ArchivedLogs:Unsurprising

Unsurprising
Dramatis Personae Isra, Regan
In Absentia	2015-04-15 "Well. You know psionics. No sense of privacy."
Location <BOM> House of Leaves - Ascension Island
A small log cabin halfway between the main clearing and the beach, this little lodge is nestled alongside a twist in the stream. A large mulberry tree by the water has had a tire swing hung down over the creek; its branches seem in occasional need of pruning for how they butt up against the side of the cabin. Inside, the cabin is small and neat. Its entry room is a small sitting space, an eclectic host of artwork hanging on the walls. It holds an old but very comfortable black leather couch, a sunny yellow throw rug in front of the fireplace, a pair of large bookshelves on the back wall, a small oak coffee table in front of the sofa. A little dining table along the left side wall stands next to a window; pushed up against the wall, it has room for only three chairs. There's a tiny kitchenette off in the back. The right wall has a door leading to the bedroom. Its queen-sized bed is usually covered in an abundance of pillows and blankets, bright yellow and dark blue. A desk stands against the window, often littered with books and notes. The bathroom is small, tiled in pale stone, with a claw-footed bathtub. It's not actually particularly late, but Regan is already dressed for bed. Dark red pajama pants, a black tank, hair damp where it hangs down against her back. Residency has meant all kinds of strange hours; probably tomorrow morning is an early one. So tonight, perhaps, is an early one. At the moment she is in front of her bathroom sink, pajama'd, soft black slippers, stifling a yawn as she brushes her teeth. A powerful downdraft outside precedes Isra. Her massive wings beat audibly against the cool evening air, slowing her descent. Lit only by skyglow, her skin looks sickly mauve, her horns, claws, and wings a bloody red. She alights only a few steps from the door and smooths down her white linen dress before rapping at the door quite urgently. There's a faint brush of mind to mind to identify the knocking outside, before a (slightly muffled): "It's open." More brushing. Spit. Rinse. Isra's wings fold in close, tighter than really necessary for fitting through the door. Better light paints her skin a more salubrious pale pink, setting off the bright red well. Though her expression looks as placid as usual, her tail sways rhythmically and the tension in her movements bespeaks some distress. She stalks across the living room and stops, canting her head and listening. Then she goes back to the couch quite deliberately and sinks down onto it sidewise, legs pulled up beneath her and wings hanging down to the floor. "I had not meant to interrupt your ablutions." No apology, though. Regan is swishing mouthwash as Isra enters. Gargling it, spitting it back out. She rinses out her mouth with water, shaking her head. Her eyes skip sidelong to the swaying tail. "Do you need a drink?" Isra's ears flick forward, then back again. "Yes--something on the strong side, if you please." Keen green eyes fix on her tail, which eases down as if intimidated by her gaze. "Perhaps a bit of Scotch." Regan nods, slipping back towards her kitchenette. She brings out a half-full bottle of good Scotch, two squat glasses. She pours a couple fingers worth for Isra, just a splash for herself, folding herself down into the opposite side of the couch. Her eyes level on Isra, brows lifting as she offers the other woman the fuller glass. Isra accepts the glass with a tip of her head, glossy crimson horns glinting whenever she moves. She raises the drink to her nose, inhales it, eyes closed. Takes a sip. "Xavier found out about my last assignment." Her eyes open again and fix on Regan, unblinking. "Not surprising, of course, but I thought it important to make you aware." "Ah." If Regan is surprised, it does not show on her expression. She swirls the Scotch in its glass, tipping her head int a small nod. "Well. You know psionics. No sense of privacy." There's a small twitch at the corners of her lips. "I take it he wasn't pleased." "I cannot say how much he knows, and could not have fished for that information without giving away more." Isra settles one wing across her body like a throw blanket. She looks down into her scotch brows knitted more in thought than distress. "He came off rather bland about it. By his standards it probably qualified as a conniption. He gave me an ultimatum, so I resigned." Regan takes a sip of her scotch, now. Slowly. "I'm sorry," she replies, first. "I know you care about those children. That is not an easy position to be in." Her fingers drum against the side of her glass. "It is safest to /assume/ he knows everything even if we might hope otherwise. But we have no plans on the Senator's life /now/ and the X-Men --" Her head shakes, slightly. "Tend to have as little desire to cross our path as we do theirs." "The children..." Isra actually sighs--a rare occurrence for her. "I can do more for them here than in a classroom, as much as I may enjoy the latter. I have spent my entire life in school." This with a sip of her whiskey. "It was past time to move on. Whatever else he may know, I hope it does not bring us into direct conflict with his people, intentionally or not." She smiles abruptly, fangs flashing white. "Though this does give me a rather unexpected surplus of free time." "If he wanted a direct conflict, I suspect he's had many opportunities in the past. And will again. With or without you." Isra's smile draws one from Regan, smaller. Less fangy. Less flashy. "Is that an offer." She says it like she already knows the answer. "I have no doubt we can fill it." "I'd like to finish my thesis," Isra muses, swirling the golden-amber liquor around the glass cradled easily in her hand. "I'm sure some journal somewhere will publish it. But aside from that, I shall lend what time and skills I can here." She takes another sip, slow and savored. "I don't suppose you've any dire need for a custom-built telescope?" "In the city?" Regan sounds amused at this proposition. "Perhaps not. But your time and skills --" Her shoulder lifts, slightly. "I'll look forward to reading your thesis, though. And perhaps one day an apology from Columbia." "It might startle you, how much a good scope can see on a clear night." Isra rests her head on a folded arm against the couch. "Even here. I'll be sure to send you a copy when I've completed the final edit, even if /no one/ will publish it." She looks down into her glass again. "I don't want an apology from Columbia--from anyone. I want change." Her eyes lift again, no trace of anger in their green depths. "So, my place is here." Regan lifts her glass to Isra. The smile on her lips is small, but there's a warmth in her blue eyes. "With us."