xp_logs | Log: Mark & Illyana

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Mark takes Illyana clothes shopping. He might regret it forever.

"I swear, if you pick one more yellow shirt, I'm gonna have to take you out back and beat the yellow out of you. You do not look good in yellow. At all." Mark sighed heavily, his face buried in his hands as if he were weeping. There was no explanation for why shopping should be this hard.

"I like yellow," Illyana said, putting one hand on her hip, petulant. "I don't see why I can't just wear my normal clothes, anyway. It's not like we're going undercover."

Mark took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before looking up again. "Jubilee possesses many praiseworthy qualities, but color coordination is not one of them. We're going to a rock club, not a rave." It had taken nearly two years, but Mark had finally managed to crack open this girl enough to determine what sort of music she favored. And now he was going to take her to see how music is supposed to be performed: live.

He hoped dressing her up suitably wouldn't take another two years.

Illyana gave him a dubious look, but put the shirt back on the rack. "What's a rave? It sounds..." She paused, looking for the right adjective. "Hideous."

"Just like that shirt." Mark tore through the racks like a madman, trying to find an appropriate top for Illyana. Nothing phony, like a pre-faded '80s rock band t-shirt, or slutty, like a tank top that was more tank than top. "It's what suburban yuppies do when they want to get 'real' and escape from the everyday doldrums that is the bourgeois. It involves acid and pacifiers."

"I don't even want to know," Illyana said, following him and trying not to grimace at the clothes, because people tended to think she was ungrateful when she did that, and while it was usually true, the path to an easy life was paved with repressed emotional honesty. "Honestly, I could just go in whatever I wear to work."

Mark stopped mid-browse. His hand found its way to his head again, to massage his temples and relieve the building pressure there. "You are not wearing khakis to a club. I . . . just . . . no." He returned to the rack and a few second later returned, triumphantly bearing an emerald-green corset top.

"Is it a club or a bordello?" The blonde tilted her head. "Are you sure I can't wear khakis? I got really nice ones at that store with all the half-naked models. Abernathy and something."

"Girl, please. You're better than Aberfaggy. Much too pretty for that." He handed her the top and led her down to the pants. "This part is easier. Something skinny and curvy."

"I am not skinny," Illyana protested, having only vaguely understood what Mark said. "What about those capris? They're black!"

"Skinny, like my jeans. Lessee. What are you, a 10?" Mark picked out a pair of jeans, and after a moment's consideration, grabbed another couple. "You need more than one pair."

"I'm an eight, and why do I need more than one pair? This is just like that thing with the shoes. I'm not going to wear two at once, either, if that's what you're thinking." She eyed the jeans suspiciously, as if fashion itself was against her.

"Because these are all different colors and they go with different ensembles," Mark explained, like he was talking to a particularly slow child. "And you need to wear something when one is in the wash, if you're gonna be like that. I swear to Madonna, girl. You are so gorgeous and you're throwing it away by not dressing like a human being."

"I am so!" Illyana said indignantly. "I've seen how non-humans dress. There's usually bones or teeth involved somewhere. Sometimes human skin. I definitely don't wear anything like that."

"Khakis to a club is worse than bones and teeth. Here." He all but shoved the pants and top into Illyana's hands and marched her to the fitting room. An attendant passed by to ask if everything was okay, and Mark sighed and nodded. "She's a work in progress. Very She's All That. Just needs ta lose the glasses and ponytail."

The jeans didn't pose a problem for Illyana; those she slipped into with little problem. The shirt, on the other hand, was, perhaps, overly complicated; she emerged five minutes later, mussed, with the lace-up back on her front (showcasing nothing so much as her utilitarian Victoria's Secret bra), one arm through the halter top, and a scowl. "This looks retarded," she said. "Like Amanda when she's breathing."

"Oh no, Yana, no," Mark said through gritted teeth. Not that he was angry, but it took all of his willpower to not simply burst into hysterics. He couldn't recall ever seeing something so ridiculous. "The lace is on the back. And your arms go here." He helped her extricate her arm and then pushed her back into the dressing room before he lost it.

"Why would they make a shirt so hard to put on?" Illyana shouted from the dressing room, twisting and fussing and finally stepping out with the shirt more or less on like it was meant to be. "If this isn't right, I'm wearing khakis, and you can't stop me," she informed Mark, glowering at the salesperson over his shoulder.

Mark wiped his eyes and pulled himself back to his feet. "Perfect. You look fantastic," he said between chortles. But he did mean it. He hoped that much was clear. "Is it really that bad?"

"It's fine, I guess," Illyana said, looking at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror without so much as a hint of Do I look fat in this? She turned, trying to see the back. "So long as you're sure no one's going to mistake me for a hooker."

Take any victory you can get. "At worst, you'll be taken for a high-class expensive call girl. Worse things could happen."

"So long as I don't have to hurt anyone, that's fine. These jeans are too tight to kick people in." She glanced at him, distracted. "What are you wearing?"

"I was thinking about that," Mark replied, pointing to her top, "But I wouldn't want to show up in the same outfit. It'd be embarrassing."

Illyana considered this. "Also," she pointed out, after a lot of thought, gesturing to the shirt's rather impressive bust, "you don't have breasts."

"Falsies aren't gonna cut it for a top like that," Mark laughed.