rogue ✘ marie d'ancanto ✘ xmcu (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gloves) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capencowl20202020-01-22 07:10 pm
gloves) wrote in capencowl20202020-01-22 07:10 pm
Thread: Joker & Rogue
WHO: George Tilyou and Priscilla Owens
WHERE: the Tilyou beach house
WHEN: sometime during this event
WHAT: Rogue stops by the Tilyou safe house on her way through whatever town this is in.
WHERE: the Tilyou beach house
WHEN: sometime during this event
WHAT: Rogue stops by the Tilyou safe house on her way through whatever town this is in.
When she arrived at the Tilyou beach house, Rogue wore the clothes of someone who had been in a pretty bad scuffle. The odd part was that she didn’t have a single injury. The arm of her coat and the sleeve beneath it had been sliced clean through, and blood had seeped into and stiffened the fabric, but the skin below was unblemished. Her left glove had a tear from the inside of her wrist to the bottom of her palm, but her hand was perfectly intact. Even her forehead, which had a bit of blood smeared across it (and anyone who looked closely enough might notice the faint speckles of red in the white streak of her hair) was scrape and cut free. She rarely stayed in occupied homes, and even when she did on her way through whatever town she was in, she was always gone before dawn the next day. But this one had come highly recommended from one of her contacts in the resistance. And, well, scratch-free or not, she looked tired. As in: just walked through any army of pro-government assholes to get to this place. That wasn’t completely accurate, but it was close enough if anyone started asking questions about why she looked so rough around the edges. She hadn’t really expected a beachfront home, though. When she’d been told “it’s on the beach” she’d also figured the ocean thing was being played up. And that “it’s on the beach” really meant “you can get to the beach if you walk a mile through traffic”. In contrast, this was almost idyllic. Especially for people that helped metas. Sure, she expected government cronies to be living the high life on their yachts and in their summer homes. But it was a pleasant surprise for someone who spent more time catching a few hours of sleep in abandoned buildings or sleeping bags than in an actual bed. With any luck the owner would also have food. When someone came to the door after she’d hit the doorbell, Rogue didn’t even wait to see who it was before saying a brusque, “Sorry so late. I got held up.” |
no subject
And this woman was very, very late. Beautiful, too, which was never a good sign.
He took his time, watching her through the screen. He noted the mismatch between the condition of her clothing and the apparent condition of her health. He noted her body language, her tone, her hair. He noted the look in her eyes.
Then, just as slowly, moving on what he'd come to think of as Beach Time, George unlocked the screen door and pushed it open to admit her.
"Come in. Please. You look like you've had quite the journey."
Once she was in, he locked the doors behind her—not just the screen door, but the slightly-too-solid-for-a-beach-cottage main door, too. He never took his gaze fully off of her.
"May I get you a drink, for starters?" Because for most of his visitors, that took top priority. The usual pleasantries and chit-chat, even a shower and clean clothing, that could all wait. Traveling was often dangerous, thirsty work, and most people, he'd found, were grateful for a chance to sit down and refresh themselves, to take a moment just to appreciate that they were still alive and had reached a safe place. "Iced tea, coffee... Margarita?"
no subject
Shifting her duffel bag higher on her shoulder, she walked through the open door, both aware that he was keeping his eyes on her and making sure to watch him from the corners of her own eyes. He was tall, lanky, but otherwise didn't look like any sort of threat. Then again, she knew full well that looking like a threat had nothing to do with actually being a threat. And even if he was welcoming her into his home and ran a well-known safehouse it didn't necessarily make him safe.
The door didn't escape her attention either. It was a smart door, considering what he used the house for. A good, sturdy door that looked like it could handle a beating. It wouldn't keep out anyone the government sent -- at least not for long, and not at all if one of the harder hitters came there -- but it sent a clear message: he was someone who thought about that sort of eventuality. He recognized the dangers out there. And he knew there were definitely people who needed to be kept out and had still let her inside.
Rogue only took her eyes off him to get a reading on the house itself. First off, it was a lot nicer than anywhere she'd stayed in recent memory. Second, it felt somewhat homey. She'd sort of been expecting a house on the outside with the inside fitted more for functionality. Maybe a few rooms with bunk beds and a barebones kitchen setup.
"Just water, thanks."
Instead, it felt like someone had put some thought into the interior. Her gaze eventually landed on the framed pictures on the mantel and her expression went from simply curious to uncomfortable. "You have a family?"
There was a reason she had certain expectations for safehouses and it was because she'd been to more than a few and they weren't like this. And they certainly weren't owned by actual families.
no subject
The framed pictures had not been his doing, but he had come to enjoy them, and to enjoy watching visitors discover them. Once upon a time, his walls had been covered with newspaper clippings, with photos of carnage and Bats, with headlines proclaiming his own homicidal genius. Now, he had a home with hand-to-Barnum family photos on display, and the real punchline was: he adored them.
His voice warmed with obvious pride as he said, "Oh, yes. My best girls, right there." Not that he'd allowed either of them to be present for this initial meet-and-greet with the new visitor. That would have to wait until he was certain she was what she appeared to be—he couldn't go risking their safety just for the sake of hospitality.
He gestured in the general direction of the photos, deliberately not making any moves toward the girl. "Got my wife, Ronnie. And little Lucy there, she's two. Well, two and a half now! Already convinced she's head of household, too."
He chuckled, then beckoned for her to follow him. "Kitchen's thisaway. You can leave your bag here, if you like."
He wanted to see if she'd actually do it. If she was planning to pull a stunt of some type, that duffel would almost certainly play a role. Would she be willing to part with it? Did she trust him that far?
"I'm afraid the girls are out for the afternoon, however. Just you and me, and the sea makes three."
If she was here to kill him, he wanted her to try it now. Now, while he was ready to stop her.
no subject
But, then again, she had some pretty severe thoughts when it came to connecting with anyone on more than just a surface-level.
She might have wondered if the family was some sort of ruse to hide ulterior motives, like, say, a life of violence connected to the resistance. Except that proud tone was almost palpable and came across as thoroughly genuine. Not that her bullshit detector always operated at 100%, but this guy was either being truthful or was a helluva liar.
In which case, what? He just wanted to help metas that much that he invited strangers to stay the night under the same roof as his wife and child? It wasn’t completely impossible, of course. People did crazier things. It just wasn’t the sort of thing she’d come to expect.
Her bag wasn’t much: beat-up, thick canvas that had seen better days and was easy to abandon if it became a liability. And its contents were equally negligible. A change of clothes. The sort of food rations that probably didn’t even have an expiration date printed on the packaging. An old and tattered paperback of questionable literary value. Dumping it in the front room was no skin off her nose.
Anyway, if she’d been carrying any weapons — which she wasn’t — they’d be on her person. On a pocket or in her boot or strapped to her wrist. But all of that seemed like overkill and she’d figured out that the best weapons were the ones you could pick up on the fly from your environment. The ceramic lamp that no one actually liked but felt obligated to display, the fireplace poker set to the side as decoration, the glass vase holding a bouquet of flowers.
Though she also liked to think that nothing like that would be necessary if she was actually dealing with a kind family man. Unless the “family man” portion was the part that had the potential to make him truly dangerous.
As it was, she already wasn’t feeling great about staying here and putting these people at risk, especially now that he knew they were a small family with a young child.
“Wait until she’s a teenager. That’s when the real fun starts.” As in: that’s when shit really hits the fan. But, hey, he’d figure that out in, oh, about ten years.
Dropping her bag next to the sofa, Rogue rolled her shoulders, glad to have it off her back, with a satisfying crack before following him into the kitchen. One eye stayed on his back and the other worked on picking up as much information about the house as possible without being too obvious about it. The doors, the connections between rooms, any secondary exits. All of it was important.
“Ah. You’re screening me. Can’t say I blame you. You probably get a lot of... interesting... company.”
no subject
Unless, of course, the girl now following him to the kitchen was the weapon herself. And if that was the case, well, George figured he'd know soon enough.
Since retiring from his former life of crime (and marrying a woman who couldn't cook to save their lives), he had come to spend a not-insignificant amount of time in the kitchen, puttering about with chilis and marinades and other such things. As a result, he'd wound up putting a few more of his aesthetic touches on this room than had been in the living room, giving it a kitschy, colorful vibe that felt equal parts retro and carnival. A few of his own paintings hung on the walls (including a very sassy portrait of his bichon frise), the handful of dishes drying in the rack by the sink displayed a playful mix of vibrant colors, and an ancient-looking radio held a position of honor near the doorway. George flipped the latter on as they walked in, filling the room with the cheerful (if slightly crackly) sound of big band swing coming through on an AM channel.
"Only the gentlest of screenings," he assured the girl, though he was still keeping watch on her with his peripheral vision. "Can't have you spilling all your secrets too quickly, after all. How very dull that would be!"
He knew that she was perhaps fishing for information about other travelers who'd stayed with him, but that pond wouldn't be yielding up anything worthwhile for her today. In his new line of work, as in his old one, discretion was a crucial key to survival, and George had no intention of blabbing his guests' secrets to the newbie, no matter how pretty she was.
He pulled out two vintage glasses (one printed with lime slices, the other with cherries), filled them with water, and handed the cherry one to her. "Now," as he gestured to the small breakfast table, with its window looking out on the sea, "let's have ourselves a little sit-down." He smiled at her, his expression genuinely friendly. She might well be about to try to poison him, or turn herself into a bomb, but she was still company. And these days, that was a precious commodity, indeed. "Could I get you something to eat while we chat? Fruit cocktail, maybe? Sandwich? I think we've still got some ham."
no subject
Which, speaking of, it became readily apparent that when she’d asked for water it wasn’t so much in the way of it’ll be polite if I sip on this as it was no, really, water, now. Because there was only a brief hesitation before she reached to take the offered glass, without even giving it a prerequisite sniff for sleeping pills or some other nasty surprise in it, and took a big sip. Then a gulp. Then another gulp while shifting a little to the side so her profile was facing him like she thought he was going to take it away before she was done.
It was only when the glass was empty that she gave some thought to how she was coming across and the very many gentle screenings he’d had to give strangers who showed up at his door. Rogue knew she didn’t cut an intimidating figure stature wise, something she’d used to her advantage more times than she cared to admit. But she also knew that someone smart enough to keep his family out of the house until he’d had a chance to decide on how relatively safe his visitors were also was aware that physical stature could be deceiving.
She’d already ditched her bag, and whether the offer to leave it was simple politeness or a test was still up for grabs, but there were still plenty of pockets and folds in the material of her jacket to hide plenty. So, putting her glass down on the breakfast table, she shrugged off the jacket, placing it over the back of one of the chairs. Her clothes underneath with form-fitting enough to make it pretty hard to hide anything significant under them. Her boots were another story, but there was only so much she could do about that.
Pulling that chair out, she took a seat with a quiet groan of appreciation that was all about finally getting off of her feet. “When you say fruit salad are we talking about real fruit or the stuff in the little cups?” Because fruit cups were rare enough, but an assortment of fresh fruit, instead of the occasional bruised apple from a gas station store? That was the sort of thing she hadn’t seen in a while.
The little sit-down, though, that was all going to ride on what he asked. Her name? Fine, she had a fake one. Her powers? Well, if he truly wanted to know, she was okay giving him the rundown without any of the particularly nasty details regarding her limitations. Hell, she was even ok giving a blanket warning that unwanted touching was a bad idea if only because she didn’t want to find out his kid loved hugs a few seconds too late. If he was looking for stories about bar brawls and late-night alley fights, she was happy to oblige. But too far of a trip down memory lane was something she’d avoid. Usually, it wasn’t a problem; the people she typically chatted with liked to keep talk small. They also didn’t tend to have families.
no subject
The desperate need for a drink also marked this woman, thankfully, as a bit of an amateur. No government-sent professional assassin would have allowed herself to be that unprepared. And when she took off her jacket, revealing the kind of figure that would have grabbed his attention in a heartbeat in another life, the last of his concerns fell away. He knew how to spot weapons on a person: not just the way they made clothing sit differently, but the way they affected movement and stance. And with one long look-over, George felt relatively certain this girl didn't have anything within easy reach.
He set the glass back down in front of her. "Oh, real fruit, of course! One of the pleasures of living out here in the boonies." He didn't wait to hear if she wanted any or not; after the way she'd downed that glass of water, she could clearly use it. The sugar and juice in it would help refresh and re-hydrate her, and it would be good for her spirit, too. "My daughter loves the stuff," he explained, as he pulled a big bowl of cut fruit from the fridge and dished her up a portion. "Always keep some on hand when we can."
The dish of fruit went on the table for her, along with a dainty little fork and a cloth napkin printed with a dancing circus bear. "Here we go. Now: what would you like me to call you while you're here with us, my dear?" He didn't need (or even particularly want) her real name. But he did want to be able to call her something. Bringing his own glass over to the table, George pulled out a chair for himself and joined her. "Feel free to be creative; we won't mind."
no subject
Or maybe she just spent too much time around people who were quick to point out the weaknesses of other people and got off on watching them admit to those weaknesses.
Either way, whether George had intended to gain her gratitude or not, some of the lifted, defensive posture of shoulders released and the blank, almost numb expression on her face had softened, just a bit. Just enough to relay that she was less likely to jump out of her skin at the slightest provocation. And the tiny fork with the whimsical napkin (it wasn't a cheap paper napkin, and who gave out the nice cloth napkins to the insurgents passing through for an evening anyway?) even got the smallest of smiles out of her.
She couldn't help but feel almost a sense of discomfort in response to the generosity, in all the tiny ways that, individually, probably didn't mean the slightest bit to the man now asking what to call her. After all, he'd obviously done well for himself and his family, commodities like water and fresh food didn't seem to be scarce, he wasn't on the run and (to the best of her knowledge) wasn't wanted by the law. Though if she'd known how wrong the last two were she might have been a little more hesitant to smile.
Rogue was eyeing the fruit, trying to restrain herself from looking too eager, and grabbed the refilled cup of water again to make herself seem a little less desperate. Though even sipping this second glass slowly was a bit of a struggle.
"Priscilla," she said between sips. It was the name she'd taken for herself, and it had belonged to her mother's first. So on the scale of lies, it didn't rank particularly high. But, especially without knowing what kind of news they got here, and being aware that Rogue was a name on a government wanted list she wasn't going to use that.
She set the glass back down, reaching for the fork with her still gloved hands and tearing her eyes away from the bright strawberries, and juicy oranges, and plump blueberries long enough to glance up at him. "No one told me what to call you. They just gave me this address."
no subject
And he meant it. The names people gave him often sounded like they'd been plucked from a grab bag full of bad biker clichés and even worse stripper names. Guests would come into his home and shake his hand, seeming perfectly decent, and then they'd say things like, I'm Axel, and this here's my girl, Candie Jane. Not that Gotham's crowd had been much better, mind, but at least they'd had some damned creativity. So to meet a woman who called herself Priscilla and actually used the full version of the name — not Cilla or Prissy or CeCe, but Priscilla, subtly insisting that she was worth all three syllables' worth of one's time — was quite the treat. Whether that name was her own doing or her mother's was beside the point. She was the one using it, and she'd just earned herself several points in his book.
She was slowing down with the water now, he noticed, and George wondered how much of that was just her attempting to be polite. With a Southern lady's name like hers, and that unmistakable accent, it was hard not to imagine her as a bit of a belle-gone-wrong. Before she'd come to this world, and before it had all gone to hell, had she been a woman who prided herself on following the manners her mama had taught her? In a different world, where she was safe again, would she become such a woman once more?
Or was he just projecting stereotypes onto her now, clichés of a different sort?
"Me, I'm just plain old George." No need to give her his last name, fake though it was. It was still the one on his marriage papers, and the one on Lucy's birth certificate. It didn't need to shared willy-nilly. "I was a salesman, once upon a time." That was a lie, but one he'd told often enough that it was beginning to feel almost true. "Retired now, though, of course. Me and the wife came out here a few years back. Saw this place. Loved it. Never looked back."
He stretched his long legs out beneath the table, looking perfectly at ease in her presence, and chatted as if they were old friends who just happened to know nothing about one another. As a courtesy, he was trying to handle the bulk of the conversation for her, to keep things casual and chatty and give her a moment in which nothing was expected of her, so that she could just enjoy her fruit and get her bearings again.
"These days, mostly I just paint and fish. Cook a little, too, when the mood strikes. Heckuva life, really — I've been quite blessed."
He was still watching her, but in an open, friendly sort of way now, with an easy smile that said he was just enjoying her company. "Would you like me to guess your backstory?"
no subject
She’d gotten much too used to people who served up idle threats, gruff answers, and threatening posturing to be anything but surprised by him. In this world, he seemed like the sole flower that had managed to grow up between the cracks of filthy pavement. And with all the other hosts she'd met in the past, given what she'd gathered from them within moments of meeting them, Rogue would have assumed most of this information was a lie. Everyone lied, whether it was about their name or their powers or their crimes or their history. It was simply the sort of thing she'd come to expect from people. But, somehow, With this man (George, which was so soccer dad normal that it was almost abnormal) she thought he might actually be telling the truth.
Or, at the very least, she was willing to consider the veracity of what he was saying.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that nothing was interesting about her backstory. She was just a typical, down-on-her-luck metahuman who’d just happened to fall in with the wrong crowd. Or had made a dumb mistake, gotten caught, and was now trying to avoid getting picked up for anything else so her simple crimes wouldn’t come back to haunt her. The sort of conversation non-starter excuses she usually gave to seem as boring and bland as possible.
Boring and bland in this world, she’d discovered, seemed to fly under the radar. And that was a good thing.
She also found that she didn't want to seem dangerous.
Instead, she found herself looking back down to the fruit salad to spear a strawberry slice with an amused smile. “You paint and fish. And your name’s George.” Of course, she wasn’t going to inquire about his last name. He was putting himself (and his wife and daughter) at enough risk just by letting people like her stay overnight. And Rogue didn’t want the information anyway. If she was caught and questioned it was safer if all she knew was that he was a guy named George.
And though her typical fabricated stories would have come so easily, she couldn’t help but want to see what imaginative and creative tall tale he’d come up with for her backstory.
If nothing else, it would give her good insight as to what he saw when he looked at her.
Besides, certainly, someone who didn’t start the conversation with what powers do you have? and end it moments later with don’t make any trouble deserved a friendlier response than it’s nothing interesting, don’t bother.
"Only if you promise you're not going to compare me to Scarlett O'Hara," she said, eyebrows going up like she'd heard it before and, though it amused her, it wasn't entirely accurate. Then again, it was entirely possible he wouldn’t get the reference.
no subject
"Anyone could see you're more of a Rhett, anyway." That particular film was never one of his favorites, but you had to hand it to Clark Gable: no matter what the man was in, he brought an undeniable charm and charisma to the screen. Once upon a time, a young Jack Napier, hopelessly in love with the late Carole Lombard, had watched Gable's films over and over again, then practiced imitating the actor's facial expressions and mannerisms in the mirror. That roguish smile. The mischievous gleam in the eyes.
He couldn't imagine anyone, even a woman, being insulted by that comparison. Especially if the lady in question had often been compared to Scarlett.
George regarded Priscilla from across the table, his expression turning pensive as he considered what backstory to give her. What would flatter her a little, but not sound like a come-on? And, most importantly, what would put her at ease and make her laugh?
"Now let me see... You are a Southern girl, but you were born in Alabama, not Georgia. Raised saying, 'Roll Tide,' though you never had much love for football." He's picking up speed as he goes, like he's a medium receiving messages from the other side and the signal's getting stronger, rather than a former conman making up a story on the fly. "You never fit in much in school, either. Could've been a pageant queen, but you were too shy for the stage. Hated attention. Wished people could accept you as you were, but you found yourself playing pretend in your everyday life, over and over again, just to get by."
His eyes narrowed slightly, studying her, and despite himself, a tiny bit of an edge crept into the way he was looking at her. She still had what looked like someone else's blood on her. She might well be sweet, with her pretty voice and her lovely mouth, but she was obviously not soft.
"And then one day," he said, more quietly, "you said to hell with all of that. You were going to do things on your own terms. Your own way. And it was hard in the beginning, to be sure. But less so as time passed.
"You had wild adventures. Stole cars. Danced in the moonlight to music only you could hear. You've been a thief, a muse, a renegade. You've killed. You've survived. And sometimes you almost forget that you were ever that shy little girl at all. Other times, you think you'd give anything to be her again. Just for a day. Just to remember how it felt."
Then that sharp edge in his eyes softened again, and he was once more all smiles, his tone gentle and warm and relaxed. "Either that, or you're an accountant from Seattle. Could go either way."
no subject
Otherwise, though, she didn't interrupt, just watched his entertaining reimagining of her life while eating her bowl of fruit.
Or that had been what she'd been planning on doing anyway. Rogue was two forkfuls of berries in when he started to hit a little too close to home. She hadn't exactly been shy, but the idea of wishing people could accept her as she was? Of playing pretend? That was spot-on, only as a result of her powers and not any fumbling shyness or nervousness related to showing off around people. And it was around that point when she stopped eating and started watching him warily, wondering if this was the leadup to the aha!. The I already know who you are, silly girl, this was a trap! The don't you know your dear granny is a wolf dressed up in grandmama's cap?
Rogue put the fork down completely when that edge made its way into his voice. It was that (even more than how accurate some of his guesses were) that gave her the first inclination that there was something more beneath his cheerful and friendly surface.
She couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder back towards the front room where she'd left her bag. Not that there was anything particularly useful in it, but she couldn't help but wonder if she should have held onto it regardless.
Swinging back around to face him, just as jovial George returned, she couldn’t hide the discomfort in her expression. “You’re describing everyone who got stranded in this place.” Except, perhaps, for him. But that assumed that everything about this house — the pictures, the cozy kitchen, the inviting furniture — was for real. “You— you’d be the accountant from Seattle.” And didn’t she always tell herself that if something seemed a little too good, too compact, too neat it probably was.
Making sure her feet were planted firmly on the floor, she added, “If this is some sort of setup, you should know you’re not going to live to see whatever they promised you.” It was said softly, with, strangely enough, not the slightest bit of malice to it. She got it. The government could offer a lot: money, jobs, safe passage for metas. That was worth a hell of a lot more than someone he didn’t even know.
cw: violence
God, wouldn't it be fun if she actually tried something? His healing powers would more than protect him, he was certain, regardless of what she might do, but there might be still be some fabulous pain before he cut things short. Real pain, maybe, of the sort that Playtime with Ronnie would never provide, even at its roughest.
He had a sudden and perfectly clear mental image of himself holding his guest by the hair and slamming her head into the table, over and over again, splattering blood all over the dancing circus bear napkin and the fruit salad. He could actually hear the sound of her nose crunching in on itself. Hear the bubble of blood in her throat as she stammered out the same stupid things his victims had always stammered out. Stop, please—
He could tie her up in the guest room. Use the hours he had left before Ronnie and Lucy came home to write a letter to Bruce in her skin, carving each word of it with patience and care. Did you really think I would ever abandon you? She would beg him to stop, and he'd ignore her, of course, whistling while he cleaned up a line on her thigh and her whole body arched and she sobbed for him.
He hadn't killed anyone in years, but the itch had never never fully gone away. Now he looked at Priscilla the way a man who'd been clinging to the wagon for half a decade might look at a bottle of very good Scotch: with a brief but unmistakable flash of self-destructive longing. She could make him feel so good, if only he'd let her.
Joker giggled, just once.
Then George thought of Lucy, who loved him, who counted on him to keep her safe, and he shoved the clown back down. "I'm sorry," he said, and managed to keep his tone amused but not cruel. "I don't blame you for being paranoid. It's just—" He smiled at her, his expression suggesting that he found this all thoroughly entertaining. "What on earth could anyone possibly promise me?" He turned to point at the portrait of Sno-Cone on the wall. "I mean, I've got a bichon frise, for God's sake. What could ever top that?"
cw: violence, murder, etc.
And, since, there'd been government agents or lackeys, people she'd gotten a little too rough with during a fight, assholes who thought they could take advantage of someone who looked weak.
Death had started to lose its effect on her somewhere along the way.
And, still, she wasn't particularly looking forward to snapping his neck or breaking his back. She couldn't look away, even though his expression made her want to look anywhere but at him.
Rogue figured she had a handful of options. 1) Just get the fuck out. Now. 2) Go with the assumption that he was dangerous and kill him without asking questions. Or 3) Use her touch abilities to get information out of him. But each had a negative: she was already exhausted and leaving without rest was dangerous in its own right, she could be completely wrong and simply paranoid and he really was a fisher with a wife and daughter, or if he actually was unhinged his psyche could have an unforeseen effect on her own mind (something she kept protected at all costs).
There was option number 4, which was telepathy. And that was the one she chose to go with. With any luck, she could do a quick check to make sure that, even if he was dangerous, he wasn't dangerous to her and be out before he even realized she was rifling around.
Except when she tried it, her very first thought was slippery when wet. Not like getting bitchslapped by another telepath who could consciously block their mind, but more like trying to climb a stick of melted butter.
Rogue hadn't looked away from him, not even when he gestured to the painting of his dog; that could have just been a ploy to distract her. Instead, she frowned, the wariness in her expression turning puzzled. "You're a telepath? Or... not, you're not." She thought maybe she'd be able to sense that much if he'd had telepathy in his arsenal. "But you're something."
no subject
"I already told you." He was still leaning back in his chair, his legs still casually sprawled out beneath the table. Everything about his body language suggested ease; everything about his smile suggested amusement. He was keenly aware of the changes in her expression, of course, but none of that was allowed to show on the surface. "I'm a retired salesman. Which is to say: observant."
He really hoped he wasn't about to observe her do something stupid, for both their sakes. It would feel good to hurt her — it would feel incredible, actually — but it would be terrible after the fact. Then, he knew, the memory of how glorious it had been would be fresh in his mind again, and retirement would seem dreadfully dull, and the clown in his head would grow more and more restless. It wasn't worth it. Not unless she gave him no other choice.
"Though to be perfectly frank, Miss Priscilla, it doesn't take a pro to look at you and get a sense of what's what." He gestured at her face, her figure, the food she'd been eating, with a vague sweep of his hand meant to encompass all that she was. "The way you carry yourself. The words you choose when you speak. The blood on your face, and the wounds that aren't there." He shrugged, as if to say, Makes no difference to me either way. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But let's not call me a weatherman just because I see the weather."
no subject
Ironic, of course, considering her powers. But when it came to those she made sure not to use them. Telepaths, though, there were too many horror stories. And she’d been interrogated by too many of them who worked for the government now.
Still, a suspicious, “No, I mean I can’t read your mind,” escaped before she could stop herself.
The element of surprise had been one she’d utilized liberally. People expected a meta to have a few powers at most. They never saw it coming when she started pulling abilities out like a bag of tricks. And even giving up that she was capable of telepathy was stupid.
Well. Assuming he was dangerous, anyway. Though he was putting on such a good show that she was starting to doubt herself. Then she’d remember that glint in his eyes and distrust came right back.
Rogue was already listening for the sound of sand crunching together or under combat boots, for the click of a weapon reloading, or the whispers between people approaching the beach house. She was sniffing lightly, waiting for the scent of another person approaching. Or the stink of gun oil.
None of that came, though. As far as she could tell, both with heightened senses and telepathy, they were alone on the property. Which leaned into the idea that she was overreacting.
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That was a problem.
George's eyes narrowed slightly, and some of the friendliness in his smile fell away. If he were the only one who'd be interacting with this woman, then her ability wouldn't be a problem. He was always unreadable; he wouldn't need to worry about her finding a way in. But Ronnie was not. And if Priscilla slipped into her head, she might discover all sorts of things he couldn't allow her to know.
As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the Joker had retired and then essentially vanished into thin air. Some of his old friends knew where he was, of course — Crane, Bruce, a handful of others — but for the most part, he'd simply blinked out of existence. Exactly as he'd wanted. The Joker, after all, could never be just a man; he had to be a symbol, a chaotic and destructive force of nature. He did not retire and take up fishing.
But if Priscilla peeked into Ronnie's head, she would learn in a hurry that he'd done precisely that. She'd know he was a threat. And, obviously, she would know where to find him and the people he loved. If she were ever to be captured, or simply in need of some serious cash, she could hand over him and his family in an instant.
And that was assuming she'd even have sense enough to leave straightaway. What would he do if she learned who they were and panicked while she was still in the house? Oh, God, what might she do to Lucy?
George had heard more than enough tales of the damage a telepath could inflict upon a defenseless mind. And surely anyone who randomly discovered over dinner that she was actually staying with the Joker and his family would be frightened. Frightened people tended to get aggressive, and to make stupid, frightened mistakes.
Like, say, using the little girl in the room as a way to gain leverage.
George's pulse was quickening, and his mouth had gone dry.
"Well," he said slowly, "I'm sorry to hear that. Would have saved us a lot of trouble on the getting-to-know-you portion of the evening." It was a flimsy joke, and even he could hear it fall flat.
In the back of his head, a voice urged, Kill her. Do it now. It'll feel good, Georgie, old boy. I promise...
He looked away from her, his gaze dropping to the fruit. The thing was, he liked this girl. He didn't want to turn her out, not when she was clearly tired and hungry and had recently seen battle. Turning her out now, in the middle of nowhere, might well prove a death sentence for her. But was there a way to both keep her for the night and keep his family safe from her?
"Look... The thing is, we don't typically host telepaths." And now he allowed himself to look slightly uneasy, because surely that was a reasonable thing to be, considering. "Having a small child in the house, and all. I'm surprised no one mentioned that to you."
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And she certainly wasn’t going to use it on a child, never mind an actual toddler.
But that was the thing: her blurting out that she was capable of reading minds hadn’t resulted in him pulling out a weapon. Or even ordering her out. His concern had immediately defaulted to the small girl in the photographs. Rogue could hear the thump of his heart as his pulse sped up, could even smell the barely-there stress response on the skin of his body. Sure. It could be that he was annoyed or worried that she was going to find out that this was all a trap. But she couldn’t help but look at all the pieces and see someone who was concerned for his family. Maybe because he or someone in it had secrets that couldn’t get out. But, then again, hell, who didn’t have secrets? If he did, if his wife did, Rogue wasn’t interested in finding out what they were.
He certainly wasn’t George the family fisherman, or at least not only that. The expression in his eyes had made that clear. Though that didn’t mean he had any intention of hurting her. Or that he was a government patsy.
And, now that her mind had jumped to that particular set of train tracks, Rogue realized that the scent of a woman’s perfume clung to him. Not noticeable to anyone with a regular nose. But it was unmistakably feminine, the sort of lingering smell that came from, say, one’s wife pressing a kiss to her husband’s cheek and embracing him before leaving to go to the store.
And the bin of children’s toys, which ordinarily could have been all for show, those smelled like Nilla Wafers and a different person than George and whoever the perfume belonged to. That was really going the extra mile if this was a setup.
Actually, the kitchen itself smelled like three separate people, now that she was focusing on it.
Would this man kill her?
Instinct told Rogue that he abso-fucking-lutely would try to take a fireplace poker to the back of her head if she presented a threat to his family. But that didn’t make him an assassin or even a threat.
“Alright, listen—” She’d never usually show her hand like this, but she actually felt like an idiot for jumping to conclusions and assuming the worst. More importantly, she didn’t want this man, whoever he really was, wondering if his daughter and wife would be safe around her. She shouldn’t have cared, not really, but he’d welcomed her so graciously, in a way she hadn’t been welcomed anywhere in nearly a decade.
“I’m not a telepath. I copy powers. Telepathy’s just one of them. But it doesn’t work unless I deliberately use it. No catching stray thoughts. No accidentally hopping into people’s minds.” Rogue lifted her gloved hands, wiggled her fingers, then lowered them again. “And I can’t copy anything unless I touch you. Which I make sure doesn’t happen.
“No one told me because most people don’t know a lot about what I can do.” There were probably some higher-ups in the government who had a list of the powers she’d absorbed while locked up. But even they wouldn’t know if or what she’d picked up since then. “And I never would have come here if I knew you had a kid.” Not knowing the trouble she always the potential of bringing right behind her. “I can go. I’d understand.”
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But she was also laying all her cards on the table for him, openly admitting to what she could do even though she must know he'd be uncomfortable with it. Moreover, she was voluntarily offering to leave. Would she really do any of that if she was going to get hostile with him or make things in any way difficult?
Sheltering people was always a risky business; that was something he and Ronnie had simply had to make their peace with. And George himself felt it was important for Lucy to learn the lesson implicit in that: making a difference requires a willingness to get hurt. Life had no guarantees, and he strongly preferred that his daughter know that from the beginning and grow up learning that it was all worth it, anyway. He fully intended to raise a brave, bold young woman who would go after what she wanted in spite of any challenges in her way, and who wouldn't be fazed when life inevitably threw her a nasty surprise or two. And part of that meant letting her see him take risks — smart, worthwhile ones — and adapt if and when things didn't turn out as he'd planned.
So the real question became: was helping Priscilla a worthwhile risk?
George looked into her eyes, studying her with the same calculating focus that the Joker had once turned on would-be allies. His pulse and breathing slowed, his uneasiness fading away as he shifted into analysis-and-decision-making mode. He felt in control of the situation again; the choice was his to make, and the options were clear. Keep her, or toss her out?
The part of him that had encouraged murdering her only moments ago now encouraged the exact opposite, calmly pointing out that golly gee, that was a mighty useful skill set that Miss Prissy had, wasn't it? Why, with a skill set like that at his side, he could do anything he wanted. Remake this whole fucking reality, maybe, if he really put his mind to it...
The rest of him deliberately ignored that thought, and focused instead on her: her nature, her spirit, her integrity. Would she hurt his girls? And was she strong-willed and decent enough that if she did happen to learn who they were, she could be trusted not to panic or spill the beans?
After perhaps four or five seconds of holding her gaze, George had made up his mind. Breaking eye contact, he wet his lips and said, "That's not necessary. I believe you."
He put an actual smile back on his face, and the muscles in his shoulders relaxed. He'd made his decision, and he was certain it was the right one. She was honest, and he liked her, and he hated to think of letting fear push him into putting her in a situation in which she might be hurt.
"If my little girl were ever to be on the run one day, I would hope someone would shelter her. So let me do that for you now, hm? No sense in you stumbling around out there when we've got plenty of space for you in here." He unfolded himself from the chair and got back to his feet, circling around the table to get back to the fridge. If this young woman was staying, she'd need something more substantial to eat than some fruit.
"And my Lucy does desperately need some new company for this evening's tea party. Although I warn you, her other guests aren't all as charming as yourself. The stuffed platypus, especially, has been a real diva as of late."
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Both of those things were rare enough that she was inclined to go with her gut on this one.
He was right: tossing her out now had the potential to be very, very bad. They were far enough away from any sort of civilization that it would be a long walk to get to shelter. And, though she'd whipped out the telepathy even though she was wiped out (and probably because she'd done so, which had drained what little she had left in the proverbial tank), she wasn't sure if she could even attempt something like teleportation without ending up stuck in a wall somewhere.
So. That was that. The decision was made. And she was going to have to live with it (or not live with it) as best as possible.
The tension visibly eased out of her expression and her hands relaxed, flattening on the tabletop. With any luck, the woman and child in the photos would show up and then Rogue could be fairly certain that she hadn’t made a horrible mistake. Even the best agents didn’t have a 2 1/2-year-old hanging around, looking for someone to play tea party with.
Her eyes still followed George, though, as he went to the refrigerator. Not in that overly cautious way she’d been doing at first, more out of curiosity. To her, he was still a bit of an anomaly in this world. The fact that he was still being ever the gracious host, even after she’d tried to read his mind without an invitation before stupidly admitting to it, was a continuous wonder to her. And all he seemed to want in return was to make sure she was comfortable. And, maybe, the good karma that came from being a decent person for his daughter.
Rogue didn’t say it out loud, but silently, tucked away in a space she knew she’d remember, she promised herself that if she could ever do anything to help or protect this family she would. If in 10 years, a 12-year-old blonde came looking for shelter, or a meal, or really anything at all because she’d lost her parents and was all on her own, Rogue would make sure she was safe.
She could still vividly remember being a scared 15-year-old who’d happened to be lucky enough to stumble upon the one person in the world who was willing to go to any lengths to look after her. She'd found Logan, somehow, in a rundown bar off the beaten path in the Canadian wilderness. And, now, she’d been lucky enough to find the few people who might have been left who’d do more than toss a shredded, scratchy blanket at her and act like she was lucky enough to have gotten that.
Rogue didn’t plan on coming back here again — it was too dangerous for these people when she knew all the wrong people were looking for her — but she’d make sure there was another set of eyes on Lucy, even if it was from a distance.
Looking down at the fruit, grateful once again for even this simple luxury, Rogue couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I hope Miss Lucy won’t mind refreshing me on my tea time manners," she said with a soft chuckle. "It’s been a while since I’ve been invited to a fancy tea party.”
This was a brief reprieve from everything else beyond this stretch of beach. But she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do than drink fake tea in little plastic cups (though George seemed to be the type who might have gotten his two-year-old real china) with a little girl who still thought her stuffed animals were alive. “That diva of a platypus, though. I think I can handle her.”