slacks. As he waits, he continues to tap on the tablet; the waiter does not bother him. He has been instructed to keep his distance until Norman’s “date” arrives. And yes - when Norman gave these instructions, he included the quotation marks. He didn’t make them with his hands, but he didn’t need to. When Norman Osborn puts quotation marks around a word, /everyone/ knows. Jennifer Walters arrives exactly one minute prior to the time that was mutually agreed upon. Norman's date doesn't look particularly in a hurry, consciously living up to the ages old adage. Her attire is formal and yet at the same time apt for such an occasion. Her feet are in a pair of elaborate black glossy sandals, while her legs are clad in exceptionally dark pantyhose. The dress she's picked is a rather dark shade of green, running down to her knees. It is sleeveless, although the soft fabric circles around the top of her arms, leaving her shoulders bare. Loosely draping around her neck is an amber necklace. Subtle make-up highlights her facial features, and her hair's been done to be more curvy and chaotic. Finally, a small black leather purse sits in her hand. It is perhaps a touch odd seeing her like this, considering her powerful build. Despite this elegant appearance, Jennifer's mannerisms casual. The redhead carries herself with greater respect and care than, say, back at the gym in Xavier's, but there is very little arrogance or overconfidence to be found in her movements or her gaze. Neither would she indulge in some manner of psychological foreplay - she heads straight towards Norman's table, once she is shown where she can find him. Once there, she flashes the man the widest of grins. While devoid of arrogance, it is still a sort of triumphant gesture, as if to show off the fact they are, indeed, having what could be defined as a date, however ridiculous such a notion might be. A hand is offered. Fingers limply droop downward, and the back of the palm is facing Norman Osborn. It's not a handshake she expects. "Norman Osborn," she starts, her grin sneaking into her tone of voice, even. "It's a pleasure." The veil of politeness in that statement is intentionally thin. It is not by any means poisonous, even if there is the danger of misinterpreting it as mockery. It is, in fact, a playful jab. Norman rises to greet Jennifer when she arrives. When that hand is extended - palm down - an eyebrow lifts. And when she offers him this greeting - a playful, thinly veiled jab - she might notice that his left eyebrow... twitches. But then, he smiles; so warm, so natural. It’s an expression he’s practiced in the mirror. Seriously. It even manages to touch his eyes! His hand, then, extends to take Jennifer’s; there is the polite - perhaps an overtly chaste - brush of the mouth across her knuckles. Perhaps she might notice - oh, dear. Did he just... sniff? Maybe she’s about to draw back a bloody stump. Mmmn. No. He’s saving room for dinner. He releases her hand, and immediately moves to pull out her chair, just as any gentleman would do. “Ms. Walters. Please, sit.” And then he’s attending his own chair - slow, casual. /Controlled/. “Now. What /ever/ shall we talk about...?” he asks, his fingers - /steepling/. Norman - or perhaps even the creature within - might be disappointed to be met with sensory input that is all perfume, barring any supernatural ability to penetrate that particular scent of chamomile. The gesture, however quaint, is accepted by Jennifer, whose amusement only grows further. By the time he offers her a chair to sit in, her toothy grin couldn't possibly stretch any further. "Thank you, Norman. But please, call me Jennifer." As she asks that, she casually claims her seat. With practiced gusto, she makes herself comfortable, grabbing a napkin and unfolding it on her lap. "Remember, I wanted to meet the man behind the mask," she notes softly. Her amusement still rings in her tone, but she stifles this time; clearly, she /means/ it. "In my dating experience, I found out that when men talk about themselves, they tend to skew personal details." Nibbling on her lower lip in a vain effort to restrain her ever-present amusement, Jennifer leans forward, propping both elbows on the table and resting her chin on interlocked fingers. Her eyes are dead set on Norman. "So, I usually take detours. Tell me about your son, Harry. How old is he? What's he like? Does he have a hobby? What's your relationship with him?" Norman’s warm, easy smile drifts into something a little thinner - a little harder - something with an /edge/. “I’m not sure,” he admits, “if you /do/, Ms. -- Mmn. Jennifer.” The questions about his son - her posture - he finds them off-putting. He draws back, just a little, readjusting himself in his chair. Norman Osborn does not do /awkward/. But Norman Osborn also does not do /dates/. It has, in fact, been a decade and change since he’s even been on one. This is... not something he is accustom to. Small-talk about his son? Even /less/ accustom. “...sixteen,” Norman relents, then adds: “He is a gifted, but intensely shy, young boy. His hobbies include models - a particular affinity for airplanes of various types - and chemistry. I purchased him a chemistry set for his last birthday. My relationship with him is - he’s my son, of course. I love him.” Everything up to this last statement is produced like - a laundry list of details. Like he’s cataloguing a list of information he has /acquired/, rather than /knows/. But that last bit - it is offered hesitantly, with just the faintest flash of meekness. As if - admitting this fact is akin to exposing a weakness. The question whether Jennifer is certain that she is willing to meet the man behind the mask - even if it is a rhetoric - is met with a single raised brow, pursed lips and a sideways tilt of the head, as if to wordlessly suggest, "You know what I mean." Still, she chooses to focusses on a subject matter that is more interesting to her. "I can only imagine his room is decked with all sorts of cute little models." Cute little models. If there's ever been any doubt, it's clear Jennifer knows about as much about that particular activity as a carpenter would know about sculpting. The mention of love actually throws the redhead off. The interviewer is caught off guard; she was half-expecting a laundry list of details, but the fact Norman actually admitted to that fact, combined with /how/ he admitted to it-- Jennifer's amusement wanes. But it does just a little and just for a short bit. "Does he take after his dad? Is he also single?" Fortunately for Norman Osborn, the answer can arrive later, simply because the waiter has finally returned to take order. Jennifer, on the other hand, is not exactly thrilled by this interruption. Still, she voices her preferred dishes even without a menu. "I'd like to start off with a salad, if possible. I'd love som tam, if you have that." A wayward hand gesture rotates the wrist fluidly. "After that-- Do you have khao-- Boiled rice with roast duck? Preferably with duck broth on the side? It's fine if the latter's not an option." Her eyes fall upon her date. "I'll let the man choose my drink." “Chef’s special,” Norman responds - almost blandly. Before adding, with a wave, a particular wine. Doesn’t matter what kind. Norman’s tastes in wine - are just enough to get him past on social obligations. But he quickly amends: “A pitcher of lemon water.” As soon as the waiter has retreated, his eyes drift back to Jennifer. /Peering/ at her. His hands falling together into a knot in front of him. “If by ‘take after his dad’ you mean is he interested in the sciences, the answer is yes. Otherwise, no. He has a crush on Amanda Duccasoux, a young brunette in his third period English class. His affection are, however, unrequited. Jennifer, my son is - mmn. I think you are under some manner of misconception concerning my nature.” A slow, steady breath. And then: “With the possible exception of my son, I am neither a kind nor gentle man. I remain - puzzled,” Norman admits, the word ‘puzzled’ carrying a brief flicker of - genuine bafflement across his features - “just what it is you hope to accomplish here.” Jennifer maintains a sober, casually interested gaze, fixing it on Norman's weathered features. Her thumbs idly rub against the back of her jawline on either side, but otherwise she sits still and listens ever so intently. Her amusement hasn't entirely drifted away by now, either. The departure of the waiter, however temporary, certainly restores her investment in the conversation. "You mean besides approaching you from the most obviously gentle and kind side? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Despite the stupid grin on my face, I have no secret agenda for tonight. I do not wish to make you mad, upset or anything of the sort. All I am looking for is conversation and, perhaps, by the end of the night, I will manage to chip some stress off what I can only guess is a mountain of concerns." The waiter returns with wine, as well as the usual ritual of wine-proofing. Whether or not it is approved by Norman, the waiter departs again; the only difference between the two decisions is whether Jennifer gets her wine. "I think you're too focussed on the large picture, Norman. That chess board isn't going anywhere. Tonight, I am going to ask you questions you probably have never even thought of asking /yourself/, like--" Jennifer pauses for a moment, attaching a bit of a pout to her lips, rolling her eyes in thought. Squint. "What is the one place on Earth that you want to visit the most?" It's hard to tell if she's serious, given the playful glint in her green eyes as she looks back to Norman. “Nnnghf,” Norman exhales. The wine-testing is - more of a /burden/ than a genuine concern; his sip is so delicate it may as well be non-existent. When the glasses are finally poured - he is quick to turn to his glass of water. Drinking /that/, instead. “I /have/ asked myself that question,” he notes to Jennifer, although not with any aggression - it sounds more like - reluctant surrender. “My office. Always. My office. Are you trying to...” Something flickers across his brow, then - something almost - /violent/ - eyes flashing a bit wider. “...are you trying to be /nice/ to me?” He sounds... genuinely offended. "Your office? Sounds dull." There is nary a hint of mockery, although there is a droplet of disappointment in her tone. The recently filled glass of wine is swiped off the table. A measured, polite sip is taken before the drink is returned to the table. "Why, yes, Norman. Yes, I am. Do you think there's a reason why I shouldn't be?" Curiously leaning forward, she thins her lips and lifts her brows, demonstratively expecting an answer. "Oh. The wine's good. A /safe/ choice, but a good choice," she adds, glancing to her wine glass. “My office,” Norman responds, “is where I can /think/. Nnngh,” he repeats, and now a hand is - reaching for his face. As if he intends to gouge an eyeball out as way of avoiding this entire conversation. Oops, my bad, accidentally TORE OUT MY EYE, guess I’ll have to go have that looked at. But instead, the hand reaches for the water - taking what is probably - a less-than-polite gulp. SWALLOW. “I don’t drink,” he tells her. “My /father/ drank. Do you understand,” he adds, taking in a long - /deep/ breath - “just - /who/ I am? /What/ I represent? /What/ I have done?” The redhead observes the frustrated gesture with great interest. Her own dangerously veer on the territory of mockery, as the moment Norman begins to tell her that his father used to drink, she theatrically lifts up the glass of wine with her spidery digits and takes a longer sip than last time. Sssssip. Towards the end, there's actually a bit of a noise. "Oops, /sorry/!" she chuckles softly. It's very possible all of that is intentional. The glass is set back down. "I don't. I really don't. I want to, though. You don't /have/ to tell me anything, Norman, but I would really appreciate it if you did." Both hands are placed down on the table, palms down. Again, she expectantly looks to her date, as though a puppy. "Do you feel like answering those three questions?" Norman’s eyes narrow upon Jennifer. Like the edge of a razor. And then he speaks - voice level, calm, yet with a churning /intensity/ beneath it that struggles to stay in place: “I am Norman /fucking/ Osborn. I am the CEO of one of the most influential defense contractors in the world - specializing in mutant countermeasures. And I eat. People’s. /Brains/.” At that precise instant, the waiter materializes besides Norman, clearing his throat: “...pardon, sir, but - the chef requested clarification - would you like... the chili glaze, or--” Norman tenses. Brow wrinkling. Still just /staring/ at Jennifer. And then... he just sinks into his chair. Looking like. He just swallowed a /squirrel/. “...chili glaze,” he responds, meek and subdued. The waiter vanishes, as waiters are wont to do. Anyone else at this point might be shocked or otherwise intimidated by the intense yet eerily level reintroduction that Norman offers. Yet Jennifer listens with brows raised, as though a teacher observing one of her wards knocking an empty glass over to display his act of utter evil. "Do you? Is that, like, figurative speech, or--" Jennifer momentarily carves her lips into a puzzled frown before continuing, "What do they taste like?" It sounds like a rhetoric rather than a genuine question, especially since Jennifer dismisses it with another sip of the wine. As the glass aims for the surface of the table again, Jennifer casually remarks, "Your countermeasures, by the way." Tak, the glass is set down. She twists the stem, as if to adjust the glass /just/ so. "Are not /very/ effective." The line is delivered softly, without any condescension or spite; it is spoken not unlike advice. Her emerald eyes rise to observe Norman's reaction. Norman seems to have given up. His elbows prop up on the table; his head descends into his hands. For a moment, he just - /grips/ his head within his palms. And responds: “Jennifer. Is it possible for us to go back to the point where our relationship consisted of you /tazing/ me?” But then, he shakes his head. Lifts his brow. He is an /Osborn/; he weathers all things with dignity and pride. Even... nngh. The hands retract, off the table. He... sighs, then, before answering: “...sweetbread. And, you know, they /did/ succeed in driving you off. But, no. There are no universally effective mutant countermeasures. Beyond, of course, mutants /themselves/.” A flicker of something, there. This, at least, is a conversation Norman is comfortable with. Here it comes. Jennifer actually laughs. The question about their peculiar friendship causes the redhead to laugh softly, unable to restrain her amusement any further. As low-brow as the gesture might seem, her teeth sink into her lower lip to at least ensure her sweet laughter does not outstay its welcome. It devolves into a chuckle, a chortle, and a lingering snort. This, in a way, shapes how she approaches the rest. "I was held back. I could have totally handled it on my own," she boasts arrogantly. "Your friend, too." Finally, the salad Jennifer ordered arrives. While another in her place might indulge purely for the sake of conversation, she is actually hungry, and wastes little time in digging into the first meal. As the fork burrows into the mess of papaya, she looks up to Norman again. "Speaking of-- I actually find you much more attractive than him," she notes, actually analysing the man's face before arriving to this undoubtedly scientific conclusion. And then a playful remark slips in, "Your age is starting to show, though." There is a - dry, somber sort of look that Norman gives Jennifer when she comments on being able to handle Norman’s ‘friend’. It is not - challenging. It is just... cold. Almost, surgical. He exhales when the salad arrives, however. Draws back. Even manages - perhaps a tiny - smile at the rib about his age. Not at his handsomeness, though. Norman is /aware/ of his looks; he is also aware of his ‘friend’s’ looks. “I always preferred to think of it as enhancing my dignity. I have been told I look like - what is the man’s name,” he says, gesturing briefly - yet in such a controlled, /subtle/ manner. “The actor. The one who chased Harrison Ford in that movie - ‘The Fugitive’.” Then, as the waiter has put some distance between them - the brief flicker of friendliness dwindles, replaced by something - more calculated. “I sincerely doubt - mm. Jennifer. You do realize,” he tells her, and maybe now it is /his/ turn to look at her with a sparkle of something teasing. “The strike-team was not there to stop /you/.” "Haven't seen that one," she refers to the film. Her tone is upbeat and curious - it's not unlikely she'll hit up Netflix and try to find this film that's been mentioned. Norman might not be having the best of dates, but Jennifer is rather at ease and comfortable. More of the salad is eagerly consumed. "I used to specialize in nuances, Norman. I've suspected as much, that we were not your target. I don't know many companies who secure their assets with experimental non-lethal weaponry. Well, they almost put /me/ down, so not so non-lethal for ordinary humans. Clearly, whatever they were hunting had to be very durable and dangerous, but... Why would they want it alive? Unless 'it' was paying their salaries, of course." Her voice remains cheerful and optimistic, with a pinch of coyness. The demeanour does finally diminish somewhat when she sighs softly, pointing that fork towards Norman casually. "One thing I don't understand, though. Why /were/ we--" Jennifer shoots a glance around the restaurant before her attention returns to the man before her. "Attacked," she finishes the sentence softly and somewhat quietly. “...mmm, its non-lethality is - borderline,” Norman agrees, albeit reluctantly. “The setting can be adjusted, but we default it to a position that is - suspected to be safer. For taking down - uniquely /powerful/ targets.” And, ah; Norman’s dish arrives. The fork drifts to poke at it thoughtfully; Norman’s appetite stirs sluggishly to life. “Why did they open fire on your friends?” Norman asks, politely; as if he were merely discussing the weather. His mood seems to have deeply improved with the current direction of this conversation. As if discussing the means by which Jennifer is fired upon manages to cheer him up /immensely/. As he takes that first bite of chicken, you might even think he’s imagining it in his mind. Mmmm. BLAM. Zzzzzap. “Or why did my associate chase you up an elevator shaft?” Finally, Jennifer is done with her salad. The plate is left absolutely clean, and half the basket of bread that's arrived with it is now empty. The redhead has quite the appetite, although it might not really come as a surprise to one such as Norman, given that the two share an unusual metabolism. Norman Osborn much more so. "The former," she replies, leaning against the back of the chair. "The latter's not hard to figure out." Jennifer points pistol-shaped fingers to her clavicle, pulls the imaginary trigger and... shocks herself. It's an odd and juvenile display, one that starkly contradicts her elegant appearance and her mostly mature demeanour. Wrigglewrrigleshakeshakeaaaabeingtased. This is probably revenge for Norman so gleefully recalling her and her friends being fired upon. More awkward is the fact that a waiter comes over. He looks over to the madam, pondering just what the hell she is doing. Jennifer can barely restrain a smirk, keeping it at the degree of a polite smile. "The salad was delicious, thank you very much," she comments softly. Once the waiter departs, she looks to Norman again, beaming, expecting his answer. Oh, how Norman /bristles/ that that brief show of... what is this. Absurd /frivolity/. He manages to not display too much displeasure, however. The fork - descends upon a cut of chicken. Small. Careful. Lifting to his mouth, and... munch, munch. Jennifer will have to wait until he swallows that tiny, /savored/ portion. There’s even something sinister about the way he masticates. Like it wasn’t /chicken/ he was imagining himself eating. “The taser actually had nothing to do with him giving chase. Beyond, of course, giving him the opportunity he required to--mmm, Jennifer. I suspect you believe that my associate is -- a reflection of aggression, yes? Hostility, magnified. That is not... quite it. He is a reflection of /appetite/,” Norman explains. “He was not angry with you.” Another fork stab. Lifting the delicious chicken bit to his mouth. A dab of the napkin from his lip, brushing his lips. “He wanted to /eat/ you.” “He’s also fascinated by the girl,” Norman continues, immediately moving on. “--do not worry. It is /not/ a fascination he’ll be allowed to indulge in,” he quickly adds, already raising a hand as if to - deflect an immediate complaint from Jennifer. “As to the strike-team, they are... under orders. To subdue him, in a crisis situation - and subdue anyone else who might have /triggered/ his arrival. I am not always in a position to... take command. By default, they are to detain /everyone/, including my associate, until the situation can be brought under control. Had I been... in charge, they would have ignored you. And concentrated their interests upon...” Another fork-stab. Another bite. So delicate, so /tiny/. As if he’s teasing... himself? Or maybe someone else. Watching. Jennifer's amusement has been a roller coaster ride, so far. Her demeanour constantly shifts between rife amusement and somber consideration. Right now, it's shifted from the former to the latter once again. Knitting her fingers together, she lays them on the table in a resting position, silently watching Norman eat and listening to him speak. When asked about his plight, she actually offers a nod, confirming her misconception. "Appetite?" Jennifer seems rather confused by this, even if it strangely makes sense. The many mouths the creature flaunted suddenly gain new purpose. The enunciation of the word 'eat' finally shakes Jennifer off her tall tower. A chill runs down her spine. Finally, the redhead looks uncomfortable. Even as Rasa is promised peace, Jennifer merely offers a slow nod, along with a tentative, "Good." Her eyes veer off elsewhere and she momentarily sinks into the inner depths of her mind, seemingly lost in thought, for the time being. Ultimately, Norman's eccentric eating manners are eyed again. Jennifer's inner reserves of positivity slowly begin to fill up again. Her radiant pleasantness has not quite returned just yet, however. "I understand if you prefer not to talk about him, but-- While I was trying to understand my own ability, I have met a good number of different people with similar problems. At the time, I was young and stupid-- well, more so than now, anyway. I have discovered that not everyone... just shapeshifts. Some actually shared their body with another personality, or even multiple. In the past, that would just be diagnosed with a multiple personality disorder, but today--" An awkward sigh comes from her. "Which one is it for you, is what I wanted to ask." “I have no idea,” Norman replies - there is a calm dignity to which he says this, looking down upon his food. As if - the question were irrelevant to him. Unimportant. Another shred of chicken. “He’s here, right now. Talking to me. Sometimes, he sleeps. Mmm - I feel I must clarify, again, Jennifer - so you understand. By ‘appetite’, one typically refers to the physical - food. He does enjoy... /food/,” Norman explains, lifting the shred of chicken to his mouth. “But his appetite extends to so much /more/.” “He wants so much more than just /meat/, Jennifer. He wants /knowledge/. Power. Fame. Respect. /Fear/. He wants,” Norman relates, his eyes looking past Jennifer now - something glazed, something distant - “the /world/. I sometimes suspect, if it were within his power, he would tear down the stars from the sky and swallow them whole. He has... the most magnificent ambitions...” Norman almost sounds like he /admires/ this. Actually, check that; he /does/ sound like he admires it. But then, the glazed look flicks away; Norman returns, eyes settling back on Jennifer. “But though he is cunning, and powerful, he lacks the means by which to /reach/ his ambition. Patience. Strategy. Intellect. It is,” Norman half-smiles, “perhaps a cruel joke. That I possess the means - and he, the desire to put them to some end. But we so rarely... /agree/.” "Huh. Y'know, when I listen to people like you, I can't help but wonder if I got off easy. I have a case of mood swings and I reach the extremes more easily. When I'm happy, I'm high on it, when I'm angry-- Well, then people generally run for the hills. But this all-encompassing /hunger/ you speak of?" Jennifer shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "It worries me a little bit. I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, some of that toxicity is getting to your head. You've had a much longer time to communicate with your, ah, other side, but-- From my personal experience, I strongly advise you thinking that you can control it through bargaining. It sounds like one shovel that's going to bite you right back," she notes, harking back to a previous conversation the two had. The waiter arrives again, this time bringing the main meal to Jennifer. With a polite nod and an equally politely voiced gratitude, Jennifer sets her hands at either side of the hot plate, but she doesn't start eating just yet. Looks like her own appetite diminished somewhat, thanks to the topic at hand. As she watches Norman, it's apparent that behind those two emerald eyes, stirs a storm of a great variety of thoughts and concerns. Ultimately, a feeble smirk appears, and she tries her best to cast those dark clouds aside. "Tell me a joke." “I’ve managed to build one of the most profitable corporations in the world despite my associate,” Norman replies. “Or maybe because. It doesn’t matter. You should not compare /your/ challenges to the challenges others face. Perhaps my mountains are higher; perhaps they are not. In the end, all that matters is that you /climb/.” Is this Norman being - /nice/? It’s hard to tell. After yet another bite, the query for a joke comes. An eyebrow spasms. For a moment, the fork is laid down... and Norman’s hands steeple before his meal. “When I was sixteen,” he tells Jennifer, “a notorious school ruffian would regularly hound me. An intellectual and emotional dullard. At some point, as part of his constant campaign against my sense of emotional well-being, he cornered me during a late-night high-school football game and managed to bully me into a graveyard. It was late at night. I believe his intent was to terrify me.” The fingers unsteeple. The fork is lifted again. “As we walked - or, I should say, as he pushed me - he regaled me with stories of all the people he had killed and buried here. Foolish high-school hooliganism, I assure you. At some point, he asked me - and I quote: ‘Fucking creepy out here at night, isn’t it?’.” Norman lifts the bite of chicken to his mouth. Chew, chew. Swallow: “I responded: You’re telling me. I’m going to have to walk back /alone/.” Ever so slowly, Jennifer moves her hands to appropriate utensils and lifts them off the table. They remain to hover at either side of the plate. The woman takes her time before the fork grazes against the sauce, spreading the red across the white rice. The inspirational speech is not addressed, although it's clear Jennifer appreciates it, given the warm smile she offers. Finally, she begins to eat in earnest. On the other hand, this lasts only as long as the joke. When the punchline is delivered, the food on her fork stops a mere inch from her gaping lips. Eyes fixate on Norman, and the fork slowly descends back to the plate. There are a hundred questions on Jennifer's mind, but she decides to pick one she deems as the most crucial: "Did you... /harm/... the boy?" Needless to say, another word was wanted, but instead the redhead decides to phrase it more softly. Snkrt. That’s the sound of Norman’s nose wrinkling. He looks, erhm. /Amused/, actually. Like he just had to stop himself from snickering. It might be the first time he’s looked genuinely amused since Jennifer’s /met/ him. “No. He beat /me/ up.” Norman stabs another piece of meat, eating. He soon adds, almost idly: “Not to imply that there is a particular absence of dead bodies littering my past. I suppose, if you want to be /nice/ to me, you should know that up front: I’ve done very terrible things, Jennifer. And not always to terrible people. Does that make you uncomfortable?” He actually sounds curious. The rate at which Jennifer eats her food accelerates somewhat, once she is assured that the bully in question was not harmed. As the knife cuts into one of the neat strips of roasted duck, Jennifer sighs softly. "I know how you feel. I had a very hard time in school, myself," she freely admits. The fork impales the severed fraction of meat. "Uncomfortable? No. Norman, I was a lawyer. Sure, I came into the profession thinking that I would be protecting the innocent, the misunderstood and the underprivileged. But I've defended criminals, too." This actually saddens Jennifer. There is a heavy weight on her chest as she sighs, driving her gaze back down to her meal. Looks like the aforementioned positivity reserves are dwindling again. "I guess we each come into this world with our own expectations, but end up with something completely different." With a fair amount of reluctance, Jennifer appears to be considering whether or not to part with a particular something, curiously eyeing Osborn. "I think we're similar. Or, at least, we were dealt a very similar hand. We just chose to approach things differently, and in the end it shaped who we are." A bunch of rice is swept up by her fork. Another feeble smile is offered to her companion. "What's your biggest regret?" “I don’t think... Mm. I would not call our hands /similar/, Jennifer,” Norman relates this opinion with no detectable malice; more like someone plucking at the thread of a thought, traversing it to see where it leads. “But, at the very least, I am familiar with the plight of one who is... occasionally overwhelmed by one’s own mind.” He is coming close to finishing his chicken. “Not spending enough time with my son.” The response is automatic; he doesn’t even need to think about it. But then, he looks at Jennifer, and... For a moment, something genuinely - frightened - flickers across Norman’s expression. Blink, and you might miss it; a brief tremble of the brow - a spasm of the eye - a shift of the jaw. In the next instant, it’s gone, replaced by a diplomatically neutral expression. “...he... attacked him, once. Almost.” Her meal is currently set aside, and Jennifer instead extends a hand to claim the stem of the wine glass to lift it and take a careful sip. Despite her usual immaturity, it looks like the redhead is actually capable of handling a somber topic. When the bottom of the glass lands onto the table again, she parts with a heavy sigh. The discovery that this 'associate' tried to assault Norman's son is disheartening, to say the least. But even more so, it's confusing. Jennifer looks on, seemingly tried to understand each and every twitch that may show up on Norman's face. Alas, it's unlikely he can give her answer to her question. Far be it from Jennifer to not try, however. "But-- Why?" A reluctant addendum accompanies that question. "Are you afraid of him?" Oh, to the contrary; this is a question Norman is /painfully/ aware of the answer to: “He didn’t consider him to be a suitable heir. And when I told him -- I had no interest in having another child. He thought it... the easiest way to convince me /otherwise/.” There’s a dubious little smile at this that Norman offers. “That is how he solves problems. By /eating/ them. He has little to no sense of restraint.” The last few tender bites of chicken are finished. Another gulp of water; beyond the first tasting sip, Norman’s wine remains untouched. “Of course. What sane creature /wouldn’t/ be? But my fear is tempered by understanding. We made a truce, that night. He would leave my son - and my business - alone. And I, in exchange, would refrain from killing myself.” The bits and pieces of story that are fed to Jennifer fail to come together to form a complete picture; to her, listening to Norman's plight is very much like watching a film with missing frames. Confusion and understanding mingle together. "Sounds like you two don't see eye to eye." An absent-minded comment, perhaps, seeing as it merely states the obvious, while at the same time sorely understating it. Still, Jennifer merely uses it to buy time until a more substantial reply arrives. "Listen, Norman, I have a bit of a weird proposition for you," she begins, propping the utensils against the plate and setting her hands down on the edge of the table before her meal. "Correct me if I am wrong, but I picture you as the sort of man who-- Hn. I picture you as the sort of man who categorizes his friends... or associates. Whatever you want to call them. Maybe one is a mean dentist, maybe you have a poker night team-- I don't know. But I don't think you have anyone in life to truly lean on." Slowly, a smirk finds its way onto Jennifer's lips. "I'm not strictly asking to trust me, even if I'd like that. I'm not even asking you to take me out to restaurants regularly, even if I am enjoying tonight, probably more so than you do. All I'm saying is that you could use a shoulder or two. I'm giving you the option to come to me with the most trivial questions, questions that might make anyone else see as your personal weakness." As she begins to saw at another piece of roast duck, she adds in her melodic tone of voice: "Whatever you've done in the past, I probably don't approve of. But it's your future I am interested in." Oh, how Norman /stares/ at Jennifer. But, at least at this juncture, he does not attempt to gouge out an eyeball. The fork is dropped down; the napkin is - neatly brushed off, flapped, and refolded. All in a very proper, practiced fashion; all very /calculated/. “You’re the second person to show an unusual amount of interest in my future,” Norman relates. “I’ll admit: I do not habitually /indulge/ in relationships beyond the professional. And I do not... /lean/ on people.” As is so common with Norman Osborn, there’s a ‘but’ hiding in there. Hopefully, it hasn’t been around Jennifer’s salad. “...I’ll consider it. I have... the next few days will likely see me thoroughly indisposed,” he tells her. “For reasons I would rather not go into. After that, I will. Contact you. One way or another. If, for some unforeseeable reason,” and by the manner in which Norman’s eyes narrow, one can tell that he cannot /imagine/ of such a reason, “you need to contact me /before/ then, you have my number - but you might end up speaking with my assistant, Mr. Shaw, instead. He is... trusted.” Then: “...I fear I have an appointment to keep, Jennifer. This has been.” Again, narrow eyes. “.../Interesting/.” Walters is well on her way to finishing her own meal, albeit she pauses yet again when Norman tells her that he may just consider such an unusual strain of a friendship; the sheer radiance of positivity that comes his way, however, might as well suggest that he had already said 'yes'. "/Perfect/", she replies in a sing-song tone. "Although I hope that whatever keeps you occupied in the coming days goes smoothly and without a hitch." With the plate emptied, she sets the fork and knife down. "I haven't done this in a while. I'm more of a bar sort of person. I almost forgot what formal dinners and dates were like. In fact, I think this is the first time I combined the two." Her voice is bound with as much vigour as a newly awakened bird, hopping from one branch to another. "Whenever you feel like calling me, /do/. I am busy throughout the morning, freeish in the afternoon and then busy again in the late afternoon. Classes, you understand." Oh, of /course/ he does. As the waiter passes by behind Norman, Jennifer lifts up a hand inquisitively to attract his attention, and asks for the bill. Her great mood's back, and she seems awfully content with how the dinner went.