Quentin & Warren, Monday evening
Oct. 10th, 2016 08:27 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsQuentin and Warren have a downright cordial discussion about their lives as mutants. The drug use might have facilitated this.
"Is that my purple haze you're abusing right now?" Warren tossed his attache on to the couch, and glared at Quentin. "Did you even eat beforehand or are you expecting to get munchies after? Because I assure you that once you go down that rabbit hole, you won't even be able to walk."
Striding into the room, he went to the porch doors and threw them open. "And really, inside? Do you have any idea how hard resin is to get off the walls? My housekeeper will yell at me. Mind you, she speaks Tagalog, so I won't understand, but still. Very disrespectful of you."
Quentin stepped outside into the cool late summer evening without any further directive. "You need to hide your weed better if you don't want to lose it," he accused Warren without turning to look at him. "Also don't keep me here working after hours just because you don't know how to work Quicken. Which, you know, neither do I."
"I was probably high when I hid it, so don't hold that against me," Warren responded. He reached up and untightened his tie, leaving it loosely around his neck. "Now be a good employee and pass the duchy. I'll have you know I actually have an MBA and know how to work Quicken. I just don't like to and I don't particularly like you so it made sense to make you do it."
Loathe though he was to do it, Quentin passed his joint to Warren, still fixing his gaze at the Manhattan skyline instead of his boss. "Here you are, Massah. Right quick, yessir."
"Cultural appropriation doesn't look good on you, Quire," Warren pointed out. Taking a deep drag, he held the smoke in for a few seconds before exhaling expertly. "So why are you stealing my drugs? You're a teenager. You must be able to find some on every corner."
"It was there." All the justification Quentin felt he needed. "I left your coke, though. No thanks, World War Three." A chuckle at the pun on his name escaped before Quentin could lock up any glimmer of playfulness he might have had that the weed conjured. He held out his hand, beckoning for his joint.
Warren gave a short laugh as well. "Now that's a name I haven't heard since grade school. I like having a number in my name. Makes me feel more important.". He took another quick drag before handing the joint over. "And if all you found was the pot and coke, that means I'm actually not too bad at hiding things."
"Well, as long as you feel important," Quentin said after taking a hit. He flicked off some ash, watching as the glowing particles faded out of sight before hitting the ground, and the finally deigned to turn his head and look at Warren. "Take off your shirt."
Warren looked long and hard at Quentin with an almost blank expression, trying to figure out what was going on. Then he realized he was better off asking. "Because you want to admire me or because you want me sexually? Not that it matters anyways," he said, reaching up for his buttons. "I like being topless."
Though neither of those reasons had been his intentions, Quentin briefly considered them. There were worse options. Maybe . . . He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. There were also several better options, and not even this good pot would reduce his standards. "I mean for your wings, fucknut. Stop hiding them all the damn time. You're a mutant. Act like one."
"I'm the CEO of a Fortune 500 company in a world that is growing more and more anti-mutant with each passing day." Warren reached the top button and shrugged his shirt off. Under it was his ever present leather halter, which he did have to admit, he was starting to dislike. It would be nice to walk around with them outstretched. He reached up behind and undid it with one practiced pull, letting his wings free."I enjoy being filthy, ridiculously rich. Why would I ruin that?"
Despite himself, Quentin could not stop from gasping in shock, awe, and delight at the sight of Warren's angelic wings. He started to reconsider his earlier rejection. Being enveloped in that majestic, velveteen softness while getting pounded . . . No, focus, Quentin. He took another hit and passed the joint back without being prompted. He did permit himself to brush his fingers against Warren's, though. Small rewards.
"How much good could you do us all if you came out and used that position? Besides, you probably have a dozen highly illegal tax shelters or whatever to keep your money so you'll be rich once you're inevitably fired or indicted."
"Oh, that's been in place since Felicia came back and I hired her as my personal accountant." Warren took another toke, noting that the joint was fading fast. He headed to a beautiful, jewel encrusted box on his patio, his ostentatious 'dope stash'. "Eventually, I plan on either outing myself or being outed. It's important to plan for every eventuality. That being said," he continued as he expertly rolled another j, "it's not the right time. I mean, let's look at the election: if one wins, we're all going to be tagged and killed. If the other wins, we'll still be hated but at least politely."
"Don't you think that means it's exactly the right time? Like, it's time to cash out now, before it's too late." Quentin paced down the length of the balcony, looking down into the empty alley below. "Man like you, one of the richest in the country, tells everyone he's a mutant? Tim Cook's got nothing on that."
"And my employees? Their families? Their children?". Warren shook his head. "I work very hard to seem calloused and aloof but I have a responsibility to keep. ". He walked over to a lounger, sitting down with his wings stretched out. "Also, blah blah daddy issues. I'm not fully in charge yet. Until he steps down, I'll do more harm than good."
After another moment of staring off the balcony, Quentin turned and sauntered to the seat next to Warren, and held out his hand for the joint. "Have you considered having your father killed?" the telepath suggested, as if he were just recommending what to have for dinner. "I have," he admitted. "Haven't been able to find a hitman, though. You must know one."
Warren had no ready response for that one. The pot was definitely melowing him out, but there was still some boundaries he shouldn't cross. "I can neither confirm nor deny that," he finally said. "And besides. Killing someone is so...final. Do I despise my father?loathe him? Hate him enough that I wish him dead?". Warren shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know if I feel that strongly about anyone ."
Quentin beamed proudly at having achieved the impossible: rendering Warren Worthington III speechless. "Everyone ought to have a passion in life, even if that passion is fratricide," Quentin said wisely.
"I like fucking my problems away," Warren responded bluntly. "And it sounds like you have worse daddy issues than I. At least mine throws money at me and hopes I forget he's supposed to show affection or some crap."
"Me, too. And mine, too, too. Except he's only a fraction of your worth. So maybe that's why I'm so done with him. Pay me, bitch, and I'll take more of your white nonsense, you know?"
Warren gave him a pointed look. "I do pay you. And you steal my drugs, nap at my desk and basically do fuck all. Why do I keep you around again?"
"No, I was talking about Father Quire, not you. But still, good question." Quentin slid a hand down his pants to scratch himself, and left it there, seeming to forget he'd done something so indecent in the first place. "Because I'm an invaluable member of the team?"
Warren gave an undignified huff. "Right, the token minority. I get some tax breaks because of you." was that too mean? He was getting pretty stoned and it was hard to tell. He fluttered his wings lazily and pulled out his phone. "What are we eating?"
He would deny it, but the sound that came out of Quentin's mouth sounded suspiciously like a laugh. One of humor, even, not disparagement at someone else's misfortune. "Pizza. No meat, veggies are fine. Garlic. I'm not getting laid tonight, anyway."
"I will be," Warren send, texting Bobbi. He'd already forgotten Quentin was here. "You order, I'll pay. After, you get the couch or I get you an expensive hotel room. Either way, when we both sober up, I won't like you anymore than I do now, but at least I have a new drug friend.". That was probably the closest Warren would ever get to saying that he didn't mind Quire as much as he always said he did.
"You don't have to like me." Quentin pulled up a delivery app on his phone to put in his order, and charged it to the corporate card he'd saved on the app several months ago. "I'd actually prefer if you didn't. It makes me uncomfortable when people do."
"Fine by me." Warren leaned back and closed his eyes, his hands folded across his chest. "Wake me when the food gets here. Beauty sleep now."
"Is that my purple haze you're abusing right now?" Warren tossed his attache on to the couch, and glared at Quentin. "Did you even eat beforehand or are you expecting to get munchies after? Because I assure you that once you go down that rabbit hole, you won't even be able to walk."
Striding into the room, he went to the porch doors and threw them open. "And really, inside? Do you have any idea how hard resin is to get off the walls? My housekeeper will yell at me. Mind you, she speaks Tagalog, so I won't understand, but still. Very disrespectful of you."
Quentin stepped outside into the cool late summer evening without any further directive. "You need to hide your weed better if you don't want to lose it," he accused Warren without turning to look at him. "Also don't keep me here working after hours just because you don't know how to work Quicken. Which, you know, neither do I."
"I was probably high when I hid it, so don't hold that against me," Warren responded. He reached up and untightened his tie, leaving it loosely around his neck. "Now be a good employee and pass the duchy. I'll have you know I actually have an MBA and know how to work Quicken. I just don't like to and I don't particularly like you so it made sense to make you do it."
Loathe though he was to do it, Quentin passed his joint to Warren, still fixing his gaze at the Manhattan skyline instead of his boss. "Here you are, Massah. Right quick, yessir."
"Cultural appropriation doesn't look good on you, Quire," Warren pointed out. Taking a deep drag, he held the smoke in for a few seconds before exhaling expertly. "So why are you stealing my drugs? You're a teenager. You must be able to find some on every corner."
"It was there." All the justification Quentin felt he needed. "I left your coke, though. No thanks, World War Three." A chuckle at the pun on his name escaped before Quentin could lock up any glimmer of playfulness he might have had that the weed conjured. He held out his hand, beckoning for his joint.
Warren gave a short laugh as well. "Now that's a name I haven't heard since grade school. I like having a number in my name. Makes me feel more important.". He took another quick drag before handing the joint over. "And if all you found was the pot and coke, that means I'm actually not too bad at hiding things."
"Well, as long as you feel important," Quentin said after taking a hit. He flicked off some ash, watching as the glowing particles faded out of sight before hitting the ground, and the finally deigned to turn his head and look at Warren. "Take off your shirt."
Warren looked long and hard at Quentin with an almost blank expression, trying to figure out what was going on. Then he realized he was better off asking. "Because you want to admire me or because you want me sexually? Not that it matters anyways," he said, reaching up for his buttons. "I like being topless."
Though neither of those reasons had been his intentions, Quentin briefly considered them. There were worse options. Maybe . . . He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. There were also several better options, and not even this good pot would reduce his standards. "I mean for your wings, fucknut. Stop hiding them all the damn time. You're a mutant. Act like one."
"I'm the CEO of a Fortune 500 company in a world that is growing more and more anti-mutant with each passing day." Warren reached the top button and shrugged his shirt off. Under it was his ever present leather halter, which he did have to admit, he was starting to dislike. It would be nice to walk around with them outstretched. He reached up behind and undid it with one practiced pull, letting his wings free."I enjoy being filthy, ridiculously rich. Why would I ruin that?"
Despite himself, Quentin could not stop from gasping in shock, awe, and delight at the sight of Warren's angelic wings. He started to reconsider his earlier rejection. Being enveloped in that majestic, velveteen softness while getting pounded . . . No, focus, Quentin. He took another hit and passed the joint back without being prompted. He did permit himself to brush his fingers against Warren's, though. Small rewards.
"How much good could you do us all if you came out and used that position? Besides, you probably have a dozen highly illegal tax shelters or whatever to keep your money so you'll be rich once you're inevitably fired or indicted."
"Oh, that's been in place since Felicia came back and I hired her as my personal accountant." Warren took another toke, noting that the joint was fading fast. He headed to a beautiful, jewel encrusted box on his patio, his ostentatious 'dope stash'. "Eventually, I plan on either outing myself or being outed. It's important to plan for every eventuality. That being said," he continued as he expertly rolled another j, "it's not the right time. I mean, let's look at the election: if one wins, we're all going to be tagged and killed. If the other wins, we'll still be hated but at least politely."
"Don't you think that means it's exactly the right time? Like, it's time to cash out now, before it's too late." Quentin paced down the length of the balcony, looking down into the empty alley below. "Man like you, one of the richest in the country, tells everyone he's a mutant? Tim Cook's got nothing on that."
"And my employees? Their families? Their children?". Warren shook his head. "I work very hard to seem calloused and aloof but I have a responsibility to keep. ". He walked over to a lounger, sitting down with his wings stretched out. "Also, blah blah daddy issues. I'm not fully in charge yet. Until he steps down, I'll do more harm than good."
After another moment of staring off the balcony, Quentin turned and sauntered to the seat next to Warren, and held out his hand for the joint. "Have you considered having your father killed?" the telepath suggested, as if he were just recommending what to have for dinner. "I have," he admitted. "Haven't been able to find a hitman, though. You must know one."
Warren had no ready response for that one. The pot was definitely melowing him out, but there was still some boundaries he shouldn't cross. "I can neither confirm nor deny that," he finally said. "And besides. Killing someone is so...final. Do I despise my father?loathe him? Hate him enough that I wish him dead?". Warren shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know if I feel that strongly about anyone ."
Quentin beamed proudly at having achieved the impossible: rendering Warren Worthington III speechless. "Everyone ought to have a passion in life, even if that passion is fratricide," Quentin said wisely.
"I like fucking my problems away," Warren responded bluntly. "And it sounds like you have worse daddy issues than I. At least mine throws money at me and hopes I forget he's supposed to show affection or some crap."
"Me, too. And mine, too, too. Except he's only a fraction of your worth. So maybe that's why I'm so done with him. Pay me, bitch, and I'll take more of your white nonsense, you know?"
Warren gave him a pointed look. "I do pay you. And you steal my drugs, nap at my desk and basically do fuck all. Why do I keep you around again?"
"No, I was talking about Father Quire, not you. But still, good question." Quentin slid a hand down his pants to scratch himself, and left it there, seeming to forget he'd done something so indecent in the first place. "Because I'm an invaluable member of the team?"
Warren gave an undignified huff. "Right, the token minority. I get some tax breaks because of you." was that too mean? He was getting pretty stoned and it was hard to tell. He fluttered his wings lazily and pulled out his phone. "What are we eating?"
He would deny it, but the sound that came out of Quentin's mouth sounded suspiciously like a laugh. One of humor, even, not disparagement at someone else's misfortune. "Pizza. No meat, veggies are fine. Garlic. I'm not getting laid tonight, anyway."
"I will be," Warren send, texting Bobbi. He'd already forgotten Quentin was here. "You order, I'll pay. After, you get the couch or I get you an expensive hotel room. Either way, when we both sober up, I won't like you anymore than I do now, but at least I have a new drug friend.". That was probably the closest Warren would ever get to saying that he didn't mind Quire as much as he always said he did.
"You don't have to like me." Quentin pulled up a delivery app on his phone to put in his order, and charged it to the corporate card he'd saved on the app several months ago. "I'd actually prefer if you didn't. It makes me uncomfortable when people do."
"Fine by me." Warren leaned back and closed his eyes, his hands folded across his chest. "Wake me when the food gets here. Beauty sleep now."
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Date: 2016-10-11 12:54 am (UTC)She also says she'll offer a 4% discount if they can refer her to a better pot dealer, and another 2% if Warren and Quentin will have sex where she can sketch it for the sake of beautiful art.
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Date: 2016-10-11 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-10-11 02:32 am (UTC)