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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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.

She let out a huff of breath that was close enough to a laugh for government work, and tilted her face up a little.

"Then what are we talking about."

"We're talking about how gorgeous you look in that dress," he said, and then he did reach out, withdrawing his hand from hers long enough to sweep her hair back behind the mask. "Or that's what I'm talking about, at least."

""If that's the subject you're going to pick," she said, eyes fluttering shut, briefly, behind her mask, "then feel free to wax as loquacious as you like."

She didn't really think he would, which was probably for the best. Compliments of that nature weren't ones she had a lot of experience with or time for. Or at least she hadn't. Another island snag was the daunting amount of time there seemed to be for everything.

"I'll just quietly enjoy my view from here."

"Yeah? I don't usually do gray," he noted, glancing down briefly at his own suit. More importantly, he didn't usually get drunk to the point where he could so openly flirt with someone -- least of all Layla Miller -- but of all the obvious statements he could've gone with, that one seemed the better choice.

"Really? Funny," she said, "anyone who knows you might argue you live in shades of gray."

"True, but I don't feel the need to wear it on my sleeve," he replied.

She smiled back at him.

"The smart choice." Wearing anything on your sleeve was generally a bad idea. It sure as hell wasn't something she practiced.

"Contrary to popular belief," he said, "I'm not an idiot."

No, I'm just really good at acting like one.

"I never went in for what was popular," Layla said, ducking under his arm in a neat little spin.

There's a quote you see sometimes -- what's popular isn't always right and what's right isn't always popular. Whether this -- whatever it is between us that's got me acting on every impulse I've been trying to ignore since she showed up -- is right is very much up in the air, but its popularity, or lack thereof, isn't. I was the only one who ever really liked Layla.

"I went for it all," he replied, pulling her back in close. "Maybe that was my mistake."