Quentin & Cecilia, Sunday afternoon

[xp-erverse.livejournal.com]

Quentin and Cecilia have a contentious encounter when Quentin's trolling goes a step too far.


Quentin whistled an uncharacteristically joyful tune on his way from the mansion's kitchen back to his suite, carrying in one hand a carton of ice cream clearly labeled with a name that was not Quentin Quire, and rolling a quarter through the fingers on his other hand. After a rocky start, he had mastered the tricks Arthur had taught him, so he deserved to celebrate his accomplishments. Unfortunately, his own kitchenette was bare, so he had to make do with another source of groceries.

His phone pinged with a news alert, and he telekinetically withdrew it from his pocket. "Another flatscan dead," he said flatly to no one in particular. "Cheers."

"Well, that's unsurprisingly callous." It wasn't civil as far as greetings went, but Cecilia raised an eyebrow at Quentin as she strode down the hall toward the kitchen. She doubted he expected any differently; it's not like she made a secret of her feelings toward telepaths. "Very on brand, though," she added, sticking her hands in the pockets of a hoodie she'd borrowed from Arthur with no intent of returning. Her eyes drifted toward his Quentin's arms. "You better hope that's not mine."

"Only if your name is . . ." He squinted at the named written in Sharpie on the cover. "Celine? Carmine? Or maybe that's Cecilia? Whatever, I don't think it's yours. So, you know, excuse me."

"You better hope that's not Cammie or Clarice," Cecilia said flatly. "The one hasn't been here for months and leaves a trail of poison everywhere. And the other once teleported a man's fingers off his hand or something." She shrugged, then started back down the hall. She only went a few paces before stopping and turning around. "Who died?"

And he was the callous one. The floating phone rotated so the screen faced her. "That bitch juror from the McCoffer farce who said she was gonna write a book about her 'experience' on that case. So she could make millions off of letting that mutant-murdering cop go free. Found her corpse swinging from a third-floor fire escape in Chelsea. Karma."

"Well, fuck." She wasn't entirely sure what to say, and she leaned toward the phone for a second to read it, before realizing how absurd that was when she had her own pocket computer. She pulled it out of the sweatshirt's pocket, swiping and tapping to pull up the story. "That's awful," she said as she typed. "Christ."

Quentin titled his head and raised an eyebrow. "Is it, though? Is it really? Seems more like pest extermination to me." He focused his gaze on her to monitor her reaction to his words and see if she would take the bait.

"Do you really think that?" Cecilia looked up at him, her eyes locked on intently on his, her features almost tight. "Or are you being a troll? Because with you, it's honestly hard to tell most of the time."

He raised his head, smirking, and rolled the coin between his fingers until it disappeared like magic. "I'll never tell. I will say, though, that it's not big loss either way. 'Cuz of her testimony, that pig cop got off and two mutant lives are gone and will never get justice."

Cecilia said nothing for a few seconds, instead looking back down at her phone. A frown appeared slowly on her face. "This fixes nothing," she finally said. "The cop got off. And now, basically he's claimed three lives instead of a third." Her frown deepened as she lifted her head. "Nobody deserves to die. And definitely not for serving on a jury."

Quentin flicked his wrist and the coin rematerialized between his index and middle fingers. His flat gaze remained on her the whole time. "Maybe this will be a message to the next jury, because you know this is gonna happen again, and they've got to know that police don't get to just kill. Especially not us."

Cecilia shook her head. "The answer to death isn't more death. That's not — that's not how justice is supposed to work." She knew what was coming, and so she shook her head. "And I know that the system's broken, obviously, I know as well as anyone and maybe better than most. I mean, hello. Look at me." Her face was growing hot, her speech getting faster. "But you don't respond to murder with more murder, Quentin. That's not what you do, and it's an insult to all the people who we've lost to cops and bigotry and hatred and the people who—"

She squeezed a fist, trying to center herself. This wasn't someone she wanted to lose composure in front of. Not again, anyway. "These are people. She's an awful monster, sure, but she's a person with a life. You don't kill her to make a point."

The ice cream was going to melt if he didn't put it in a freezer soon. Still, watching the doctor get flustered and stumble was more delicious than frozen sugar milk. Quentin flipped the coin, caught it, and when he opened his hand, it was gone.

"Isn't that what the American justice system really is about, though?" he challenged her. "That's the point of capital punishment. 'You did this terrible thing, now you lose your life, and let this be a warning to any other poor SOB who tries to do the same thing.' So this serial killer, whoever they are, they're kind of a patriot. God bless America."

"And you believe in capital punishment?" Cecilia raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding me? Just because something exists doesn't make it right. Don't straw man like that with me."

"I'm just saying he's following the spirit of the law and enforcing it where the state fails." He sauntered towards her, smirking, and reached a hand up behind her ear to conjure the coin again. "Isn't that kind of Chuckles's whole gig? Fill the void to protect mutant interests where the authorities fail to do so."

Her force field kicked in, stopping his hand a few inches short and sending it rebounding slightly in the other direction. She tried not to look too satisfied with that. "Following the spirit of a broken law. I don't think Charles thinks murder is in the mutant interest. He understands that lives have value. Even wasted ones."

Taken by surprise, Quentin dropped the coin from his sleeve, and tried to recover his poise by stepping back with the same blase attitude. A wave of his fingers telekinetically returned the coin to his hand. "That's just the dementia setting in," he retorted.

She rolled her eyes as the coin settled back in between his knuckles. "Charles is a lot of things. Senile isn't one of them."

He snorted. "You're right. He's also deaf, blind, and an ineffective leader whose life's work to improve the sociopolitical status of mutants has generated no substantive results. About the only thing he's good for is free rent and an overabundance of stealable ice cream."

Cecilia stood there for a second, sizing him up again. "You're ridiculous," she finally said, with a smile, because she suspected it might tick him off. "You live here rent-free, entirely cared for, with nobody asking you to do anything or be anyone. And you spend the whole time complaining, insulting people, doing whatever it is you do, pretending to have next-to-no-empathy, even though we both know that isn't entirely the case. But, fine." She held up her hands in mock deference, because it felt appropriately condescending. "You hate everyone. You hate everyone so much, that you deride a man with a vision and a plan, which, okay, sure, doesn't seem to be working. But hey, you know, he's trying something."

She crossed her arms. "What do you do, Quentin? Besides get high and write screeds to teenagers, or maybe recite the same political viewpoints that you probably saw somewhere on a 'We Are The 99%' Facebook group or read in the Wikipedia article for Marx? All those people you want to help? They're out there, buddy. They're waiting for somebody to do something, to help solve all those problems you talk so much about. So, Quentin, what are you gonna do besides sit in your free mansion bedroom, eating free Cherry Garcia and jacking off to free online porn?"

"Ooh, girl, go in. Yas. Wrecked." Quentin's faux-smile faded and he rolled his eyes. "You're as stupid as you are beautiful, you know? Cyberbullying and reposting dank memes are only two examples of my vast skillset. Others include accidentally possessing a Quebecois girl about to be lobotomized by her own parents and saving her life, directing a quartet of mutant teenagers to explore their powers and help their community without arousing their bigot parents' suspicion, and memorizing all of Worthington's credit card numbers because I need new shoes. So try again. But not right now. This really is gonna melt and I do want to eat it."

"Congratulations," Cecilia said dryly. "Averting a crisis that endangered you as much as anybody else, and credit card fraud. You're a real hero. Gotham can sleep well tonight."

A decorative vase nearby wobbled and though it did not fall and shatter, a crack appeared on the lip. Quentin just glared at Cecilia. "Wow. And I'm the cynical one. I couldn't possibly have helped Daniella because it was the right thing to do and I had the opportunity to. Just saving my own ass, everyone else can get fucked. That's Quentin Quire. So, if you don't mind, I'm going to the suite I don't pay a penny for, smoke a bowl, eat this, and then whack it to Colby Keller." He stalked past her, keeping in mind to avoid body checking her as much as he wanted to so her force field wouldn't just fling him backwards.

"Yeah," Cecilia muttered, happy to move out of the way if it meant this entire conversation would be over. "You do that." She pulled the strings of the hoodie tighter, as if that would help shield her from whatever twisted thing he was undoubtedly thinking. And then she made her way down the hall, where an Irish coffee or a hot toddy was hopefully waiting for her.