InsaneJournal

LOG: Mort Toynbee, John Allerdyce, & Rogue.
SUMMARY: Backdated to a few days following the Weapon Plus captives' return! Mort decides it's time to get back to business as usual, and when he sees Rogue choking on his usual creeping rounds, he breaks in. Unfortunately, he didn't think to check the bathroom for an audience.

MORT: Mortimer wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve, staring up with calculating eyes at the row upon row of balconies that completed Paradise Hotel. Thankfully, the balcony he needed was only three floors up, and he marveled at how it seemed as though the clouds in the sky had parted to shine a single ray of light upon room 209. Ah Anna. You were a sparkling beacon of light and hope in what was an otherwise shit day.

After the escape from the Weapon's Plus compound Mort hadn't really felt like himself. The muscles in his legs felt soft and weak - where before he could spend hours standing upright now they wobbled and buckled pathetically under his weight and he found it easier to keep them entirely bent. So, if anyone were to pass the hotel at this very moment they'd be greeted with the rather unsightly image of a green, scruffy young man squatting underneath the balconies, neck craned upward and wearing a rather peculiar expression.

He was ready.

Two deep breaths in, Mort tensed, the muscles in his thighs and calves clenching as his spread fingers pressed against the ground. Three...two...one...Mortimer launched himself into the air, easily passing the first balcony in what was a spectacular superhuman leap. Unfortunatly he just came short of the second balcony, and so his tongue shot out, wrapping around the railing, and pulling him up the rest of the way. (Not before slamming the top of his head on the roof below. Fuck.) Clambouring over the railing, Mort brushed his hands off before crouching once more, moving forward to peer through the glass of Rogue's balcony door.

Oh Anna. He really hoped it was your shower time.

ROGUE: Another morning at Paradise Hotel. Since half their missing crew had come back from hell alive and in one piece, Rogue had slept a little easier last night. So much easier, she'd had to untangle her hair from John's face when she finally woke up. Remy was being awfully quiet next door, but at least he was actually, well, next door. She knew Mort was back; she'd seen his cheery profanity spewed all over the network that same night.

It was a little disturbing, she'd decided, that she'd been worried about the latter at all. Maybe she still kind of saw him as the pathetic creeper whose butt she'd saved in an alley all those months ago. Maybe it was Manuel's lingering influence--but sweet Lord of mercy, that meant John would have lingering feelings about Bobby, and that was a train of thought that she would forcibly derail. Or maybe she was one of those people--characters in TV shows and movies had love/hate relationships all the time. Oh, heck no. Rogue shuddered visibly.

How 'bout you quit worryin', an' just accept that you're a sucker? she demanded of herself. A sucker for helping out people in general. It was a weird thing to do, talk to yourself, but Rogue was--well, Rogue. She knew a thing or two about conversation partners no one else could see.

She was now polishing off the rest of the Aquafina bottle she'd picked up yesterday, hair still drying curly as all heck from the shower since she hadn't had a chance to do anything with it yet. Her t-shirt was some random Mississippi State thing she'd probably had since she was 16 and still wanting to go to college. She wouldn't be walking in the next Victoria's Secret show, or any kind of fashion show, for that matter. Generally, all that mattered to Rogue in the mornings was making sure that she had on some kind of shirt. Pants came later. She liked her legs, and had no problem walking around her own room with them showing.

Except when a certain shadow darkened her balcony. Like now.

Startled, Rogue gulped, water falling back down her throat. A hand flew to her mouth as she hacked attractively, unable to feel the oxygen in her windpipes. Some people got welcome-backs that involved kisses and hugs, or just, you know, a welcome back. Mort got a girl spewing water and choking to death on her own Aquafina.

MORT: Mort frowned as he pressed his face against the window - a grotty old t-shirt, Anna? Really? He'd been locked away for weeks in a tiny cell, had all sorts of tests run on him and this is how she repaid him? Green eyes flickered down the length of her torso, to rest comfortably on her thighs. There now, that was more like it. His tongue darted out of his mouth, sweeping along the bottem of his lip.

And then she convulsed. Spitting water out of her mouth and erupting into a fit of coughing and for a moment, Mort rose - was she choking? Was she having a heart attack or some shit? Mort knew nothing about mouth to mouth, but he was sure as hell willing to give it a proper go on Anna. Hand reaching for the doorknob, he jerked the door open, only to be met with the glare to end all glares coming straight from Rogue. "Oh, fuck." He cringed back from her expression, realising he'd been caught peeping, and though, yes, while Rogue was indeed choking, it was not because she was in mortal peril. Mildly disappointing, but Mort recovered easily, pushing his greasy hair back off his face and blinking kind of sheepishly.

"'Ello princess." He shoved his hands into his pocket, raising his eyes to meet hers and quirking a lip upward in what he was sure was an endearing little smirk, though as always his expression appeared as though he wanted to eat her children right there in front of her. "I thought you was...chokin'" He shrugged, biting his bottem lip and keeping his unblinking gaze locked on her. Then in a jerky move, he pulled back his lips to showing her all of his teeth - a Mortimer Toynbee version of a genuine smile. "Miss me?"

ROGUE: Rogue's room, population: 3, if you counted a blissfully unaware John in the shower. Really, Mort? If this was pretty much anyone else, Rogue would have been okay with the idea that someone wanted to save her life, but in Mort's case, it was probably that he just wanted to drool all over her face or something. When he bared his teeth--sorry, smiled--at her, Rogue's expression settled into a cross between shock and disgust. He might as well have been Jaws.

"An' ya thought ya'd help me out, am I right?" Suddenly feeling her skin crawl at the idea that he'd been there for some time without her noticing, she shifted her stance, crossing one leg over the other and folding her arms. "You ain't dead, an' that's all I need t'know." And all she cared about. Okay, maybe if he'd come back with three eyeballs or something, she would have been disturbed. "I was hopin' ya'd found a sorority to terrorize. Figures it's somethin' out of a Halloween movie instead." Well, this was awkward. Normally, she'd be attempting to deposit him, flailing limbs and all, off her balcony. But he'd brought up the question of missing him, and Lord forbid, she'd at least been worried. To save face, she kept her expression carefully cranky. If he wanted a hug, he could forget it. "Some break. One week, an' you're already back sniffin' at my door."

MORT: At Rogue's biting question, Mort rolled his head to the side, shrugging, "I'm a regular hero now, love." Apart from the fact that he was, you know, now totally and utterly petrified of a couple of blonde girls locked down in the basement. Mort you were losing your magic touch. His eyes flickered back down to her lovely, lovely legs, and he fell silent for a moment, pursing his lips together.

Sniffing at her door. Well that was unnecessarily harsh, Anna. "I wasn't sniffing." He finally retorted, having the audacity to look slightly wounded, "I was just checkin' to see you was alright," he paused, suddenly getting the distinct impression they weren't alone. His eyes darted about her bedroom - the space under her bed, behind her dresser and for some reason - perhaps because he wasn't really all that clever - he didn't think to listen for the tell tale sound of water running in the adjoining bathroom. "You know," he continued, "'cause I been gone for a while - tested on an' poked an' prodded an'..." A pause as he vigorously scratched his neck, "...shit." Mort was clearly out of practice with this sort of thing; not only had he been caught snooping (Mort steadfastly believed no one was aware of his somewhat intrusive hobby) , but the cocky way in which you usually addressed pretty ladies felt all to fake. Whatever. Fake it till you make it. "Who knows what could've happened to you while I was away." A beat, "Nice legs."


ROGUE: Rogue looked as though she would rather be somewhere gargling Windex than having this conversation. And this was a conversation; that was the creepiest thing, not Mort flashing his moldy smile or even the fact that this was something like a nasty beginning to what he hoped, in the slimy little depths of his heart, to an understanding or something. Or maybe sympathy. Or just a pardon, so that he could be assured that she wouldn't pull out a pair of jeans and strangle him with them right then and there. "Funny, I considered movin' an' rentin' the place out t'my own cardboard cutout. All the same t'you, an' I'd finally get t'have a mornin' gettin' dressed in peace," she shot back, feeling so oddly uncomfortable that he'd mentioned poking and prodding and tests that her insults weren't nearly as sharp as they could have been. Lord, why the heck did he have to try and get pity? Was she really that transparent? "Happened to me? Been takin' care o'myself just fine without you keepin' creepy guard on my balcony. Try aimin' those binoculars at Remy next door, an' maybe he'll pay you five paperclips an hour." Or not. But hey, Remy was the one who needed the homing device/bodyguard/constant surveillance.

At his comment about her legs, her expression shifted from, I'd rather be garglin' Windex, to, I DID gargle Windex, an' now it's burnin' its way down my esophagus. "I'm a lady, Toynbee, but that don't mean I'm above blindfoldin' you with your own tongue." In the bathroom, she could hear the water turning off and slowing to a trickle, headed for the drain. Having John out here joining them was a party Rogue didn't want to host. "An' now that I've caught ya peepin', ain't it your cue to high-tail it an' save your butt? It may be mornin', but I'm feelin' plenty refreshed." She uncrossed both sets of limbs then, holding up her hands and even wiggling her fingers a little to show how alert she was. Truth to tell, Mort was actually one of the mutants Rogue had no interest in touching. There were several people in the Hotel with powers she'd have liked to borrow, but being green and warty for Lord knew how long was not on her to-do list in the foreseeable future.

MORT: "Aw, now now." Mort smirked a little, ducking his head and shuffling his feet as he debated whether to ask her if she really did have a cardboard cutout of herself somewhere. Just the perfect accessory to open up his room a little. "Remy'd be lucky to have me at his balcony," he shot back, "but he's not my type, love." And here Mort set Rogue with an intense stare that spoke volumes about exactly who his type really was. (Hint, began with 'R' and ended with 'OGUE'.)

Her expression was less than impressed, and as she raised her bare hands, Mort sucked in a quick breath, stuffing his own mottled hands into the pockets of his shabby coat and taking a few steps back, "Ah...let's not get too excited, sweetheart - I know I'm irresistible to the touch an' all that. Just you keep your hands where I can see'em." Or put some gloves on for Christ's sake. He'd be more than happy to get a little frisky if he knew it wouldn't mean he'd have the life sucked out of him. "Wot, kickin' me out already?" He feigned shock, though in truth he was kind of surprised she'd allowed him inside for even this long - must have been the new brand of cologne he was wearing (that is to say, it rained on him the night before). "Aw sweetheart, the conversation was just getting interesting." It was totally unfortunate on his part that his eyes strayed back down to her thighs at this.

ROGUE: Girls with weaker stomachs would probably have projectile vomited in his direction in response to that sensual gaze on her thighs. "Trivia time, sugah, what did I tell you 'bout havin' slime in your ears last time?" Rogue demanded snappily, referring to the heartwarming time during the holiday season that they'd been stuck in an elevator and he'd tried to slurp on kiss her, with his fly proboscis--sorry, mouth. "Answer: I knocked it clean outta you, 'cause you're slower t'split than frozen molasses. You gonna hustle, or what?" She'd just taken two threatening steps, jaw set and hands balled at her sides and that steely look in her eyes that basically announced to her prey that they were about to be dead as a doornail on the floor in two seconds flat, but then--

Click.

JOHN: Boyfriends were supposed to do the dirty work for their girls. When creepy strangers broke into their room, they were the ones who snatched up the bat and told the intruder to get the fuck out. Rogue was hardly unprepared to protect herself, and if this had been any other situation, John would have been happy to stand back and laugh while she rolled up her gloves and pummeled the crap out of Mort. Least he deserved for trying to catch her in her underwear yet again, poor hapless bastard. But this was a very...strange situation. John had been taking his shower after Rogue, late riser that he was, and had been blissfully unaware of Mort's presence. If he'd heard her voice rise and fall through the door, he'd just assumed that she was on the phone chatting with Jean or chatting with the Paradise bartenders again to explain that she was still 'sick.' Therefore, John was taken completely and utterly off-guard when he opened the bathroom door, towel wrapped around his waist and dirty blond hair slicked wetly away from his face, only to find that he had a kind of audience. "What the bloody --" His eyes tracked from Mort's expression to Rogue's balled fists. That was all the provocation he truly needed. Mort had fucked with his girlfriend for the last time. Snatching up his lighter from where he'd carefully left it on the edge of Rogue's dresser, he flipped it open in his hand and -- FWOOOSH. A mighty fireball flew unerringly past Rogue and slammed into Mort's chest, connecting with enough force to blow him back a step or two. It seemed to catch onto his clothing, but rather than begin to burn through, it raced up his arms and shoulders to attack his hair instead. "Fuck off out of our room," John ordered none-too-politely as he stepped forward to flank Rogue.

MORT: You know what? All these unflattering adjectives were really starting to get on Mort's nerves. He had feelings, too, being a relatively sensitive guy. For instance, Mortimer was able to size up a girl's bra size with a single glance, with an accuracy of about three or four cups. How's that for sensitive? He was about to divulge this very fact to Rogue in his defense when John, bloody John Whathisface with his cool powers and his chiseled features (uh, not according to Mort, of course) practically rode in on his stupid high horse.

He barely had enough time to raise his hands in some sort of half hearted apology when the fireball came thick and fast, its heat pushing Mort's grimy hair back off of his face, and its force throwing him backward. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, mate--" Comically he attempted to pat out the multiple little fires that began to burn holes through his already threadbare shirt. (If he had any hair on his chest he would have been putting those out too, but sadly Mort was not blessed with a particularly manly physique), "I wasn't gonna do nothin' -- Ow--ow--ow--fuck." He spat on his hands a couple of times, vigoursly rubbing at his chest to put out the last of the tiny flames before flashing a wounded glare in the happy fucking couple's direction. "Whatever, I'm going, no need to get all fuckin' Poseidon on my arse." Unsurprisingly Mort's grasp on Greek mythology was somewhat lacking. He tossed one last mournful expression back toward Rogue's legs, before exiting the way he came, pulling one lanky limb over the balcony rail, before adding, "Y'know. Us three could've been a bit of a laugh if we'd let it." So long as John kept to his side and all that. And before waiting for a reply, he was gone, presumably to creep on someone with less of a temper.

JOHN: Although John kept his face appropriately stern as Mort made his protests, his last comment changed that expression of his to a mix of incredulity, confusion, and disgust. Adjusting the towel around his waist, he stared at the space that Mort had just occupied for a moment longer before he turned back to Rogue. "Did he mean what I think he fucking meant?" For a moment, he almost looked like he was going to laugh. "Bloody hell. I think I just vomited in my mouth a little."