(Backdated) LOG: [Monet, Marius] A taste of home. Disturbingly.

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After the little upset on the lawn, Marius relents and visits his half-sister with a peace-offering. Apologies are exchanged, and you really start to wonder what the hell Cartier did to these kids.


Monet was curled up on the couch in the living area of her suite, watching America's Next Top Model, a fuzzy pink blanket wrapped around her shoulders and wearing her pajamas. She was distinctly disinclined to move, still covered in bruises from being slammed into the ground by Crazy-Nathan.

There was a knock. It managed to sound almost apologetic, although the voice with proceeded it wasn't the sort to admit to such a thing.

"Monet?" her half-brother's voice filtered through the wood. "Your permission to enter?"

Monet hit mute on the TV and called out "Marius? Come in. It's open and I'm not up to moving. I'm crippled, injured. Never likely to walk again!"

"For true, or is that just what you plan on telling dad to cut uni?" There was a complicated little jiggle at the knob, then Marius shouldered his way in. The difficulty with doorknob manipulation was immediately apparent; he was holding a tray. Though the main part of it was covered, the side was being nudged by a bottle of tomato sauce.

"I come to aide in your convalescence," the younger boy explained as he set the tray on the coffee table. "I, too, have been thrashed by Mr. Dayspring. Well, technically. Enough to account for a spontaneous outpouring of fraternal, er . . ." his brow furrowed, "let us say 'maintenance'."

"I'm really, honest to God, injured, Marius. I have a black eye. Look!" Monet sat up, twisting around to face the door, showing off her eye and noticed the tray Marius was holding. "Oooh, what're those? And what did Nathan do to you?"

"Ah, little enough. Let's just say the psionic temper-tantrums are not unknown. As for this . . ." Marius whisked the lid from the tray with a flourish, "I thought you might appreciate a taste of home. Not so the finer points of your digestive system, perhaps, but I've decided to gamble the thought involved is sufficient to override the reality."

Monet made little grabby hands at Marius. "Dude, you brought me party pies and sausage rolls. Best brother ever! Come, sit down and share." Mouth full of pie, Monet remarked, "You know, you're allowed to put any part of almost any animal except for their fetuses in meat pies?"

"Indeed. Alas, I did them up myself, and Ms. Dane and Dani see fit to provide their kitchen with only named meats. True authenticity is thus lost, but the spirit remains. I had no choice. The American sort have the blasphemous tendency to collapse. I've seen them eaten with spoons." Marius settled down and took a pie for himself, commandeering the bottle of tomato sauce. As he unscrewed the top her regarded Monet's black eye, which, against her brown skin, was very nearly that color in literal truth. "That's a beauty there. So much for invulnerability, eh?"

"Wait, you made these yourself? Oh my god, absolute best brother ever." Monet paused briefly, aware of an unpleasant truth she'd been avoiding ever since the fight. "I think that if it wasn't for the invulnerability, I'd be dead right now. I mean, he smacked me around a fair bit and he was ...angry."

Marius was silent as he finished tapping out the sauce. He set the bottle aside, cap replaced, and then turned to look at her.

"You seem to be gettin' nearly-dead a bit too frequently for comfort," Marius said, with a tone that attempted humour only to be met with miserable failure. He realized it and snorted self-consciously, adding, "Somethin' which may also run in the family."

Monet laughed briefly. "You're telling me. Is it some kind of secondary mutation running in the family? I had to cancel the preview I was going to go to tomorrow night on account of this black eye. Still, in a certain way, it was kind of fun right up until I thought... Well, it was fun up until then."

"The potential eye-losin' bit? Well that's a bit terrifying. It lends some credence to mum's constant warnings, previously disregarded because they were always in relation to activities I personally found entertaining." Marius contemplated the pie held between his hands, a little pool of sauce on the top. "Nonetheless, it occurred to me that, what with the threat of death bein' such a frequent possibility, I should choose sooner rather than later to apologise for certain regrettable insults." He looked up and added, "Which is to say, I'm sorry."

Monet blinked, trying to parse the sentence. Ah, right. Marius was sorry. "I guess I am, too." It felt like pulling teeth. She picked up a sausage roll and bit into it. "So, now that's done, got any good gossip?"

"Oh yes. A particularly tasty bit, as a matter of fact." Marius tilted his head slowly, eyeing Monet with suspicion. "Although I'm tempted to withhold it until we determine whether the request was preceded by a 'Yes Marius, I am indeed possessed of mutual regret' apology or an 'Should I offer token remorse perhaps this can be brushed under the rug, never to be heard or spoken of again' apology. Only I myself specialize in the latter, and am curious whether I should be acknowledgin' a fellow practitioner."

Monet laughed. "A little of column A, a little of column B. Now, gimme the gossip, bitch." Her smile and tone showed that she was joking.

Marius pursed his lips, considering this, and then gave a brisk nod. "Fair enough. Who am I to challenge a topical relationship?" He flashed a grin at her and gestured with his pie. "As for the gossip, it was revealed -- an in a rather unfortunate setting -- that Forge seems to have found himself a paramour."

Monet stared at him, openmouthed, a globbet of meat and sauce unattractively visible and still unswallowed. "Wait. Forge? You're shitting me." She swallowed and continued staring. "Who?"

Marius thoughtfully tapped his chin with his free hand. "Ah, wait, I seem to have developed a mild case of traumatic amnesia, perhaps brought about by an apology of questionable sincerity--"

"Okay, fine. I'm genuinely sorry and really regret everything. Happy? Now who is it? Marius, pleeease. Don't do this to me. It's not fair."

"Right, right. You are fortunate indeed that my sense of justice is outweighed by my mercy. Very well. The fortunate lady is . . ." Marius took a leisurely bite before replying, making an excruciatingly fastidious show of preventing any gravy from making it to his chin. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and then smirked. "His fellow staff-member Crystal."

"Crystal? But she's got class, sophistication, taste. And Forge has well... metal music and Red Bull. Why him? Oooh, is she slumming it?"

"A fascinating question, and perhaps one for the ages. It could place alongside what Samson saw in Delilah, and perhaps a bit left of the questionable genius involved in the invention of the floater." Marius thumbed a crumb away from the corner of his mouth. "Of course, my understanding of the subject is somewhat theoretical. Over the years I have taken great pains to streamline my romantic life to the point I am required to connect with a woman for no more than a few hours at a time. It's a skill, you know."

Monet laughed. "I approve. You get the fun stuff and don't have to do the whole dinner and flowers and ... and pretending like you actually care about them. Much more sensible and I, at least, can always find another handsome, not-too-intelligent guy with acceptable manners out there. Word from the wise, though: tennis players tend to get possessive."

Comments

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*giggles* Much love guys, this was fun. I really like the relationship between Monet and Marius - it has nothing whatsoever to do with supporting Aussie types in games. ;)