Hope & Namor | The Art of Being Noble

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Hope and Namor fight in the sunroom.
The cold wind did not bother her as she slowly passed through the wall again, moving slowly so she could catch what she was seeing in the moment she was in the wall. Finally she decided it was time to return to her body though and within seconds she was back.

Hope didn't open her eyes immediately, instead focusing on her breathing as she settled back in her body. She had found that if she took the time, things somehow seems to go more smoothly. Not that doing it quickly really hurt or anything, but it was simply easier. The rest of the room stayed far away, even when the noise level increased as someone obviously entered.

Which was quite remarkable, as Namor did all but kick in a window coming into the sunroom. He had slammed the door, tossed his bag on the floor, and collapsed into his chair in the noisiest way possible. It had been a rough day, and he had a headache. His clothing was, as usual, incongruous with the weather and also loud: brightly colored collared shirt, skinny tie, and expensive designer jeans with expensive designer shoes. His jacket had been shrugged off on the way in and currently sat draped over the back of what he had assumed was an unoccupied chair.

Namor stretched exhaustedly, rubbing his temples and schooling his features into the regal mask he normally wore in the relaxing light of the windows. This lasted for (what felt like) a few minutes before he resigned himself to fishing around his messenger bag for a textbook. He could curb his irritation with productivity. It had been his refuge for longer than he could remember.

The teen had yet to acknowledge Hope. In all honesty, he had yet to even notice her.

The sounds kept tickling at the edge of Hope's conscious and finally she opened one eye to see who was in the room with her. She quickly stifled a small sigh when she identified who was in the room with her. She could not exactly remain here, especially now that her foot had fallen asleep.

She closed her eyes again and let out a final breath before opening again and gingerly lifting herself back to her two feet, discretely shaking out her foot.

Namor had switched to his phone, intending to scrawl out a quick text. This motion resulted him in him noticing Hope's wake-up dance; a realization that caused Namor to perform a small dance of his own in the effort of getting to his feet. Propriety was important.

She received a curt bow with a greeting, "Miss Abbott. When did you arrive?"

Hope smoothed out as her skirt and acknowledged the bow with a nod and small bending of the the knees. "I am afraid I have been here all along, your Lordship. I was engaging in meditation and powers practice when you entered and I suspect you did not notice me."

"Ah," he replied eloquently in sudden reminder of his headache. Her formality made him flashback to their first meeting and her incessant need to act properly even in the middle of a cave full of automatons. At least she wasn't asking questions. "You really can be a ghost, can't you?"

"In a matter of speaking. I have found it to be an effective way of describing my abilities." Hope gave a small shrug before folding her hands in front of her.

Namor let his response hang in hope that she would offer something else or be on her way. Then he could sit down. His expression soured only after a few seconds of waiting — he certainly wasn't patient and becoming a ghost didn't sound that useful without the ambition to use it creatively.

"That's nice," he offered dismissively.

"It has its uses." Hope turned away slightly, quickly tucking a few of her things back in her bag, before gathering the few books she had close by and making to put them in her bag as well. Unfortunately one escaped her grasp and tumbled on the ground close to Namor.

Namor was bending over to retrieve the book before he could even process the movement — chivalry had easily become second nature by this point in his training. Unfortunately, courtesy hadn't. He scoffed at the book's title as he handed it back. His tone was cruel, "Protocol and Etiquette? Are you practicing?"

She had been about to simply take the book back from him and thank him, but she froze at the tone of his comment. A deep breath chased away the tremor in her hand as she accepted to book. She met his eyes and kept her voice low as she replied: "It never hurts to keep ones skills sharp, Your Lordship. If you would like refresher, I would be happy to lend you the book." Despite the polite words, they carried a distinct sharp edge and she hoped that the implication that she thought he could use one was clear.

He laughed at her. It was not kind. "Miss Abbott, following protocol has done me little good thus far. Why else do you think I'm here?"

This was followed by an appraising look. "May I make a suggestion? All you really need is a short skirt and a pretty smile to bed a royal. Don't pretend to be something you're not."

Her eyes widened and her fists balled at side as his insinuation registered. "Better to strive to be something that you might not quite be instead of claiming something you are what you are not." Her eyes seemed to shoot fire as she retorted: "You speak about pretending something you are not, Your Lordship." The tone in her voice clearly turned it into an insult this time. "You claim to be a lord by your birth and pedigree. I would say you are a fraud!"

"Finally!" Namor hung onto the words. He relished them. The spike in his tone may have been jarring, but it truly was the first time in this encounter he had been fully engaged. "Finally you show some emotion." He leaned in closer, eyes dangerous, "Let me tell you something, princess. That isn't a new accusation. No one acts like they do in the books. There's no fairytale for you to wiggle into."

"You mean like the one where I sit and wait for the prince on the white horse to arrive. Been there, done that. And I mean that literally. Found I did not like it." Hope folded her arms over her chest and glared. "Still means I might have learned something useful from it and strive to become a good person instead of an arrogant prick. For that I only need to hold up a mirror."

Namor spread his arms wide as if accepting her insult. Clothing himself in it. "And yet I'm the one born to privilege. Fancy ideals help no one. Neither does pretending to be painfully polite all the time."

"Being born to privilege gives you the right to act as you do?" She shot back. "Frankly, I find that hilarious. Ever heard of noblesse oblige?"

Namor was taken aback, his expression betraying the insult he felt. "And what would you know about it?”

"Enough to know that being born to privilege doesn't come freely. It comes with responsibilities. The obligation to act noble. To be a lady or a gentleman. Take your pick!" The volume on her voice rose on the last few words.

"Ah, and here's our problem." His voice has drained of it's previous anger and amusement, and all that was left was ice. "You presume to lecture me about Nobility when you're just an American with aspirations of grandeur. Was it your mother's idea for you to be a princess? Did your father encourage you to marry high?"

"Oh, my mother would love for me to marry high. At least, she used to. I wouldn't know now." Hope shrugged. "But you cannot seriously be meaning that the only way to be noble is to be born in a family with a certain pedigree. Why, then you would be nothing more then one of those fluffy show dogs."

He laughed again, loud and barking with none of it in his eyes. "You're right, of course. My Pedigree," he rolled the words, mocking her tone, "makes me unfit for court. I've been a fluffy show dog for years." There was bitterness there, and a hint of regret.

"Privilege means nothing. People are defined by what they do. True, I claim what is my own due by rank. Yet I don't go around demanding that others aspire to be anything outside what they are."

The anger faded a little from Hope's voice and now it was mostly some kind of bitterness that laced her voice. "I was raised to make a good marriage, to be a good corporate wife. According to my mother one of the highest things an modern American lady could aspire to. One perhaps not made by birth, but by money. I choose to be one, not by money or birth, but by being who I am."

He crossed his arms. "What a poor way to raise a child." The distaste in his words was palpable.

Hope tilted her head as she studied him. Was the distaste in his voice meant for her or for the way she was raised? Not quite sure, she instead chose to remain silent and see what else he would say.

Namor stared blankly at her. "What, no more lectures? If we are done here, I have things to do that do not involve yelling."

"I could think of a few more things to say, but would it have any use?" Hope tilted her head the other way.

"I don't know if I care," the Marqués admonished. "Would it matter? You're as much of a show dog as I am, yet you cling to it like it matters."

"I was a show dog." She corrected him, almost fiercely. "But not anymore. It does not mean that I have to throw away all I learned. I rather take it and make it my own then denying what I was."

He rolled his eyes. "That's the lamest rebellion I've ever heard of. Should I feel inspired by your acquiescence? You are everything your parents hoped for."

Something sharp and hot exploded from where she had just been trying to wind down and before she knew it her hand lashed out, a loud slap echoing in the silence. "If I had been everything my mother hoped for, I would currently be attending boarding school in Switzerland, desperately trying to hide the fact that I was born a mutant! Preferably I would not have been one at all!!!"

There were, of course, certain advantages to mutation. Namor only felt the sting of her hit, but this did not stop the rise in color of his cheeks or the rage that painted the rest of his features. His hands were balled into fists, quivering dangerously in need of retaliation. But... no. There were things he would not do. His words were difficult, punctuated by the effort needed to keep cool, "I suggest you leave now. That's what I would prefer."

"Gladly... I stand by my point though. For all you claim to be a lord, you are definitely not!" Hope pulled the book from his hands and stuffed it roughly in her bag. "Your Lordship." She mocked before heading towards the door.

Namor bowed far too low for someone in Hope's position and practically spat his retort through clenched teeth, "I wish you equal success in whatever nobility you can scrounge, princess." He turned from her, staring out at the North Lawn.

Hope's only reply was a sharp turn away from him, the closest thing she could manage at the moment to cut him death.

He did not see this, but Namor was still struggling to maintain an imperious facade while focusing on the lawn. Anger still flushed in his cheeks; her words boiling under the surface. Namor did not intend to move until he heard the door slam shut behind her.

This Hope Abbott had certainly cut this pride to ribbons, but he could not be sure if he had managed to match her blow for blow.

Hope quietly pulled the door closed behind her and she quickly glanced around the hallway to if it was empty before letting her mask drop just a little. Her eyes gleamed wetly and one escaping tear was hastily wiped away.