Re: Log, Marvel: Flash T & MJ W
Vulnerable—MJ wasn't so good at it herself. It led to hurt, invariably. She could Gwendolyn Stacy enough to take her experiences as data and plot them out in letters that red like a bad stripclub's neon sign: Bad Idea. She'd learned that lesson enough times over now, and again recently, that she should've been a touch more wary, perhaps. After all, distance from that vulnerability—that was the reason she had the veneer she did, it was why she smiled under sheen of glitz and gloss and bubbled. But, for whatever (likely stupid) reason, she didn't feel like she had to play that part for Flash. (In fact, she knew the reasons. She was very aware of them, gathered at the back of her mind the way lint collects in a dryer. She simply chose to ignore them just then. She had more important things to parse. Like, did she look good?}
MJ rolled her eyes at the boy in the wheelchair, smiling red-and-white, nervous fingers pushing her hair back from her face as they walked deeper into the cavernous building.
She sighed a little bit, instead of offering a witty retort, and she forced herself not to wring her hands together like a lunatic.
"I really like it here," she said airly, drawing to one of the glowing panes of glass, clouds of jellyfish illuminated blue in black, tendrils dancing, floating as ballerinas' tutus through air. MJ pressed fingers to the cold tank and smiled over her shoulder at Flash. "C'mere. Check these little guys out." She whispered to him, if he came closer: "They're almost as gay as your wrestlers."