xp_logs | Wednesday afternoon: Pietro and Terry

Terry seeks out new musical frontiers by bothering Pietro. It works, shockingly enough and they even have a decent conversation to go along with it.

In a chirpy sort of mood and generally pleased with the world, Terry hummed a tune to herself as she walked briskly along the corridor. It wasn't any particular sort of tune, just something she'd been playing with for a while, letting it fall into place. She found that she did better when she didn't rush that sort of thing. Besides, the objective of today had nothing to do with her little proto-melody and everything to do with expanding her musical vocabulary. The faint buzzing noise that Terry associated with Pietro was close by which meant that she was likely in luck and had trapped the lion in its den. She knocked on the door in a satisfied way, "Mr. Maximoff? It's Terry."

Pietro glanced up from his book, a puzzled sort of expression on his face. He hadn't been expecting any visitors today. In fact, he'd planned a quiet day in; Summers' training regimen was so far doing an excellent job of pointing out just how much of his edge Pietro had lost over the last six months; his calves were smarting nearly as much as his pride.

Still, Terry was usually entertaining enough, and if he didn't ration the library carefully he'd run out in less than a week. "Come on in, Terry," he called as he turned off his computer monitor.

Hurrah, the hardest part was done. Arguing Pietro around to humouring her whims took longer and didn't always work. Terry pushed the door open lightly and poked her head in, grinning, "I'm not interrupting anything, am I? I wanted to see if you had some time for a bit of music." Over her shoulder, Patience's black soft-sided case could be seen, the strap running across her torso.

"I wouldn't have invited you in if you were interrupting," Pietro pointed out. "And my social calendar is hardly frenetic, so I think I might be able to pencil you in." He smiled slightly. "What did you have in mind?"

Her grin brightened a bit more and she stepped all the way into the room. "I was going to impose on your good will a bit. The song you were playing a while back, that your uncle taught you--do you know anymore like it?" In her last talk with Alison, her old music teacher had scolded her for letting a perfectly good source of new music go unmined.

"I suppose I can remember a few more," Pietro replied thoughtfully. He gave her an amused look. "That sure that I have enough good will to impose on, are you?"

"I have unreasonable amounts of faith in people." It sounded like she was quoting someone. "Do you have time now? I brought Patience along for you to play." Terry pulled her guitar case around and unzipped it to pull out Patience. He didn't look like he was going to kick her out right away but given how quickly he changed moods that wasn't a guarantee. I wonder if he thinks of himself as a calm, steady person considering the time compression, she mused idly.

"Or you're just unreasonable." Pietro chuckled. "But yes, I have time now . . . and that's a very nice guitar," he added admiringly as Terry uncased Patience. "I'd leave it at home if you should ever run into the Maximoff caravan; my uncle wouldn't be able to keep his hands to himself." He paused. "Possibly in multiple senses of the phrase."

"I'm completely reasonable. There's never an Irishwoman born who wasn't." She weighed Patience in her hands for a moment, smiling down at the guitar. "She was a gift from Alison. Your uncle would discover that he'd have a hard time playing her without hands so I'm not worried. In any sense of the phrase." Carefully, she passed the guitar to Pietro and without waiting for invitation, took a seat on the sofa, leaning forwarding and watching him closely.

"No good. I've known too many Irishwomen." Pietro settled the guitar carefully in his lap, thinking about what to play. Something simple enough that he wouldn't have to experiment very much, clearly; he wasn't about to risk damaging anyone's personal instrument. Hm. "A good deal of what I remember has a vocal part," he said thoughtfully. "I may write those down for you later; my singing voice is several years out of practice."

"Sure I don't mind so long as you can carry a tune. It doesn't have to be a voice of angels. You haven't got the wings for it." She let the Irishwomen crack go by without comment. Because of course that was also a hallmark of the Irish, a sweet and forgiving nature. She make him pay for it later. "I'd be grateful to you if you wrote them down anyway. Saves me having to memorise it all right now."

"I'll take a few idle moments later on." Pietro thought for a moment, then chuckled. "And I think I'll give you the choice of theme. I know a selection of the classics, of course: there's love songs, sad songs, drinking songs, and dancing songs. And of course combinations and variations, but when you really boil everything down, those are your basic choices."

Terry thought about it seriously, her pale face solemn as she curled a lock of brilliant red hair around her finger. "Why don't you start with the dancing song. Sure we don't know each other well enough to be singing the love songs and its a poor drinking song learned without a pint."

"A dancing song it is, then." Pietro's fingers moved over the strings; at a wrong note, he frowned and started over. At another, he started over again, and gave Terry a wry look. "Fifteen-year-old memories. This one is--or it will be, once I'm getting it right--something I've only sung in Romanian, but I think it's Russian originally. It's hard to say, since the music moves around at least as much as the caravans do."

Terry shrugged, "I don't mind. You're not a musician, I don't expect musicianship from you. Just a bit of fun. Play what you remember. If nothing else, I might be able to track it down and find the rest, right? Music is funny, it becomes the person's who is singing it no matter where it came from originally."

"Gypsy music can be tricky to find," Pietro replied, fingers still busy on the guitar. "The real stuff, anyway, what we play for ourselves; most of what you'll see in published form is tourist music . . . ah, and here we are."

He started the piece over again, more confidently, and the lively tune filled the room. After a few bars he began singing along, and if his voice was rusty it was still strong.

Terry leaned forward, enraptured, her eyes on his hands, concentrating on the music and the words. Her fingers twitched involuntarily as she mimicked his movements, learning the song. It was tricky, surprisingly so, and she spent a moment wishing she'd brought along a recorder so she could play it back later.

Memories crept up on Pietro as he sang. The homesickness was cropping up again after that too-brief phone call on his birthday, and it hadn't lost any of its sting. He ended on an unintentionally wistful note, and quickly composed himself again before Terry looked up from his hands. "Rusty, I told you."

She'd heard the change, the slight catch and waver of emotion before control set in. Most people wouldn't have, the variation was slight. But most people didn't live and die by their hearing the way that Terry did. Instead of answering right away, she leaned forward and touched the belly on Patience, just for a moment, making the connection without invading his space. "Play it again," she requested, "please?"

Pietro looked down at the guitar, and his hands might have trembled, just for a moment. Then they steadied, almost mechanically; when he raised his head again, his eyes were opaque, expressionless, his mouth set in its usual condescending smirk. "Too fast for you?" he asked lightly. "I thought you were supposed to be some kind of prodigy."

Terry just smiled. "I thought it would be nice to let you do again now that your voice has warmed up." There was no sign that she was offended by, or even noticed his return to his usual acerbic nature.

"No, that's quite all right," Pietro replied, still in that light tone. "I'm not a musician, after all; one shouldn't expect musicianship."

"Sure and I don't," Terry agreed, still smiling and extended her hands to take Patience back, "If you're happy with that then, may I give it a try?" She knew that she'd probably make more than a couple mistakes when she played it but Terry wasn't afraid of mistakes.

"By all means." Pietro handed the guitar over and sat back, trying to manage the surge of irritation. He was beginning to feel like he was being handled, and he had no patience for it, but he didn't want to alienate the girl too badly.

She had to play it more slowly than he had, eyes half-closed and focused on picking out the tune. She didn't sing; that would take time to learn, better to just get the music down. Even with her care, she screwed up a few times and bit back automatic curses. "I should make you write out the tab for me," she muttered as she finished then grimaced. "Tricky thing.

"If you ask, maybe I will. That overbearing streak is going to get you into trouble someday." Pietro shrugged. "Still, you didn't do too badly."

Terry beamed at him, "I'm pushy, I know. It works with most people." Without so much as skipping a beat she went on. "Would you please write the tab for this song for me, Mr. Maximoff? I'd like to learn it and also send it to Alison if I may." It was a little cheeky but not insincere.

"Stop calling me that. And we've spoken before about that too-cute-to-be-in-trouble act of yours as well." Pietro smirked slightly. "Careful you don't 'push' so far I decide to say no just to prove the point."

She shrugged, "I can't help it. I'm not really comfortable calling adults by their first names. Mr. Haller asked me the same thing but it doesn't stick. It's a respect issue." She knew that most teens jumped on the chance to be so casual with adults. Terry had a slightly different view on it. "Anyway, I really would appreciate it if you would. It'll give me something to do between classes."

"I suppose if you're offering respect, I'd be foolish not to take it." Pietro reached for a sheet of paper and a pencil; after a moment he handed Terry the finished score, a faint smell of scorched graphite clinging to the page. "And it would be a shame for you to get bored; you'd come up with some way to get into trouble."

"Thanks." She tucked the paper away into Patience's case carefully. "I have an impertinent question."

Pietro laughed. "You are pushy. Fine, let's hear it."

The laugh was a good sign. "Do you consider yourself a calm, deliberate, unexcitable person?"

"Compared to what?" He shrugged. "I wouldn't say calm so much as jaded. Spend enough time around my father and his associates, and you become remarkably unshockable, if you survive."

"No, not unshockable or jaded. Subjective time. I'm curious." Terry made an indefinable gesture with her hand. "I think you're loud. I think everyone is loud. You think we're slow. Do you consider yourself patient? Given how long it seems you have to wait for everyone?"

Pietro gave her a quick, surprised look, before settling back thoughtfully. "The concept of patience . . . doesn't hold a lot of meaning for me. In subjective terms, yes, I do have to wait a very long time for nearly everyone to get to the point. On the other hand, it's still not long enough to suit most people who aren't me. So how do you define patience? Is it simply the act of waiting, or is it waiting long enough?"

Her grin was quick, "I asked you first." She made the gesture again, a quick flutter of her fingers up and then restrained. "I know that you aren't really loud because you're not like Kyle or John. They're louder. But subjectively, you're loud. Me too and I can get really, really loud. That's why I asked if you consider yourself patient, not if you are patient. Because that's subjective too."

Pietro smiled slightly. "I suppose I'm not so different from anyone, where patience is concerned. I can be when it's important to me; or not, when it isn't. I lose patience faster than most, of course, but I do everything faster."

"How much faster?" Terry sat back, pulled Patience closer to her and fingering the chords. She could hear the tiny vibrations but it wasn't enough to distract her from her curiosity.

"Cognitive speed is tricky to accurately compare, but I've heard the gamut of high-pitched-buzzing comparisons from telepaths. I think fast enough to effectively operate at my top speed, is all that really matters." Pietro relaxed slightly, pride tingeing his expression. "And in a full-out sprint I've hit Mach 5. Of course, I can only keep that up for a few hours before exhausting myself."

"Where does all the energy for it come from?" As long as he'd let her, she'd keep asking. Not for any reason beyond a simple desire to know. It was one of the few times she'd had the chance to talk to a mutant trained entirely outside the school. Nathan didn't count.

Pietro waved a hand dismissively. "The food I eat, just the same as yours. I simply digest it more efficiently, and my muscles don't build up fatigue poisons as readily as yours do. I definitely don't channel power from speed heaven, or whatever other brain-addled explanation the comic books favor these days."

"Birds eat more. Energy projectors eat more. Even if they're efficient, they have to compensate somehow. It's just science," Terry argued. "Unless you're getting power from somewhere else, like Alex and Mr. Summers do?"

Pietro rolled his eyes. "Normal human digestion is an incredibly wasteful process. You eat, your body digests what it can use, converts it to energy, and then it discards the rest. When I eat, on the other hand, not only do I convert my food to energy several orders of magnitude more effectively than you do, but my body discards almost nothing. Greater mass, processed more efficiently, equals a very great deal more energy. I believe that too is 'just science.'"

Terry frowned, "I don't think I understand but I'm better with laws than I am with science." She lifted Patience again, "Perhaps we could try another song then?"

"Always good to know how the opposition works," Pietro replied with a quick smile. "Yes, another song would be nice."

"My choice this time I think. It's only fair." Terry picked out a few notes, then kicked into a rollicking reel, "Sure you'll know this sounds better on a fiddle or harp but I've none of those here." It was a lively song, a sending out and a welcoming home.

Pietro found his foot tapping to the music before the song ended. "That does sound more like a fiddle tune, but it fit the guitar fairly well, I thought. I'll have to hear it a few more times before I could try playing it myself, though. We're not all musical prodigies."

"Not an instrument I play, unfortunately and I've not the time to pick it up. Piano's my next project--I had to drop it with the team and school and all. I'm hardly a prodigy. It takes me plenty of work even with my natural advantages." Terry continued to play, quietly just because she liked the sound of music on the air.

"Sounds like you have enough to keep you busy, anyway." Pietro leaned back, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "And remind me to ask Summers if you're in my training rotation anytime soon. I've had some nebulous ideas about targeted shockwaves that I've been wanting to play around with, but most of the people I've worked with tend to object to bleeding out the ears so I haven't really been able to explore the concept."

"We were scheduled upcoming but I've got to take a trip home actually so it'll have to be put off." Terry smiled, "I'm interested in how you'd manage that. Speed mutations are hard to simulate so we haven't got a whole lot of practice with it."

"Generating a shockwave is simple enough," Pietro replied with an easy shrug. "Anyone who picks up a bullwhip can do it, if they're moderately coordinated. The trick is making one big enough to do what I want it to do, then putting it where I need it to be. Thus the nebulosity of the idea. I'll be sure to catch you when you get back."

"Most people aren't actually a human whip is my point. Other than Angelo. It's taken me a long time to learn to focus my voice where it needs to go so I understand the challenges." Terry nodded, "We'll have to make sure that we get DR time. I shouldn't be gone longer than a few days--can't really afford to since I'll be missing classes to make the trip."

"Well, yes, I'm presupposing the use of a properly soundproofed facility," Pietro said dryly. "All my previous tests have involved... a certain amount of regrettable splash damage, let's say." He shot Terry a look of faint concern. "Nothing wrong at home, I hope?"

"DR can take my usual level of screaming and we've got even better for when Sean and I really push it." She glanced at the clock and started to pack Patience away, shaking her head as she did so, "No, nothing's wrong at all. Just some paperwork that needs to be done fairly soon and it'll be easier if we're not mailing it back and forth. Plus I won't be able to see Sean for his birthday so I figured I'd go now."

"Paperwork is the bane of civilized society," Pietro said with a sharp sniff. "Best of luck getting it out of the way."

"So it is, but without it, we're no better than chickens," Terry agreed cheerfully and stood, slinging Patience's case over her back. "Thanks for the luck and the song, Mr. Maximoff. We'll have to do this again sometime."