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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Mar 31, 2011 21:51:41 GMT -5
((OOC: This is an April Fool's Day thread.))
::The universe was conspiring against him. Typically, Pietro did not believe in the agency of the universe to make decisions or in universal conspiracies, but recent events suggested otherwise. It had begun roughly a month ago, coinciding with Rossignol's trip to New Orleans for a musical exchange program. He had contented himself with overtime in that period, since Wanda had been working longer shows due to increased popularity of her act.
Unfortunately he had had migraines when in the City. They had grown so intense that two weeks ago, he had needed to take medical leave because he simply could not stand being there. He was always far better when back in Westchester. Then the other aspects had followed: people were more agreeable to his requests. While this might not seem odd to others, Pietro knew that his personality was generally considered unpleasant and that most people did not care for him; more than that, he was always suspicious of others doing things for him. Yet when he made requests now, people listened.
Then several days ago, he had developed static cling. He was constantly pulling socks off his back from laundry. He was tired of it all. He had taken to spending more time on the grounds, away from everyone because he felt better that way.::
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Post by Typhoid on Mar 31, 2011 22:11:26 GMT -5
In the weeks since Typhoid had gained a working part in an off-Broadway musical, just before she left for New Orleans, rehearsals had kept her in the city, and so she'd barely been at the Mansion before she'd left. Many things had changed before she came back. Her hair was cut short, and she'd found a mutant skilled at tattoo removal to take the tattoo off of her cheek. The rehearsals resumed, for an opening night set in a months time. They were difficult- ever since coming back, she'd grown increasingly sensitive to daylight in general, finding herself tired and sluggish during the day. At night that changed, and she didn't remark on it; she'd always been a night owl.
She'd come back as well with a new interest in hoodoo, the folk magic practiced by many in New Orleans.
She missed seeing people at the Mansion, missed Pietro, even though she'd called him briefly to tell him she was back. The weekend seemed the perfect time to go back to the Mansion for a little while. Today, she'd decided to see if she could find a few plants that might be necessary for a particular conjure she was researching, and so came outside reluctantly to try the grounds for them.
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Mar 31, 2011 22:43:05 GMT -5
::Pietro knew that Rossignol had come back; he saw her, and while she appeared different, he knew that it was her. Setting aside the book he had been reading, he called out to get her attention.::
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Post by Typhoid on Mar 31, 2011 22:46:54 GMT -5
She turned when she heard Pietro's voice, her eyes hidden by sunglasses. It took her a minute or two to get to where he was, and she smiled as she reached him. "Good book?"
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Mar 31, 2011 22:47:57 GMT -5
"Not particularly." ::It merely passed the time, since Pietro quite literally had nothing better to do.:: "How was Louisiana?"
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Post by Typhoid on Mar 31, 2011 23:01:52 GMT -5
"Different," she said, holding out her hand to him. That attraction to touch in her had never changed. "The people I worked with were amazing singers, and there's so much music around there in general. I thought it was too warm there, though. Almost everyone was in shorts or tank tops. It wasn't...comfortable."
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Apr 1, 2011 10:35:40 GMT -5
::Pietro reached out to take her hand. The description of the atmosphere was accurate; he had been down there before and the weather was stifling.:: "You are back now."
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Post by Typhoid on Apr 1, 2011 17:55:00 GMT -5
"Yes, I am," she said warmly, squeezing his hand gently. "How was it while I was gone?"
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Apr 1, 2011 21:17:47 GMT -5
::Pietro reflected on the past month and found himself at a loss to describe it.:: "Fairly unbearable."
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Post by Typhoid on Apr 1, 2011 21:24:15 GMT -5
She frowned; his phone calls to her hadn't reflected what he'd just said. "What happened?"
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Apr 1, 2011 21:33:46 GMT -5
::Pietro threw his free hand up in a gesture which implied that he did not know where to begin.:: "I am on medical leave."
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Post by Typhoid on Apr 1, 2011 21:39:51 GMT -5
The frown deepened, and she sat down beside him. He'd never said anything about being ill, and between his mutation and the fact that he worked out constantly, he rarely was. He didn't appear to be in any physical distress, either with normal sight or with her sixth sense. "What for?"
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Apr 1, 2011 21:42:41 GMT -5
"Inability to perform the job," ::Pietro explained. He brought his free hand to his forehead and touched lightly.:: "Migraines."
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Post by Typhoid on Apr 1, 2011 21:50:08 GMT -5
That was definitely unlike him. "Have you seen a doctor?" she asked, fingers of her free hand brushing hair away from his forehead. As she did, a mild shock sparked, and she withdrew. "Ouch...sorry," she said, shaking her hand.
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Post by Pietro Maximoff on Apr 1, 2011 21:51:39 GMT -5
"No." ::Pietro did not wince from the static but his expression became mildly apologetic.:: "And that was me."
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