ArchivedLogs:Parley is a Bad Kitty
| Parley is a Bad Kitty | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-05-13 He really is. >:( |
| Location | |
Ring. Or whatever Claire's phone does when someone calls it. Maybe it plays a campy theme song. The number ringing: Parley's. He might have gotten ahold of her phone at some point and changed it to 'MewMew'. Ring! Claire picks up almost immediately. Two rings in. "Parley did you change my ringtone to /Jingle Cats/?" is Claire's immediate question. HARSHLY ASKED, but with perhaps the faintest /hint/ of amusement. PAAAAARLEEEEEY. "-- Do you like it?" Her response will, of course, affect Parley's /answer/. He's ready at any time to lie like a bathmat. Shamelessly. Claire /huffs/. She's aware of this habit, of course. "Merely /asking/ if I like it is tantamount to admitting your responsibility, Parley. And no, I loathe Jingle Cats." She certainly does not have an album of them in her dresser. Nope, absolutely does not. "What is it? Are you bringing me crepes? You should bring me crepes. For your atrocious taste in ringtones." Instead. Parley does not seem to be listening at ALL, asking absently somewhat on top of her raging, "Prada or Louis Vuitton?" In the background is... light elevator-style music. Muffled and pleasant with the jingle of - coat hangers? Is he shopping? Claire pfehs. "Fashion labels are for those who feel the need to let others /know/ they are rich." A pause, then, followed by: "Louis Vuitton, of course." "I knew it." Parley has a purry-hrff laugh that he rolls into the phone like a marble trailing over a hardwood floor. It doesn't match the grimstone flat statement: "I'm buying you an apology gift. Don't be angry?" It's always bad when he's apologizing /before/ he's done something. Claire produces a /dramatic/ sigh. "What have you done." Not even a query; just a flat-out statement. As if she is preparing herself. To be /shot/. "I haven't /done/ anything," Parley protests. Then takes aim. And /shoots/. "That nonsense downtown at the tower?" He must be somewhere secure enough that he doesn't have to lower his voice /too/ far. "I probably know who they are. Do you like these ones with -- handle straps or a shoulder straps? Do they have names for that? The straps?" "Fine. What /are/ you going to do," Claire corrects herself. Before adding: "Straps. I call them /straps/. I don't know if there's another t -- the attack on Oscorp? People are saying it was -- oh, good /grief/, Parley. Please tell me you aren't involved in. Enngh." He can /feel/ her rubbing at the bridge of her nose. It makes no sound, but somehow, the act translates across the line. "Let me guess. You're going to go /speak/ with them. Aren't you." "Just a few words. Don't rub your face," Parley /knows/ you, Claire, "You'll get a sty. If I'm right, they're probably more scared than anything. Mmh. You know I don't like to drag your name into things..." Claire nnghs. "Are they /dangerous/," she asks, but then she immediately clarifies: "That's a stupid question. Of course they're dangerous. Are they going to us in /trouble/, that's the important question. Are they going to get us in trouble, Parley?" "When have I ever gotten us in trouble." Key word being 'us'. Though Parley knows better than to argue semantics with a god damn lawyer and tucks tails, "They won't if I have my way. They're likely scared, but I don't see them being desperate. All the same, I think they would be more amenable to a lawyer's aid approaching for litigious reasons than a curious /bystander/. You know how uneasy people are when they don't see a visible motivation hanging out in plain sight. I somehow don't think they'd buy an offer to be their therapy cat. Why are all of these bags /brown/?" Claire grumbles something beneath her breath. "Brown is in this year, it's the new black. Or is that white? I can't remember, fashion was never my raison d'tre. Fine, /fine/, you can use my--wait. Are you even going to tell me /their/ names before you go bandying /my/ name out in front of them, Parley?" she asks, sounding - well. Not quite /offended/, but perhaps a bit indignant. Like she were holding a water bottle DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF HIS NOSE. Hsss. You can all but /hear/ Parley folding back angry cat ears. HSS. Only instead of water it's /MOMguilting/. "-mng. I only know one name. Jennifer Walters? You might know her better by the moniker--" Claire groans on the other end of that line. "/That/ one. Nngh. I've heard of her. She made a huge splash during the whole - Magneto fiasco. They thought she was with /them/, just because she was green and happened to be in New York at the time. Nonsense, of course. Still, I'm sure this will all go over just /swimmingly/. Alright, yes, you can mention my name. Just... nngh. Obviously don't tell them much /more/ than that." You don't need to be an empathic translator to catch Claire's drift. Then again, Claire probably doesn't need to /tell/ Parley to keep his mouth shut about /that/ secret. As if picking up on that fact: "I know you'll be discrete. Just, sometimes, I worry. You are a very sneaky kitty. You might sometimes forget." "How could I," Parley's end of the line is making rumply sounds, almost as if he were jamming his arm into a designer purse up to the elbow -- to /bat around/ the wads of paper inside, "with you always there to remind me?" Pause. Quieter: "You know I will be. I'll keep in touch." (If you listen quietly, you could hear him mutter "ah-. Booger could fit inside this one...") Claire does listen carefully. Nose rumpling. Somewhere, Booger's ears start to burn. "Stay alive, Parley," Claire finally tells him. Not with any force to it; it comes off more as an exasperated suggestion. Like, 'if you can be bothered to remember /that/. "That's the plan." Click. Parley HUNG UP on you, Claire. He might send a selfie in a little while of him wearing something ridiculous that he'd tried on at Macy's. Like a gown. Making the victory sign. It's the true picture of apology. | |
