Mark & Farouk, Thursday afternoon
Jan. 3rd, 2008 01:05 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsDuring a trip up to the mansion, Mark tries to find Esteban, but instead meets Farouk. The professor is not impressed.
Even though he was clearly an invited guest, Mark always felt a little out of place at Xavier's. He'd come to recognize a number of the students and staff, and even exchanged pleasantries with a few people as he remade his way to the suite he'd accidentally found last time he'd come to visit. He raised his empty hand - the one not holding the cleanly laundered silk shirt still in the dry cleaner's bag - to knock on the door. If he was lucky, he'd return home with another.
Farouk's eyes snapped open, the ability of shaking off sleep and coming instantly awake and alert has always come easy to him. At the moment, however, that talent was feeling more like a curse. Combined with the tendency to wake up at the slightest disturbance, the insomnia that he has been unable to shake off for days and the unrelenting migraine - Amahl was having an increasingly harder time maintaining his composure.
That insufferable Jean woman has sternly prescribed bed rest - implicitly confessing to yet another failure in understanding the source of the problems plaguing him. She continued to maintain that there was no credible link between the dimunition of his powers and his increasing physical deterioration.
The phrase 'retarded rhesus monkey in a lab coat' leapt to mind and stubbornly refused to leave.
The knock sounded again, insistently annoying.
Farouk struggled out of bed, belting his robe and grasping for the gnarled oak cane that Laurie left the last time she visited. He paused momentarily in his progress towards the door, shutting his eyes momentarily partly from the headache and vertigo, partly from the horror of the memory.
The girl was a seemingly endless source of cheerfulness and complete lack of ability to take a hint. At one point, Amahl seriously began to wonder whether she was engaging in an elaborate attempt to drive him insane through the combination of sleep deprivation and inane chatter lacking any at all rational content or continuity.
He sighed and opened the door, dreading to see whether his slight-figured brown-haired nemesis would smile brightly at him from the other side.
"What?"
Mark had become used to seeing the completely unexpected, but this was something else altogether. Granted, he and Esteban hadn't talked much the first time they'd met, but he hadn't come away with the impression that Esteban went for chicken hawks. Or that this would be permitted here. He offered a smile, though, and looked into the room. "Is this Esteban's apartment?"
Farouk moved firmly to block his visitor's inquisitive look. "No. It's mine. I am Professor Farouk."
Ah, the esteemed professor. They at least talked about that. Mark's smile came more easily. At least there wasn't competition now. "Oh, hello, Professor. Nice to meet you. My name's Mark. Esteban does live here, though, right? Is he in?"
Farouk's suppressed a sigh. Apparently the fact that he asked neither the man's name nor invited him in, was too subtle a hint. He glanced at Mark measuringly and gritted his teeth behind a bland smile. Apparently it was time for another little talk with Esteban on the themes of not defecating where one ate. That's all he needed at this point, really - accusation of his manservant committing statutory rape of one of the students.
He coughed wrackingly, taking special care to breathe out into the visitor's face.
"Ahem. Ah. Yes. Excuse me. Yes, Mr. Trotsky, being in my employ, does indeed reside here. Would you like to leave a message with me for him?"
Since, apparently, the modern phone-technology confuses and frightens your tender soul, you incredible cretin.
Mark grimaced. The last thing he needed was to catch something from someone he wasn't sleeping with. "This is his," he said, holding up the cleaners' bag. "Just wanted to return it to him." And get another. "He's got great taste," he added, if only to see the reaction.
"Yes, in clothes." Farouk agreed cattily before he could stop himself. He really needed to get some sleep, he decided. Plucking the silk garment from the man hand, Amahl nodded to him. "Mr. Trotsky is out at the moment, running some errands for me, I am afraid. But I will be sure to let him know that you came by, err... Mark. He will probably call you back."
Which was in fact exceedingly unlikely - neither committed relationship that outlasted the one-night stand nor club-kids were really Estaban's style. But hopefully it would start this gentleman on his merry way.
"Thanks." Mark stole another quick glance around the sitting room - hoping to catch some glimpse that he wasn't being played - then nodded at Farouk. "Have a nice day, then." He turned to leave, shaking his head to himself. Amanda was going to love hearing about this.
Even though he was clearly an invited guest, Mark always felt a little out of place at Xavier's. He'd come to recognize a number of the students and staff, and even exchanged pleasantries with a few people as he remade his way to the suite he'd accidentally found last time he'd come to visit. He raised his empty hand - the one not holding the cleanly laundered silk shirt still in the dry cleaner's bag - to knock on the door. If he was lucky, he'd return home with another.
Farouk's eyes snapped open, the ability of shaking off sleep and coming instantly awake and alert has always come easy to him. At the moment, however, that talent was feeling more like a curse. Combined with the tendency to wake up at the slightest disturbance, the insomnia that he has been unable to shake off for days and the unrelenting migraine - Amahl was having an increasingly harder time maintaining his composure.
That insufferable Jean woman has sternly prescribed bed rest - implicitly confessing to yet another failure in understanding the source of the problems plaguing him. She continued to maintain that there was no credible link between the dimunition of his powers and his increasing physical deterioration.
The phrase 'retarded rhesus monkey in a lab coat' leapt to mind and stubbornly refused to leave.
The knock sounded again, insistently annoying.
Farouk struggled out of bed, belting his robe and grasping for the gnarled oak cane that Laurie left the last time she visited. He paused momentarily in his progress towards the door, shutting his eyes momentarily partly from the headache and vertigo, partly from the horror of the memory.
The girl was a seemingly endless source of cheerfulness and complete lack of ability to take a hint. At one point, Amahl seriously began to wonder whether she was engaging in an elaborate attempt to drive him insane through the combination of sleep deprivation and inane chatter lacking any at all rational content or continuity.
He sighed and opened the door, dreading to see whether his slight-figured brown-haired nemesis would smile brightly at him from the other side.
"What?"
Mark had become used to seeing the completely unexpected, but this was something else altogether. Granted, he and Esteban hadn't talked much the first time they'd met, but he hadn't come away with the impression that Esteban went for chicken hawks. Or that this would be permitted here. He offered a smile, though, and looked into the room. "Is this Esteban's apartment?"
Farouk moved firmly to block his visitor's inquisitive look. "No. It's mine. I am Professor Farouk."
Ah, the esteemed professor. They at least talked about that. Mark's smile came more easily. At least there wasn't competition now. "Oh, hello, Professor. Nice to meet you. My name's Mark. Esteban does live here, though, right? Is he in?"
Farouk's suppressed a sigh. Apparently the fact that he asked neither the man's name nor invited him in, was too subtle a hint. He glanced at Mark measuringly and gritted his teeth behind a bland smile. Apparently it was time for another little talk with Esteban on the themes of not defecating where one ate. That's all he needed at this point, really - accusation of his manservant committing statutory rape of one of the students.
He coughed wrackingly, taking special care to breathe out into the visitor's face.
"Ahem. Ah. Yes. Excuse me. Yes, Mr. Trotsky, being in my employ, does indeed reside here. Would you like to leave a message with me for him?"
Since, apparently, the modern phone-technology confuses and frightens your tender soul, you incredible cretin.
Mark grimaced. The last thing he needed was to catch something from someone he wasn't sleeping with. "This is his," he said, holding up the cleaners' bag. "Just wanted to return it to him." And get another. "He's got great taste," he added, if only to see the reaction.
"Yes, in clothes." Farouk agreed cattily before he could stop himself. He really needed to get some sleep, he decided. Plucking the silk garment from the man hand, Amahl nodded to him. "Mr. Trotsky is out at the moment, running some errands for me, I am afraid. But I will be sure to let him know that you came by, err... Mark. He will probably call you back."
Which was in fact exceedingly unlikely - neither committed relationship that outlasted the one-night stand nor club-kids were really Estaban's style. But hopefully it would start this gentleman on his merry way.
"Thanks." Mark stole another quick glance around the sitting room - hoping to catch some glimpse that he wasn't being played - then nodded at Farouk. "Have a nice day, then." He turned to leave, shaking his head to himself. Amanda was going to love hearing about this.
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Date: 2008-01-04 02:10 am (UTC)