Owner	Pose
Michael Erickson	He spends so much time here in the yacht now, this ship that is of his own people. The sleek lines, the glossy purple metallic of its hull. Gone are the days where he sits underneath the hull drinking beer; he spends his time inside of it now, the hatch open, ramp down for visitors. He's kept an apartment in the Upper East Side for decades now, but this place has become his home.     And like all proper homes, Michael is cooking. Not /inside/ of it -- a grill has been set up underneath the thing, charcoal burning, smoke coiling off the hull, no danger of leaving a trace there. And there is Michael, prodding sausages on its surface with a metal fork. A /lot/ of sausages, given how many calories that the Shi'ar packs in to fuel his metabolism; eight of them, roasting away, butcher-made and sweating jewels of fat and juices. Staring down into the flames as if he might be reading entrails.
Jessica Drew	As she skirts the helipad, an incoming helicopter blows the layers of Jessica's dark hair into a fashionable muss and wafts a tendril of smoke toward her. She stops and sniffs. The scent of grilling meat is a sure sign that her prey is in his lair. She follows the molecules to their source and stops in the doorway, one hand posed against the opened metal door, waiting for the pilot to cut the engine so she doesn't have to shout. Not everyone has super hearing like her own. Smiling smugly, the agent holds up one hand holding a bottle of wine victoriously. "We won. Or so I'm going to pretend," she says walking toward him. "we have managed to have an evening off together."
Michael Erickson	Ah yes, a strange species, the extra-galactic raptor man. David Attenborough's probably done a special on it. "Now that..." Michael pauses to prod a sausage with the fork, smiling down into the coals. "...is a victory worth celebrating." His face remains turned down, but he glances up to grin at her. "You look nice. How was work?"
Jessica Drew	She tugs the lapel of her vintage Chanel jacket and flicks her pearls with a rueful smile. "Bureaucratic. Filing is the worst part of fieldwork. But now," she exaggerates the vowel, "I'm off work and about to kick off these lovely high heels and drink a Cremant de Bourgogne with my good friend. Life is better."
Michael Erickson	That gets a laugh from him, too. Saw-edged, like the raptor he is. "Your good friend, huh," he replies with a smirk. "I hope you don't refer to me as that to our co-workers." Michael prods the sausages yet again, turning them with care as his attention returns to them. "Cremant de Bourgogne is all right. I wish I had a bottle of Alpharo cloudwine. Talking about light and bubbly. It's processed through filters that are barely solid themselves. Like that stuff humans use in their space program, the stuff that looks like solidified smoke."
Jessica Drew	Barefoot, she pulls a chair strategically out of range of the charcoal smoke and seats herself like a queen on her throne surveying her subjects. "Yes, with my good friend who is about to serve me a wonderful meal despite our not having cloudwine," she makes a dismissive gesture, "or mead. We shall drink the stuff of the grand terroir of France. And, we (and that is not the royal we) will enjoy ourselves."
Michael Erickson	"Mmmhmm." Now he begins to load the sausages onto a waiting plate. "Well we aren't having it here. I just wanted to cook on an open flame and not in an induction unit. Come." Without waiting, he lids the grill and takes the plate with him as he walks to the yacht's glossy marble landing ramp and walks up into its interior.
Jessica Drew	Swinging her shoes from her fingers, Jessica follows him up the ramp. "You have really have done a lot on it."