15/Things that Can't Be Bought

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Things that Can't Be Bought
Date of Scene: 18 February 2020
Location: SoHo
Synopsis: Janet and Lois are having tea, and meet Illyana; Janet decides it's time to meddle in Lois' love life.
Cast of Characters: Janet van Dyne, Lois Lane, Illyana Rasputina




Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Oh, she's *so* full of it," Janet informs Lois, and her chin wags conspiratorially. "The whole 'trip to India' was a taxpayer-funded visit to Cuba for plastic surgery. Didn't you notice how her nose was literally a quarter inch shorter?"

The fashionista has long ago learned how to stay on the good side of the media-- bribe them outrageously with something more interesting than her own goings-on. And it doesn't hurt that JVD Fashion offers the Planet and its reporters-- specifically, Lois Lane-- excessive discounts on their designer businesswear.

The two women are at an outdoor cafe in SoHo, sitting under the warmth of a pair of silent radiant sunlamps. JAnet's dressed in a knee-length dress with a dynamic pattern of earth tones, matched with knee-high cavalry boots and a wool coat in camelhide draped from her shoulders. Glittering rubies dangle from her ears, a little contrast to the somewhat prosaic pendant in the hollow of her throat that resembles a certain iconic shield.

Fingers brush through her hair; lately worn longer, curling at the base of her neck and bangs reaching to her eyebrows. "Anyway, of course, you did *not* hear that from me," Janet reminds Lois. She reaches for her coffee to sip it. "That's just what the rumor mill is grinding out."

Lois Lane has posed:
"It wasn't her nose I was looking at."

Lois Lane's certainly not one to mind a bit of designer businesswear, it's a perk of the job. And really, as long as she gets the scoop when things finally need to come to light, well, she's more than happy to deal with such an arrangement. And Janet's fun.

The reporter takes a long sip from her coffee, leaning against the table. While her white ruffled skirt and button up violet blouse might work for a business look, in this case it's casual--stylish casual. "What a day. I definitely needed this break. I don't even want to think of how much work I've got to do when I get home."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The spectrum of fashion can run from literal recycled cast-offs from the rag markets in West Africa, stifling the native textile industry with terrifying effect, to the stellar designer of such ideas. Then, occasionally, there are troublesome outliers defying easy explanation. A girl wearing leather pants is one of those beings; by definition, the reckless choice of attire would imply either a runaway neo-goth from the city's burgeoning underground music scene or someone much too old to go for such sartorial considerations. Certainly none of them have a right to look -good-, much less so impossibly flattering as Illyana can. Does, as a matter of fact.

She scowls at her mobile phone screen like it personally offended her somehow, stalking in that manner of an urban sophisticate prowling her native hunting grounds. "Where are you?" she murmurs. Slowing in front of that cafe, she looks back down at the phone and then up to the nameplate over the women's heads. For a moment neither Janet or Lois receive the least regard from the blonde, her arctic-pale eyes scouring the facade in search of something. Perhaps a bank vault hide behinds plate glass. Then back to the pair with their coffees, fashionista couturier and reporter alike, moving over them with a wince. Coming too close to their personal space means she's eavesdropping. "Pardon. Have either of you see a man about twenty-five, brown hair? Big shoulders?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Mm, honey, I keep telling you, you work too much," Janet reminds Lois. "We need a new PR manager. You would crush it. Better pay, exotic travel, bigger clothing allotment... you're in a bad marriage with your job." She's mid-sip when Illyana hails them; the blonde girl is given a blinking look, then a fast once-over.

"No, but I'm certainly willing to help you look for him," Janet says with a witty rejoinder. "C'mon, come sit with us while you wait. Those pants are hot but it's absolutely the wrong weather to be stomping around New York in them," Janet says. She beckons Illyana to entire the patio enclosure. "Are you looking for someone in particular, or are you just shopping for any beefcake that walks by? I totally endorse either plan," Janet informs Illyana. There's some shuffling around and Janet makes a premptorial gesture at a server to bring a new chair around for the mutant teen.

Lois Lane has posed:
"At least it's a marriage," Lois mutters under her breath. Her attention, however, is drawn up at Illyana's approach. She takes a curious look at her, then waves her over as well. "He missing, on your bad side, or both?" She taps at her chin. "Or, what Janet said, if you're /looking/ for one, that could be a different story."

She shrugs. "Can't say I saw one today unless the man you're looking for works for a mob boss."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Should he show. He might think the better of it," says Illyana in that loosely ominous tone that Russian imparts to every statement. Even in love poetry, the herald of doom cuts across her impeccable English. Loose blonde bangs fall in her eyes as she tucks away the phone in her coat pocket. It will buzz its wrath upon the world when awakened like one angry little wasp shuffling around. "I am not interrupting?" The question has a gelid hesitation, lingering on the cusp of being willing to dart back out onto the street.

It takes circling around to settling on a seat. "A meeting put off and now cancelled, it seems. Fool me once, fool me twice." Laconic words shift together as she drops onto a seat with rigid determination, practically crossing one leg over the other in the process.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Ooh, lonely hearts club," Janet says with a wry attempt at sympathy, and wiggles a finger between Lois and Illyana. "And you're not interrupting, don't worry," Janet tells Illyana, once she's seated. "I'm Janet; this is Lois. She's in the same boat as you are. Perpetually waiting for the Right Man to show up," Janet says, and twists her lips at Lois. "Right now, she's substituting work for a personal life. Which is great-- that's a direct pipeline into becoming a spinster at thirty and having like, a dozen pet cats," Janet says. A sly dig at Lois.

"So who's this boy you're meeting?" she presses Illyana. "No man is worth getting stood up, honey. Well-- not more than once or twice," she amends. Fingers play with the pendant around her throat, absently. "There are sometimes good excuses. Just don't let *them* know that."

Lois Lane has posed:
Lois rolls her eyes at Janet with a grin, then nods towards Illyana. "Come sit and join us, we were just relaxing and having a chat." She takes another long sip of her coffee--she got an extra large. "As Clark told me the other day, I don't have the time for one cat, much less more than one. My work is a suitable trade for a personal life. Besides, how do you meet people these days? What, am I just supposed to walk in and flirt with a barista? That seems so..." She's not sure she wants to think of the word.

"Anyways, his loss for standing you up. Anyone who doesn't have the courage to call you, at least, isn't worth it." She's been stood up plenty in the past. Usually, though, there's a good excuse. Usually.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Once settled in, Illyana hardly moves at all. She has an intense focus around her, the definite absence of fidgeting or excess motion witnessed as time goes on. When a server bustles by, her request oddly isn't coffee, but, "Tea, please." Whatever kind of tea earns a nod. Tea is tea, unadulterated or mixed with too much sugar or cream. Her brusque manner might not be beloved of the service industry, but she listens with acute interest to Lois and Janet behind something of a quiet remove. "Illyana," she gives her name. "It is good to meet you, Janet, Lois."

Taking in the conversation, her pale gaze moves between the women as they speak. She asides to Lois, "Do you own a cat?" Perhaps a litmus test, for all that she holds herself perfectly still, fingers locked around her knees. No rings there, no signs of scars, just youth matched with something so much older. "You use the Internet to meet people. Dating apps. Or those interests in common." Parroted with a dubious degree.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"God, he is like a lost little puppy following you around," Janet murmurs at Lois with a sympathetic expression. "He'd be halfway cute if he didn't have that forlorn hangdog expression all the time. Or if he'd at least do something moderately interesting once in a while. What was that article he did last month? 'Cost Saving Tips for the Budget-Conscious Traveler'?" she hazards. "I skipped my Ambien for a week straight, all I had to do was read about ways to pack sandwiches for long plane trips and I was out cold. Still," she amends, and flashes a grin at Illyana. "Better the devil you know than getting on a dating app," she advises the blonde girl.

"IF you're gonna do that, just used Tindr. It's the only place people are honest about what they want anyway. Easier to get in there and punch up for the choosy types if you're in the mood," she suggests. "Some of those other dating apps, you wade through a lot of hopeful Johns who think that the flowers and chocolates routine is better than being direct."

Lois Lane has posed:
"He's a good guy, and we all have to write boring articles and puff pieces to fill things in from time to time," Lois puts forth as a defense. "Clark does amazing work when he puts his mind to it, he's just a little..." She's not trying to be mean, so she doesn't finish the sentence. Her gaze shifts to Illyana. "I don't have a cat, I'm fairly good at keeping myself warm at night." She grins, then shakes her head. "I don't trust the internet for these things, though. Too dangerous. There's a reason I keep pepper spray in my purse."

Too dangerous, says the one who just scored the scoop about a human trafficking ring by walking into the middle of it.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Do you write often?" Illyana asks. Small talk is most definitely not her forte here, that or she is one of those types content to be an audience for the pingpong of lively, animated conversation around her. The cool lines of her features give away little as disappointment for a non-existent visitor choosing to show up, her phone utterly silent in the flat pocket of her coat. "Your coworker wrote the budget travel series. The one about economy light and economy tickets, the disadvantages, da?" Could be familiar, a guess seized lightly. Girl has to read something. She asides a keen look Janet's way, the razor-thin margin of a smile right there if someone prospects rather hard for the vein. "Is it? Both have their downfall."

She doesn't hesitate there once her tea is delivered, picking up the cup. "No mob bosses here. No pepper spray either."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet just grins at Lois' stubborn defense of her mousy reporter. Not so mousy, if he'd just stand up straight-- but then again, clearly Janet sees the personality of a wet noodle in the man. Still, the grin's a challenging one. As if nudging Lois to gauge why she suddenly comes to Clark's defense, so heatedly!

"Ooh, blow to the ego," Janet laughs at Illyana's comment. "Lois is the star reporter for the Daily Planet," Janet informs Illyana. "Crime rag, corruption, all the really juicy hot-ticket items. She won a Pullitzer for covering Superman's death."

Janet winces, very subtly, and flickers something like an embarassed look at Lois (if Janet is actually capable of feeling such an emotion, anyway). Superman's death wasn't recent anymore, but it's still a tender spot for the people who knew him.

Lois Lane has posed:
"Writing's what I do for a living," Lois notes. "I've got a hot scoop about Spiderman stopping a group of human traffickers, pictures too. I'm just putting off writing it by taking a break." She gestures around at the two of them. "But really, you shouldn't be so hard on Clark. He's a sweet guy and honestly a more reliable friend you'll never find." She pauses. "Unless there's danger, then he's running away." She seems amused by this fact.

She peeks to each of them. "We know you're waiting for someone," Lois gestures to Illyana, but then turns her gaze to Janet. "I don't think I know about your love life, now that I think about it."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Pulitzer doesn't quite go over the blonde's head. Culture happens even in Siberia, though her Russian accent is to most difficult to place. Those who distinguish it from a tony St. Petersburg or edged Muscovite variant are few. She raises her teacup for another sip, looking aside to Lois. Janet's statements and the soft spot don't appear to have very much impact, perhaps out of general ignorance.

It might not be that simple.

"It takes a pair to date certain people. More than courage." Wisdom from the mouths of proverbial babes. They probably don't know how.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Mm, talk about having a pair," Janet says with a dreamy, hooded expression. She flicks a wink at Illyana and a grin splits her face. As if suddenly aware she's playing with her pendant still, her hands rest in her lap. "Me and Steve? Ahh... I mean, I could complain, but I'd feel super bitchy about it," Janet tells Lois, candidly. "He's a guy. He does guy stuff. Always puts his shoes away, but wreckes the kitchen. Am I bitching that Captain America's apple pie is as Amercan as he is? No, but it does confirm he's still human."

She glances at Illyana, then leans forward a half inch with a lowered voice for the table. "And he's still got his place in Brooklyn. We've been dating for two years. Who wants to live in a complex in *Brooklyn*?" she asks with a rhetorical exaggeration of her hands.

Lois Lane has posed:
"Oh right, /that/ Steve." Lois smirks, shaking her head a bit. "He met Clark the other day. It sounds like they get along swimmingly." She sips from her coffee. "Men with traditional values, huh?" She leans forward a bit. "I don't get much of a chance to get to talk to the larger-than-life types on their off hours. It's neat to hear about the more human side of things."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
China clicks when Illyana lowers the solid cup. It lands with ease and stands alone, abandoned when the petite Russian resides back into the fundamental task of listening. That's the danger of those quiet ones, they absorb the information all around her. "Traditional American values," she dryly adds. "These values, they change with borders. But some thing, the 'men things?'" The twinkling of a smirk almost hovers there in the tone, not quite coming to the fore. "I do not know such heroes either. They are human like the rest of us. Try to be human?"

A careful statement, there, gently tumbling into a lengthy pause.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"'Oh 'that' Steve'," Janet says, mimicking Lois' smirking rejoinder. "Yes, -that- Steve. Like you don't sit two desks down from Jenny 'Tabloid Queen' Stivers," Janet says. The fashionista sticks her tongue out at Lois a little petulantly.

"Listen honey," Janet advises Illyana. "There's no such thing as a perfect man, and I'll tell you why." She shifts in place, crossing and re-crossing her legs and tucking her skirts under one thigh. "Even if you found a guy who is everything you think you want, you're missing out on the guys who are something you didn't realize you needed. And the ones who are totally perfect? I can't imagine anything worse than being mad at someone over something that is perpetually always your fault," she says with a dry wit. "Embrace flaws. I mean, aside from bad hygiene or rude manners. I mean, Clark, for instance-- sweet guy, and he'd be ten times more attractive if he stood up straight once in a while," Janet says, and extends a palm at Lois in mute appeal. "Am I right?"

Lois Lane has posed:
"Perfect men don't exist," Lois agrees. "But I think I agree, flaws can be endearing." She glances to Janet. "He'd be great if he'd sit up straight. He also nearly broke his foot under my fridge. He's very... unlucky, clumsy..." She shakes her head. "But he's also very sweet, caring, polite, completely terrified of women..."

There's a grin at that last part. "I think he'd be a good catch for the right kind of person. If he'd even notice them."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Perfection does not exist." The flat statement on that front holds all the ennui and disbelief of a generation shattered by the expectations of their forebears, weighed down by their failures and enormously high standards. "Not even for the heroes. Flaws are what define us. To have them gives us character, purpose. I do not know what it means to a relationship like yours."

Yours being the collective statement, rather than the singular. "Standing up straight, though. Very important."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Awkward. Janet glances at Lois over Illyana's fierce but weirdly flat exhortations on the subject, and busies herself with two measured rotations of her spoon in her own teacup. Clink clink. Sip.

"I don't know about you two, but I know /I'm/ perfect," Janet says, with a toss of her head. The statement's outrageous enough to not merit being taken seriously. "And I'll cut anyone who says different. /Or/ who says I'm mean," she adds-- and then breaks into a merry laugh.

"I'm teasing, honey, don't mind me," she assures Illyana with an effortless social grace. "But lighten up just a bit. We're bitching about boyfriends, not contemplating philosophy. Well-- I'm bitching about boyfriends. Lois is lamenting her lack of one. Say the word," Janet reminds Lois, and shakes head head emphatically. "I'll loan you my little black book. You want actors? Movie stars? I know a couple of poor boys living in Long Island on trust fund accounts. Lousy zip code, but at least they've got nice taste in watches."

She looks over at Illyana, weighing, then nudges her under the table with a bump of the knee. "How about you, Illyana? Any word from your hot date? If you're just in it for tousled brown hair and broad shoulders, you are in the *right* city. Walk into Gold's Gym, say 'Can anyone spot me while I use the squat rack?' and see how many guys explode out of the woodwork."

Lois Lane has posed:
"... don't tempt me, Janet," Lois states, mentally flipping through that little black book. "You know how I spent Valentine's Day? A stakeout, waiting for a senator, eating sandwichs in a car with Clark. /Romantic/, right?" It wasn't really terrible at all, but she won't go into that. "Alright, set me up with someone. Probably safer then some dating app."

She looks next to Illyana. "I'm sure he'll regret his choices soon enough if he doesn't show."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
For a moment, Illyana gives Janet a completely blank look. The sweep of her fingertips reclaims that forgotten phone, scrolling through a half-dozen messages and finding nothing of interest among the alerts and the other various savings promised for language lessons, airline tickets (pack a sandwich!), and bric-a-brac nonsense. "Nothing yet," she says. "I will have to hunt it down myself." Somehow, the mild statement excludes the fact the Demon Queen of Limbo is, in fact, using a verb in a particular way.

"He will regret it, no doubt. What could I possibly offer your important people in that black book? Not rich, not an award-winning writer." The little roll of her shoulder is equivalent to a major shrug where Illyana is involved, in perfect control of herself down to a tee. They don't breed them especially effusive in Russia. Or it's just unease, which could be the case yet. "Sandwiches at least taste better than the subway's air." Her shoulders roll back as she looks off into the street, as though that poor, hapless target of her devising will simply manifest out of thin air with a pile of excuses about how he ran into a landshark, got waylaid by enemies, and the elf needed food. No such thing comes to pass, alas. "Unless they're bait?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Mm, I've already got a few fellahs in mind," Janet tells Lois. She twists to regard Illyana and her brows lift in surprise. "Is it a twofer sort of day for me?" Janet wonders aloud. "Whatever-- I don't mind playing matchmaker."

She rests her elbow on the chair's arm and props her chin in her palm, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at Illyana. "You're cute-- don't get me wrong, that doesn't hurt-- but in New York, cute's as easy as a good grinder," she tells the girl.

"But you've got some personality going on. It takes a little backbone to rock the leather pants look. You're out here looking for a guy, that means you're not sitting on your thumbs and waiting for him to make the move. /Lois/," Janet says, with a theartical aside for her friend.

Her attention returns to Illyana. "The accent thing, that's a solid secret weapon. And you obviously work out," Janet says. Never fails that a fashionista wouldn't note how Illyana's muscle tone is developed. "You need to be looking for guys in biker bars and outdoors arenas. And I mean /athletes/, not just burly bar drunks. Motocross, rock clibmers, maybe a para-sailer or something. Get a guy with a tight waist and some really, y'know, mmph--" Janet flexes her shoulders and upper back demonstratively. "You know. Someone who can keep up with you. I've got a feeling that you'd be bored to death going out with some yutz from an accounting firm," she says, dryly.

Janet finishes her drink and signals the waitress for the check. "And if you'll box up what's left, to go," she requests. "Illyana, would you like a hoagie for the road or something? Or a knistch?"

Lois Lane has posed:
"You say that like I have someone I'm waiting on," Lois protests, folding her arms across her chest. She doesn't. She's not waiting on anyone. "So I am definitely doing that whole go out and look thing." Why is she doing this again? She doesn't entirely remember wanting to go out and look for someone when she started things. What kind of magic was Janet casting?

"She's right, though, I don't think you'll have much difficulty." She pauses. "But hey, we don't know Illyana's type, she could be into accounting nerds."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"There's a lid for every pot. Or a top for every bottom," Janet says, mischeviously. "I'm sure there's someone out there for you. Just let me know what your type is," she bids the girls. "Illyana, it was lovely meeting you. If you're ever looking for work modelling, give me a call sometime. I want to dress you in dead animals and slap your face on Times Square billboards," she advises the blonde girl. Her number's scribbled on a plain business card and given to her, and Janet loops her elbow through Lois and the two walk off together at a brisk pace towards a waiting towncar (idling illegally and with a total disregard for traffic nearby). "C'mon, I've got some new outfits at the shop that you're gonna love. No no, /I'll/ call Perry and tell him you're playing hookie today," she says, forestalling Lois' protests-- and then the driver shuts the door behind them and the two women head back into the city!