18531/The Storm That Came To Midtown
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| The Storm That Came To Midtown | |
|---|---|
| Date of Scene: | 23 April 2024 |
| Location: | Jennifer Walters' Condo |
| Synopsis: | Still in the aftermath of the horrific overreach of the United Nations at the Atlantic Starport which culminated in a Sentinel attempting to rip fleeing civilians from the sky, a mutant Queen and her favorite legal counsel are finally inspired to ask each other - and themselves - some questions about the nature of their relationship after years of fondly orbiting one another. |
| Cast of Characters: | Lorna Dane, Jennifer Walters
|
- Lorna Dane has posed:
A storm blew through Jennifer Walters' spring cleaning efforts, and its name was Lorna.
Some... number... of hours ago - keeping track of time lost an awful lot of importance once the news from yesterday's Starport offensive began trickling in - the green-haired mutant arrived at her green-haired bestie's door after a tense durance of silence, an empty-eyed revenant dressed in the exact same questionably fitted sundress outfit she wore to their last in person engagement at the Genoshan Embassy. Things were so much simpler then, and it'd only been a few weeks ago: the formless dark of the future might've induced a sense of uncertainty in both women, but it was underscored by the joy of coming together again after far, far too long spent on the wrong side of each other's orbits.
Also, there were pizza rolls.
Which helped.
Today-- tonight-- this morning--
NOW:
"... we..." Lorna whispers, lying back and staring at the ceiling on what is currently her side of an enormous bed and doing her damndest to fight back what she knows is coming; what has to come after all that time with their heads buried in the sand and their hearts sequestered from the insanity of the world beyond these walls.
"... should... probably talk... about it," she eventually allows herself to admit, soft enough to barely disturb the air-- a reversal of the mantra that remained on her lips throughout the preceding hours.
So soft that it lets her hang onto the quiet fantasy of it being TOO soft for green ears, no matter how close they may be. Draped in a shirt/nightdress from the Skull Island Board of Tourism, Lorna rolls - slowly, hesitantly - towards her side, grazes fingers along the smooth ripples of an emerald bicep, then drops her head against the world-bearing shoulder it leads to. "I--..."
Her eyes haven't made it anywhere near Jen's face, much less her own gamma-tinted gaze; her teeth do a tight, stinging roll across her lower lip as one arm stretches across, drapes over, squeezes against the body beside her.
"... meant it," she admits, and while there's still deliberation in it, hesitation...? Not so much.
"Every time," Lorna softly swears, recalling another phrase that just couldn't help falling out of her mouth as the night/morning went on, uncontainable despite its sleek three-word/eight-letter profile. "E-even as fucked up as the REST of, of EVERYTHING is," comes amidst gentle shudders and deep, anxious breaths, "I MEANT it... ... but... I... we... HAVE to talk about it... for real. ... all of it, everything--"
Finally, her eyes slip the necessary few inches to meet Jennifer Walters' for a beat before flicking away as she sinks into another round of lip-worrying.
"--... right?" she whispers, quietly.
Hopefully.
Bracing, all the while.
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
Jennifer Walters' condo ceiling has never looked so complex.
Perplexing, even.
Why did the paint dry -this- way there, but -that- way over there? Since when did that little ridge exist in the southwestern corner? Is that dust clinging in the junction between the ceiling and the wall over there? But that's impossible, she cleans every week when she has the time to set aside to clean, why is it never enough--?
These are the overriding thoughts of Jennifer Walters who has spent the better part of the last twenty minutes just staring at her ceiling with wide, green eyes. She shouldn't be so awake, given all that happened last night. And yet she is; she's -wide- awake, point in fact, and has been for a while.
Adrenaline, and a complicated cocktail of emotions that begin with enthusiasm and end with regret and worry will do that.
She hasn't said much of a peep since she woke up. She just lays on her back, dressed down in a big black shirt that reads 'YOU HAD ME AT CIOPPINO' and dark green hair spilled out over the covers beneath her, and watches that ceiling -- wondering over all the contours she never saw before. Wondering if she ever really knew her ceiling at all.
She is also, it has to be said, a notorious bed hog. But Lorna should know this unfortunate fact about Jen by now.
(oh like that's my fault, you try being this big and NOT hogging covers. 'unfortunate,' pfff)
No -- her unfortunate tendencies aside, Jen remains very awake, and very quiet, until exactly this point--
... we... should probably... talk about it.
And the first signs of activity and life come from her in an unexpectedly deep exhale and a blink of those vivid green eyes.
"Um."
Is the first sound she makes, and she instantly regrets it. Come on, Jennifer. That's not the sound you make! It's going to give exactly all the wrong impressions. She's going to think you regret this - okay you kind of regret this - but it's not the only thing you feel! It's complicated! 'Um' does not reflect complexity!
Be like the ceiling!
These internal pep talks aside, it's Lorna's continuation that helps to embolden the normally so-certain gamma-irradiated glamazon a bit more. She feels fingers graze her bicep. Feels a chin rest on her shoulder. Her heart is pounding fast and pounding hard and she knows that 'regret' is at best a vanishingly small contribution to its beat. Fingers curl into the sheets, under the covers.
And then they relax.
'I meant it.'
They have to talk about it.
Right?
A long silence passes before Jennifer finally says,
"Okay."
She stares at that complicated ceiling a second long, before she turns onto her side to face Lorna directly. The transition unfortunately means that Lorna is deprived her perch -- but Jennifer makes it up to her with the way those lips catch hers in a brief kiss before breaking away so that they can look eye-to-eye.
Her voice, too, is quiet. But that smile is a genuine thing, for all that it is lopsided by a certain anxiousness.
"But not on an empty stomach. I kinda... worked up an appetite."
- Lorna Dane has posed:
"'course you did-- nobody would ever accuse Jennifer Walters of half-assing anything."
The lightness might be forced, but the tender graze against Jennifer's cheek is all real. She isn't one to compete to the point of excess, to compare miseries and tribulations... but in this instance, she can't help but feel uniquely crushed beneath the burden of what might follow, trapped between implacable necessity and...
... Jennifer Walters.
Who has never in her life half-assed anything, least of all giving a shit about green-haired gal pals with pronounced reckless streaks and a whole childhood full of lovingly induced self-denial at the hands of an aunt who'd rather imagine her normal, wholly unrelated to the barbute-clad terrorist who stole her brother's wife and ultimately ended both of them, thanks to the squealing little token he left of himself.
Certainly not smiling so gamely, even after letting her own hesitance, her own complex web of emotional tension slip through that sleepless syllable-- trying so hard to normalize the impossible with rays of sunshine and soft kisses.
There's an apology in her answer to the condition and the kiss preceding it, subtle and unspoken:
'I'm sorry I keep making this so fucking DIFFICULT and coming on way too strong and' channeled through a precisely managed combination of forward pressure, electromagnetic force, lips, and tongue-- lingering, drawn out as long as it takes to get the point across.
However long that is, she's perched above Jennifer by that point, having rolled her glamazonian pal to her back. Fingers laced between and dwarfed against emerald digits start slipping away as she murmurs, "Eggs...?" with a lightly furrowed brow. "Baco--"
A beat.
And more furrowing.
"... do you HAVE food, this time?" she quietly asks, managing the sort of playful little smirk that would've felt like easing back into the fuzziest, most comfortable pair of slippers she's ever worn just 72 hours prior. Now--
-- especially given Jen's entirely reasonable, plausibly deniable stalling tactic, sparing them both a little while longer while she can--
Now it feels like taking her first steps into a blizzard, foot after foot of driving snow crunching beneath freshly slippered feet.
Instead of waiting for an answer, "Do-- ... should I go to the bodega," follows a touch lower, quicker, the smirk wrinkling and twisting towards something between contemplation and dismay as Lorna strives to overcorrect for a teasing insinuation which would've amounted to anything from banter to flirting any other morning, "and get some supplies, or--"
Her eyes skate away, briefly... and then with a soft series of pats to Jennifer's shoulder, Lorna rolls away to the edge of the bed.
Where she sits, lowering her feet to the ground with a deliberation that borders on superstitious.
As if touching the ground in the light of the morning sun will finally, fully break the spell which shut the rest of the world and the problems that come with it out of Jennifer's apartment. Sucking in a sharp, shallow breath:
"I-- I'll just, uh, I'll CHECK, and..."
The Queen of Genosha plants stockinged soles against the floorboards and rises just as slowly, casting a long look and an echo of the lawyer's lopsided smile towards Jen most of the way. Maybe -- maybe -- if she smiles enough, if she's relaxed enough, Jen'll think she's --
-- if not OKAY, then cool.
Collected.
Ready to suffer the fel fate foretold by Jennifer's 'Um'en like a good friend.
And maybe Jen won't notice how quickly she pads towards the kitchen-- or the quickened pace of her breaths.
Or the way those smiles give way to taut, quiet terror once she thinks Jen won't see it.
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
Time moves strangely, sometimes.
It feels like an age has come and gone by the time Jennifer first wakes up from her scant sliver of sleep to the time Lorna's words brush at her ears with a feather touch. It feels like an era longer in the scant space between what she says and how Lorna answers.
And yet, it feels like no time at all before her lips have found Lorna's again, to the point she's back on her back, comparatively larger green fingers squeezing intimately around their paler counterparts.
If you could say a thousand words with a kiss, then Lorna must have invented the language -- the embrace communicates so much in both eagerness and hesitation before their lips part once more, leaving Jennifer huffing a soft, warm breath in its aftermath. A little laugh follows in its wake despite it all -- a happy, pleased one. This feels natural. She understands Lorna in these moments perhaps more than she ever does outside of them.
She isn't sure if it's a good thing, or a bad thing. But in the immediate moment... it means she understands -exactly- what Lorna is trying to convey in both word and action. Her own, half-lidded gaze that accompanies the way that her head falls back on the messy pile of pillows beneath her says it all:
'It's okay.'
She isn't sure it's entirely okay. She isn't sure if it'll stay okay.
But right now, she wants Lorna to know:
She has nothing to apologize for.
If these fleeting moments that seem to race by at an Olympian's dead sprint encapsulate smooth and effortless understanding, then the next race of time perfectly represents its counterpart: Lorna starts in with those teasing words, and Jen's brows furrow; it's meant to be a petulantly playful kind of furrow, but it's exactly the kind that could also be interpreted as offended or annoyed to the particularly anxious.
Her lips part. She begins to say, "Of -course- I do. ... I think. I mean, yes. Shut up."
Which she thinks we'll be a suitably cute rejoinder.
She only gets to "Of -course-" before Lorna's words are cutting her off, though, suggesting she go to the corner store to get the food that is already (probably!) there. Jen blinks. Her lips purse.
She starts in on an assurance of, "You really don't have to -- you're the guest here, Lor, I think I'm supposed to be the accommodating one here."
Which she thinks will calm Lorna's nerves.
She gets to, "You really" before Lorna is rolling off her and making a swift exit of the messy bedroom battleground, leaving the Spectacular She-Hulk in a spectacular lurch.
She half-rises from her bed, lifting a hand her fellow greenette's way. "I didn't--"
who even knows what she was going to say there before Lorna's gone, leaving her a lopsided smile and a fear to palpably resonant with her own for her -not- to see it.
Jen's hand lingers in the air for three whole seconds that once more feel like eternity. It ultimately flops over her forehead, covering her eyes as she falls back into the bed with a dejected bounce.
"Wow," she says to no one in particular save the ever-watchful narration, "you're an idiot, Jen."
Yes.
"not helping."
Sorry.
---
Lorna is well into the process of discovering that Jennifer has a -shockingly- well-stocked and appointed cabinet and fridge full of food and amenities this time by the time everyone's favorite Gamma-Irradiated Gal emerges from her bedroom, coming to a stop at the entrance to the kitchen. Her thick, dark green hair normally so wavy is now a frazzled mess; the hours spent not sleeping now start to show themselves a -little- in her sloppy presentation, but not as much as it rightly should; gamma radiation is just unfair, that way.
She watches Lorna for a few seconds of silence, biting the inside of her cheek.
"The pans are in the second cabinet from your -- yeah, there," she finally says. She can't help but smile. "You still know your way around my kitchen."
talk double-entendre? A
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
This may or may not be innuendo. Even Jennifer isn't sure. Is kitchen talk double-entendre? A question for another time.
Another five seconds pass.
"... I know you meant it, Lor. What you said." She struggles for the best way to start broaching this topic, the confused cluster of sentiments bleeding into her expression in a way that might not feel promising, in this moment, from an outsider's perspective.
"And I'm happy you're not, just... trying to shrug it off."
- Lorna Dane has posed:
The kitchen might as well be another state.
On the long and lonely road between Bedroom and Kitchen, Lorna's eyes can't help being drawn to the shattered glass and exorbitant scotch puddle wreck caused by a careless slip of her tongue and a flash of viridescent rage. One harsh, thoughtless word too many, one step too far for even She-Hulk's shockingly deep reserves of patience, one needless reminder of the encroaching darkness for someone trying her damndest to help keep it at bay. Just a few steps beyond it, she draws to a stop, left hand buried in the verdant tangles of her hair; she stares into the stagnant spill and familiar, green eyes alight with legendary Hulk rage stare back to remind her.
The monarch's arms coil around her ribcage as she rapidly paces around Jen's bar and searches, delicately-- nudging things aside with the utmost care-- until she spots a clean enough towel. After hustling back to the spill, she drops to her knees as glass fragments lift into the air and a series of serpentine ripples glide across the brown puddle. Lorna sets about the next part with vigor, mopping and soaking swiftly; pushing spattered edges towards the center with firm, decisive strokes; buffeting sopping cotton with invisible waves of force to promote quicker drying without risking a fire.
The thing is: the bottle had been full. There's a lot of this still-fragrant liquor that would've cost her several summers worth of Big Belly Burger paychecks to mop up, and only so much cloth to go around. Motivated vigor leads to a steady ramp in speed, intensity; the inevitable, machine gun staccato of her breathing leaves her head light and spinning.
And there's more scotch.
There is still more scotch.
The cloth's utterly saturated, and there is still more left to account for.
Apologize for.
Atone for, whatever that means when Lorna can't seem to stop finding new wounds to pick open. Of -course- Jen has food-- of all the weird things to PICK on--...
"-- hh--!"
It's not until she swipes too hard, too far, too fast; slips, and nearly sprawls face first in the puddle that Lorna catches herself spiraling. A shiver passes through her body, clenched muscles only barely unlocking so she can draw herself back to kneeling upright; a few feet overhead, glass shards cease their sympathetic vibrations. A second later, they begin flowing towards the bar to deposit themselves in a neat, glittering pile while Lorna hunches over wet smears and tries to gather herself with deep, stabilizing breaths. After the fourth, she slowly releases one cloth and gets up to head behind the bar for another.
---
- Lorna Dane has posed:
Lorna is washing booze-soaked towels out in the sink when Jennifer walks in, squeezing and scrubbing cotton against itself with all her might. The pans Jen point her to are - indeed - already waiting on the stove, the cabinet still ajar; eggs, milk, bacon, sausage, and butter have all been lined up on the island for processing, waiting for her to finish her most solemn of duties.
Jen's entrance provoked a jabbing inhalation, a fleeting moment of tension: the radiation infusing all of the green-skinned glamazon's seven foot frame leaves a distinct footprint on Lorna's higher perceptions. She lets the barrister have the luxury of a quiet, private moment, however; it would be rude to interrupt.
And interrupting would probably end with her foot right back on the menu for the morning, besides--
... You still know your way around my kitchen.
This may or may not be innuendo. Lorna hasn't the first clue, which is why the small, fond smile with which she greeted Jen's guidance is soon joined by green brows arching high, a brisk flutter of green eyes, and a soft, clipped chuckle.
Five seconds pass. All of them are spent trying, quite seriously, to decide how EXACTLY she feels about kitchen talk; that she is so painfully aware that this is an internal stalling tactic cuts into its efficacy as such, but it's what she's got in lieu of any clue of how much damage to expect.
And I'm happy you're not, just...
Before Jennifer can get the rest out, she is ambushed by pale arms clutching around her waist and a face smudged with cosmetics burying itself in the soft, dark sea of her t-shirt. Every iota of strength in Lorna Dane's body is committed to hanging onto Jennifer while she sinks against-- into the world's buffest lawyer, boneless.
Shivering.
Sobbing, audibly, as her fingers clench against the other woman's back.
Half a minute later when the tremors have largely subsided, a muffled, "... uh..." emanates against Jennifer. A beat after that, Lorna sucks in a deep breath and pulls back enough to show wide, reddened eyes glittering with a storm of emotions and messy green tresses pressed against her face.
"I," she utters, slow and cautious, "... also didn't mean to shit-talk your kitchen..." while her gaze dares to drift towards Jen's.
"... which I know is very nice, and often very well stocked," comes amidst shallow breaths, "and--...
"... and...
"... I--... I don't-- I don't wanna let you go, Jen--..." barely escapes her throat.
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
In any other situation, Jennifer Walters would reassure Lorna about the mess of whiskey by remarking about how at least it's the world's most expensive all-purpose cleaner.
But even everyone's favorite Gamma-Irradiated Gal knows that this isn't the time or the place, especially when it comes to -that- particular mess. She just watches Lorna scrubbing that cotton for a while, before her bright green gaze rolls slowly towards the bar. She eyes the spot where once was shattered glass and dried-out scotch, tracking toward the bundle of glittering shards so deliberately piled up. Her brows furrow, and she chews on her lower lip in the wake of her initial words.
"You didn't have to do that," she finally says, about Lorna's attempted clean up. There's still so much, though, isn't there? Like a lingering reminder of everything that happened last night.
"You're my guest, you shouldn't have to go around cleaning up my messes--"
And before she can completely put the burden of the accident on her broad green shoulders, she suddenly finds Lorna in her personal space, arms snaring around her waist and face pressing into the black cotton of her t-shirt. The Glamazon's green eyes widen. For a second she hangs there, frozen like a statue, hands held up palms forward as if paralyzed in uncertainty.
"Lor--?" she begins, before that muffled sob reaches her ears.
She lingers in hesitation for a second longer, before hanging hands fall down to Lorna's shoulders. They wrap over and drag down, until two strong palms are pressing into Lorna Dane's back, hugging her close.
Providing her an irradiated, unassailable pillar of support to lean against.
Jennifer cranes her head down, still a touch too tall to bury her face in that emerald mane of hair, but still close enough that the warm wash of her breath tickles the top of Lorna's scalp when she talks again:
"S'okay," she assures, her voice so terribly quiet in these moments,
"I know you love my well-appointed kitchen."
She'd give time for the moment to land, or at least time to ponder if she just has a natural problem with making everything sound inherently dirty (she does), but her time right now is taken up squeezing arms more tightly around Lorna, drawing her in and up until the smaller greenette is drawn towards the tip of her toes, letting all of her weight settle against Jennifer.
She stays there in silence in the aftermath of what Lorna has to say, just holding her like that; positioned as she is, the way conflict rules in her expression for a few lip-twisting moments doubtless goes unseen before she squeezes her eyes shut, and exhales a soft sigh.
A smile touches those green lips soon after.
"I don't wanna let you go either, Lor," she admits, no matter what the complications such a confession might entail. She can't help it. As skilled a lawyer as she is, everything in Jennifer's personal life is a matter of impulse, what feels right in the moment.
Which is why, fingers curling into Lorna's borrowed shirt, she gradually ventures,
"We don't... have to, y'know,"
in that same, hushed voice.
"Let go, I mean. I mean -- I mean... we've never really given this a real chance before. Maybe...
"... maybe we should."
- Lorna Dane has posed:
You didn't have to do that...
Jen wasn't supposed to see that. If it wasn't for sinking ever deeper into the unyielding warmth of those green arms, there would still be chills of embarrassment slithering up and down Lorna's spine. As it is, her brow's furrowed and her face is all screwed up: if she's going to look like an asshole, she'd prefer to at least do it on purpose, rather than being caught in a moment of weakness-- ESPECIALLY one built on top of another slip. Another prime asshole moment. Another brick in the wall she feels growing between them thanks to her own reckless, unabashed embrace of running face first through life with the barest minimum of thought or care spared for consequences--
Assurance gusts across her scalp, gently disturbing verdant tangles.
Jennifer's chest vibrates against her cheek, her comforting sentiment felt as much -- if not more -- than it's heard.
A very soft *smk!* assures Jennifer in turn that even a spun out and despondent Lorna is capable of recognizing (probably? maybe???) innuendo with a palm against her side. Drawn up and in against the World's Largest Lawyer, Lorna gradually eases into letting the burden of her be taken on, relieved of even having to do so much as stand on her own as long as Jennifer's got her.
Not that the silence which reigns once her heart's done spilling all over Jen's shirt gives her much of an impetus to do anything BUT bury herself in emerald safety. She wouldn't dream of looking up-- of again breaking a moment of peace where she's allowed to indulge in fanciful thoughts of things turning out alright-
I don't wanna let you go either, Lor...
Wide-eyed, Lorna jerks out of her nestling posture to stare at Jennifer, who could've just told her the Earth was flat because it's just God's Catan game and gotten a comparable response for all the mutant woman was bracing to be let down as gently as a Hulk could possibly do anything. Red and damp, she blinks rapidly a couple times before shaking it off, grimacing, and burrowing right back into Jennifer's shirt with a long, loudly muffled groan. Those thoughtful, tentative... hopeful...? words - the rare 'Maybe' she's utterly willing to stake herself on - throb and seethe between her ears while the questions they ignite storm in silence.
Don't they have to let go?"
SHOULD they give this a chance?
Could a beloved Avenger even be SEEN with a woman who just threatened the United States mili--?
"We absolutely should," stampedes right on the heels of that groan, drowning out any further hedging or hesitation rather than giving herself time to get properly lost in it. "I--"
A slight pause as she swallows, rolls her head back, and squints up at Jennifer with a barely rested smile.
"--... I KNOW it's complicated, I-- I know," she whispers, still smiling even as a jab of pain crinkles the corners of her eyes, "it's-- I mean, it's-- I mean, like, we--..." eventually collapses into scant, breathless laughter as her eyes start to drop. Still poised on the tips of her toes, she manages to scoot a quarter inch closer and tightens her embrace, shivering.
"... we... don't have to get on the news about it or anything..." she finally murmurs as she turns her cheek into Jen's chest, "... and we can just-- we can feel it out--... we can do it HOWEVER, just--
"... just, as long as we always come together-- ... carve out time for each other--... as long as we can just-- HAVE each other... ... we should," she softly admits, eyes just about shutting.
A beat later, she quietly amends:
"Or-- at least-- I want to.
"... do you want to?"
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
Can an Avenger be seen with someone like Lorna Dane?
Jennifer Walters, being a lawyer, is more than capable of citing an unhealthy, disconcerting amount of precedent for this -- even more if we consider discontinued back issues, but that's not weeds Jen's willing to wade into, at the moment. She knows the answer to 'can they'; it's certainly not in question.
But SHOULD they?
Should -she-?
That's the truly thorny question, the one she's still not sure of. For all the genuine self-confidence she puts out, Jennifer Walters is not without doubts -- far from it, and especially so when it comes to her personal life. It's already a fraught thing. Should she really be inviting something like this into it...?
The heart wrestles with the mind even as Lorna, despite her shock, seizes on Jen's suggestion. The way Lorna dives in feet first without even testing the waters is so very like her - so very like both of them at both their best and their worst - that it can't help but draw a small, affectionate smile to the World's Mightiest Lawyer almost by sheer reflex.
Lorna hides her face in black cotton once more; Jen consolingly ruffles a hand through the shorter woman's green hair.
But she still grapples with what Lorna immediately asserts. That single, simple word: 'should.' Lorna's right: it's complicated. And it's only going to get all the moreso with time.
Her brows furrow as she thinks. She wants this. But what happens if they find themselves standing at cross purposes?
She wants this. But what happens if she has to one day fight Lorna?
She wants this. But what happens if it all falls apart?
She wants this. But what if...
What if...
She feels Lorna shiver against her. And her hand in Lorna's hair turns, palm pressing into the other woman's turned cheek, cresting down her jawline to touch her chin, turn it, and tilt it, until she can look into those bloodshot eyes again with a quiet stare.
... do you want to?
Past all the myriad uncertainties, she realizes, then:
"... Yeah. Yeah, I do."
She wants this.
And that's all that matters in this moment.
They can make it work, she tells herself. She ignores the narrative doubts that swim around her every thought and action to insist upon it, vocally:
"We can make it work, Lor. I know we can." She doesn't. But she wants to.
"I -know-. We'll just... find time for each other, try to... figure out how this all is going to look. Take it slow at first."
There is a long, pregnant pause as Jennifer looks back slowly at the mess that has been made of her bar.
And the mess that has been made of her bedroom.
...
"... like... relatively. -Relatively- slow."
And she turns that smile back on Lorna, half-formed but earnest.
"I... I think it's worth giving it a shot. I always did."
- Lorna Dane has posed:
Jumping in without thinking is the surest way to inure oneself against doubt. Besides, Lorna does all her best thinking after the fact.
With the benefit of hindsight and regret.
-- okay, that's not ENTIRELY true, but it feels that way sometimes. The last years have piled on enough responsibility that she often doesn't have the luxury of acting first, thinking later, and shrugging off the worst of the attendant bad feelings. Too many lives rest on hers to play fast and loose in too many quarters of her existence--
But not here.
Not with Jennifer. Not with this-- not with them. Not with years of circling one another like stars on the cusp of a binary beneath their belts, sizzling in the air between them each time they come back together.
Here, she gets to be selfish and messy because the only other person she has to worry about is more than capable of thinking for herself-- of curbing both of their worst impulses, guided by the deep, deep well of wisdom and intelligence shining beneath free-wheeling nonchalance--
... and that person wants this too.
If it were REALLY a bad idea, they wouldn't BOTH be willing, right?
"Of course we can make it work," she lowly agrees, affirming and assuring and not at all reinforcing the belief for her own benefit. "And I-- Jen, I'm... I'm NOT him-- I meant that-- that's WHY I think we can make it work, because at the end of the day, I'm not-- I don't want to rule the fuckin' world," she hazards, speeding incrementally throughout her softly voiced promises, desperate to get the worst of it on the table and dealt with so they can move on to better things. "Feels really weird, having to say that out loud to you," follows a little quieter, an aside if only there were someone else here to hear her, "but it's true--..."
Biting her lip, Lorna turns her head and rests her chin against the lawyer so she can peer straight up into irradiated eyes.
"... Daredevil and Punisher, not Spider and Goblin--"
Green brows scrunch and a frown touches her lips.
"... although-- god, maybe not PUNISHER, because he's a little fucking CRAZY-- I-- you know what I MEAN, though-- right?"
The soft, self-conscious smile she shines up at Jen slides into something more pensive as she lets that hopeful question dangle, briefly.
"I won't fight you," she then swears. "We are not going to do that-- we're just gonna be two people with different opinions about, like, a couple of things who--..."
The hitch, the pause, the break is less a thing of hesitation or uncertainty than overwhelming joy finally being allowed oxygen:
"... love each other," she utters, deliberating over each and every sound, "more than they disagree. ... one of whom is going to do her best to be very open to notes from the other, who happens to be as smart as she is devastatingly tall and gorgeous."
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
'I'm NOT him--'
It's an insistence that drags Jennifer back to that moment the night before, that moment her anger got the better of her. That moment that still has lingering remnants sticking to the floor despite Lorna's best efforts. Wild, wavy dark green hair spills over Jen's right shoulder as her head tilts, thick bangs obscuring one of those gamma-irradiated eyes as she looks down at Lorna.
She's not like him.
It's important that she isn't.
It's important to both of them.
"You're not him," Jennifer repeats, as if to help reinforce Lorna's assertion.
"I know you're not, Lor. Really, I -- no matter what's happened, I've never seen you that way." The gamma-green glamazon offers a lopsided smile, and attempts reassurance through humor:
"It's not like you roll around in a big purple helmet or anything, except for that one time we got -really- drunk..."
Still -- that supportive tone remains, as does that supportive arm still wrapped around Lorna. She knows Lorna won't be her father -- or maybe she just really wants to believe she won't. The end result is the same: complete denial of the possibility. She makes sure that assurance sounds confident, tries to make sure her joke on the matter lets Lorna know that she's not angry about the night before.
She even lifts her brows with perfect timing to Lorna's attempts to make a simile out of the NYC vigilante scene for their situation.
She knows what Lorna means -- right??
"One, -please- don't be like Frank Castle, I don't think he should be anyone's aspirational standard," she chides without commitment to the lecture, made clear through her little, devious smile.
"Two -- I know exactly what you mean. Like -- rivals, or something! With a deep well of unresolved sexual tension!"
...
"Sssssooo we've already got one thing over those two, at least!"
She lapses into silence afterwards, as Lorna speaks. As she swears she won't fight Jen.
Bright green eyes half-lid.
Can she promise that, too?
Can she really?
...
She focuses, instead, on what Lorna says next. Two people with different opinions, who...
Slowly, She-Hulk eases Lorna back. If only to get a tiny sliver of space between them.
If only to make it easier for her to crane her head down just enough to capture Lorna's lips with her own.
It's a short kiss. But it makes up for length with affection and feeling -- in how her lips remain close to Lorna's even after they part.
"Just two people who love each other," she repeats, as if testing the words in a murmur at the tip of her tongue. Her smile never fades; it just grows.
"Okay. I can work with that. Especially the praise. I'm a big fan of the praise."
She urges Lorna up, just a tiny bit more. Just enough for her forehead to bump against the shorter woman's.
"... I can't promise it's all gonna be great forever, Lor. But you -- you're worth every moment, one way or the other. So let's give it a shot."
- Lorna Dane has posed:
Neither of them WANTS to believe anything but the best. That the powers, the anger, the piercing eyes, and natural tendency towards passionate speeches are all she inherited from the Master of Magnetism.
-- and Genosha, of course. The root of the only unresolved tension left between them, stretching her as it does between her own wants and a whole country's needs as it struggles to revive.
"All Magneto talk will be strictly limited," she swears alongside a raised palm and a flicker of mischief that leads perfectly into trying to figure out how to adequately frame their evolving relationship in terms that any normal New Yorker would immediately grasp in full.
"I might get a shirt," is the best she can give Jennifer when she's asked to please not be like Frank Castle. "I might have to get a shirt," comes with a small, sly smile of her own. "But I promise I won't have any face scruff."
Who knows what the addition of face scruff might do to the volatile tension that must exist in a romvalry?
Not Lorna, that's for sure.
-- even if the thought of it's infinitely more appealing than dwelling on the realities of the promises she can't help but make. Dwelling on a root canal would be more appealing-- especially as Jennifer eases her back, and lowers her head--
-- oh--
It's a short kiss, and Lorna doesn't dare ruin it by trying to make it anything else-- not when what it represents between them thrums so delicately.
"I'm a big fan of the way you light up when you get it," gently stirs against the other woman's lips. Urged by the arms secured around her, Lorna leaves her toes entirely on a gentle rush of electromagnetic current and bumps her brow against Jennifer's. "Just... pure, uncut Jen shining through."
And even if it might not ALL be great ALL of the time, that's enough, isn't it? To see someone she loves, shining--?
She isn't SURE, but the thought of it - of letting years of 'almost's and 'maybe's blossom into 'yes'es even after they've escaped the gravity of this particular moment - sends a fresh shiver through her body, channeled right through Jennifer's via sheer proximity.
"Wherever it goes, we'll be there together--"
As sincere, as determined as her agreement is, Lorna can't help but catch herself with a sharp bite against her lower lip, thanks to a lingering caveat--
-- a complication significant enough to warrant hesitation, but not so grave that she can help a small, self-aware smile, even as her eyes skirt from Jennifer's--
"-- assuming-- OBVIOUSLY," she then murmurs, carefully, "that it's... okay... that me and monogamy are still... just... ..."
Not on speaking terms.
Because when saddled with a heart as big and wild as Lorna Dane's, how could they be? Not that it's ever been a secret between gal pals who know their way around each other's well-appointed kitchens--
-- but it never quite mattered then like it may now.
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
Lorna Dane promises, with great sincerity, that she will not ever don the scruff, even if she one day must don the shirt.
"I dunno. You with a grizzled green five o'clock shadow?" wonders Lorna's big green counterpart. "And we could get you a cigar to chomp like a grizzled anti-hero straight out of the late 80s-slash-early-90s EXTREME superhero genre?" what
"Be still, my heart~."
This, Jennifer announces in the seconds before her swoop to steal Lorna's lips away, giving her a glimpse of a dazzling grin in the seconds before contact.
"anyway legally speaking shirts are overrated," is the wise murmur of Jennifer Walters, Attorney at Law, just before that kiss.
* WE ARE LEGALLY REQUIRED TO MENTION THAT THIS STATEMENT IN NO WAY REPRESENTS THE LEGAL VIEWS OF THE LAW OFFICES OF JENNIVER WALTERS, PLLC, AND ARE NOT CULPABLE SHOULD ANYONE CHOOSE TO FORSAKE SHIRTS BECAUSE OF IT!
It's timely, the way she's practically alight in the afterglow of that kiss; it pairs perfectly with the way Lorna so obligingly praises her preening, leaving Jen to beam so brightly that her eyes squeeze shut in her mirth, no matter how many doubts and worries might be gnawing away at the back of her mind.
(Seriously, can't you just let me have this little moment without the commentary?)
"Damn right," she enthuses, the proximity to that tiny electromagnetic surge raising the little hairs on the back of her neck as she proclaims,
"One million, five hundred eighty seven thousand, five hundred seventy three-point-thirty carats of pure, uncut She-Hulk!"
There's a lot to unpack in that statement including the regretful decision to use 'pure, uncut' in any context, so let's focus on the fact that this statement just gave away the facts that,
1) Jennifer knows how to instantly convert pounds to carats in her head,
and
2) Jennifer just inadvertently gave away how much she weighs.
(SERIOUSLY JUST LET ME HAVE THIS)
ANYWAY. Doubts are buried for a moment of pure and guileless happiness as Jennifer just lets it all melt away in favor of her preferred method of living: in the moment. And in the moment, she nudges her forehead against Lorna's, her nose brushing the other woman's. But as Lorna hesitates, Jen blinks. A myriad thoughts about what it could mean come and go in a flash behind those gamma-bright eyes of hers. It's an open minefield of possibilities she's afraid to tread in the moment, inspiring the knot in her brow to return and the smile of her lips to vanish into a pensive purse.
--assuming-- Lorna begins, and Jennifer braces. This is it. She's going to tell Jennifer that she's actually half-vampire after that unfortunate adventure in dam-based undeath, and not the cool kind, like Blade. Or -- or -- OR -- she's secretly a big fan of MODOK -- or she thinks that Aaron's take on She-Hulk is underappreciated and secretly genius--!!
that it's... okay... that me and monogamy are still... just... ...
Jennifer Walters blinks.
Five seconds of stark silence rolls on past between them.
And then--
"Pfffffffffffttttt"
Everyone's favorite Gamma-Green Glamazon blows the biggest and most spit-free raspberry to ever be blown (shut up).
"What? Yeah! What? That's, like, totally cool with me, girl!" Jen you're overselling the moment here. "I mean -- it's fine! No biggie. Seriously -- I've got like, so much strange rolling through here on the regular it ought to be a crime!"
...
...
... And Jen realizes, please god Jen realize--
"Wow yeah okay I get it that sounded really gross," complains Jen, who thankfully feels ashamed of herself, but only a little bit,
"-My point is-. That's not a problem, Lor."
And here, she offers the smallest but most sincere of awkward smiles one can muster in the face of a teensy tiny faux pas.
"I like you for you, Lor. That means all of it. Even the parts that frustrate the heck out of me. -Even- the allergy to monogamy.
"You're the total package."
- Lorna Dane has posed:
"I'm one hundred percent going to tell people that my lawyer said I don't need to wear a shirt," gently thrums against green lips, amidst the impish curl of Lorna's own. It isn't as if SHE is privy to metatextual disclaimers.
Just common sense.
Which SHOULD suffice, and PROBABLY will--
"In a pr--"
One million, five hundred...
okay, well that was weird. Objectively, it was weird. Lorna looks like it was weird: her eyes are saucers, her brows swoops; plump lips with the faded remnants of black and green can't help parting--
A not-so-quick nip and tug of Jennifer's lower lip makes it clear that 'weird' is not a dealbreaker for Lorna, especially when it's that enthusiastic. Weird even makes crossing that final hurdle - reminding her long-time bestie with occasional benefits of exactly how complex the concept of a commitment is for her - a little easier.
A little.
A LITTLE--
(yes very good tell the girl you wanna date that you're a slut you're so smart lorna say something you're so warm say something say something i will have to become a hermit queen--)
Pfffffffffffttttt
*smk!*
"JEN." punctuates the backhanded swat which falls against the towering monolith of legalese's shoulder. Five eternal seconds worth of uncertainty flush into puffing her cheeks up afterwards. Soft, hissing recovery flattens the first stretch of Jennifer's assurance into bright smears of positively shaped sentiment, each one drawing out a little more air, a little more tension--
... so much strange rolling through...
-- okay, so they're even now, right? They have to be even; Lorna shakes the daze off then favors Jennifer with lifted brows and pursing lips like they're even...
...
...
When the cackling finally breaks through - low, warm, and most of all relieved - Lorna leans into silencing that complaint midstream with a quick, firm kiss.
Nothing is a problem. Not really. Not forever.
Not when it's up against an Avenger and...
... whatever Lorna is, anymore, in all her frustrating, nonmonogamous, angry, reckless, broken-hearted, protective, fierce, unapologetically loving fullness.
"When things are good, bad..." lips whisper against lips as Lorna lifts her eyes to the lawyer's, "... when it's 9:24 on a Thursday, and nothing's happening... when I have to drag my ass out of bed in the middle of the night... I want you around, even if it's only in spirit. You remind me of what's possible--..."
The Queen melts into another kiss, indulging without abandon--
"... and you get... just... so MUCH strange doing it..."
-- until-- eventually-- she remembers that there's food to tend to.
The thought of which evokes a nose-wrinkling frown, no matter how good getting anything in her stomach would be after the last couple days.
"... thank you for giving me a chance," she whispers rather than letting go just yet, soaking up every reason available to linger in Gamma-reinforced arms just a little while longer before-- finally--
-- ambivalently, she slips free to tend to pan-heating and bacon unpackaging.
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
And now this is the moment. The moment that Jennifer Walters knows this was meant to be. Or, you know, is at least reasonably sure of it.
If there is one piece of advice one can take away from this, when Lorna affectionately tugs on Jen's lower lip, and Jennifer can't help but snort out a doofy laugh in response, it is this, and simply this:
Get you a girl- or boy- or theyfriend who will cherish you and be down-bad for you even if you are weird enough to know your exact value in carats.
There's NOTHING in life more universal than that.
Except, perhaps, finding one that's cool with open relationships, of course. A pale palm -=smk!=-'s against one broad, invulnerable jade shoulder. Jen let's out a performative little yelp of protest in response. And in the face of that cheek-puffed expression of embarrassed indignation after, Jen knows what she must do.
Lorna leans in to steal that quick kiss. And Jen returns it immediately, mouthing against Lorna's lips a crucial revelation:
"i regret nothing"
You see the genius is in its layers. She regrets nothing in choosing to accept Lorna and dive headfirst into this relationship,
and she also regrets nothing about teasing Lorna into a blushing furor,
and also she just regrets nothing.
See?? Layers!
Big green hands have lifted up to Lorna's shoulders, drawing that oversized shirt slightly askew as their thumbs affectionately draw up and down the smaller woman's deltoids. Lips part just barely against lips, just enough for Jennifer to -feel- every syllable of what Lorna says.
Shut eyes open to the barest, brightest viridian slivers to meet Lorna's.
And Lorna, similarly, can feel the way that fulfilled and tender smile blooms at the corners of Jen's lips before they're claimed in another, deeper kiss.
"... -SO- much strange... like just an EMBARRASSING amount--" she helpfully chimes in, in the wake of that embrace.
"... and I want to share it with you."
A second passes.
"The, uh. The possibilities. Not the strange. ... I mean, but also the strange?"
Love is complicated.
That faith Lorna has in her -- it's daunting, in some ways. As confident as she is, she isn't sure she can live up to the image the other woman has of her -- if she's being honest, if she's being really, -truly- honest. She doesn't want to let Lorna down. But...
"... You make me think I can do anything, Lor. You - I mean, I guess this sounds silly - but you help keep me grounded. ... Help remind me of what really matters.
"No matter what, I won't take that for granted."
Lorna draws away. And as she does, Jennifer watches her with that pleased, dumb smile of hers, lopsided in all the most charming ways. She rocks on the balls of her feet, fingers threading together to stretch behind her back with a giddy kind of pleasure. She even hums out a pleased little "mmmm!" as she watches Lorna go, as if lost in a dream world she's sure she'll wake up from.
And she lingers like that, for at least a time.
...
It's as Lorna's getting bacon out of its plastic packaging that a green hand snakes out to playfully pinch her side.
Jennifer Walters, pinching criminal extraordinaire, walks past with a teasing, blown kiss.
"Just making sure this is real," she coos.
And you might pause to ask yourself, shouldn't she be pinching -herself-, but Jen allows no time to dwell on this before pushing the narrative forward by settling in beside Lorna at the kitchen island to begin assembling ingredients for pancakes.
She knows Lorna said she'd make breakfast herself, but, well.
It's not her breakfast now, is it?
It's -their- breakfast.
- Lorna Dane has posed:
Like cake.
"i DO regret the scotch, but that was fully on me"
Like an onion.
"... promise I'll make it up in kind, next time..."
Like the Earth underfoot, ever softer, ever more yielding, ever burning beneath a stubborn crust. It SHOULDN'T work, an Avenger and--
--... it shouldn't feel this right, past the reasons why it's wrong; the chill that thought sends slithering down her spine shouldn't leave such warm tingles in her belly.
She shouldn't feel so light, so close to such grim reminders of where Power unbound from compassion leads. It's sinful, isn't it? Selfish.
Solipsistic.
For a Queen's foremost thoughts to be occupied by every new shape traced against Gamma-enriched lips instead of weighing the wages of war.
... but they are.
And she does.
And most of all, this does.
Trouble can wait a while longer to claim her, and maybe having a little time to simmer will mellow it-- or her, failing that.
It couldn't hurt to try, right...?
...
...
... -SO- much strange... like just an EMBARRASSING amount--
Lorna narrows her eyes a little, bemused-- thoughtful--
A second passes.
"Gosh, Jen, I get it already, you're hot AND generous," slips past a lightly bitten lower lip, complete with an overwrought eyeroll and an impish grin. Not that the mischief's long-lived: even with all the many, many things that are possible in Jen's presence, answering such a sweet promise with anything less than wholehearted sincerity simply isn't an option.
~ ~ ~
"Aah--!"
Lorna doesn't have to pretend, because pain is still a close, personal friend who drops by every so often to remind her that slinging superpowers around and managing nascent toddlers don't mix all that well, really.
Lucky for her, Jen is the kind of Hulk for whom 'play' does not mean 'pulverize': Lorna's pale enough for wicked bruises, and her sides are awfully soft targets, these days.
"Oh, it's extremely real," she tosses back, waiting for just the right moment to cast a generously padded hip into the passing barrister's. Shortly after Jennifer settles in beside her, the young Queen smoothly shifts from ripping packaging open to pinching a sample of stubborn, wiggly side-flesh to demonstrate with a couple decisive shakes and a wink.
"... you don't HAVE to do anything-- you can just relax--..." she softly adds, transitioning right back to the bacon, peeling off strip after strip to lay in a cold, waiting pan.
Nothing about it suggests the faintest desire for Jen to be anywhere else, though. It's real as long as they're close, right?
"... you DO make good pancakes, though." she even admits aloud once the pan is full and her palm's hovering just above it.
"So I guess it's okay."
Sizzling slowly, surely seeps into the air.
"... get the blueberries, though-- they're still good, right? I didn't check them--"
Grease pops. Cooking meat wafts into nostrils.
"... how do you want the eggs...?"
The burner is not on.
Lorna does not break a sweat, but she does reach for tongs so she can flip the bacon not that long after the sizzling hits full volume.
- Jennifer Walters has posed:
What's the obligation of a Queen, and how much does it need to rule her life?
What's the obligation of an Avenger, and how much does it need to determine her happiness?
Neither of them are questions Jen knows the answer to. If pressed about it, she'd eventually admit it.
But she's not thinking about either of those things, right now.
Right now, as she so often does --
she just thinks about right now.
And right now... is wonderful.
-- HULK SMASH(CUT)! --
One hip bumps off the invulnerable, broad slab of Jennifer Walters' own. She sells the moment, of course, making an exaggerated stagger with a dismayed proclamation of, "ack! You came in like a wrecking ball!", with the full knowledge of what she just said, and said with a -smile-.
It's a besotted smile, and one that lingers as the impossibly tall green Glamazon settles in besides Lorna, with a cheeky, softer nudge of her hip against the pale woman's in the aftermath of her own little pinch test.
"Phew," she exhales, delight twinkling in bright green eyes, tugging at darker green lips.
She's already leaning across the countertop and dragging out the mixing bowls by the time Lorna insists that she can just take it easy. Jen's answer is the way her smile turns to the hapless, tilting the corner of her lips in a more lopsided direction as she sets those bowls down and lifts her hands to muss through the wavy mess of her bedhead-bewitched hair.
"I know," she says. "I am."
The world's mightiest lawyer starts mixing together dry ingredients in preparation to make that precious pancake batter, gaze focusing on her work even though her mind is wholly focused to the immediate right of her.
"This is exactly how I want to relax right now."
The scent of cooking bacon fills Jennifer Walters' condo with savory, sizzly smells as she mixes her batter up.
"Um. ... I had blueberries?"
Jennifer purses her lips.
"... That's not a promising way to answer your question, huh? Lemme check it out."
The green-haired giant is opening her fridge to take a peak inside by the time that question comes about the eggs.
"Mmh. I'm kinda in a scrambly mood. ... huh, yep, there's those blueberries! --they're, uh -- they're looking... good for their age--?"
This, also, is perhaps not a promising thing to say.
A second passes.
And then Jen leeeeeeans back away from the fridge until her head can peak out beyond the edge of the door, brows lifted with -- /inspiration/.
"Y'know," she begins, -casually-, -too casually-, "we -could- take your bacon, and -my- pancakes..."
Her suggestion trails -- into the DRAMATIC PAUSE.
She helpfully supplies a suitably dramatic brow waggle to supplement it right -- here.
"... and perform the forbidden union."
Her lips press together, a soft hum fills the air.
And as Jen gathers her ingredients to create her perfect secret pancake recipe, she sings the seductive song of the ancients:
"Makin' pancakes, makin' bacon pancakes~"
No matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, no matter what the future holds.
Right now, she's happy to brainworm Lorna with old Adventure Time songs and indulge in radical breakfast unions.
Right now, she's just --
Happy.
- Lorna Dane has posed:
A metal bowl clatters to the countertop before Lorna, once she's swept the remnants of the bacon pack aside. "Throw 'em out!" rises above the song of its base rolling around its base until it comes to a full stop. "No compromises when it comes to berry quality!"
Scrambly is good. Scrambly is easy. Scrambly is why Lorna taught herself to crack with one hand and bacon with the other.
(Yes, 'bacon' is a verb; look it up.)
"You deserve the best berries," she intones after more softly grinding metallic noises take over for shell-cracking, the bowl rocking gently on its base as magnetic currents cast ripples and swirls through its contents. "The sweetest, ripest, juiciest you can find," comes with a splash of milk. The bowl rings through a swift, sudden 1080 afterwards because the emerald-haired mutant can't resist showing off, just a little, for the woman whose every action and least movement is worthy of wide-eyed admiration. "Plump--"
Inspiration demands her attention and Jennifer gets it, lifted brows and all. Even though she hangs on every last word, the conclusion eludes her at first: the pause that She-Hulk allows is full of half-imagined tacos, wraps, and plating arrangements, each adding another wrinkle to the bridge of her nose, another furrow to her brow until Jennifer FINALLY deigns to relieve her:
"I love forbidden unions," she immediately replies, grinning as bright as the spark in her eye. "What--"
o~ Makin' pancakes...
The self-declared Queen of Mutanity gasps. Green eyes grow as wide as they can.
"Take some bacon and I'll put it in a pancake...~"
A twirl along the counter's edge leaves Lorna leaned back against it, eyes locked on Jennifer's while the whisk whips from the pancake bowl and flies into her hand. Not a drop of batter escapes: it twists, coils, and clings around stainless steel loops in deeply improbable ways instead as Lorna turns the whisk into a microphone and the kitchen into a stage:
"Bacon pancakes, that's what it's gonna make~! Baaaa-con paaaan-caaaaaaaaaa...~" is cut with smoke and soul, a heartfelt rendition of unbound nostalgia complete with shimmying hips, sliding feet, and a forward head-toss followed by a deliberate, rising arch that transforms wild, matted locks into a viridian shower of raw drama.
"... aaaaaa~aaaaaaaaaa~aaaaaaaaaaaaaake~!"
Towards the end of unfolding herself she draws her empty hand into a tight ball, capturing the trailing dregs of that drawn out syllable before they can get away. Through the veil of curls and waves, she locks eyes with Jennifer, beaming for pregnant beat through the afterglow of--
"Makin' pancakes, makin' bacon pancakes~!
"Bacon pancakes, thOH SHIT!"
The bacon half of the equation isn't-- QUITE-- burned, but that's only because Lorna has the privilege of being able to dump the cast iron out onto a draining plate just by thinking about it. Those thoughts do make kind of a mess - grease splashing on the plate, on the stove - but messes can be cleaned up.
Mistakes can be overcome.
The bad might be good at sticking, but that just means working harder to hang onto the rest-- to keep it close and let it guide her through the murk.
"... makin' pancakes," gradually escapes her lips when she finally allows herself to breathe again, soft and somber, "makin' bacon pancakes...~"
What's a little spill, anyway?
"Take some bacon..." is cut with a soft snap, with bare soles grazing over kitchen tiles, "and I'll feed it to Jen Walters...~" she narrates, offering a half-strip of very crispy bacon all the way up for the taking.
What's anything but an inconvenience to be overcome, with a-- girlfriend--!
like Jennifer Walters by her side?
A Sensational Avenger.
An Uncanny Queen.
Whatever the future holds, all Lorna sees right now is an ocean of possibilities.
