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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Sept 30, 2009 22:03:53 GMT -5
((OOC: This is set in the latter portion of the summer, before classes have begun, and is set after any current threads for Pietro, including "Quiet Dinner."))
::The rain was natural; Pietro knew that because he knew for a fact Ororo had no hand in the weather as of late. The rain was natural, so light it was nearly mist. It was strangely refreshing. The Academy was winding down; he would graduate soon after the eight month course, it had been six months before terrorism and mutant specialties were incorporated in the curriculum he had been informed, and would then test out and begin shifts. It was strange to think that he would soon be an officer of the law.
Strange also that Wanda was employed, although he was happy for her. She was upstairs, practicing a few slight of hand tricks and had wanted her privacy, to allow her to concentrate. He had respected her wishes and run his security sweep. When he finished, he had settled in the gazebo to watch the rain, and to read; he had a small stack of books through which he was making his way.::
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Post by Typhoid on Sept 30, 2009 22:29:07 GMT -5
Typhoid had been at the Mansion most of the summer, and now was having to get ready to go back to university and the classes that waited. Rehearsals for the play she was in were in full swing, and it left her busy with little time for herself. This week had been a rare chance for quiet time, and despite the rain she'd chosen a walk around the grounds, leading to the gazebo she'd been to before. She'd been wearing a light coat but no hood, and the telltale shimmer of power above her head spoke to her method of keeping the rain off her.
The gazebo looked like it was empty, but she knew better once she "listened" close enough. Coming to the entrance, she knocked as if she were entering someone's room. "Hello, love."
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Sept 30, 2009 22:35:27 GMT -5
::At the sound of footsteps, Pietro had looked up; he knew it was Rossignol immediately and had waited for her to arrive. When she did, he set aside his book and made a gesture to convey she could enter.:: "Hello Rossignol."
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Post by Typhoid on Oct 1, 2009 21:24:40 GMT -5
"Reading?" she asked, seeing the pile of books, the aura above her head snapping off as she entered.
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Oct 1, 2009 21:25:28 GMT -5
"Yes," ::Pietro told her, and he shifted the pile of books to make additional space for her.:: "Gogol."
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Post by Typhoid on Oct 1, 2009 21:45:10 GMT -5
"I don't think I've ever read it," she said, sitting down when he cleared his books.
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Oct 1, 2009 21:48:35 GMT -5
"He wrote short stories," ::Pietro told her. He had an appreciation for the "Russians," when it came to reading fiction.::
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Post by Typhoid on Oct 1, 2009 22:03:26 GMT -5
"I might like it," she conceded softly.
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Oct 1, 2009 22:04:20 GMT -5
"You might," ::Pietro agreed. He found Gogol's work difficult to describe, but there were merit there, and entertainment.::
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Post by Typhoid on Oct 1, 2009 22:20:27 GMT -5
She couldn't think of anything else to say, nothing that would smooth the subject over, so she simply inquired. "Can we talk?" in a way that meant more then just discussing books.
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Oct 1, 2009 22:23:21 GMT -5
::Pietro regarded her peculiarly; they were already talking. That meant, of course, that she wanted to have a personal discussion, outdoors in a gazebo; that was her choice, and he would concede.:: "Yes."
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Post by Typhoid on Oct 1, 2009 22:30:33 GMT -5
Now was the difficult part. She couldn't simply ask "how are you feeling about us?" because she knew him well enough to know that wasn't the type of question that he would at all have an easy time responding to. She could explain how she felt, but that could meet with mixed results. She chose to focus on a particular incident, not knowing what else to do. "When we last had dinner out, you didn't want to talk about St. Patrick's Day. What is wrong?" It wasn't the exact subject she wanted to talk about, but hopefully it would lead to further discussion, at least.
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Oct 1, 2009 22:32:38 GMT -5
::Pietro continued to regard her curiously; that had been quite some time ago. Not merely the incident, but the conversation itself; however, he remembered, and thus he replied,:: "You were hurt, and then you grew ill because of it. I wasn't happy."
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Post by Typhoid on Oct 1, 2009 22:39:07 GMT -5
She couldn't fault him for being unhappy about it, but she didn't know how to broach the subject she wanted to talk about without going in circles, and so she sighed in defeat, shook her head. "This isn't going to work, Pietro."
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Oct 1, 2009 22:42:12 GMT -5
::There was a split-second during which Pietro had to decipher what "it" meant; his first instinct was the conversation, but that could not be the case. His moods they had already discussed, which left...their relationship. His expression shifted from concern to bewilderment to surprise to hurt, and then fell behind his unemotive mask. Honestly, he could not fault her that, although he hadn't expected them to end this way. Not that he gave it much speculation, but he had his past relationships to fall back on; usually, there was anger and tears. This was...calm, and so he would have to respond in kind. He could run later.:: "Oh."
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