a fool's musings

Boreas by Waterhouse
Fool, said my muse to me,
look in thy heart and write...

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2001-12-26 - 3:47 p.m.

to alleviate boredom

Bored, bored, bored. So fucking bored.

At least they're letting me go home early. Have I mentioned I love my guys? They're so nice to me.

This is what I've been working on all afternoon. It's not much, because I have all this great H:LotS dialogue in my head, and I'm trying to adapt it to the X-men, and I'm only being partially successful.

~*~

Night of the Dead Living

A lone candle burned in the darkness of the security control room.

The door opened, and one very smug looking Wolverine entered.

The one room in the mansion where the air conditioning still worked.

Sort of.

He closed the door quietly and sat down in one of the leather armchairs, sighing. It wasn't *that* much cooler than the rest of the house, but it was still better than the sauna his room had turned into. At least the control room had a fan, which he pointed at himself, feeling the sweat being to dry.

If he didn't think Cyke would blow a hole in him, he'd be walking around naked. The boxer shorts that were his concession to modesty in a house full of kids were sticking to his thighs and making him very uncomfortable, especially in the leather seat.

But it was still marginally less hot than his bedroom. He glanced cursorily over the monitors, but saw nothing to alarm him.

He briefly thought of putting the candle out -- it only added heat to the room -- but then realized it smelled nice and lemony, and was actually kind of peaceful.

Ororo, Hank and the Professor were at a conference in Washington, attempting to persuade people that "separate but equal" hadn't worked in the school system before, and it sure as hell wouldn't work with mutants.

Logan wondered idly if an emergency trip to DC in the Blackbird to pick up the weather witch would be feasible. And if he could convince Rogue to go with him.

He was dozing lightly, enjoying the cool air on his heated skin, when the door was thrown open.

He cracked open an eye to see Scott stomp in. He raised an eyebrow and Scott grunted in reply. Logan shrugged.

Scott flopped down into the other chair; Logan couldn't ever recall seeing Scott flop before. He walked around like he was the one with an adamantium skeleton, and a big metal stick up his butt.

After a long silence, Scott said, "I thought you could fix anything. Why the hell can't you fix the air conditioning?"

Logan growled softly. "Don't lay this on me, One-Eye. I ain't the one with the fancy engineering degree."

"Hmph."

More silence, not unfriendly, but not really comfortable, either.

"Rogue's thinking about leaving the team," Scott said abruptly.

Logan's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. This was the first he'd heard of it.

Of course, since their big blow-out the other night over her dating choices, they hadn't spoken much. He wondered again if a break in the weather was the way to her heart.

He tried to keep his voice level. "Is that so?"

Scott glanced at him. "Yeah. Dwight wants her to go back to Mississippi with him."

*Snikt*

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Sorry. I figured you knew."

Logan retracted the claws, relishing the sting. Most people didn't realize they hurt just as much going in as they did coming out. He sighed. "Nah. Not since--"

Scott nodded. Everyone in the house had heard the fight. Logan and Rogue were many things, but subtle and quiet had never been part of their repertoire.

More silence, a little friendlier this time. Seven years of being in life-or-death situations, as well as Jean's unwavering devotion to her fiancé -- now husband -- had dissipated much of the tension between the two men. Neither would ever admit it, but in addition to a grudging but mutual respect, they actually kind of liked each other.

Logan was dozing again, staring unseeingly at the monitors in front of him, when Scott blurted, "Do you think I'm romantic?"

Logan blinked. He looked around, as if to see who else Scott might be speaking to. "Well, for a first date, this is kind of lame," he drawled, winning a reluctant chuckle.

"Jean says I'm not romantic anymore."

Logan waited for the stab of triumph he usually felt over his rival's shortcomings. Instead, he felt a surprising sympathy. "You love her, right?" He already knew the answer. Scott would walk through fire for any of them -- he'd learned that the hard way -- but his feelings for Jean transcended even that.

"More than anything."

"Then you've gotta show her. Women like all that romantic shit. Flowers for no reason. Holding hands." He swiveled the chair to face Scott. "Do you tell her a lot?" This should have made him more uncomfortable than he was, but he just wanted Jean to be happy, and she'd chosen Scott. Therefore, it was his job to make sure Scott made her happy.

"She's a telepath. How could she not know?"

Logan shook his head in disgust. "Christ, I don't know how you ever got her to go out with you in the first place. You made a commitment, Scooter. Love, honor and cherish. That means you've gotta tell her every day -- every hour, even. Women -- they're not like us. They need to hear it. A lot."

Scott sighed. "I think she wants a baby. We've been talking about it."

"This ain't about babies or anything like that." Logan paused. He was sure that when he thought about it later, Scott would be just as stunned as he was that they were even having this conversation. "You just need to pay attention to her. *Love* her. Show her she's still the whole world, like she was when you first got together. Stop spending every waking moment with the jet or the kids or Chuck."

Scott sighed. "I guess I have been a little -- inattentive lately. Betsy--"

Logan grinned. "She's a handful, that one."

"Have you--"

"No. I -- I kinda got my eye on someone else." Someone who was currently not speaking to him; someone who was dating the biggest horse's ass this side of the Rockies, and that included Sabretooth, he thought darkly.

"She's young, Logan. You've got to let her spread her wings a little. She'll come around. She loves you, you know."

Logan shrugged. He wanted to be annoyed that Scott was sticking his nose in where it didn't belong, but he *had* invited it, sort of. And it was reassuring to hear that Rogue did have feelings for him. Since it seemed like she had dated almost every available male in Westchester County, he couldn't tell.

"I mean, I know she's not, she's not a--"

"Virgin," Scott supplied.

Logan growled. "Yeah, that. I mean, I bought her the condoms for her first time with the Popsicle. I told him he better make it good for her." He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "I hated him. I made his life a living hell in training. But he was one of us. He respected her. This, this piece of shit she's dating now--" he exhaled explosively. He shook his head. "I thought, I figured, after she graduated from college, that I could show her. But she-- she stopped wearing the dog tags. She stopped just hanging around."

"She grew up."

"Yeah." Logan closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said again, this time more firmly. "She did. I wasn't ready for how I'd, you know, feel about that."

"You were used to being the most important thing in her life."

"Yeah."

"And now you're not."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Why don't you just *tell* her how you feel? You just said--"

"It doesn't work like that."

"Do as I say, not as I do?" Scott challenged.

Logan opened his mouth to say something when a movement on one of the monitors caught his eye.

"Shit." He jumped up. "You see that?"

Scott nodded grimly. "Let's go."

"You stay here. I'll check it out." He bared his teeth in a ferocious grin. "I could use the distraction."

"All right, but be careful." Scott tossed him a small walkie-talkie. "Call if you need help."

Logan slid silently out of the room, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness.

Scott concentrated on the monitors. All the public rooms in the mansion were equipped with cameras, as were the elevators, the lab and the Danger Room.

He saw Rogue and Jean sitting in the kitchen, and he wondered what they were discussing so animatedly.

***

Rogue smiled tiredly at Jean. "Couldn't sleep either?" Jean shook her head. "It's too damn hot, and for *me* to say that..." she trailed off, laughing. Most of the time, Rogue didn't mind being covered from head to toe -- she was frequently cold. Even six years in Yankee territory hadn't hardened her to temperatures below sixty.

"It's not the heat --"

"Don't even say it."

Jean laughed. "Sorry. I'm not really up for deep conversation right now."

"It's all right. I've had my share of deep conversation for the evening." She slumped over, resting her head against the relatively cool surface of the table. "Dwight wants me to go to Mississippi with him."

"I know."

"Scott sucks at keeping secrets."

"He's married to a telepath," Jean replied lightly. "He doesn't have much choice sometimes."

"What's that like?"

"What?"

Rogue blushed. "Always being in each other's heads. I mean, I know what it's like to have the -- to have people in here," she tapped her temple, "but it's only ever a one-way thing. They never get any of me when I touch them."

Jean considered the woman before her. "I don't think that's true, Rogue. You certainly left an impression on Logan."

Rogue's lips twisted into a grimace. "That's one way of putting it."

"Rogue--"

"No, seriously, does he always have to be so noble? So concerned? So fucking *obligated*? I mean, shouldn't this have ended when I turned eighteen? Or twenty-one? Why is it still going on? What gives him the right to interfere with my life?" She pulled her hair -- sweat-darkened and lank -- off her forehead and into a ponytail.

Jean laid a hand on her arm. "He loves you, Rogue. He just wants what's best for you. It hurts him to see you unhappy."

Rogue snorted. "Shyeah, right. If that were true then--"

She broke off as the door slammed open, revealing the object of their discussion, carrying a wire cage like the ones used to house the rats in the lab.

Inside the cage was a squalling baby.

Logan had a pained, helpless look on his face. He put the cage down on the table and said, "It's crying."

"We noticed," Rogue said dryly. She looked from Logan to Jean, who was now standing. "Well, you've got to pick it up and see what's wrong."

"Not me," Logan said, backing away, hands raised. "I don't do babies."

Jean moved toward the refrigerator. "I'll get some milk."

Rogue sighed loudly. "Fine." She opened the cage and took the baby in her arms, careful not to bring it too close to her face. "You're a big boy, aren't you, yes?" she crooned, settling him on her hip and unwrapping some of the blankets in which he was swaddled.

~*~

That's all I've got for now.

But I think I might need to get Remy into the kitchen first, to do either Munch's or Bolander's part. Though I'm thinking Logan is the Bolander/Crosetti cross, though he and Rogue also fall into the Frankentim roles. Scott is obviously Felton, and Logan plays Kay here, but Kitty will have Kay's other issues, with Bobby.

Are you confused yet?

At least it's keeping me occupied, since there's *nothing* to do here.

~vic

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~*~

2001-12-26 - 9:55 a.m.

Boxing Day

Yesterday was lots of fun.

In addition to the gifts I knew about [and paid for myself *g* - still awaiting reimbursement], I got a lovely pair of flannel pjs - sky blue with white fluffy clouds - and...

And...

Yes, finally...

The Godfather trilogy on DVD.

Leave the gun; take the cannoli.

Speaking of which, Anthony made cannoli for dessert yesterday. The meal was fabulous, as always. From the Santa bread Uncle Jimmy brings to the mozzarella/tomato/pesto appetizers [I don't eat the rest of the stuff they serve as antipasto - you know, roasted peppers, olives, artichoke hearts, anchovies (or are they sardines?), stuffed mushrooms, provolone, supersala, pepperoni (sweet and hot), caponata, etc.], the stuffed shells, the honey-glazed spiral ham, the zucchini ala Marguerite and the myriad desserts.

Let's contemplate dessert, since it's the best part of any meal anyway:

Preserves cookies - best ever. The cream cheese dough is so delicate and so hard to get right, but Anthony did it perfectly. I *die* for those cookies.

Strawberries dipped in chocolate. Even better - *bananas* dipped in chocolate. Homemade, of course.

The aforementioned cannoli. Paul knew a guy [I don't know anybody. Luckily, I always know someone who knows a guy *g*] who provided the shells relatively cheaply, and Anthony made the cream. Which was good, but a little heavy on the amaretto, in my opinion. I don't like liqueur flavored cannoli. But that's just me.

There were some cookies that looked like pfefferneuse [sp?], but were probably sandies rolled in powdered sugar. I didn't try 'em. Too much other good stuff.

Struffoli. Or, for the non-Ities among you, honey balls.

And the sfinci I made.

I don't think I'm missing anything.

It was all absolutely fabulous, and for once I say that without *any* irony whatsoever.

So I ate like a gavonne.

The kids seemed to all like their gifts. Marguerite and Helen both liked their Coach bags. I don't honestly care if they did fall off the back of a truck, or if they're just high quality knock-offs. I compared them with my bought-in-a-Coach-store coach bags and couldn't tell the different.

Plus, I think Tricia Rose liked her giant koala.

Oh, and Mommy loved the stuffed Nibby. I swear, you *never* see Airedales on any dog paraphernalia, so whenever I do see something that has one, I snap it up.

If I ever get a dog, it'll be an Airedale. And I will name it something cool.

Ooh, Alabama Song on the radio... "Show me the way to the next whiskey bar / oh, don't ask why / oh, don't ask why / for if we can't find the next whiskey bar / I tell you we must die."

Gotta love the Doors singing Brecht/Weill.

So, that was Christmas in a nutshell. Lots of presents. Lots of food. Lots of hugging and family time and amazingly, no fights or anything. Uncle Jimmy pontificated and no one even gave him a real argument. Was it last year we had the Israel/Palestinian argument? I forget. He just lives to instigate, and with Anthony, Dom, Frank, Mary Ellen and me around, he usually gets an argument. But I guess we were all kind of mellow. Or exhausted. *g*

Speaking of fights and mellow, that little contretemps on one of my lists? Over. I posted and I probably shouldn't have. I considered all my options, and while part of me said, delete and move on, part of me remembers how things went bad on WaR and how, with a few well-chosen words here or there, it's possible things wouldn't have. Though by the time I realized how bad it was, it was probably too late. And I'm also probably giving myself too much credit to think I could have done anything, but then again, all it takes is one person to get the ball rolling, right?

So anyway, I made my apologies and explanations. I still don't like being bitched out in public for something I had nothing to do with, and I still think it sets a bad precedent if someone of high standing in a fandom is allowed to get away with such behavior, but I'm learning how to handle these things. I'm not the most diplomatic of people, I know, but I can choose my words carefully when necessary, especially in an email.

I just can't stomach watching things play out without saying something anymore. I hate politics in the office and I hate them in fandom, and I refuse to be intimidated by someone just because they're the subject of much adulation.

So it's all good now, and I hope the people who actually caused the problem that got everyone riled up *stop* because stealing bandwidth is *wrong* and I'd be pissed if it happened to me.

Was that oblique and yet pointed enough? *g* I'm working on my equivocation skills, since it's something quite foreign to me. Useful in writing Lex, however.

Anyhow, happy Boxing Day, whatever that is. I'm at work, and I'm thinking it's going to be another quiet one. Planning on getting some writing done today.

Cheers.

~victoria

[current mood: ]
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~*~

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The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme.

The quote is from Sir Philip Sidney.

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