Thread: Joker & Rogue

[gloves]

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.

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.”

Comments

cw: violence, murder, etc.

[gloves]

There was no hiding the discomfort in her expression. She'd killed plenty of people in the years since arriving, confused and with a powerset she didn't know how to use. The first time, the guards in the facility she was being kept in brought an imPort to her cell and she'd been forced to absorb them as a test. The second, guards had backed her into a corner until she'd snapped and an old power template was triggered, leaving her panting over a slashed-up body. The third through tenth she'd been escaping from the place she'd been imprisoned in.

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."

[criminallysane]

Over the years, a great many people had tried a great many things to get at the Joker's mind. Some of them, he'd felt: the electroshocks, the chemicals, the awful rigidity of externally-enforced sanity. When Priscilla's mind slide over his, however, he felt absolutely nothing. Her attempt to read him didn't register as even the faintest of tickles, and he was left thinking that she must be guessing, taking a stab in the dark based on what he'd just said to her.

"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."

[gloves]

Rogue answered without thinking, because surely it was better if he had no clue she’d been poking at his brain. She had never been entirely comfortable with having telepaths, not even Xavier or Jean. Something about someone being able to dip into your mind and pull out your innermost thoughts had never sat well with her.

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.

[criminallysane]

Ah. So they'd sent him a telepath.

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."

[gloves]

“You think I’d poke around in your kid’s head?” Rogue looked legitimately offended by that. Her powers — her own powers — meant that she didn’t have any choice or control over what she saw when they were activated. The telepathy schtick was a different thing altogether, though. And maybe it was because of her experiences and discomfort with telepaths. Maybe it was because she wanted to control something. Or maybe it was just a deep-rooted moral code. But she didn’t flip this particular power on unless she really needed to.

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.”

[criminallysane]

He should ask her to leave. That was the obvious thing to do here. There was no way for him to be absolutely certain that her promises were genuine, or that she would definitely be able to honor them, even if they were. And telepathy aside, if her ability was copying powers, who the hell knew what else she might be able to do? She could be dangerous in ways he couldn't even begin to imagine, which frankly was saying something.

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."

[gloves]

He could still be playing her. That was always a possibility, one that Rogue was still taking very seriously. The look she’d seen had convinced her he was dangerous, potentially lethally dangerous, and, other than being able to block telepathy she didn't have the first clue what else he could do. But she'd also decided, for now, that he wasn't dangerous in a way that would prevent her from staying the night and actually getting some rest and a decent meal.

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.”