Summary:Bobby checks on Quinn after a few days away from the mansion. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It's been a few days since Bobby left her alone in her Manhattan high rise. She laid and moped for a few days in the comfort of a space that she had gotten used to; cleaned everything, ordered a laundered service and reactivated ards with proof of life to make sure that she could get a new wardrobe. She was feeling more like herself every day, eating what she could. Working out. Running on the treadmill, constantly using her powers and gifts to exercise a muscle that was long lost. She wasn't stuck in seclusion. No.
Quinn was busy.
Little is known or remembered about that day or night that she arrived at the mansion. As a reminder; few people were dead. People that she actually loved and called family. And now she was on her own. She had to know what happened, because something was blocking that little spot in her memory and it was killing and breaking her heart. And now, she was going to retrace her steps. So she remains on the couch, her legs folded. Crossed together as she steeples her fingers and press. It was clear she was 'working' on herself. Attempting to force out a memory, so much so that her face burned red with concentration and nearing the stage of bleeding eyes, nose, and ears.
*
Bobby has always has excellent timing. Quinn's trying to dig deep and squeeze a memory out of that brain of hers? Probably doesn't want to be disturbed? Especially not by After-School-Special Drake? Excellent timing. There's a knock on her door. He hadn't called first, or sent a carrier pigeon or a telegram, or even a text. "Quinn?" He says through the door, questioning. She might have known he was coming, of course, because telepathy and all that, but she might also not want to see him, which is probably why he hasn't gone to a lot of trouble to tell her ahead of time. But he's here now, and that's what's important!
*
Asshole. Quinn wasn't expecting anyone but that air of goodness that usually follows Drake is a looming deathknell on her property. The penthouse, breeched with happiness is met with a scoff. Her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she unlaces her legs to stand, head tilted back to pinch the bridge of her nose to hold in the blood as she walks. Memory is a bitch, and she follows it towards the door, unlocking, opening it up, letting him in to the immaculately clean place with a quick turn upon her heels and a stomp away. "What the hell did I do now?" She calls out, heading towards the bathroom. Which looked like another room. The bathroom, looks, like, another, room.
*
Bobby steps inside when the door is opened, and he immediately cocks his head to look at Quinn. He should ask if she's okay, but that sounds like a bad idea in his head. She's not likely to admit anything is wrong, right? "What did you do? Nothing, that I know of. Just been a couple days, figured someone should come see how you're doing. I don't think the Professor was too thrilled I'd brought you back to the city, but it's not like you were being held prisoner at the school. Your doorman recognized me and let me up. Don't get him fired. You cleaned up. Looks nice. Smells nicer, too." Less musty. She must have opened a window or two. Bobby slips his shoes off and follows Quinn toward the bathroom. Still doesn't ask about the nosebleed, but he'll offer what he can? "You, uh, want some ice for that?" He's useful for precisely one thing.
*
It almost seemed like he was just talking just to talk. She gave him the nevermind hand, willing the toilet paper to shoot out into her palm so that she could press it towards her nose. As he offers ice, she gives him a nod. Beckoning him with fingers as she bends forward to plug the bleed. Ice please! "Bridge of nose." She states, and waits for him to do it. Once it's done, she releases it and leans against the sink, her eyes wincing as she studies him. "You weren't there when it happened, were you? When I came back. I have -some- memory of it. But I don't know where it began."
*
Time to show off! Bobby holds out his hand, in a moment frost forms around it, and then like a 3D printer, a perfectly formed cast of ice appears, shaped just so to fit over the bridge of Quinn's nose. He even places it in just the right spot for her, because Bobby is if nothing else, overeager to be helpful. "No, I don't think I was. You were pretty long asleep when I was came back from Berkeley. I hate to say it, because I know you'll hate to hear it, but chances are the Professor's gonna be the only one who has any answers for you," he says, mentally bracing himself to get hit. Her distaste fo Charles Xavier isn't exactly something she's kept hidden. "That why your nose is bleeding?" Observant.
*
"Yeah." On both accounts. This was ultimately going to be something that she has to figure out herself. "Self inflicted telepathy. Jogging my memory isn't helping." Grateful for the nose cast, she turns down the bitch for a while. Preferring to be straight up and well, honest. "What I'm trying to do is retrace my steps the past few days before the accident. To remember what happened. I need to find.. well, they're not my people but they're my friends. If anything, I need to know what happened with them." She frowns. "Even if they hate me. Cause.. I'd rather them be alive hating me, than dead."
*
Oh my god Quinn is a human being. Bobby can't help but let a little smile show through at that. He kind of wants to give her a big hug. But he won't, because he values his physical integrity. He'll also resist the urge to suggest that Xavier could probably help track them down. He does have that fancy machine in the basement, after all. AND he's not going to suggest that Quinn try to use it, because THAT sounds like a terrible idea. He almost wants to suggest she ask one of the other telepaths at the mansion; Jean or Betsy, maybe, but.. gets the distinct impression that she doesn't want anyone else poking around in there. Unfortunately Bobby isn't all that useful in the telepathy department, except maybe as a guinea pig. "Well Q, I don't know how much help I can be in actually getting your brain to cooperate with you. But you need to figure out what happened and what you need to do to heal, and I want to help you get there. We can go where you remember being before the accident, or whatever.. or I can just hang out here and make you ice casts for you nose."
*
Yes! Quinn can actually be.. bland! She calls it bland! But her eyes squint, and he could possibly feel a little pressure behind the eyes. This was her being generous. In fact, the way he thinks about things make her smirk, and her hand reaches out to lightly pat his head. She won't bring up his ideas. He didn't say it outloud. Well.. "I don't want those hacks in my head." Plain and simple.
"Fine. You want to help, lets do it. We'll need a car." She pauses. "There's a shit ton wrong with your car. I need to call.. those people to see if they'll loan me one." Aka, those adopted parents. The ones that.. well, kicked off this whole rebellious stint. "And I guess you should probably bring your super suit. I got a lingering intuition that this ain't gonna be pretty."
*
"There's nothing wrong with my car! It runs!" Bobby is actually a little bit insulted. Yes, his car is a pile of junk, but it's his very own pile of junk! And he got it washed since the last time, so the rust isn't quite as covered in layers of mud. Okay, she makes a good point. "Fine. I don't really have a super-suit. I just.. you know, ice." Sometimes he wears a hat. Or a bandana. To look cool. "Have you even talked to your parents since you woke up?" Can of worms, opened.
*
Quinn turns around at that question and begins to wash her hands, scrubbing what little blood had gotten on them away, watching the pale orange water float down the drain. Slowly, she shakes her head, attempting to keep her face stoney. "No. But.." She mutter quietly, "I'm sure they know." She sniffles a little bit, then wiggles her nose to the point she reaches up to pull away the frozen bandage. Not knowing what to do, she just tosses it into the sink. 'Thanks'. Was transmitted mentally. And.. 'They probably wouldn't care. They never do.'
*
"Do they? I mean, they're not telepaths or anything. I don't think the Professor would have reached out to them without your permission.." Let's just tip that open can of worms right over, shall we? "You should probably.. I dunno, call them? Let them know you're okay?" Even if it's just a token gesture. "Showing up out of the blue asking for favours might not go over so well if you haven't even let them know you're alive.." Bobby's just full of opinions. But then, he has a good relationship with his parents, so maybe he knows what he's talking about?
*
"Bobby, fucking can it." Quinn snaps. After all these years, practically four, the mention of her parents is a serious sore spot. "I'll call them when I call them." Which is, she won't. She'll probably go through a third party just to get what she wants, which is usually par for the course. "So just drop it." She snatches herself out of the bathroom, then moves into the kitchen, looking through cupboards just to have something to do, slapping them shut once she's done. "When you said you wanted to help, that didn't mean play my fucking therapist." Or.. maybe it did? There were mixed feelings she was putting out.
*
"Alright, alright," Bobby says with resignation. He even puts his hands up in a surrendering motion. "God knows no-one's ever been able to tell you what to do, Quinn." And it's always worked out so well for her when she didn't follow good advice, too. "I'm sure we can rent another car without too much trouble, if you hate mine that much." The pool little Civic gets no love. At least, not since that night at the drive-in a few years back. Good times. There's a memory. "Let's at least stop and get coffee first."
*
"You know, I was asking for help, not for you to tell me what the fuck to do." God, they sound like a married couple. The final door was slams and she's off into her room again. "And don't guilt me about that piece of shit car. And I'm not renting one. We're going to go fucking get it." She slams her door, and Bobby can -clearly- hear her bitching as she was changing. "How's that for your.. 'tell your parents you're fucking alive'?!" So apparently she can take direction, albeit reluctantly.
*
Bobby laughs quietly to himself when Quinn is behind the closed door. There's a small bit of satisfaction in it; he knows she hates being given advice, but it doesn't mean he's wrong. And it doesn't mean she absolutely won't take it, but she'll rail against it until she's blue in the face if only for show. "Whatever you want, Q. I'm just the chauffeur." While she's getting dressed, he'll wander around the room a little and poke his nose around. Still no Hello Kitty pillows or anything embarrassing he can hold over her. More the pity.
*
"If I wanted a chauffeur, I can drive my goddamn self!" She snatches the door open so much that the entire floor begins to shake and rumble. Even so, a vein slightly protrudes from her head! It takes her a few seconds to calm herself, her hand snatching up to pinch at the bridge of her nose, taking in a deep breath, slowly exhaling. "Look. I'm sorry. Just.. just don't fuck with me about my parents, alright?"
*
"It's okay, Q," Bobby says, putting down whatever curiosity he had been examining. "I'll lay off about your parents. You do what you think is best. It wasn't my place to say anything." He looks her over for a moment, "You all ready to go?"
*
Quinn stares, then slowly rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Yeah. I'm all ready to go." She doesn't bother enlightening herself to what he was looking at, she just pushes past him. She stops at the door, then pauses, looking into the bowl which holds the keys to her apartment. She doesn't split them apart, she just tosses them back towards Bobby with the expectation that he'll catch. She doesn't even say what it's for, but he now has a spare. If he was going to help…
*
Bobby drops the keys, in a show of complete non-athleticism that would embarass most anyone. He then leans down and picks them up off the floor, looks at them for a moment, and pockets them. He'll figure it out later. "Okay then," he says quietly, and follows her out. "Do you think I need a haircut? I've been thinking about cutting it like.. really short." Yeah, awkward conversation is kind of his thing today.
*