Fire & Ice II

June 30, 2015:

Shortly after fixing Betsy, Rachel takes Emma to the Institute's kitchen where she meets Monet. They are joined by Betsy as Rachel leaves for Washington.

Xavier Institute


NPCs: None.


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Having completed literally a day or more of effort repairing Elizabeth's mind, Emma frost is … tired, to say the least. It was a simple thing to make a call and put her schedule at Frost International on hold. Doing so with the Hellfire Club was a bit less simple, but even the likes of Emma Grace Frost have off days and need to make adjustments. Of course, she said nothing about where she was, or what she had been doing. This was something personal, done for her own reasons and about which she had no intention of conversing, certainly not with those at the Club.

Finished, Emma could just go home. And perhaps she would. but she is frankly famished. Elizabeth has been receiving intravenous sustenance; not so for Emma. So with the work done, and Elizabeth slowly coming out of her coma, Emma has prevailed upon Rachel to take her to the kitchen. She needs food, and she's sure she can find someone to control in order to demand they make it for her.

What?! Is that not how it is done?

Rachel had been distracted after her and Emma had repaired Elizabeth's mind and when she brings the other woman to the kitchen she gestures to the fridge, cupboards and stove, "Feel free to make whatever you like. I'll be back in a bit, I need to go check on someone." The truth was, her head hurt like crazy and she needed a moment.

The kitchen smells like garlic cooked in butter, remnants of a meal already made and cleaned up after. In the dining room off of the kitchen is M, sitting irreverantly in the middle of the large, long, currently empty room, literally -on top- of the table. She's got various dishes about her, nothing specific as far as kind or origin, and she's got a plate in her lap, turning now and again to sample something from a bowl. While she isn't telepathically broadcasting, she's not hiding her presence either; M's not one for shadows.

The only thing keeping Emma from lambasting Rachel is the sense that the other woman is so distracted it would make no impression whatsoever. So she doesn't try pointing out that she is Emma Frost, and she does not prepare her own meals. It's not that she can't, though she is far from expert in the kitchen. But she never does. (Hence WHY she's less than expert in the kitchen.) She could steal the memories required to teach herself to cook, but she cannot be bothered. There are people for that!

Left to her own devices, however, Emma must make adjustments. The scents in the kitchen are proof there is someone who can cook nearby. A brief scan turns up a shielded mind nearby. Emma comes around the corner and observes the woman seated on the table, eating. Oh, bother. The pristine woman in white resists the urge to make a face. "Excuse me." she murmurs. "Where might one find the people who work in the kitchen?"

M waves a hand, distracted. She finishes chewing her food, swallows, and takes a sip from her cup of coffee. "There are no servants," she says, reaching behind her to snag a piece of what looks to be vegetable tempura from a large bowl. She takes a noisy bite from it and, thankfully, chews with her mouth closed. "It's always been that way. You're welcome to share mine if it's to your taste," offers the Monacan. She gestures with her chopsticks towards the kitchen. "Cupboard to the left of the sink has bowls, drawer under the counter has utensils." Her dark eyes flick over the immaculate, frosty-looking woman, her mental senses reaching out to crawl along the surface of the other woman's defenses, an expression of curiosity, not attack. "There's a stool, if you're looking for the finer china, edged in gold." She takes another drink. "It's higher up that same cupboard. 24-karat, very nice. The food will taste the same, however."

The mental defenses Monet explores are high, tight, solid and just as immaculate as the woman in white's outward appearance. Even with the very obvious hint of exhaustion in her voice and frame, her mental shielding shows no weakness at all. And there's no telling what it is costing Emma to maintain that standard. "No servants. How like Charles. Ridiculous." Emma opines, frowning only momentarily.

"If you are truly willing to share, I will accept." Emma offers the Morocan woman, as she heads back into the kitchen to fetch bowls and such. She does not bother with the fine china, though she is somewhat relieved to know it exists. If she is going to visit this place again, she will have to speak to Elizabeth about proper staffing. But for now, she approaches with a tray, holding bowl, plate, silverware, and a glass filled with water.

"I am Emma Frost." Emma advises the other woman.

Monet doesn't stop eating as she slides bowls out and around her, presenting an array of dishes before Emma Frost, with a few dipping sauces, what looks like a salad?, tempura, a marinated chicken garlic dish, a strange dish stew with a clear broth, and a few other odds and ends. There's already some piled up on the plate the dark woman is eating from; she hasn't been 'double-dipping'.

"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't willing," she replies calmly, going back to her food. If Emma means to sit at a chair, M will be polite enough to give her space, but not get off the table. She's clean, toes to black hair that's been pulled into a long tail, tanktop and boxers showing off her impressive musculature, perhaps suggesting her need for so much food.

She gestures to a few of the dishes and one of the sauces. "Spicy, but everything else is mild to savory. And Monet Yvette Clarisse Marie Therese St. Croix."

The pristinely white-clad woman settles into a chair, eyeing the Morocan curiously for a moment, and then choosing to concentrate on the food, at least for now. She cannot understand why Charles would foster such behaviors. But these people have already proven to be almost alien to her way of things; what more is new?

Emma carefully - fastidiously, even - loads food onto her plate, keeping each bit obsessively separated from every other bit. Then she starts eating with equal fastidiousness.

After a few bites, Emma cleans her mouth daintily, before conversing. "Ah. Yes. Your father is an ambassador, yes? Morocco, is it not?" Proof of Emma's urbanity, that she would be so keenly aware.

Rachel returns although she still looks distracted, as if her mind was somewhere else in a far off place. Noticing Monet and Emma together she smiled and observed, "I see you found yourself some food." A wink is given to Monet, "She didn't force you to give her any did she?"

Monet arches an eyebrow at Rachel that clearly suggests the possibilities of -anyone- forcing the Monacan to do -anything-. So she doesn't respond to Rachel and answers Emma's question directly. "You are correct." she replies to her. "It keeps him busy. I think he hates retirement."

She gestures to Rachel. "There's plenty here to eat, if you like. But you're washing your own dishes."

Emma turns to glance up at Rachel, prepared to snipe quite viciously at the redhead - she's tired and still hungry, after all - for the comment about her forcing Monet to share her food. "I am quite capable of asking politely, and communicating quite clearly in a half dozen different languages, Ms. Summers." She is capable, but admittedly she rarely bothers. Telepathic command is much more convenient, and appropriate to the power she has been given. It's Emma's world; the rest just live in it.

Emma pauses her eating to continue the conversation with Monet. "I have found that many men find retirement not to their liking. They tie their sense of self-importance to their work, and cannot handle the loss of that importance." The tone of voice proves Emma herself would never allow falling into that trap.

"It was a joke." Rachel shook her head and then thought better of eating right now, "You two seem to be getting along well though and I've got stuff to do. " She smiles, "So I'll let you both get to know each other better." There's no malice in her voice, it's just clear she isn't in a mood to be social.

The young woman turned and headed for the exit, she had too much to do right now to be eating lunch.

Monet gives a farewell salute to Rachel with her spoon, before tucking in with gusto. When she finds a moment to breathe, she takes another sip of her coffee and flicks her eyes over the other woman again. M clears her throat.

"Are you here for the … victim of the other victim of the incident I'm not supposed to know happen?" she asks diplomatically.

Emma looks up, offering Monet a rather bland, expressionless look. "Victim? Other victim? Incident?" Butter won't melt, to be sure. "I'm sorry, Ms. St. Croix, I do not know to what you may be referring. I am merely here to visit an acquaintance of mine. Ms. Elizabeth Braddock, if you know of her. She is resting, at the moment." All so very droll. Of course, Emma is keenly aware there's no way the other woman is going to buy this line of horsepucky. But she doesn't have the whole picture herself, and certainly wasn't cleared to explain it to anyone. So that's all she has to say. "Good cooking, by the way. Thank you, kindly."

Monet nods slowly, like the answer given was exactly the response that she both needed and expected. She slides over a little sauce bowl. "Try this with the rice dish, the flavors work well together." M's place is soon emptied, and she sets it aside as her ankles crossed, not inclined to leave her spot on the table.

"I do know her, I met her the day I got here. Fairly competent," she adds nonchalantly, sipping from her cup again. There's still plenty of food and M lets her mental-senses wander around the mansion, looking for other wakeful folks who might be hungry enough to finish off the rest, so that -she- doesn't have to fuss over putting it away.

"If someone would bring me some real food, I wouldn't be /out/ of bed." Ah, Sleeping Beauty has awoken.

Betsy limps into the kitchen with all the grace of a flapping walrus, holding herself in a twisted sort of poise that is very clearly trying to pretend like she isn't splinted into near immobility. Icepacks have been lashed to her shoulder and arm and she's blossoming into a grotesuqe rainbow of colors as the bruises on her body develop. It looks like she commandered some veterinarian wrap to lash her IV tubes to her forearm. She also looks properly irritated, though the expression is tempered by something wry at the sight of Monet and Emma. "Hullo, ladies," she says, a bit raspily. "Your attempt at tact is applaudable, but to be honest, secrets keep poorly around here."

She goes to the fridge and opens it briefly. "Carbs. Carbs. Carbs. Carbs," she mutters, going through leftovers with a disdainful mutter. She comes up with a plate covered in pork medallions, slapping the fridge shut, and limps to the table. Uninvited, she falls into a chair and with a dogged determination, fumbles a fork and a plate one-handed and starts dishing herself some of Monet's cooking.

"I'm glad you two met," she rasps, serving herself, looking at Emma and Monet. "It's past time we found some blue blood here."

Monet 's cooking has ONE rice dish, thank you. The rest are garlic-vegetable-meat stir fry things. OH AND ONE PLATE OF TEMPURA. Carbs. HMPH.

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