xp_logs | Marie-Ange and Garrison, visiting the injured.

Backdated to March 8 - Marie-Ange visits Garrison, as promised and around some serious concern about Deathstrike's return, she teases him about his painkiller fueled antics, makes jokes about having spent time in a nunnery, and flirts. They may or may not have had very careful sex after this log ends.

The nice thing about living in New York City was that Marie-Ange had no reason to need to own a car. Even if she was going to leave the city, she could take the train or rent one of those clever little Zipcars and not have to pay through the nose for insurance and parking and what would inevitably be endless dent repair bills due to terrible parking.

Instead, she got to rent a car that had a hookup for her iPod and it did not matter if it smelled like take-out food because someone else was responsible for cleaning the thing and if she had to be careful about parking it was once and not every single day. Besides, parking at the mansion was easy enough, and if it became a problem she would just impose on someone - her cousin, Wade, one of the students although perhaps not Amanda's apprentice to move it for her before she left.

With a imaged creature, one of her little dreadlocked pen-drawn imps, carrying the take-out food, and another carrying a half-gallon bottle of orange juice, she stopped outside the door to Garrison's suite, and knocked before pulling out a phone and simply calling, answering his "Hello?" with a "Is your door unlocked? You should not get up if you do not have to."

"The door is open." Garrison called out, and busied himself by shuffling a basket of laundry into the closet. The Canadian was dressed in a pair of jeans with a robe half thrown over his shoulders. His right pectoral and shoulder were bound by bandages, and his right arm was in a sling, with his hand in a complex looking cast. He waved her in as she cracked the door, careful not to jar his arm.

Marie-Ange picked up the containers of food from the imaged imp, and dismissed it, but sent the orange-juice carrying one ahead of her as she came in. "I brought dinner, as promised." She nudged the door shut behind her. "If I say that you look like hell are you going to just take your steak and kick me out?" Not -quite- hell, but he certainly looked a mess still.

"Nah. I got cut up like a deli sandwich. I'm looking for all the sympathy I can get." Kane said with a lopsided grin, waving her towards the small couch in his suite. Kane's room was always pretty simple; paper work stacked on the desk next to the computer, the mini-kitchen neatly squared away, his little lounge area populated by small piles of cds and movies, a couple of baseball magazines, a half strung guitar; not messy but comfortably lived in. He reached into a cupboard and pulled out a couple of glasses and then some cutlery. "You look good, as always. I see your trip... vacation... time in the convent down in New Orleans worked out."

"I think I will steal that, the convent idea. No one will believe it..." At least, possibly not. "On the other hand, I do pretend to be Catholic. So perhaps they will." She said, with a laugh. "At least you are able to get yourself dressed. Or did you have to suffer the ministrations of Doctor Voight? Who has no bedside manner." Marie-Ange had suffered through an MRI and the total lack of anything like bedside manner. "Because to be honest, if she had to help you dress, I am going to entirely rethink my plans for the evening."

"Really? What were your plans for the evening, eh?" Kane said, curious at her new attitude.

"I thought you were going to teach me to play zydeco music..." Marie-Ange said, teasing. "You promised, although I think you wanted Mardi Gras beads in exchange..."

Garrison held up his wounded arm. "I can teach you how to press play on my iTunes with the zydeco music. Otherwise, you're going to need to wait a week or so until my fingers all point the same way again for any guitar lessons." He placed the dishware on the table. "Unless you'd like to go straight to the beads. Which, not complaining or anything, isn't really like you most of the time, eh?"

"Ah, but I spent six months in a convent in New Orleans." Marie-Ange pointed out. "Or whichever excuse I decide to make up, I do like the convent though." She shrugged, and began moving food from the containers to plates. "New Orleans is an amazing city, and full of culture and good food and music and after the first four weeks, it is also a very boring city to see when you are alone. It is hot and sticky and smells bad and the only people I knew... well, I did not want to know them any better, that is probably the best way to explain. Here, everyone is insane and I think I know what kinds of underwear everyone wears because but at least none of you are..." Professional killers. Well, at least most of them. "well, none of you are like the people in New Orleans."

"Alright then." Kane said, looking at her with a touch of skepticism. She very obviously wasn't telling him the whole story, but his curiousity was tempered by the fact that it was literally none of his business in the first place. He contented himself by easing down into a seat and awkwardly taking a bite from the meal. "Since you're back, are you, well, back back? With Pete's people and everything?"

"Yes, I am "back back"." Marie-Ange answered. "I have my own office now, which suggests to me that taking a sabbatical and going off to New Orleans to be miserable for six months is a good way to get a promotion. Mostly it is nice to have privacy, even if I had to ship all of North's clocks back to him in boxes, and Jubilee keeps forgetting that a closed door is closed for a reason." Usually to avoid Jubilee. "And I missed Mardi Gras, so I expect beads. I am going to have to insist on it."

"If you're going to insist on it, I don't see that I have a choice." He said. "It's good that you're back. You were missed. I, for one, was stuck with Jean-Paul for my French snark, and after a while, I end up imagining him as Sol from Parlez-Moi."

Marie-Ange was confused for a moment, and then remembered that Canada was bilingual, even if Quebcois French was an abomination. "I suppose you could have gotten snark from my cousin but he has been less snarky than usual lately." She took a bite of food, and then set her fork down. "Thank you." Which felt amazingly awkward to say, but she'd needed to hear it.

"That's right. Being nice to the hot redhead totally deserves thanks." He joked, nudging her with his elbow. "Of course you were missed, lady. That's what friends do, eh? Or bring over food to other crippled friends and make fun of their drug induced ravings."

"I never made fun..." Marie-Ange said. "I tried to tell you that Deathstrike did not fellate you, and I promised you orange juice." Any attempt at protesting was ruined by the smile and the fact that she kept laughing. And then she was entirely serious. "What happened? I thought she was dead. Everyone thought she was dead."

"According to the mission report, which I've now read about a hundred times, she was as dead as someone can be short of total incineration. Her corpse had seventy-five pounds of adamantium pumped through it. They would have needed to quarter her like a damn chicken in order to separate her body from the metal." Garrison shook his head. "Vampires don't come back from the shit that happened to her. So I don't know, Marie-Ange. I just... don't know."

"More things to look into then." Marie-Ange said. "It had to come back on us eventually. Jean, Mark, even you, I suppose we cannot trust that anyone will stay dead anymore." Which was not a particularly comforting thought at all. A brief vulnerability crossed her features, and then it was gone. "No more coming close to dying, please? All my ex-boyfriends keep almost dying, I find I do not like it at all. "

"Compared to your job, I'm as safe as I can be. You're the one running around in foreign countries under an assumed name doing horrible Uncle Pete things." He paused and put his good hand on her shoulder. "Trust me. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. First, it would ruin my credit rating. Also, I'm under orders from the Director. Malcolm Colcord would go to Hell to order me back to work, and dock my pay for being dead."

"Your tally of horrible injuries is much longer than mine." Marie-Ange countered. "I have only been shot the once." And she came back fine from that, thanks to ... an entire city, which was only slightly short of a miracle. "So no more being blown up by grenades or "fellated" by formerly dead Weapon X experiments. Or I will be cross, and not bring you orange juice or Mardi Gras beads anymore."

"And that, my dear, would be a fate worse than death."