Amanda, Marie-Ange, & Namor | Friday Early Evening

[x-submariner.livejournal.com]

Marie-Ange seeks out Namor to apologize for Wade being Wade, but then...

One would think that the pool - or the other pool - or the lake - would have been the most obvious place to find the latest mansion resident. He was semi-aquatic. Marie-Ange was slightly put out that she'd walked all the way out to the lake and not found him. It wasn't a short walk, and besides it was cold.

To add insult upon slightly frozen toes (in not at all fashionable boots because Marie-Ange wasn't silly, fashion took a back seat to frostbite), as she came in through the kitchen, hoping to at least manage success in finding where people hide the stashes of decent tea, he was -right there-, in the kitchen.

She could've planted herself in the kitchen, gotten progress on a sketch, had tea and still managed to accomplish "apologizing to the visiting royalty" without damp socks.

Which was why her initial conversational gambit was "er." and not "pardon me" or "Hello". It was just sad what the universe had reduced her to.

Namor, however, had to make no concessions to weather. He was rather dapper today -- collared shirt, Armani jacket, bright pants -- and maneuvered the kitchen with a proud gait. Marie-Ange received a nod to her "er," followed by a crisp, "Bueno, Miss Colbert." None of this interfered with the young man's stride. He went directly to where Lorna kept the teacups, retrieving one, before turning to make eye contact with the visitor. He smiled and made a tiny gesture toward the cabinets, "Would you enjoy tea or cofee?"

So polite. Which hopefully meant that her mission would not result in some sort of diplomatic incident - or that it was already not one, and this would be largely unnecessary, and everyone could have a nice laugh and go home. "Tea, merci. Unless you are making coffee for yourself, in which case coffee is quite acceptable." Marie-Ange said, as she began the not-inconsiderable process of unbundling from winter clothes - scarf, hat, coat. "Do you have a moment?"

He gestured again toward the kettle on the stove. "I don't trust that machine," Namor explained while sparing a brief, hateful glare toward the coffee maker. "I prefer coffee in the evening. Tea is for thinking." He smiled, retrieving another cup. "You may consider me your's."

"I know people who believe that machine is going to try to take over the government someday." Marie-Ange said, with a nod. "But it does make decent coffee in the meantime." She settled herself on a chair, finally out of the bulk of winter clothes. "I wanted to extend - well, perhaps not a formal apology, but at least somewhat of one for Wade. He means well, but sometimes forgets that one should not assault the visiting royalty."

For this she received a stare like Namor thought she might have two heads. He recovered himself quickly, masking confusion with another smile. "Mr. Wilson is a harsh teacher, but that is a good thing. I appreciate your concern."

"Agreed, he is very capable at teaching those skills, yes." Now she was on more familiar territory. The dance of "you make no sense!" happened enough to Marie-Ange that she felt like she could manage the conversation much better now - even if the sense she wasn't making wasn't her usual brand of nonsense. "But he still should not have done so without asking first."

"What type of tea?" Namor moved deftly to where the 'less good' teas were stashed, but he didn't know any better. "Mr. Wilson could stand to improve his gym etiquette." The young man turned to face Marie-Ange, frowning, as if this was a giant understatement that deserved more clarification. "In my honest opinion? He is hard to respect outside of his skill."

"If there is some left, the Earl Grey is fine. if not, anything black will do." Marie-Ange answered, with a shrug. It was one of those days where if the tea was hot, black and not made by her, then it would do.

"Mister Wilson could be said to need to improve his etiquette in many regards, but I rather like him anyway. He has a view of the world that I enjoy, and his lack of etiquette comes in handy when one is in need of someone who punches first and asks nonsense questions instead of the regular kind."

There was a nod and some quick retrieval of prepared tea packets. "I want to believe that I can expect more than nonsense from those in authority positions."

That was met with a short brief laugh. "I think your first mistake was to assume that Wade was - or should be - in a position of authority." Marie-Ange couldn't help but laugh. "Wade is very funny, very sweet, and entirely irresponsible except where money and the safety of very impressionable teenagers is concerned." Well, that and generally being the kind of person to be able to air drop into Russia, beat up a brainwashed assassin and not get himself in trouble for it. But there was no way she was going to just say that to the visiting royalty. X-Force - and assorted associates- were too easily something that Crystal hadn't told him about.

The reaction that crossed Namor's face was equal parts relief and question. He steeled himself, committing to the serious feeling settling over him. "My apologies Miss Colbert, but this place is confusing. There's very little hierarchy that I can see, and many adults allowed to be around children who do not seem like the best role models. I do not know what to make of it."

"It is not going to get any less confusing as you go on." Marie-Ange pointed out. "It is equal parts school, safe community for people who would not have one otherwise... and armed compound. Expecting it to make sense will just give you a headache." She leaned back in her chair slightly, looking not quite comfortable, but something close to it. "The professor offers up space to any mutant who needs it, and even those of us who have left, we keep coming back."

At this point the kettle squealed in a boiling rage, and Namor moved to oblige. "I have had a good number of headaches. And bruises. Tell me: why do you keep coming back? Isn't the point of this school to prepare mutants to go out into the world?"

Marie-Ange took the time between whistling kettle and being presented with tea to consider her answer. The glib "MRI's and Wade's abs." was very probably not that Namor was looking for. "That is difficult to answer without presenting you with what is rightfully information that is not mine to give you, and the answer is different for everyone, besides. A second chance, a third sometimes. A place where no one looks askance at you if you tell them you dreamed their death, and please to not go outside tomorrow. A place to recover from injury or illness. For quite a lot of people.." She pointed at scratch marks on the floor, not quite buffed out. "You have met Ms. Petrovic, yes? She may want to go out into the world but the world is not prepared for her. Your country accepts mutants readily, this one does not, and the United States is not even the worst by far. You saw the television reports on Genosha, yes?"

"Did you want anything in your tea?" Namor was busying himself, but the expression on his face was a picture of thought. "Miss Colbert, I'm a very practical man. When I see something I want, I take it. When there is a problem, I want to fix it. I can understand the need for a refuge here, but hope that there are ways to make things better quickly." He knew this was a very teenage thing to say -- true change takes time. "That is unrealistic and naive of me to hope for. The fear and loathing is only getting worse."

"You are going to look fabulous in the black leather armor." Marie-Ange said, with an amused look on her face. "Sugar, please, only a half spoonful." Enough to cut the bitterness of tea from tea bags, not enough to overwhelm it with sweetness. "Not so naive, really, unless you are expecting quick change and are going to have a tantrum if you do not get it." Oh, how he reminded her of her cousin, minus the bold fashion statements or the smoking. Or the exceedingly poor choices in mentors.

"I may have anger problems, but no tantrums. I assure you," he said smiling while spooning sugar. Her tea was delivered before he touched his own. "I also look fabulous in all things."

Just like her cousin then. "I think people who do not have anger problems when looking at the state of the world are blind, or perhaps have no compassion." How anyone could look at how the world treated .. well, anyone who was not in a position of power, and not be angry, Marie-Ange wasn't sure.

He smiled politely. "It is kind of you to assume that I have anger problems due to the state of the world."

"No, do not mistake that for kindness. You want to change things, you said as much, and you seem to have issues with the fact that change is not happening as fast as you or others might like." Marie-Ange pointed this out, with a shake of her head. "Whatever other anger issues you have... well, unless you are going to try to sneak behind Wade and hit him with a wrench, or take out your frustration with him on me or my colleagues, to be blunt, I do not care." and if Namor McKenzie, Marquis of she forgot where exactly was the kind of person she guessed he was, he would appreciate the bluntness. "You cannot possibly be any worse than half of my co-workers, and one of them wants to poison me."

"My anger is more the putting holes in walls sort," he said with an contemplative quirk of the eyebrows. "Revenge usually takes more time and energy than its worth. I have seen too many people drown in it."

Marie-Ange raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. "That is what very sturdy punching bags are for, no? I am told that the gym here has them. Garrison uses them, he and I... " She blinked a few times, and then focused her attention on Namor with a eerie and steady gaze. 'You are Attilani, yes? You were on the island when it disappeared? I am sorry, do you hear water right now?"

She received a blink right back. "Excuse me?"

"Bugger." Amanda's influence on Marie-Ange's language showed so strongly sometimes. "John Forge, your cousin's ex? He was on the island with all of you when it disappeared, and in the weeks before I kept hearing water around him." The steady gaze didn't falter, but Marie-Ange's hands wandered to her purse, where she pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil. "You should know I am precognitive, and it is reliable but nonsensical." And usually not auditory, but water seemed the exception. "Also it is irritating, and please if I start drawing on the table, stop me because ruining furniture is rude." She dearly hoped this would not be another incident like the wax drawings with Topaz.

"Pardon me again," and by this point Namor had composed himself enough to be following along, "Should I call someone? Are you going to have a fit?" He wasn't even phased by the sudden happenstance of The Future, but he narrowed his eyes when Marie-Ange mentioned Attilan's isolation. Precognition seemed like little use if you couldn't do anything with the foretelling.

Marie-Ange considered the question for as long as it took to get her little sketchpad open, and then shook her head. "I very much hope not." Besides, it was unlikely that this was like the last time she'd had one of her little moments around a haughty European member of high society. Namor could not possibly have a half-sister he did not know about. She hoped. "If I do, check your family tree." There, now that was covered too. "But I may get strange and write on the table, and if I do, you should get my phone and call Amanda."

He nodded, serious, and poised himself to jump to immediate action if needed. "Does 'repeating yourself' count as weird?"

"Yes, I do that also. Sometimes I also write on the table." Even with strange flashes of water and flickers of something serpentine in the edge of her vision, Marie-Ange could crack wise. She closed her eyes for what felt to her like a moment - a short blink to clear sudden dryness, and then felt the sudden oncoming headache rush in like the tide. The pain rippled down her arm, and it moved, drawing long thin lines on the paper that slowly became a face - Namor's, with broad strokes - graphite tentacles that curled around his neck and ears.

"You predicted what's happening right now. Excellent work," Namor stated as he carefully as he moved toward the other woman's bag, careful to keep his tone even and friendly. Like how you might talk to a rabid dog. Or a man (woman, whatever) with a sword. "Amanda is good, right? I'm calling Amanda."

His eyes left her's only for a moment as he retrieved her phone. When they returned, Namor frowned as if offended in a very technical way at her current drawing. "Quite a lovely image Miss Colbert, but I do not see why you need to strangle me. Shame on you."

"You do not need to be sarcastic at me." Marie-Ange grumbled. "Yes, please call Amanda before I topple over and scribble on your face." It was very unclear which face she meant - or how she knew what she had drawn, since her eyes were still firmly shut. "You have a ... dirt, no, not dirt, sand, on your face. Under the water. In the water that is under the water, you have sand on your face."

"No, it is a rather nice likeness," and there was actual sincerity there, "You only got my ears wrong. They are not pointed." There was a pause as if Namor was further considering the artistic merit of her work, but then he found himself quickly and refocused on the phone. Thankfully, there was no passcode. "I beg you to excuse me for being terse, but I really loathe metaphors."

He held up the phone for Marie-Ange to see as if it underscored this statement. Its background image was a hand drawn view of a robed woman with the moon at her feet. "See? Metaphors."

"Yes, they ... no they are not." Marie-Ange's head jerked, her eyes opened, and she rubbed at her face, smudging graphite on one cheek. "Did I just quote the Talking Heads at you? Please tell me I did not just go on with "under the water, carry the water, remove the water?" She looked down at the sketch, rubbed her face again, and let out an entirely frustrated huff. "You may as well call Amanda, because I am in no condition to drive, and I cannot promise I am not about to predict that you have a long-lost sister or that you are not actually heir to the throne of Neptune."

"You did not until now," Namor said reassuringly as he pulled up Amanda's contact profile. Tap. The phone started ringing. He frowned at the graphite blemish. "Should I be taking notes? Is there a formal process for precognitive events in the school manual?"

Before Marie-Ange could reply, the phone picked up. "Hey Angie," came Amanda's voice, sounding a little distracted. "What's up? Is it my turn to pick up dinner?"

"Está lá, Miss Sefton. Miss Colbert requested that I contact you. She is having an incident."

"Bollocks." It was said with feeling. "Is she okay?"

"Pardon, but I do not have exact words for how she is. She has yet to draw on -- wait, no. There she goes." Namor sounded concerned in a very technical way, like someone watching the incidents unfold on television. "She's extremely self aware."

"I am! And it is a napkin, not the entire table." Marie-Ange said. "But in your defense I had warned you about the table." It was really just the once she had done that, but having to clean crayon wax off a table was memorable enough that she did not want to repeat the incident, so drawing Namor surrounded by an endless army of skeletal warriors on a table napkin was -greatly- preferred. "Could you tell Amanda that I think it passed, but that I cannot drive and that I am repeating myself quite a lot?" She was almost certain she had told Namor she should not drive. "And that I will probably be in the infirmary trying to avoid MRI's, because it is the automatic writing kind, not the obsessive tarot card reading kind."

Namor would have happily relied the message, but he had also switched the phone to speaker as soon as Marie-Ange started.

"Got it," came Amanda's voice from the phone, sounding relieved - and a little amused. "I'll be there soon as I can - I'll call Blue for a bamf, since I can't 'port to the school. Namor, you might want to get some aspirin and water on hand - this sort of thing leads to literal headaches as well as cleaning type ones."

Marie-Ange reached out towards Namor, trying to poke at a phone much to far away to actually make contact with. "I would have Kurt bamf me but then I would throw up." She paused, looked at her finger as though it had failed her and frowned. "Quite a bit. His teleports smell even when my head is not pounding."

"I'll make sure I have a smoke before I come in then," came Amanda's wry reply. "So I don't smell like bamf. Ta for looking after her, Namor. Be there soon!" And with that, she hung up.

"I believe you mentioned the med lab, Miss Colbert," Namor cautiously suggested as he set the phone back into Marie-Ange's purse. This was relatively quick, as Namor had already been moving the move away from the grabby precog during the last exchange. His countenance was the same as it had been during this entire experience: implacable calm tinged with a relatively mild hint of shock. "That would be an excellent idea if you are finished with the arts and crafts. I would be pleased to escort you."

"The last time I had an encounter with a strange man in the infirmary, it was Wade." Marie-Ange pointed out, as Namor assisted her in standing. She was a little wobbly. "That ended well, and now this conversation has come full circle."

"Two points wrong with that statement," Namor stated as they began their way to the elevators, "One: we are not in the infirmary yet. Two: I am most certainly not the strange one here."