Kitchen Chat

February 27, 2017:

Betsy and Rogue chat over a late night snack in the Xavier Mansion's kitchen.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

It's a bit late in the evening— past the time most of the children are in bed, or SHOULD be. Xavier's Mansion is in fact somewhat segregated into different areas, and the staff and adult residents have their own wing with a kitchen attached to it. It's not specifically disallowed for students to go there, but an unwritten rule of division keeps the students from the staff wing after the evening meal.

Which is fine by Betsy, because it means she can wander down to the kitchen for an evening snack in her jammies, instead of having to get dressed. She somehow manages to make her sweatpants look stylish, baggy though they are, and the mansion is warm enough she gets by with a red camisole. Her purple hair's drawn into a ponytail behind her neck. Her makeup is, however, immaculate, even given the late hour, and silent bare feet pad around the kitchen as she scrounges up some leftover deli meats from the fridge.

Rogue been up in her room prepping for class tomorrow and she'd spent a couple hours in the comfy confines of the big backed fancy chair she had in front of the firepalce in her room. Now that she got her school stuff all ready and sorted out though, she was coming downstairs to get a drink to have next to her bedside.

The southern belle was dressed in mismatched socks, green/yellow and green shorts with white-trimming, and a black tshirt that had 'Rogue One' written in big bold gold letters (A gift from a friend cause of that Star War movie).

Rogue did NOT have any gloves on at the moment as it was late and she didn't figure anyone was up. So when she rounded the corner into the kitchen, whistling a light tune, she paused when she saw the purple pony tail and then gave a big smile to Betsy.

"Purple Rain!" She said in an excited (if a bit quiet) voice. "Late night snackin' goin' on up in here?" She asked, striding into the room and moving toward the island-counter to lean on her elbows there.

Betsy doesn't seem surprised by Rogue's arrival, but then again, she's never really surprised by anyone. That preternatural awareness of Everything Everywhere makes her not a lot of fun to play Hide'n'seek with.

She twists in place, looking at Rogue, then flickers a smile at her. Brief, alien, but there.

"Rogue," she says, in those cool tones that make it impossible to tell if she's pleased or merely being polite. "Good evening. I usually have a late night meal. I'm out of snacks upstairs. Would you care for some salad with steak shredded on it?" she offers, looking at the goods in the large double fridge.

Rogue always liked listening to Betsy's cool tones too. She had that 'educated British woman' lullaby-way about her voice and it made the Southern Belle smile to hear it.

So while leaning there on the island-countertop, Rogue's right hand dipped into a wooden bowl of tiny pretzels that was laying out and she popped one of them into her mouth and smiled at Betsy's question. A moment or two later after chomping on the pretzel and swallowing it down she nodded her head.

"I'm the saaaame way with late night snacks." She told the other X-Lady. "Though, usually… I just go for a bowl'a cereal or maybe a scrambled egg or two." She flashed the woman a grin then. "But, pretty lady… ya had me at 'steak'." She showed a big grin then and reached for another pretzel, wiggling her bare fingertips around in the bowl to surgically remove one from the bottom of the pile.

"Was there steak in the fridge?" Rogue asked then. "Have ya eve'ah been, like, supe'ah drunk and eaten a cold steak outta the fridge that ya found? That is, seriously like divine heaven on earth kinda eatin'." She seemed to be in a pretty good mood, as she often was lately.

"I don't know. Have you had cold pizza with a hangover?" Betsy rebuts, with one lifted brow. Again, that ghost of a smile that only seems to touch her eyes, and she swivels a shapely hip to knock the fridge shut. "Steak's a good source of protein and carnetine," she explains. "A bit of an indulgence, I admit, but I eat plenty of hempseed and sustainable greens whenever possible."

She slaps the steak on a butcher block and flickers a knife over it, as swift and sure as any professional chef. The steak flies apart into thin strips, effortlessly, and Betsy dishes a few thin strips onto a plate and slides it to Rogue to tide her over until the salad's ready.

"I have a fairly high protein diet," Betsy explains, throwing ingredients into a large bowl. "I have to take in quite a few calories a day, almost more than I can eat comfortably in two or three sittings."

Rogue scooted herself up onto one of the stools that was positioned alongside the island when the plate of steakstrips arrived and she nearly started salivating down the corners of her lips when she saw them. "Damn, Betsy." Rogue said at her. "I'mma have'ta sneak down here and partake in your late night eatins way more now that I know you're treatin' yourself t'stuff like this." She flashed the far more reserved woman a big grin.

Sampling some of the steak, she rolled her eyes back in her head and went about eating a bit more while Betsy spoke further. Having super strength, included the muscles in your jaw and Rogue was capable of chewing up steak pretty easily. "This, is amazin by the by. You're a hell of a cook, huh?"

Rogue got up off the stool, glided her way across the tile floor to the large fridge and pulled it open to fetch out a bottle of tea. "I've neve'ah even heard'a… carna—-tine?" She glanced back at the purple haired woman whilst walking back to the island-counter. "Sounds like ya eat like an athelete… I kinda just devour whateve'ahs palced in fronta me, like a wildebeast." Another little grin was shown then as she sat back down on the stool onc emore.

"I do a passable job," Betsy says, with polite modesty. "It's either this or protein shakes, and one can only eat so much strawberry flavouring before getting sick."

"Some are fortunate enough that their talents manifest as exceptional health and stamina. Hank, for instance," she offers. Pine nuts go into the salad and she whisks oil and vinegar into a simple balsamic. "They can eat anything and maintain almost ideal fitness."

"Myself, on the other hand, I have to work hard at it. I've actually gained a half an inch on my hips in the last year," she admits, wryly, patting her flat tummy. "Despite my best efforts, I'm afraid my willpower doesn't hold out well against Kurt's brownies or my stash of vodka upstairs."

The salad gets a flickering of cranberries, is served into two large bowls, and Betsy finds a stool near Rogue to perch on. Close enough to talk, not close enough that there's accidental contact. Because she's considerate enough to know what that would do to Rogue's feelings. "So staying physically fit enough for the missions /and/ trying to be runway ready is… a bit of a demanding trick."

Rogue was continuing to munch on those bits of steak that Betsy had passed her way, tearing them up into little bite=sized morsils while listening to the refined and polite ways of the Brit. A little headshake was given, with a grin, at the tummy pat and the lamenting of a little weight gain.

"Lady." Rogue started then after taking a sip of the drink she got herself. "You're like a bean pole, anyway I look at ya, doesn't matte'ah what the angle is… You could hide behind a phone cord, an' ain't nobody would see you comin'." The southern belle told her, grinning her pearly white teeth at the woman then before reaching for a napking out of the little metal holder on the coutnertop.

When Betsy came to sit with her and delivered the salad, a light headshake was given again at the look of the small meal. "An' here I just make a bowl'a Cheeze-its for myself. I really gotta get on this healthy-eatin train." She gathered up the fork and stabbed at some of the food, then sampled it and went to eat more of it immediately there after. Rogue still had a wealth of Carol Danvers in her, and so she kind of ate like she was in the military all the time, i.e. like a ravenous monster.

Betsy gives Rogue a level look. "You're sweet," she says, finally. "You're a poor liar, but sweet to try. I'm not concerned with being thin, I'm concerned with my waistline. Modelling in the UK doesn't require fitting a Size 0," she explains. "Most of the gels I knew who went the Page 6 route had perfectly average proportions. There's not an obsession with being stick thin."

She flexes one arm, curling a bicep and prodding it. "And I think I rather like having a bit more muscle than I used to," she says, with some pride. She's not as cut as a professional bodybuilder, but she could easily model fitness wear. "And, as I said— it's important to stay mission ready, atop it all. So I have plenty of incentive to work out."

Rogue didn't speak while Betsy said all of this, she just enjoyed the food and listened intently on what the other woman was saying. When she'd finished, Rogue had smile softly at the bicep display and nodded once in understanding.

She poked at the remainder of the salad in the dish and she considered her response. "Modelin', they say, is a lot toughe'ah than it looks. But you're one'a the toughest of us around here, so I'm sure ya handle it in stride'n'such." She said then in a softer tone of voice.

Another sip of the drink was had then and she slid what steak-bits remained on the first plate she had, into the bowl and swirled them around with the fork. "I'd probably worry about strength trainin' a lot more, if I had ended up with this Cheat Code that I got installed in me. I mean, if I hadn't ended up with Carol's… abilities." rogue shook her head side to side. "I don't think I'd be much use t'the X-Men team at all. I'd probably just wande'ah around these halls, annoyin' everyone, prattlin' on about how I can't touch nobody." She smirked then, cause a little self depricating humor was always fun.

Betsy purses her lips and frowns minutely at Rogue's self-deprecation. "Hardly useless," Betsy points out. "You can neutralize even metahuman aggressors with a touch— turn their talents against their allies. Gleaning short-term memories, even long term ones. I can't help but feel if you'd come into your talents here—" she says, gesturing vaguely at the mansion, "with the guidance of Charles, you would have a better grip on your abilities. Better measures of control," she remarks. "Jean hasn't attempted to end the world in… /months/ now," she says, with utterly Saharan dry wit. "So, progress is possible."

Rogue listened to this while forking at the salad bits that remained and she grinned, even laughed a little at the Jean comment. Jean had always been a big role model to Rogue, at least in-secret, she admired her from-afar as the two of them hadn't really ever had a lot of bonding time together over the years outside of X-Men stuff. "Maybe you're right." Rogue responded then.

"I mean, for all I know… I'd have complete control'a this mutation by now, if it had been the sole focus'a my abilities. Rathe'ah than, ya know… worryin' about learnin' how to fly, or how t'operate a gas pump at a gas station, without snapping the handle in two when ya squeeze the trigge'ah." Another little grin was shown toward Betsy then. "Would serve me right though, for what I did to poor Carol." She muttered that part much more quietly.

"But, as Kurt has said t'me before… 'Whats done is done." The southern girl smiled a little and shook her head gently side to side. "You got a big photoshoot comin' up, or somethin?" She'd ask, curious if this late night snacking was geared toward a specific goal on the near horizon.

"We've all done things we regret, Rogue," Betsy tells the brunette southern belle, one one lifted brow. "Carol Danvers has recovered well and is leaving a full life as a premiere superhero. You repented and have made strides towards redeeming yourself."

She stabs a bite of steak and chews, a bit moodily. "Even the least of mutants can do incalcuable harm in a moment of weakness, let alone misguided deliberation. There exists… a long trail of bodies in my wake, many of whom did not deserve it."

"At any rate. Don't harangue yourself overmuch, dear, and— if you need help, I will lend any I can."

She leans back, considering Rogue's other question, and shifts the topic obligingly. "Nothing specific, though there's rumors a dear friend of mine has something cooking. I'll be paying Janet a visit in the next week or two I'm sure, and see if there's some work. My obligations here keep me from maintaining a full time portfolio, so… I take work as time permits. Which is less and less often," she sighs. "I'm starting to feel as if I'm past my prime in the modelling world."

Rogue considered the kind words that the other spoke and she really was listening to them and taking them to heart, mulling them over inside of her head. She reached her right hand up and brushed her white/brown hair back out of her face and tossed it over her right shoulder then (the white bangs quickly came right back though).

She really just didn't have a lot to say on the topic of Carol and Herself, in fact, this was the most she'd talked about it to another person in ages. Charles had heard her talk the most o nthe subject, back when he was actively counseling Rogue to help her through all of it.

A little grin showed then when she heard the other half of what Betsy said. "You're only like a year older than I am, Missy." She told the purple haired woman, looking sideways at her. "Don't say that you're past your prime… means I am too. I mean… maybe I wanna be a model too!" She grinned, teasing of course, she likely couldn't hack it in the modeling world, or so she thought at least.

"But if ya eve'ah are goin' to a party or somethin', don't hesitate to have me come along an' act as like, your personal body guard." She nodded her head two small times then. "I could totally rock security for ya at one'a those fancy rich people parties you go to."

"Modelling is … a different world. Most of us peak at seventeen to nineteen," Betsy explains. "I was twenty two when I went on the cover of Cosmo, and that was relatively old by most standards. There are many unwritten rules— what age you can wear what clothing, what work you can or can't do. Being half-Japanese complicates things for me as well," she says, gesturing vaguely at herself. "A reasonably curvy Londoner can find work modelling casual apparel, but I'm too heavy for Paris runways and not Caucasian enough for many mainstream fashion houses."

"But if I ever find myself in need of a bodyguard, you'll be at the top of my speed dial," she assures Rogue. "You're quite a bit more durable than I am. It seems a fair trade for helping you hone your talents, though I'm admittedly a bit more demanding a taskmaster than Charles or Jean," she admits, with wry candor.

Rogue shook her head gently in disbelief at some of the things Betsy was saying about the modeling industry. Not that she didn't believe the woman, just that she didn't really like how any of that sounded… or at least parts of it anyway.

"Thats the reason women end up depressed every year that anothe'ah birthday ticks off the calende'ah. That kinda stuff makes us hate agein' up, when we should be thrilled t'make it to our next birthday at all."

She then shot a small smile to Betsy and nodded once at her. "Glad t'hear it though. I haven't neve'ah been to a big rich party before. I'd be lyin' if I didn't say I'm more'n a little curious about them." She showed a mischievous grin then. "I swear I wouldn't embarrass ya."

"I said models, not women." Betsy rises, collecting plates, and gives Rogue another enigmatic smile. "Models are barely people."

She rinses off the plates and gets them put away. "Meanwhile, I'm quite happy with my life— it's a bit of vanity only that has me yearning for celebrity," she admits, shaking her head ruefully. "But— if you would like, the next time there's some black-tie affair, you can come along as my date," she offers to Rogue. She folds her fingers neatly on the counter, rather than patting the belle's shoulder— a dangerous mistake to make! "I think you'd rather enjoy it. Goodnight, dear." Betsy tips her head a few inches, and with that imperial posture and effortless grace, sweeps out of the room like she's moving through a palace instead of padding barefoot through a shared home.

END

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