An English Lunch, with a nice French Supper after.

[x-juggernaut.livejournal.com]

Lunchtime

She knew the way to the boathouse well - she'd practically been haunting it in the weeks before Cain had managed to shut off or shield whatever the hell it was generating all that mystic power. But it was different, going there this time - she was actually going to knock on the door, for a start. And whilst she was still headachy and fuzzy from the events the day before, she did remember calling Cain a pillock. Remembered him suggesting she'd opened the portal in the first place.

"Fuckin' bastard," she muttered under her breath. Anger was good, it would give her the nerve to tell Cain exactly why he was a pillock, and stop her from throwing herself at him and begging for just one more taste, one more little bit of power...

She shoved the thought away. After Limbo, the thought of absorbing any more mystic energy was laughable - likely it would take the top of her head off. But the need was more than physical, it was emotional. She felt better, stronger, when she had the magic, less defenseless and useless and vulnerable. Being without her magic made her feel like she was a child again, at the mercy of Rack's whims.

Her feet and wandering thoughts carried her to the door of the boathouse. She raised her hand to knock, saw it was trembling, and reminded herself: anger is good. Then she rapped sharply on the wood.

Cain slammed his sanding block down on the workbench, sighing loudly in frustration. "What NOW?" he groaned, tossing his goggles across the room. Walking towards the door, he caught a glimpse of the short black hair and did a quick mental roster check. No coat, wouldn't be Lee. Too tall to be any of the anklebiters, too thin to be -

Shit, Cain thought. Witchy-poo.

Brushing a hand over his chest to ensure that the mysterious aura-blocking metal was still bandaged in place, Cain took a deep breath ("cleansing breath", Moira called it) and opened the door.

"What?"

"Don't go bitin' me head off - we got an appointment, remember?" Amanda shot back, not fazed by Cain's size or grumpiness. "You had somethin' you wanted t' talk about?"

"Right." Cain opened the door, allowing Amanda to walk in under his arm. As he closed the door, he turned to see Amanda already rummaging through his fridge. "Ain't going to find any booze or smokes in there," he called, "so you might as well quit looking."

"Weren't lookin' for either," she sniffed, straightening and closing the fridge door with a sneer. "Yer makin' me miss lunch with this talk of yours, least you can do is feed me." She leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. "But since you ain't got anythin' in there that ain't fit for eatin', we might as well get straight to it. Yer got something t' say t' me?"

Cain mimicked Amanda's pose, arms crossed over his chest. "Figured you might be getting a little hungry," he drawled. "How's that 'cold turkey' going for you?" Before Amanda could respond, Cain began pacing back and forth in his hallway, ticking off points on his fingers.

"Let's see, if I get it right, you mooch of some supposed 'magic energy force' and do wacky shit with it. Shit like," he raised one finger "make love potions. Like," another finger, "turning your guidance counselor into a frog - which, I might add, I did laugh my ass off at - and three," Cain turned to stare down the girl, "ripping open some goddamn gate to Hell that almost cost a little girl her life, god only knows what's happened to her since." Looming over Amanda, he crossed his arms again. "So you tell me, girl, why might I be having a bit of a vested interest in your little Harry Potter-wannabe fuckups, huh?"

Amanda went still. He honestly believed she had been responsible for Illyana's abduction, thought she was capable of something like that. "You fucking arsehole," she breathed. "You absolute bloody wanker. You think I'd do that? To a kid? What kind of fucking monster d'you think I am?"

"I've seen junkies." Cain's stance was solid. "What they'll do for a fix. How'd it feel, being cut off like that? I've seen what some of you students can do, how easy it is for some of you to kill like it's nothing - you think I'd put this past you just because you're a kid?" Cain spat at Amanda's feet and pointed a finger in her face. "Cuts you no slack with me. You think no one's noticing the shakes? The bags under your eyes? The empty liquor bottles - man, you kids have to find better places to hide those." Cain reached out, poking Amanda in the shoulder firmly enough to stagger her back a step. "Now, if you've been cut off from whatever source you've been leeching from, go ahead, ask me why I'd know about that."

Her fists clenched. "You knew," she said flatly. "You knew you had something on you, you knew I was havin' a problem with it, an' then you cut it off without a word. Fine, that's yer choice, but you didn't think t' mention it? So I'd have some time t' prepare for it? It's me fuckin' mutation, it's not like I had a choice about gettin' high off you in the first place! An' then when it was gone, I had no fuckin' idea what was happenin'! But I'll tell you this, no matter how much I want it, no matter how bad the shakes get, I wouldn't put anyone in the kind of danger 'Yana was in yesterday. Never." Amanda spat the words out, eyes blazing. "I might be a fuckin' junkie, I might fuck up sometimes, but there is no fucking way I would let anything like that happen to anyone else."

"Really?" Cain shot back. "You make a fucking mutant love potion that screws with everyone's heads, and I'm supposed to give you the benefit of the doubt that you give a shit about people? You know, the telepaths," he continued, "they fuck with people's heads because it's who they are. You went out of your way to do it, and you want me to cut you some slack? How far is it from playing 'let's turn the mansion into our own private porn movie' to 'hey, sell the kid to the devil for a fix'? Not very far, it looks like."

"An' what would you know about it? Yeah, the potion was stupid, but do you have any idea what that fucker was going t' do t' 'Yana? He would have killed her. An' I done a lot of stupid things in me time, but I ain't never been involved in killin' someone. Especially not an innocent." Amanda was shaking with fury, but deep down there was a small part of her that whispered, 'Maybe he thinks you're capable of it because you are...' She shoved the thought away. "Me foster father tried t' sacrifice me when I was eleven, an' I've still got the scars from that, an' I know you don't give a shit 'bout my horrible childhood..." Sarcasm laced the last words. "But I wouldn't do that, no matter how fucked up I am." She headed for the door. "Fuck you."

Cain stepped in front of the door, blocking Amanda's path. The only other way out of the boathouse was the back door to the pier, and in the near-freezing weather, even this girl wasn't that stupid, he thought.

"So you say. One of you kids would probably say he ain't filchin' the booze from the cellar, either. Doc would say she ain't overworkin' herself. Shiro'd say he ain't an asshole." Cain looked down at her. "You gimme a reason to believe you. And you make it a good one, because so help me god, you've been using me like a battery to get yourself off and fuck with people, and I ain't much fond of being used."

To get his point across, Cain flexed his hands into fists, his knuckles popping like musket shots in the enclosed hallway.

"You want proof? Fine, I got all the proof you need." The witch shrugged out of her coat, dumping it on the floor. Her sweater soon followed. "An' just in case yer thinkin' I'm comin' on t' you, relax. Got some taste." And with that she turned her back to him, pulling her shirt over her head so that her bare skin was exposed. "See that?" she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Not self inflicted - no-one's that fucking flexible. An' they're not fresh, neither." She gave him plenty of time to take the scarring in, and then pulled her shirt back over her head and scooped the rest of her clothes off the floor. "An' now I've done me strip tease for you, I'm goin'.

Cain reflexively recoiled from the scars. "Okay, that's nasty," he remarked. "I ain't gonna lie to you, that's some pretty fucked up shit there. Kinda shit turns people all weird inside, I figure." He averted his gaze as Amanda pulled her coat on. "So you tell me this. You say you didn't mean to go leeching off whatever you think I've got, fine. You say you didn't have anything to do with that whole gate to hell thing, fine," he declared, "I'll believe you. But if I'm gonna let you walk out that door, I'll be damned if I ain't gonna be sure you won't turn around and try any of that hoodoo voodoo shit next time you need a fix." he took a step towards her, leaning right into her face.

"One twitch, one little HINT you're trying to feed off me like some parasite, and so help me god, it'll take a damn microscope to find what's left, get me?"

"I get you," she replied, not pulling back as Cain got in her face. "Me magic stuff's locked up until I get meself some trainin', so you ain't got nothin' t' worry about there. As for leeching off you... I won't do it on purpose. I'm quite happy t' stay the fuck away from you. But me mutation is t' absorb mystic energy, an' I can't control that, an' yer carryin' a shitload of it. You might not believe in magic, but something magical sure the fuck believes in you. So you keep doin' whatever the hell it is you did t' shield it in the first place, an' we'll both be a lot happier." She adjusted her coat and glared at him. "We done?"

Cain slowly nodded, stepping back and holding the door open. "Yeah, we're done. And hey," he called as Amanda walked past him onto the cobblestone path, "it may not mean a damn thing to you, but you fucked up that Ramsey kid pretty good. He's too chickenshit to say a thing about it, but you owe him to make it right. Not fucking blitzing yourself out on vodka and god knows what else out in the stables, you hear?"

Amanda stopped, shoulders slumping slightly. "You don't know what I give a damn about." Her back was turned to him, and the words were hard, angry. But if Cain had been able to see her face, he would have seen her wince at the mention of Doug's name. "An' I'm doin' me best t' keep clear of him - he don't need me fuckin' him up more." Hunching into her coat against the cold, she moved on again, murmuring to herself: "None of you do."






That evening


Marie-Ange knocked tenativly on the door of the boathouse. If he didn't answer, she didn't have detention, and if he didn't hear the knock, he couldn't answer. It had taken forever to get the smell out of her coat after the encounter with Doug weeks ago, and she wasn't about to repeat that if she could help it.

Cain rolled his eyes. At this rate, he was never going to finish the table. "It's open!" he bellowed, applying a clamp to the newly-glued leg of the table and setting it down gently.
Marie-Ange muttered, and pushed the door open. "I have detention." she sighed, dreading the inevitable.

"Shit," Cain groaned. "Fine, the Professor asked if I'd get those old stables cleaned out, looks like I found my volunteer." Grabbing his long-sleeved flannel from a chair, he reached for a pair of canvas work gloves and tossed them to the young French girl. "You ain't allergic to hay, are you?"

"I don't think so." Hay. Hay wasn't stinky, or slimy. That was good. Marie-Ange shoved the gloves into the pocket of her obviously-borrowed large sweatshirt and backed up several steps to let Cain through the door.

Cain led Marie-Ange from the boathouse out to where the original stable building was. With stalls for four horses, as well as a small cabin attachment for the previous farrier that had spent summers at the estate, the building had fallen into disrepair some years ago. Currently, the horses owned by the school were kept in a newer building out past the east lawn. "So," Cain remarked, "you make a pretty good wall."

"I .. suppose so. " Marie-Ange responded quietly, peering inside the stables. It wasn't as bad as the stables with the actual horses in them, but this was still going to suck, and eat up most of her afternoon. "Stupid baby sharks." she muttered in French, under her breath.

Cain arched an eyebrow. He recognized most French profanity from his time in Saigon, and if that was an insult aimed at him, he wasn't aware of it. Kicking a pitchfork up off the ground, he caught it and extended the handle to Marie-Ange. "Ever used one of these?"

"Not one that big." Marie-Ange raised her eyebrows. "Only, not without being at a table, either." She took the handle of the pitchfork and frowned at the slightly rough wood, then rolled her eyes, and dug for the gloves in her pocket.

Cain smirked. "Just think of it like a big fork, and that-" he pointed to the piles of old, musty hay covered with years of cobwebs and dust, "is a big pile of spaghetti." With a chuckle, he stepped out of the stable. "I'll be back in a minute with a wheelbarrow. Go ahead and make a big pile with that."

Marie-Ange prodded at the hay with the pitchfork awkwardly. It wasn't difficult, just heavy and hard to move. A job more suited for Jamie, or Paige, someone with arm muscles and freckles than a artistic Frenchgirl in a borrowed University of Colarado sweatshirt. She frowned as she stuck something more solid than pieces of hay, and knelt to pull whatever it was off the tines.

The solid -something- turned out to be an old Sears and Roebuck catalog. Its pages were brittle and yellow, soiled by age and things best left unidentified. Marie-Ange tugged the pieces of paper off the pitchfork, and tossed them into the small, mess pile of hay she had started to form. One of the tattered pages caught her eye - it had a picture of a man, in straw hat and overalls, with a pitchfork much like her own.

~I wonder..." she mused to herself and set the page down on the ground, to concentrate on it. In front of her, without a sound, a replica of the image appeared, just as tall as she was. Marie-Ange glanced out the stable doors to make sure the extra-extra-large groundskeeper wasn't watching, and folded her arms. The illusory farmer began pitching the hay from the ground into the pile, moving slightly haltingly.

Cain dragged the wheelbarrow from the supply shed across the lawn, grumbling to himself that he had to play babysitter AGAIN, but at least this one knew how to behave. Terminally shy, he figured. Jesus, almost as bad as Ramsey.

Turning the corner into the stable, he stopped as he saw Marie-Ange standing in the center of the floor, as a farmhand dressed in outdated clothes and a floppy straw hat was pitching hay like a machine.

"Well, that's one way to get it done," he announced.

"Merde." Marie-Ange huffed, and turned to look at Cain, eyeing the consruct sheepishly.

Cain laughed, watching the solid image keep working. "No, just hay. All the actual horseshit in here decomposed years ago."

"Well, that is good at least. It took me a week to get the smell out of my coat.. " Marie-Ange half-smiled, and pointed at the growing pile of hay, and its unreal supplier. "I'll get rid of the image, I know its not really fair."

"Fair?" Cain waved his hand dismissively. "Pfft. Is it unfair when I carry a truckload of steel to the shed on my own? No, it's just what I do." He gestured to the construct. "This is what you do. Can you, um," he gestured to the wheelbarrow, "how much control do you have over it?"

Marie-Ange shrugged, catching his meaning. "If I had drawn it myself, maybe. I don't think so though, no." She looked back down at the catalog and as she did, a twin of the first construct appeared. "I can do multiples, but it is much harder to make them move seperatly." Indeed, the motions of the first image and second were similar, one mimicing the other, a few seconds behind.

"Now that's something," Cain remarked, with no small amount of wonder. "So, while you've got Sven and Oli here working," he shifted conversational gears, "does Xavier issue everyone Colorado U sweaters, or has Ramsey misplaced his?"

"Huh? No, he said I could borrow it." Marie-Ange dug her hands into the front pocket of the shirt. "It is not warm enough to go without a coat, and I was worried about, well, Doug was really icky when he was done his detention, so I figured I should wear something I could get dirty."

Cain nodded. "Eh, back in my day, girls wore their boyfriend's letter jackets. But until the school gets a whining and moping team, looks like Ramsey's screwed on that score."

Marie-Ange blinked, and the constructs slowed their movements to a crawl. "What? Non, nono, I'm not.. " She looked .. almost as if she were about to blush, then let out a slow breath. "Doug is not my boyfriend, and he had reason to be upset that day."

Cain shrugged. "Eh, I can understand that. Kid has women throwing themselves at him out of the blue, tries to be decent about it, and they crucify him for it." Cain reached out, taking the pitchfork from Marie-Ange's idle hands and shoveling the last of the hay into the wheelbarrow, packing it down with his other hand.


"I think everyone important has stopped being mad at him, so he's been less upset lately." Marie-Ange watched as Cain compressed the hay with almost no effort, just the pressure of one massive hand. She was.. almost tempted to ask him about the unanswered email, and the Big Red Eye, and mulled over a few potential questions in her head. If he was going to be nosy, then she could be curious. It was only fair.. "So, what is it like working for Sauron?"

Pausing, Cain shook his head in recognition, then laughed out loud. "I always pictured Xavier more like Saruman, myself. Waving melodramatically from the tower, spouting his nonsense." He turned, beginning to wheel the full cart outside.

"No.. not Professor Xavier, and I think he would be more Gandalf.. " Marie-Ange hadn't quite realized she'd asked the question out loud. She knew she'd said it, she just .. hadn't really expected an answer, she thought. "I mean the big red eye."

Cain took two steps, then paused in a double-take. Slowly, he passed his hand over his chest. "Come again?" he asked.

"There.. was an email, and you never answered it.. " Marie-Ange backed up a few steps into the stable, regretting asking the question in the first place.

Cain nodded. "You're the girl what tells the future, I hear," he said, still not looking at Marie-Ange.

"Oui. There .. you were in some of the dreams, and there.. was a big red.. " Marie-Ange frowned. "I think it was an eye. It was big and red, I know that."

"That's all?" Cain asked. "Just some red eye?"

"No, but that was the part I remember best. " She hated this part, explaining what she saw, how she saw it, it never went well. "There was a skeleton, in armor, and .. you were knocking down a tower, in one, but I think that might have been just a regular dream. Dr. MacTaggart has copies of the drawings I did... "

Cain nodded. "I'll take a look at 'em." He turned, looking at Marie-Ange's worried face. With a sigh, he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing an arm of flesh and blood. "See, no skeleton."

"I know." Marie-Ange hung her head. "They don't always make sense, though. Stupid lame power." She shrugged, spreading out her hands. "I did not ask for the dreams, I just get them. "

Cain chuckled. "Hey, you get two powers. Most people just get by with one. Look at it that way." He motioned for the girl to follow him as he took the load of hay over to the compost pile in the woodline. "Miss Frost says you saw Slim's brother in some dream, and that's how they got him back. Don't sound so lame to me."

Marie-Ange followed Cain silently, thoughful expression on her face, until they got to the woodline, then waited for instruction, wrinkling her nose. She really hoped that the pile of earthy smelling something wasn't poo. After managing to avoid horse manure, and sewage, having to deal with a pile of poo would just be unfair.

Cain heaved forward, sliding the pile of hay neatly off the wheelbarrow, then used his foot to spread it around the base of the pile of leaves and decaying material. "I know, I know. Smells like crap." he commented, noticing Marie-Ange's reticence. "Sometimes you gotta deal with a little shit to get stuff done right. This here's going to get that lawn all green and looking nice once the spring thaw hits."

"I had hoped I had avoided it. Ah well, what do I need to do?" Marie-Ange sighed. Mr. Marko had a point, she thought. Sometimes, you had to deal with stuff that stank to get things fixed.

Cain handed off the pitchfork. "Just toss it on top of the pile," he instructed, flipping the wheelbarrow over and taking a seat on it. "So tell me, how's loverboy dealing with all the fallout? I hear you and Six-Pack had to sit on him to keep him from running off again."

"Doug? and .. Six-Pack, you mean, Jamie, no?" Marie-Ange smirked at the nicknames, and began shoveling the hay into the compost. She mentally kicked herself for not remembering the catalog page. That would've made this easier. "He is better, I think. Manuel said.. " She snapped off the end of the sentence. "Ah, Doug is not trying to avoid anyone now, and he hasn't acted miserable in days."

Cain cocked his head. "Manuel... freaky Spanish guy with the turntables? Rude little bastard."

Marie-Ange opened her mouth to defend the Castellian young man, but thought better of it. That was -not- an association she needed anyone to make. "He can be, yes," she said, quietly.


Cain chuckled, watching the French girl awkwardly handle the pitchfork. "Hell, just about need a scorecard to keep everyone straight. Who's bitchin' about who, who's screwin' who, who stole whose shampoo..."

"Quoi? What?" Marie-Ange nearly dropped the pitchfork in surprise, and just barely managed to settle herself. She was really going to have to work on that startle reaction, espically since Ms. Frost had started pushing them hard in Speech class.

Cain laughed uproariously at the young lady's embarassment. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "Someone's getting more than a classroom education, huh?"

Marie-Ange gripped the handle of the pitchfork tightly, and slowly raised one eyebrow. "No, I was simply not expecting you to be so blunt." she said, evenly. Silently, she prayed that the response would work. Something that Speech class was teaching her, or Manuel's constant verbal taunting had to work. Doug could -not- find out what she'd done, and she didn't trust Mr. Marko to not tell him.

Cain chuckled at the girl's obvious attempt at evasion. "Hey, no shame in it. Explains how you got Ramsey's sweater, though. Good to see he's done mooning over Miz D'Ancato."

He thought she was sleeping with Doug? Well, it was better than the truth, she supposed. Marie-Ange tossed a forkful of hay forcefully. "Doug and I are not .. doing .. that!" She rolled her eyes. "I said that before. We are not dating."

"Hey, whatever you wanna call it," Cain spread his hands. "If y'ain't knocking holes in the wall, ain't my problem. S'good for the boy, though." he added. "Ain't no use chasin' something someone else's marked as their territory."

"No holes in the wall, I promise." Marie-Ange shook her head, grinning. The man was obviously insane, or obsessed, or something. And he worked for Sauron, no matter what he said.