fandomhigh | BWI - Portalocity Lounge [Friday Morning]

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!event: newbie shuttle

BWI - Portalocity Lounge [Friday Morning]

Chloe got off her flight from New York and followed the signs to the lounge. She dumped the duffle bag of clothes that Andrew had hastily purchased on the floor and slumped into one of the uncomfortable airport chairs.

She was still against this plan but she realized on the flight that sulking wouldn't make it any better so she was going to put on a brave face and make the most of it.

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Yes.

Jean noticed that.

And was turning red now, but trying not to comment since normal girls can't tell when a boy is doing that.

"It's very... old time. Like you're in a play."

"I assure thee, I would make thee well aware, were I in the mood for playing."

The smirk on his lips just then was just about slick enough to grease car parts with.

Or, perhaps the more adequate word was 'slimy.'

Now, since she was nice and topless in his head, he had to come to some sort of conclusion as to her breast size. C? D? It was his fantasy, he'd picture them just as large as he wanted, then.

Jean made a strangled noise and looked as though slapping him was suddenly on the menu. "I said a play. Like the theater. Creep."

"Some overrated playwright once noted that all the world was a stage," Tybalt noted, actually unphased by her reaction, there. That was more the way he was used to women behaving around him, after all. Far less weird than that Layla girl who had been all... chipper at him. "And I suppose in that regard, I am a player. And my role is laid out in plain sight before me. I like to think I perform it well."

Oh, yes, there was absolutely double-entendre in there. Why?

"You're not about to get to play with me," Jean informed him snottily.

Awww, this one had attitude.

Tybalt liked that in a ginger.

"Not everyone is fit to take a role as a performer," he decided, shrugging and giving in to his earlier notion to reach for that cigar, airport security be damned. "I'll not impose a script upon thee, then, though thy look is fitting of any role thou should desire, and thy tongue is sharp enough to deliver a performance not to be forgotten."

... That was actually a compliment, if you squinted at it a little, yes.

He pulled out his matchbook and struck a match.

It took Jean a moment or two to figure it all out. It wasn't nice, but least he wasn't thinking about her chest now.

"And you're not supposed to smoke in here," She said, snuffing out the match with a glare. Might have been the wind, of course.

... Of course. It had to be the wind. It was coincidence, certainly, and spectacular timing on her part, perhaps. But it could only be the wind.

Right?

Tybalt frowned at the snuffed match, tossing it to the floor and reaching to strike another.

"So I've been told."

It was a very drafty place, you know.

"Then don't smoke. It's a gross habit."

Because people would stop if you told them that, Jean. Really.

Tybalt was going to waste a good many matches being stubborn this morning.

"But a habit all the same." He raised an eyebrow, glancing at her almost thoughtfully.

Key word; almost.

"Shall I ask, then, why it is thou protests so much?"

Look, she'd already made it pretty clear that she'd like him to go crawl under whatever slimy rock he'd come out from. So she wasn't likely to be doing this for his own good. And it wasn't as though he was planning on blowing smoke in her face.

"It's illegal for one," Jean replied, clearly in lecture mode. "And it's bad for your health."

"Legality and I were not always the most sound bedmates," Tybalt used. "And my health is no cause for thy concern, is it?"

Because, really, a guy could get the wrong idea, being told what was healthy for him by young ladies that he'd been mentally undressing a few moments before.

It was a concern in general! Like how people were concerned about donating money to Salvation Army.

"It is if you're going to smoke by me."

Tybalt made a moment just to roll his eyes, because the occasion certainly seemed to call for it so far as he was concerned. And then he gave up on attempting to keep his matches lit, and he pocketed the matchbook and the cigar both.

Fine.

Gingers.

"Satisfied?" He even held up both hands to demonstrate, nice and clear-like, that he wasn't smoking. In case there was no confusion, what with his theatrical speech patterns and all.

"Very." Jean Grey: Smug about getting her way.

"Good."

Hardly good. But it wasn't as though Tybalt was going to let the fact that he was terribly butthurt by his defeat be so easy to spot.

You know, by people who couldn't tell that he was thinking very butthurt thoughts, and all.

He was going to hate this school. Hate it more than he hated Hell. More than he hated Montagues. And that was some pretty damn strong hate. Dammit.

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BWI - Portalocity Lounge [Friday Morning]

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