butterflyfactor | (no subject)

Entry tags:

jamie,
mardi gras

(no subject)

It was the first time since her arrival that Layla had been in a crowded place and not had anyone ask about or comment on her tattoo. The lace and feather butterfly mask she wore covered it completely. It added to her general feeling of well being- not the anonymity, because no one there knew or cared who she was regardless of her garb- because she did, she felt good. A pleasant buzz ran through her. She hadn't been drinking. She didn't dare, because she wasn't prepared for the sort of lack of control that came with booze, but not just observing the crowd but being part of it was pleasantly novel.

Potentially overwhelming, as well. She slipped out of it and down the hall, finding a few strands of silver and blue beads pushed into her hands by other party goers, and absently wound them around her fingers as she stepped outside the compound doors. The party had already spilled outside- Mardi Gras wasn't the sort of even that contained itself easily or well- and she watched the dancing and drinking from her place leaning against the wall, a little farther out of the light than anyone else.

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There's a timeless quality to Layla Miller. Even with the mask, she looks like something out of an old movie, the dress hugging to her every curve, her hair pulled away from her face, leaving her neck bare and begging to be kissed. Chandler wrote that the good detective never gets married, but looking at her makes me want to settle for mediocrity. Or maybe that's just the booze talking, it's hard to tell. Either way, one thing's for certain -- she's stunning.

Dressed in gray and hands momentarily free, Jamie ambled toward Layla with the sort of confidence that came only with a few drinks. He was loose, relaxed -- less like Prime, and more like a dupe, that one, buried part of his personality that was good at mingling at parties and talking to beautiful women. Sliding in next to her, he leaned against the wall.

"Hiding from someone?"

She smiled a little, lips closed, and lifted her eyebrows behind her mask. She left her hands where they were, behind her, pressed between the wall and her back.

It's not an unfair question. The answer's a little complicated and involved, though. The simplest one is, no. Or at least I shouldn't be. I know I'm not hiding from him, at least.

"What good would hiding from the world's greatest detective do me?" she asked.

He considered that for a moment, head tilting to the side. Then, with his arms folded across his chest, he narrowed his eyes. There were a lot of ways he could answer, and he knew every last one of them, though his head was a little clouded from the drinks he'd had earlier.

"You tell me."

Edited 2010-02-16 06:37 (UTC)

Layla glanced up at him, trying to judge how many drinks it had taken him to get this Bogey. Not that he didn't wear it well, but she figured it might be smart to be aware of the fact that it had definitely been more than one.

"Give me one reason why I should," she countered.

"In some universe I'm still your boss," he replied easily, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. "I'd tell you it's because I said please, but pleasantries didn't seem all that important. Maybe next time."

Layla kept herself from grinning, so it looked like a smirk, albeit an attractive one. She tilted her head to the side a little.

"Pretty optimistic. Counting on a next time."

He matched her smirk with one of his own, flashing her a set of straight, white teeth.

"When you're me, there's always a next time. Optimism has nothing to do with it -- it's just a fact, nothing more."

"Boiling it all down to facts," Layla said, nodding a little, looking amused. Hard boiling it, even.

"That's a detective for you."

"And it's a detective who knows you haven't answered my question yet," he replied, his smirk not fading. "What good would hiding from the world's greatest detective do you?"

"Who's to say it wasn't rhetorical?" Layla said, and tilted her head back so the messy bun her hair was twisted into was resting against the wall. She crossed her arms against her ribcage and kicked one heel- because she had found heels, sleek, black and high, if a little old fashioned and not the stilettos that would have gone best with the ensemble- up against the stucco.

"The better question is, why would I hide from him at all?"

His eyes followed the line of Layla's leg from her ankle to where her dress tugged tight against her thigh. It was, he could attest, a very nice leg, but it wasn't nearly as distracting as her neck, which he'd been drawn to since he first spotted her outside not a few minutes prior.

"If I gave you my theories on that, we'd be here all night," he said, feigning an almost apologetic tone. "I'd rather hear yours."

Maybe I'm tired of being looked at like I'm some sort of problem he can't figure out. Or maybe I'm a little wary of kissing him and having him running away again. I guess I have a couple theories of my own.

Instead, she shrugged, too laconic to be helpless.

"Don't have one. I wasn't hiding."

"Then what were you doing out here?" he asked, gesturing to their surroundings. "Standing in the dark doesn't make for the most enjoyable of pastimes." He paused, then amended, "Well, not when you're alone."

That's definitely the booze talking. Jeez, Madrox, how many drinks have you had, anyway?

"Getting some air," she suggested. "Enjoying the evening. It's crowded out here, and it's even more crowded in there. Anyway." She glanced him over and one corner of her mouth quirked up.

"Turns out I'm not alone."

"No, I guess you're not," he agreed, eyebrows raised. "Still... just standing here doesn't make for much fun, either. It's a party. You should be dancing. We should be dancing."

He extended a hand, palm facing upwards. "Dance with me."

Layla was still for a moment, looking at his hand. She stepped away from the wall, sliding her palm across his, and smiled a little.

"Okey dokey."

That the music could barely be heard over the surrounding crowd didn't seem to concern Jamie all that much, though he led them to an area with a few less people nevertheless, pulling her towards him once they'd stopped. His posture impeccable, he rested his free hand against her upper back, drawing her into a ballroom hold.

"A dupe of mine took lessons," he told her apropos of nothing.

"I assumed at least one of them had competed professionally," she said, grinning, sliding her left arm up to rest, elbow to elbow, against his in the frame.

"I'm excited to see these leadership skills."

"I don't like to brag," he lied, starting to move them in time to the beat. It was more that he didn't like to offer up information if he didn't have to, but he supposed that went without saying. The steps were simple for Layla's benefit -- concentration camps were hardly known for their dance schools, -- but in this, at least, he proved certain, his leadership skills, as she'd referred to them, clearly on display.

Layla was great at faking it. Lying, or all-but-lying, was a skill she'd developed early. So moving in time with Jamie was easy enough, and made easier by the fact that he was flawless at it, and knew how to lead her through it.

She'd have to see if he could do it sober.

"Too bad they don't value this kind of skill more highly in super hero circles."

"I don't know, do you really want to see Wolverine and Magneto face off West Side Story style?" he asked, eyebrows raised. The mental image alone was ridiculous in its own right, seeing it live would be something else entirely.

He spun her. "I mean, that much hair in spandex is bad enough. I'm not sure I could handle seeing him pirouette, too."

She kept her balance as he spun her out, although a few strands of her hair curled around the edges of the mask, falling out of where they'd been so loosely swept back.

"Don't ruin this moment, Jamie."

Jamie grinned, pulling her in a little closer than she'd been before, the hold dropping to something a touch more casual. He resisted tucking her hair back behind her mask, but how long that would last remained a mystery.

"We're having a moment?"

She didn't stumble, exactly, but she didn't bother trying to stop herself from being tugged in close. The arm that had been resting along his was now and slightly curled around his shoulder.

"Not if you keep talking about Wolverine doing ballet, we're not."

"Then I'm not talking about Wolverine doing ballet," he replied lightly, his grin twisting into a knowing sort of smile. There were times -- times that were, unfortunately, few and far between -- when Jamie Madrox was the perfect illusion of confidence. That those times usually required him to be inebriated likely didn't speak well to his character, but he supposed no one had it completely together, least of all people from their corner of the universe.