You killed the peanut butter.
May. 23rd, 2003 01:24 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logs[Edit: This is Alison and Logan in the kitchen. There is nothing even /remotely/ close to smut, here.]
Friday, 2 am.
Logan sits on a barstool in the kitchen, sipping his beer and enjoying the silence. An almost-nightly ritual. The sounds of the Mansion at night soothe him. Footsteps in the halls, whispering in the dorms, music playing on the third floor, almost too quiet for him to hear.
He's starting to get used to this place.
Rubbing her eyes blearily, Alison shuffles into the kitchen, absently absorbing the sound she makes while walking to charge up -- she knows she has to do so regularly, as the Professor has asked her to practice until it's an unconscious reflex.
It still isn't.
Frowning at herself she chooses the easy route as she reaches the counter, and instead flicks on her mp3 -- full blast.
He could smell her enter, but she'd been so silent that he had decided to leave her be. Now, though, he flinches at the sudden burst of noise, and growls, slamming his drink down on the counter.
Alison doesn't hear a thing over the blaring Brian Setzer Orchestra track wailing away, the sound far easier for her to store than the faint shuffling of her feet earlier. With a satisfied nod, she starts whistling with the tune, reaching for the cupboard to grab the jar of peanut butter.
He winces as she begins to whistle, further disturbing his silent evening alone. Sliding his bottle across the counter, he stands up and stalks around the bar, heading toward the doorway -- and, by extension, Alison.
Jar of peanut butter in hand, Alison reaches out for the cutlery drawer with her free hand, idly looking around the counter -- the semi darkness in which the kitchen is plunged thwarts her search for the bread, so with a smug look, she shrugs and lights up the room -- and sees a shape moving towards her from the corner of her eyes.
Letting out a startled shriek, Alison jumps back and throws the peanut jar at whoever while back-pedalling away from the door and the intruder.
His first reaction is always the safest, so Logan flinches as the claws tear through the skin of his right hand and he bats away the jar -- neatly slicing it into four pieces in the process -- and growls more loudly.
He knows who it is -- one of Wheels' idiot grad students -- but that doesn't make him any more willing to go easy on her. He turns from his path toward the door and stalks toward Alison, coming to a stop right in front of her. "Turn off the fucking music." His claws are still out, on his right hand.
Staring at the claws with wide eyes, Alison manages to not lash out from pure reflex -- barely. Lights pop and spark at Logan though none of them actually reach him, and she taps the mp3 player with a trembling hand which she then rests against her the side of her leg in a fist, keeping the rest of her body very still.
"You killed the peanut butter," she states in a flat almost mechanical voice. She refuses to let him see how badly she's still startled, and raises an eyebrow at him coolly.
"If you were worried about it, you shouldn't have thrown it at me," Logan returns, growling each word between clenched teeth. He retracts his claws, blood spattering against the floor as it's forced from where it had pooled around his knuckles from when the claws had broken through his skin. He shakes his hand to clear off the rest of the blood, the cuts between his knuckles healing quickly.
Alison glances involuntarily at the blood as it arcs towards the floor, but only for a second, her eyes flicking back to Logan's right away. Refusing to give ground, she stiffens her spine slightly before forcing herself to relax -- and not succeeding as much as she'd like. Any apology for throwing the deceased peanut butter jar at him has long been forgotten -- the very clear memory of those claws being in fact the only thing keeping her from throwing something else at him out of pure pique.
"Do you always skulk in the kitchen in the dark?" she asked instead, unable to keep a hint of aggravation from her voice.
Logan raises an eyebrow. "Do you always burst into the kitchen and scream at people who were there first?" He's calmer now, and just shrugs as he turns and walks back toward the door without waiting for an answer.
Alison bites down on a sharp retort as he walks out, grinding her teeth and barely refraining from reaching out for the toaster to fling that at the back of his head.
Friday, 2 am.
Logan sits on a barstool in the kitchen, sipping his beer and enjoying the silence. An almost-nightly ritual. The sounds of the Mansion at night soothe him. Footsteps in the halls, whispering in the dorms, music playing on the third floor, almost too quiet for him to hear.
He's starting to get used to this place.
Rubbing her eyes blearily, Alison shuffles into the kitchen, absently absorbing the sound she makes while walking to charge up -- she knows she has to do so regularly, as the Professor has asked her to practice until it's an unconscious reflex.
It still isn't.
Frowning at herself she chooses the easy route as she reaches the counter, and instead flicks on her mp3 -- full blast.
He could smell her enter, but she'd been so silent that he had decided to leave her be. Now, though, he flinches at the sudden burst of noise, and growls, slamming his drink down on the counter.
Alison doesn't hear a thing over the blaring Brian Setzer Orchestra track wailing away, the sound far easier for her to store than the faint shuffling of her feet earlier. With a satisfied nod, she starts whistling with the tune, reaching for the cupboard to grab the jar of peanut butter.
He winces as she begins to whistle, further disturbing his silent evening alone. Sliding his bottle across the counter, he stands up and stalks around the bar, heading toward the doorway -- and, by extension, Alison.
Jar of peanut butter in hand, Alison reaches out for the cutlery drawer with her free hand, idly looking around the counter -- the semi darkness in which the kitchen is plunged thwarts her search for the bread, so with a smug look, she shrugs and lights up the room -- and sees a shape moving towards her from the corner of her eyes.
Letting out a startled shriek, Alison jumps back and throws the peanut jar at whoever while back-pedalling away from the door and the intruder.
His first reaction is always the safest, so Logan flinches as the claws tear through the skin of his right hand and he bats away the jar -- neatly slicing it into four pieces in the process -- and growls more loudly.
He knows who it is -- one of Wheels' idiot grad students -- but that doesn't make him any more willing to go easy on her. He turns from his path toward the door and stalks toward Alison, coming to a stop right in front of her. "Turn off the fucking music." His claws are still out, on his right hand.
Staring at the claws with wide eyes, Alison manages to not lash out from pure reflex -- barely. Lights pop and spark at Logan though none of them actually reach him, and she taps the mp3 player with a trembling hand which she then rests against her the side of her leg in a fist, keeping the rest of her body very still.
"You killed the peanut butter," she states in a flat almost mechanical voice. She refuses to let him see how badly she's still startled, and raises an eyebrow at him coolly.
"If you were worried about it, you shouldn't have thrown it at me," Logan returns, growling each word between clenched teeth. He retracts his claws, blood spattering against the floor as it's forced from where it had pooled around his knuckles from when the claws had broken through his skin. He shakes his hand to clear off the rest of the blood, the cuts between his knuckles healing quickly.
Alison glances involuntarily at the blood as it arcs towards the floor, but only for a second, her eyes flicking back to Logan's right away. Refusing to give ground, she stiffens her spine slightly before forcing herself to relax -- and not succeeding as much as she'd like. Any apology for throwing the deceased peanut butter jar at him has long been forgotten -- the very clear memory of those claws being in fact the only thing keeping her from throwing something else at him out of pure pique.
"Do you always skulk in the kitchen in the dark?" she asked instead, unable to keep a hint of aggravation from her voice.
Logan raises an eyebrow. "Do you always burst into the kitchen and scream at people who were there first?" He's calmer now, and just shrugs as he turns and walks back toward the door without waiting for an answer.
Alison bites down on a sharp retort as he walks out, grinding her teeth and barely refraining from reaching out for the toaster to fling that at the back of his head.
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