It's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart / Of feeling the full weight of our burdens

[pluckyreporter]

WHO Two friends (and a party crasher)
WHAT Trying to make it through the holidays
WHERE At Roxanne's house
WHEN Christmas Day.
NOTES None.
WARNINGS None.



The Ritchi house was remarkably still. She had, out of habit, gone to Midnight Mass at a local church, though her heart wasn't in it -- she at least tried. She'd fallen out of faithful habits years ago, but she hadn't wanted to be alone in her house -- especially after she'd sent the Brainbots to find their 'daddy' and stay with him. One of them kept coming back, for whatever reason, but she didn't-- feel right, trying to shoo it off or punish it. So it kept her company as the night faded into dawn once she'd come home; she had fallen asleep on her couch with it curled up next to her like some bizarre, glowing cat and risen the next day sore and unrested.

Treating herself to a hot bath to try and reach some semblance of 'human', Roxanne emerged less sore and more awake, if still troubled. She turned off her communicator, set aside everything that wasn't work related, and let the radio carole away for her as she decided that today she would remain in her comfiest of pajamas, drink eggnog -- eventually with Rum Added -- and resolve not to think about anything but her work and ignore the absence of friends and family. It was old habit, easy to fall into -- not like she hadn't spent several Christmases alone-- when she wasn't tied to a rocket sled, or... any other number of contraptions.

The morning turned into afternoon, the snow came down and Roxanne could not bring herself to do anything except notate CPS reports and listening to whatever came over the radio.

Comments

[pluckyreporter]

"I didn't dig!" she snaps, tired of the accusations. "You shared. Trusted me-- enough--" She's grinding her teeth, eyes bright-- finally pushed to the verge of tears.

She turns sharply, heading back to the kitchen to collect herself, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her palm. Damned if she'll let him see her cry. Nobody gets her that on the ropes. She takes up her glass of water-- takes a few swallows of that, and sets the glass down with a clink.

"I'm trying to -- respect that you may not want to have your life dictated by events you can't remember," she says. "I'm not giving ultimatums! I'm trying offer you options!"

[notpredictable]

He flinches – that reaction was unexpected and shocking, and he didn’t know how to deal with that. He was perceptive enough to know when someone was right at the edge of tears, and that he had pushed her that far…
 
Honestly, he hadn’t ever thought himself capable. She had never shown this particular amount of emotion towards him before. Megamind hadn’t even thought the woman was capable of shedding a tear.
 
Awkwardly, he steps up behind her and…hesitantly and with no small amount of frustration, touches her arm. He’s angry that some other version of himself shared personal, private information that he wouldn’t have ever, ever told a reporter, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.
 
“I don’t want my life dictated to me at all, Roxanne,” his voice was soft, sad – filled with remorse and emotions even he doesn’t know how to identify. “Not by…predetermined events, not by a City, not by Metro Man and not…by you.”
 
At this point, Megamind had put a lot of stock in fate and destiny – things always seemed to fall right into place to push him further and further away from anything remotely resembling normality but now he’s just..so sick of it he doesn’t want anything or anyone telling him what to do anymore.

[pluckyreporter]

"I know. I'm sorry. This is just--" she sounds so pathetic to her own ears, even as she subconsciously shifts into his touch. The leather of his gloves, familiar and cool. "It's hard for both of us."

She pauses, and then glances back; he called her by name. That was-- something. She'll take what she can get, for the moment.

Watching him for a moment, Roxanne considers -- wishing she could help him -- but this was probably beyond what she could fix. Time would have to take care of some things, while he'd simply have to learn to accept others-- or refuse, and crush what they'd built in another time and space.

"So-- what do you want? Right now, I mean. In this moment, what is attainable- that you want, right now?" she asks, managing to keep her voice steady.

[notpredictable]

What he wants. As if he's ever had any kind of choice before. He sort of feels like he doesn't now, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that maybe he doesn't have to go by set guidelines anymore. This place is different, and if he's going to be stuck here then maybe...

"I am...not sure what is attainable at the moment." He faces her properly, raising his other hand to rest on her opposite shoulder. "Time, maybe. To think, to try and...figure out what exactly is going on. There's not a lot I'm sure of right now which is..."

Unnerving.

He shrugs.

"Work through the confusion." That would be a start.

[pluckyreporter]

You know, choice can be a pain in the ass. Not everybody wants it. Some people actively avoid making real decisions all their lives, coasting through life on their luck.

"There's a lot you could do in the City. Ignore the whole superhero thing if you felt like it. There's -- the school, there's the 9 to 5 that us schlubs pull, there's-- options," she says, giving it a thought. "Might be daunting. But you have time. There's also waiting to go home... but there's a lot of numbers and averages to crunch there. You could be lucky and be here only a few weeks or you could be here years. The Porter moves with no rhyme or reason."

She-- isn't really sure on that. She's seen people come and go-- some within days or weeks of arrival. It doesn't make any sense, but -- there it is.

"You know about the MAC, and that sort of thing?"

[notpredictable]

He drops his hands and looks at her, wondering - not for the first time - if she has heard anything he's been saying tonight.

"I am not getting a desk job, Miss Ritchi." The look he gives her is flat and even. "How I spend my time here will be determined on...how events fall, I suppose. But I can promise you that I will not be letting anyone dictate me or my actions." This is directed at her, too.

This conversation just feels like something he's...watching on television, one of the giant monitors in the lair. It feels like the emotion was sucked right out of the room and it was...

Sad. It made him sad, because it felt like she was looking at him like a project, something she could fix.

He sighed.

"I do." He won't be staying there, though. Not his cup of tea.

[pluckyreporter]

Funny, she feels the same way. His grip gone, she backs up, rubs at her face again--tired, but no longer teary. But she looks at him for a moment, before she goes to her purse for one last thing, and comes back to press a key into his hand.

"You were here once before," she says simply. "I know-- that seems crazy, but all of this does. I took care of your things after you-- left. Put them in storage, for-- when you'd come back. Your bike's there, and-- I don't even know about all the rest that's in those boxes, really. But that'll give you a head start."

There. You're one step closer to being outfitted, Megamind. For good or for ill.

[notpredictable]

"It's been mentioned." As odd as it is - she isn't the first to tell him.

He blinks down at it, staring at the little brass key in his hand and rolling it between his fingers.

"Bike?" He looks from the key to her and back again. "I had a bike?" That would help - especially when he went to set up shop. He has to wonder what else is in the unit, and he clenches a fist around the small object.

"Where is the storage facility?"

[pluckyreporter]

"Hovercycle, anyway -- Was a pain in the ass to move," she replies. Roxanne's already getting pen and paper from her purse, getting the address. Writing the unit number down even though it was on the key. She tore it off, came back and extended it to him.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile, and she fell back into banter. It was safe. Easy, familiar, and just like old times. "Happy Christmas, I guess. If you can call giving you your own stuff a gift, anyway."

[notpredictable]

He takes it between gloved fingertips and examines the address, memorizing it and committing it to memory before he slips it into an unseen pocket somewhere in the folds of his cape.

"I can imagine - anything built by me is not likely to be small or easy to handle." A hoverbike would be one of those things.

He held the key up before it too disappeared into the folds.

"...Thank you." He took a step back, and glanced over his shoulder, towards her door.

[pluckyreporter]

"Before you make your dramatic exit," since you are telegraphing so badly. "I am-- I--"

She stops, regains her thoughts, shutting down anything personal. She has only one more thing to give him-- and it's for his own safety.

"Hal is willing to kill you," she says quietly. "And he probably will if he gets the opportunity. He's not like Metro Man. He won't just haul you to jail. He thinks it's in his best interest, he'll go out, no holds barred. He already nearly did once. Have a Plan B ready if you deal with him. Don't rely on copper. It won't work on Hal."

She'll just-- be here, quietly worrying.

[notpredictable]

He smiles, faintly - dramatic exit, how well she knows him - though her next words cause a flicker of irritation to pass over his face.

"Splendid. I'll be on the look out, then."

He backs away and bows with with flourish in an attempt to hide the look on his face. He'd opted out of knowing anything about his future, and here she insisted on feeding him just enough tidbits to keep him wondering, wanting to know, guessing.

She didn't play fair, even now.

"Until we meet again, Miss Ritchi."

[pluckyreporter]

"Right. I'll just go back..." To being alone. "...to work."

And doing very little. She let him see himself out, before she secured the door behind him.

Alone, she had the sense to shelve the bottle-- drinking alone wasn't healthy-- and spent a little time moping and looking at the flowers--before she sighed, and trudged up stairs to bury herself in her work.