Quentin & Betsy, early Thursday morning
Jan. 16th, 2020 02:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsQuentin encounters a sleepwalking Betsy. Violence ensues.
After the previous sleepwalking incidents, Betsy had decided to no longer bother with pyjamas - if she was to be caught out of her suite without her wits about her, at least she should be able to do it in style. Besides, sleep had become so elusive that any bedtime routine felt like a waste of time. Therefore her current habitus wandering the halls seemed merely slightly unsteady, not an unusual occurrence for mansion dwellers on a Friday night.
Whereas Quentin, now back at the mansion from his several-months-long hiatus, was perfectly comfortable treading the halls in his briefs and a crop top emblazoned with an image of Magneto's helmet colored like a pride flag. His kitchen cupboards were empty save a few half-empty bottles of gin and vodka, and he needed something to soak up all of that. With the holidays approaching, there was plenty of people's practice meals in the communal kitchen, so that was his destination.
It was not too unusual to find another nighttime wanderer, particularly someone else with the munchies, so he did not give Betsy a second thought as he passed her. He did give a third thought, though, as he telepathically picked up her presence, or rather lack thereof. Dull and muted, like she wasn't actually there. Curious, he turned around and called her name.
There was no indication she had heard him. Instead, she reached up and opened one of the more rarely used top cupboards. Then closed it. Then opened it again before meandering to the other side of the room and doing the same to the cupboard opposite to the first. A poorly balanced jar of ancient pickles clattered to the floor.
Quentin retrieved the thankfully not-shattered jar and raised an eyebrow at her, examining her to see if maybe she was wearing Airpods. "Braddock. Hey, Braddock. The fuck are you doing?" He telekinetically sent the jar back to its home and then tapped the other psi on the shoulder.
While Quentin's questions went unanswered, the physical contact elicited a response. With more dexterity than her previous aimlessness would suggest, Betsy turned around, grabbed the offending hand, and pushed it's owner against the kitchen counter.
"Fuck fuck fuck!" The curse came out as more of a whimper than Quentin would have liked, but how else would someone react when assaulted like this? He squirmed and her grip became even tighter. Any more and he feared she would snap his arm in two. His breath coming out in short rapid spurts, his vision blurred under tears of anguish he failed to fight back, he did the first thing that came to mind: belching a wild burst of psychic energy at his offender. The cupboards and drawers rattled in the wake of a telekinetic wave, while his telepathy slammed against Betsy's mind like a battering ram.
Betsy released her hold and staggered back before less than gracefully falling down. As soon as the telepathic attack started her face had gone slack, and she now resembled a marionette with its strings cut, if said marionette had then been hit across the room with a telekinetic baseball bat. She lifted one hand to her face very slowly. “Ow."
Quentin spun around and braced himself against the counter with one hand, holding out his other to ward off Betsy. "Take another step and I'll boil your brain, you fucking psycho!" he warned her with a trembling voice.
“Que-… Quentin?” It came out as a question. “Where’s… Why am I in the kitchen?,” she asked uncertainly, then brought both hands to her face. “Oh, not again."
Her distraction gave Quentin the opportunity to summon a chef's knife from the knife block across the room, but rattled as he was, it did not come to his hand as intended. He yelped and ducked to avoid steel to the face, and the knife embedded itself in the wall behind him.
"...I meant to do that."
Betsy stared at the knife that was now sticking out of the wall. If she had been confused before, she was now genuinely bewildered. "I'm... sure you did?," she said cautiously. "May I ask you what the everloving fuck is going on?"
"That's what I'd like to fucking know." Quentin stood up straight and smoothed out his shirt. "You go all fucking ninja on me when I tapped you. You could have broken my arm!"
The other psi winced at his choice of words. She was getting slightly concerned with how often people brought up ninjas lately. “I am sorry. I did not mean to. I, um, have a slight problem with sleepwalking."
"Slight?!" He squeaked. "Girl, I have a slight weed problem, and I've never attacked anyone 'cuz of it. You're more than slight. You need a lobotomy."
"That would probably make it worse, actually," Betsy muttered. Out loud she said: "Telepathic attack seems to work though, so you should be fine. Besides, was I doing anything dangerous before you touched me? Bodily autonomy is a thing, you know."
This whole experience brought old memories back to the surface, sending a shiver down Quentin's back. Though Amadeus had been gone for a year and a half now, the nightmares he had catatonically sent Quentin terrorized him. "My old roommate used to walk around in a fugue state before they locked him up in a crazy house or wherever the hell he is now," he said, glancing away from Betsy. "Big brain of his suffered server lag more often than not.”
Betsy rubbed her temples with her thumbs. “This kind of thing seems to happen uncomfortably often to mutants. I do apologise, I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories. Well, obviously I didn’t mean anything since I was asleep, but, I’m sorry you ended up having to deal with it. I’ll try to figure out a better way to stop myself from leaving my room. I tried locking my door but apparently I just pick the lock.” She was starting to sway a bit on her feet; the episodes were leaving her more drained every time.
His breathing and heart rate finally returning to baseline, Quentin leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. "Talk to Jean or Chuckles," he offered, not unkindly. "Bet they could install some kind of telepathic alarm clock that'd go off when you sleepwalk. Or shibari yourself before bed every night. Bet you couldn't break out of that."
“…Chuckles?” Betsy cocked her head, then shrugged. “You know what, I’m not going to even ask. Anyway I mentioned the insomnia to Xavier when still in Muir and he could not figure it out then… The sleepwalking only began after I moved to the mansion though. I could ask Jean again I guess but so far she’s only suggested medical solutions.” She slid down the wall until she was propping herself on her elbows with her legs in front of her - if they had to have this conversation she might as well get comfortable for it. “With shibari I’m pretty sure I could either get myself out while asleep, or still not be able to do it when I wake up, which has obvious downsides. Besides the risk of cutting off circulation to my extremities is pretty high."
"Yeah, well, at least you wouldn't be zombieing around and putting yourself or anyone else in danger." He pushed himself off the counter and went to the freezer, where he secured an unopened pint of ice cream. "There's, like, half a dozen telepaths in this place. One of them's got to have an answer." Quentin scooped a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and grimaced as he swallowed. "Ugh, butter pecan? There goes my appetite." He tossed the pint in the garbage bin and left the spoon in the sink. "Telepathic alarm clock would work, though, I bet you."
Staring mournfully after the discarded ice cream, Betsy slid the rest of the way to the floor. The kitchen tiles were nice and cool under her head. “I like butter pecan,” she muttered, then continued more loudly, "and it’s a good idea but I’m pretty sure I can undo anything someone else would set up in my brain, and I can’t trust myself to not do it while asleep."
Quentin pretended not to hear her lament, instead rummaging through the cabinets until he found a bag of Doritos. That would do. "Then get yourself a sober companion, foist off all the work on them. You're rich, aren't you? Bet you could afford that. Might even be able to get a tax write-off." He shrugged and headed to the exit to go back to his room. His daily quota of interacting with people was now met. "Night. Try not to kill anyone else on your way out."
Had someone said something? The floor was very comfortable. Betsy wondered croggily if that had been a consideration when choosing the kitchen tiles, then curled on to her side and drifted off to dreamless, still sleep.
After the previous sleepwalking incidents, Betsy had decided to no longer bother with pyjamas - if she was to be caught out of her suite without her wits about her, at least she should be able to do it in style. Besides, sleep had become so elusive that any bedtime routine felt like a waste of time. Therefore her current habitus wandering the halls seemed merely slightly unsteady, not an unusual occurrence for mansion dwellers on a Friday night.
Whereas Quentin, now back at the mansion from his several-months-long hiatus, was perfectly comfortable treading the halls in his briefs and a crop top emblazoned with an image of Magneto's helmet colored like a pride flag. His kitchen cupboards were empty save a few half-empty bottles of gin and vodka, and he needed something to soak up all of that. With the holidays approaching, there was plenty of people's practice meals in the communal kitchen, so that was his destination.
It was not too unusual to find another nighttime wanderer, particularly someone else with the munchies, so he did not give Betsy a second thought as he passed her. He did give a third thought, though, as he telepathically picked up her presence, or rather lack thereof. Dull and muted, like she wasn't actually there. Curious, he turned around and called her name.
There was no indication she had heard him. Instead, she reached up and opened one of the more rarely used top cupboards. Then closed it. Then opened it again before meandering to the other side of the room and doing the same to the cupboard opposite to the first. A poorly balanced jar of ancient pickles clattered to the floor.
Quentin retrieved the thankfully not-shattered jar and raised an eyebrow at her, examining her to see if maybe she was wearing Airpods. "Braddock. Hey, Braddock. The fuck are you doing?" He telekinetically sent the jar back to its home and then tapped the other psi on the shoulder.
While Quentin's questions went unanswered, the physical contact elicited a response. With more dexterity than her previous aimlessness would suggest, Betsy turned around, grabbed the offending hand, and pushed it's owner against the kitchen counter.
"Fuck fuck fuck!" The curse came out as more of a whimper than Quentin would have liked, but how else would someone react when assaulted like this? He squirmed and her grip became even tighter. Any more and he feared she would snap his arm in two. His breath coming out in short rapid spurts, his vision blurred under tears of anguish he failed to fight back, he did the first thing that came to mind: belching a wild burst of psychic energy at his offender. The cupboards and drawers rattled in the wake of a telekinetic wave, while his telepathy slammed against Betsy's mind like a battering ram.
Betsy released her hold and staggered back before less than gracefully falling down. As soon as the telepathic attack started her face had gone slack, and she now resembled a marionette with its strings cut, if said marionette had then been hit across the room with a telekinetic baseball bat. She lifted one hand to her face very slowly. “Ow."
Quentin spun around and braced himself against the counter with one hand, holding out his other to ward off Betsy. "Take another step and I'll boil your brain, you fucking psycho!" he warned her with a trembling voice.
“Que-… Quentin?” It came out as a question. “Where’s… Why am I in the kitchen?,” she asked uncertainly, then brought both hands to her face. “Oh, not again."
Her distraction gave Quentin the opportunity to summon a chef's knife from the knife block across the room, but rattled as he was, it did not come to his hand as intended. He yelped and ducked to avoid steel to the face, and the knife embedded itself in the wall behind him.
"...I meant to do that."
Betsy stared at the knife that was now sticking out of the wall. If she had been confused before, she was now genuinely bewildered. "I'm... sure you did?," she said cautiously. "May I ask you what the everloving fuck is going on?"
"That's what I'd like to fucking know." Quentin stood up straight and smoothed out his shirt. "You go all fucking ninja on me when I tapped you. You could have broken my arm!"
The other psi winced at his choice of words. She was getting slightly concerned with how often people brought up ninjas lately. “I am sorry. I did not mean to. I, um, have a slight problem with sleepwalking."
"Slight?!" He squeaked. "Girl, I have a slight weed problem, and I've never attacked anyone 'cuz of it. You're more than slight. You need a lobotomy."
"That would probably make it worse, actually," Betsy muttered. Out loud she said: "Telepathic attack seems to work though, so you should be fine. Besides, was I doing anything dangerous before you touched me? Bodily autonomy is a thing, you know."
This whole experience brought old memories back to the surface, sending a shiver down Quentin's back. Though Amadeus had been gone for a year and a half now, the nightmares he had catatonically sent Quentin terrorized him. "My old roommate used to walk around in a fugue state before they locked him up in a crazy house or wherever the hell he is now," he said, glancing away from Betsy. "Big brain of his suffered server lag more often than not.”
Betsy rubbed her temples with her thumbs. “This kind of thing seems to happen uncomfortably often to mutants. I do apologise, I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories. Well, obviously I didn’t mean anything since I was asleep, but, I’m sorry you ended up having to deal with it. I’ll try to figure out a better way to stop myself from leaving my room. I tried locking my door but apparently I just pick the lock.” She was starting to sway a bit on her feet; the episodes were leaving her more drained every time.
His breathing and heart rate finally returning to baseline, Quentin leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. "Talk to Jean or Chuckles," he offered, not unkindly. "Bet they could install some kind of telepathic alarm clock that'd go off when you sleepwalk. Or shibari yourself before bed every night. Bet you couldn't break out of that."
“…Chuckles?” Betsy cocked her head, then shrugged. “You know what, I’m not going to even ask. Anyway I mentioned the insomnia to Xavier when still in Muir and he could not figure it out then… The sleepwalking only began after I moved to the mansion though. I could ask Jean again I guess but so far she’s only suggested medical solutions.” She slid down the wall until she was propping herself on her elbows with her legs in front of her - if they had to have this conversation she might as well get comfortable for it. “With shibari I’m pretty sure I could either get myself out while asleep, or still not be able to do it when I wake up, which has obvious downsides. Besides the risk of cutting off circulation to my extremities is pretty high."
"Yeah, well, at least you wouldn't be zombieing around and putting yourself or anyone else in danger." He pushed himself off the counter and went to the freezer, where he secured an unopened pint of ice cream. "There's, like, half a dozen telepaths in this place. One of them's got to have an answer." Quentin scooped a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and grimaced as he swallowed. "Ugh, butter pecan? There goes my appetite." He tossed the pint in the garbage bin and left the spoon in the sink. "Telepathic alarm clock would work, though, I bet you."
Staring mournfully after the discarded ice cream, Betsy slid the rest of the way to the floor. The kitchen tiles were nice and cool under her head. “I like butter pecan,” she muttered, then continued more loudly, "and it’s a good idea but I’m pretty sure I can undo anything someone else would set up in my brain, and I can’t trust myself to not do it while asleep."
Quentin pretended not to hear her lament, instead rummaging through the cabinets until he found a bag of Doritos. That would do. "Then get yourself a sober companion, foist off all the work on them. You're rich, aren't you? Bet you could afford that. Might even be able to get a tax write-off." He shrugged and headed to the exit to go back to his room. His daily quota of interacting with people was now met. "Night. Try not to kill anyone else on your way out."
Had someone said something? The floor was very comfortable. Betsy wondered croggily if that had been a consideration when choosing the kitchen tiles, then curled on to her side and drifted off to dreamless, still sleep.
