Jean-Phillipe and Cammie

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Jean-Phillipe, as usual despite his antisocial haunting the kitchen at all hours of the night, still manages to run into someone. Backdated to early this morning.



Cammie wasn't sure what time it was. She wasn't the type to invest in clocks or watches. As such she didn't have any idea what time it was when she went down to the kitchen other than it was time for a snack and maybe a drink. She wasn't fully awake. Her body must be adjusting to the whole being awake during the day thing now. There wasn't that urgency here that kept her awake at night. The idea that she could sleep and not have to worry about someone jumping her was nice.

She wondered if that meant she was getting soft. Yawning loudly and stretching she walked into the kitchen, not looking around to see if there was anyone else in the room.

"Aww man, I'm fucking bushed."

"Merde." At the rate people seemed to come to the kitchen, even at strange hours of the night, it might as well be a train station. Jean-Phillipe grunted in response to the entrance. He looked up. Green hair and such, this would most likely be Cammie, one of the newer residents. Despite his antisocialness, he still kept up with the journal system.

“Me er what?” she opened her eyes, “Oh, hey. Didn’t think anything –mean anyone, would be up this late,” Cammie said, standing in the doorway. She hadn’t seen this person yet, but so what. That didn’t mean a damn thing. It wasn’t like she was going out of her way to introduce herself to everyone here.

Jean-Phillipe rolled his eyes. "Merde," he repeated slowly. "It is French. It means 'shit'," he explained, as though he were speaking to a small child. He wrapped his hands around a mug of coffee and looked flatly at Cammie, not speaking further.

"And here from your tone, I thought it meant Sunshine and Rainbows," Cammie returned, making her way to the fridge. "Or, you know, 'hey, nice to see you.' So, what's with the coffee at bumblefuck in the morning?"

"That would imply that it -is- nice to see you," Jean-Phillipe retorted, his tone clearly indicating that the opposite was the case. "I enjoy coffee," he said shortly as his only explanation.

“Oh, but it’s always nice to see me,” Cammie said, ignoring the guy’s tone as she pulled a couple of things out of the fridge. “That stuff will make it so you never go to sleep. Which is okay, you know. As sleep is one of those things that slowly saps your precious free time one nap at a time.”

Dieu, the girl had taken his gruff greeting as a desire for conversation. "I find sleep overrated," he replied after a few moments, when it became obvious that she wasn't leaving. "Or, at least, I find mornings overrated, as anything worth doing is done at night."

Or, she was just mouthy. Cammie didn’t really care if he was looking for conversation or not. He was there, she was there, and she was going to talk. She started making a sandwich that didn’t smell like anything someone should be eating. “It is, really. And mornings are part of the fascist regime that tells you to happily live a normal life. I try not to listen to those people.”

Jean-Phillipe was torn between maintaining his gruff exterior and agreeing with her. Finally he grunted in something a little more companionable and agreeable than previously.

“Oh, what was that? Could it be agreement?” she said, taking a bite of her sandwich. Heaven on slices of (moldy – she saved it) bread. “Or is that French for ‘leave me the hell alone’?”

"Can it not be both?" Jean-Phillipe asked grudgingly. Being a cranky loner was not all it was cracked up to be, even as annoying as a large percentage of the mansion's residents could be.

"Well, they're kinda different things," she said with a bit of a laugh, eating her food. "Of course, this is a public room. You can't be that surprised that I came in to eat something."

Jean-Phillipe dismissed her words with an airy flip of his hand. "So what brings you to the kitchen at an hour fit for owls and bitchy Frenchmen?" he asked.

“The love of owl meat and the joy at the bitchiness of Frenchmen,” Cammie returned. “That and I haven’t straightened out a schedule yet. Schedules are for fascist and people with some form of a future.”

"Heh." Jean-Phillipe knew that feeling. Ever since turning himself in to the Professor, he felt like had nothing in the way of a future. Smoking out one's window and attempting to flirt with Jean-Paul Beaubier every so often didn't classify as a future.

“Ah, someone who agrees. Or at least is amused at the prospect of eating owl. I’ve never been able to tell,” Cammie said, finishing up her sandwich and then cleaning up the area. She wasn’t going to make someone else sick with her food accidentally.

"I do not know about eating owl, but I can identify with the rest," Jean-Phillipe replied. Owl was on the normal side for Cammie from everything he'd read on the journals, though.

“If I ever catch and eat it, I’ll let you know about how it tastes. Of course, if I can taste it, you don’t want to be eating it,” she mused.

"Very true," he agreed. He stood and rinsed his coffee mug out in the sink after Cammie moved away from it. "Bonne nuit," he said to her as he went to the door, heading back to his room.