Namor the Sub Mariner (imperiusrex) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-09-25 06:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, emma frost (white queen), namor mckenzie |
Who: Namor and Emma
What: Memories of the other world finally break the surface of Namor's mind. Emma responds with a revelation to help him accept the truth of it.
When: Last weekend
Where: A charity benefit
Status: Complete
Warnings: Mild language, mild sexual references. Only the most fussy of workplaces would think this unsafe. Like maybe a nunnery. Do nuns RP? That might explain why you don't see a lot of games based on Dungeons and Dragons (Satan's Game!). Or maybe they don't internet RP, but they do a lot of tabletop gaming. Think they all roll clerics? Or maybe they get really into the RP aspect of it and their day job doesn't enter into it. They're like, "I want to seduce the busty young tavern wench. Is that a Diplomacy check? I have +7 on Diplomacy checks."
Anyway. It's work safe.
Following his mistaken choice to attempt to follow in his grandfather's footsteps as Crown Prince of Monaco, Namor had disappeared from the world, or at least the world that high society considered worth noticing. They knew, intellectually, that someone must be on the ships that moved their possessions from one port to another, but they certainly didn't give any thought to whether the people on these ships were, you know, their kind of people.
He hadn't been disappointed when the invitations to overpriced charity dinners and vapid fashion shows had evaporated, nor was he offended when they didn't start showing up again once he worked his way to captainhood, or when he started his own company.
But then he decided to diversify, and when nautical engineering labs and shipyards and even the occasional cruise ship came into his possession, society started to like him again. It was romantic, wasn't it, the open sea, they said to him. He was practically a pirate.
And now, living in America again, he found himself forced to attend, at least if he wanted to be successful here. Anyone who said that America didn't have nobility was a damn liar; they were here, they were obnoxious, and more than a few of them were drunk. Namor idly wondered if any of them actually knew the cause they were supporting by attending.
Ah, she probably will, he thought as he caught sight of a familiar face just outside the crowd, watching everyone around her with a look of not-quite-smug superiority. He made her way over to her and said, "Emma. As ever, you are a beautiful sight."
Since her return from France, Emma had thrown herself into busywork to keep her mind from going idle. This meant she'd gone out a number of nights, sometimes with Jean and often on her own, to think and to drink until she didn't feel quite so miserable or numb. But Emma could only do such things so often before she grew bored of the tired social scene. Though she wouldn't admit it aloud, she felt a little too old to be clubbing every other night.
So she turned to high society, which was always busy. Useless housewives of rich men needed something to fill their day with and Emma had used this knowledge to flit from charity ball to auction to gathering for awareness of one disease or another. She'd been throwing money away, but she had plenty to spend and nothing felt quite so good as spending money, even when it wasn't spent on herself.
That Namor was in attendance of this function came as a surprise to Emma. Since he'd returned to California, she hadn't noticed his presence in the high society scene, but she supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. He'd always attended numerous gatherings when they'd been together and as far as she could tell, he was still a rich bastard.
When she eyed him walking through a crowd, she sighed quietly. Emma hadn't exactly been avoiding him, but she hadn't been in the mood to find solace in his arms, either. She felt wary of people and Namor topped her list, as he was tempting and could probably get her out of her self-imposed funk. She wasn't entirely sure she was ready to not feel glum.
But he thrust himself upon her, which seemed exactly fitting for Namor. Casually, Emma greeted him, "Shameless compliments get you nowhere," wine glass held delicately between her fingers. "Hello, dear, I didn't think you attended these dreary things anymore."
"I would prefer not to. However, one's ability to succeed is directly proportional to one's ability to... network." He said the last word as if it were in a foreign language, uncomfortable in his mouth. "And if I am to subject myself to the company of unpleasant people, it may as well be a benefit that I am in favor of."
When they had attended these types of gathering in their youth, Emma would occasionally press him to name the organization they were supporting. He had only attended because it was expected of him, but Emma had Views, and so he was forced to learn what he was donating money towards. In the same tone she would use to press him so long ago, he said, "So what are we supporting?"
In spite of herself, Emma smiled. The memory of her quizzing him at charities had almost been forgotten, but at his question and at the tone, she remembered the game she'd used to play with him. "I'm here to support a new shelter for women in the city." It was a good cause. Emma often found herself at charities that supported women or children in some way. One of the very few good things to come of being a Frost was the fact that each member was pressed to pick a certain type of charity to support.
"I cannot say I'd ever imagine you... networking." She stressed the last word as though it were dirty somehow.
Namor could recognize a mocking tone when he heard it. "What, my dear Lady Disdain. Dismiss me as you like, but you find our company as insipid and shallow as I do." He resented not being considered worthy of respect by virtue of merit alone, requiring money and social grace to back him up, but he recognized that this was a strange opinion for a prince to have.
The last time they'd conversed--significantly, at least--she'd mentioned dreams, which he'd dismissed as nonsense. Then, last night, his opinion had changed. If not for how vivid everything was, he might have shrugged it off as coincidence, or assumed that it was something brought on by her comment. Even so, even with her having been the first to mention odd dreams, he felt circumspect about bringing it up. "You may recall our earlier conversation about dreaming," he said slowly. "I did have a strange one recently."
Emma smiled at the Shakespeare reference, but didn't confirm or deny the fact that she hated the rich as much as he did. It was an easy enough thing to notice, just from how she carried herself at such functions. Sometimes she couldn't quite contain the sneer on her face.
Then the subject shifted to the dreams and Emma did her best to not roll her eyes. If not for the breakup, she'd probably be pleased to discuss them. As it was, she was curious but cautious. Those dreams had cost her plenty lately. "Tell me about it," Emma said, looking around them and watching whether there were eyes on them.
"There was a..." Namor hesitated. This is inane. If it had been anyone but Emma, he would have ignored it. "There was a meeting between myself and a few other men. Tony Stark was there, as well as... as well as a wizard, an extraterrestrial, a bald, wheelchair-bound psychic, and a contortionist scientist. I was likewise empowered. I could fly and breathe underwater. And for some reason, I loathed the contortionist."
He sighed. "It's probably nothing. The idea floated around in my mind until it was thrown up as a dream."
Emma ignored his dismissal, because the dream clearly was important. "Did you catch the bald man's name? I think he must be Charles Xavier." Emma said this as though the topic were utterly mundane. They may as well have been discussing the regular comings and goings of the citizens of Orange County for her tone. "Very memorable eyebrows on that man."
Namor had been vague, as if it were a half-remembered story rather than the some of the most vivid memories he’d ever had, but he remembered every second of it. Reed Richards of the Fantastic Four; Doctor Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme; Black Bolt of the Inhumans; Tony Stark of the Avengers; Charles Xavier, from Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.
And himself. Namor the Sub-Mariner, King of Atlantis.
Charles Xavier had been the man’s name, but as long as his mind could still find justifications to ignore the surreal reality, Namor was disinclined to push his skepticism aside. Possibly they’d both known a particularly perceptive paraplegic with a shaved head in college. He dismissed that almost immediately, but the obvious alternative was that he was insane. “I didn’t think his eyebrows particularly noteworthy.”
Skepticism on Namor was unexpected, but Emma didn’t quite comment on it. She could almost empathize, as it really hadn’t been so long that she couldn’t remember how disorienting her first dream was. Still, this was the last sort of reaction Emma had imagined he’d have. Namor wasn’t the type to shy away from something uncomfortable, especially when backed by fact. Yet here they were.
She smirked at his reaction. “Well. You are European. Most of our men here aren’t quite that... bold.” She figured she could let him languish in disbelief for another moment before bringing harsh reality crashing down on him.
It seemed strange that they were having so mundane a conversation about a shared world that existed only in their dreams. He’d seen others discussing their shared experiences on the forum that his public relations manager had forced him to join and had been skeptical, though never outright dismissive. Namor had spent much of his adult life on the sea, and had borne witness to enough phenomena that he acknowledged most anything as possible, however unlikely.
Even so, it seemed dubious that it had happened to him. Not because his dreams had a fantastical bent, but because they seemed... ideal. The Namor of his dreams was the King of Atlantis, one of the most powerful men in the world by virtue of his own strength and skill, and he had respect. He was lauded for his bastard blood rather than denigrated for it. Namor’s real life was a parade of second choices, good intentions gone wrong, stupid sacrifice and success borne only of spite. He dismissed the memory as a dream because he’d had that dream before: it was the one where his life hadn't gone to shit.
Out loud, he said, “I keep telling you, my eyebrows just grow like this.”
"Of course they do."
Emma couldn't quite help but "overhear" some of Namor's thoughts. It seemed appropriate that he was a loud thinker, as he did everything with a certain flair. She could almost understand his line of thinking, but not because of her own experience. In her dreams she was living in a near hellish world. Things were less than ideal.
"You're in denial. That's interesting," Emma commented mildly.
“I am not in denial. Skepticism is a rational response to this... scenario.” His arms were crossed and he was glaring in the general direction of the party guests. To some, this looked like a hostile gesture. To those that knew him, this was his default stance.
“Besides, if I am to believe everything in the archives of your forum, Orange County is the epicenter of madness. Alien invasion, non-standard physics, mysterious earthquakes. I’m genuinely surprised the state hasn’t been evacuated and replaced by government scientists. What makes parallel universes more feasible than, say, something in the water?”
“I have something impossible to show you,” Emma said, an air of mystery seeming to fall about her without even the slightest bit of effort. She knew she was infuriating, figured that she would annoy him until she showed him what she had to show, and enjoyed it. For half a second, she skimmed the crowd, half-glaring like Namor was. Then she took a few steps forward. “Not here, though. Come on.”
She knew without even needing powers that he’d follow, too intrigued not to. So she led him through a hallway, past wide windowed double doors without once turning to check that he was behind her. The charity function had been held at a mansion that belonged to old money and Emma had led the pair of them through to the backyard, which was less a yard and more a fathom, with sprawling mowed grass, lawn sculptures, and a small maze dotting the landscape. No one was outside with them, save for a couple that Emma sensed stealing away for a few kisses in the maze. They were far too occupied to notice Emma and Namor standing together in the shadow of the building.
Emma stood opposite Namor and felt an odd surge of excitement. There was something almost fun about startling him and she would certainly do so. “Are you ready?”
Emma often strove to maintain a semblance of mystique about her. Sometimes it worked; a mysterious smile and a knowing eye can go a long way. And it had worked briefly just now, when she had led him to an abandoned corner of the grounds and he had followed without comment. But what genuinely had Namor curious was when the mystique faltered, and a tone of girlish excitement took hold of her. It wasn’t typical of her, but Namor was still learning what typical was for her now.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Amaze me.”
With no further words or warning, Emma changed in front of Namor. It was a subtle sort of thing. Out of the sunlight, someone likely wouldn’t even notice unless they were actually paying attention. It was as though her skin frosted over and then she seemed to go clear. With the physical change came the emotional, the smile on her face went a bit limp and she didn’t quite feel like she normally did. “You’re not the only one with odd dreams,” she said.
“Clearly,” said Namor quietly.
Whatever block Namor had in his mind that had stopped him accepting the surreal evaporated. The other Namor had been experienced with the impossible; the glimpses of his reality that had passed into Namor’s mind were fantastical in ways that he could barely fathom. He’d stood on the ethereal plane and held time itself in his fist; seeing this mutant ability--and the phrase came easily to Namor’s mind--was hardly worth a second glance.
To the Namor that was standing in front of her, though, he had to admit surprise. “I suppose I did ask you to amaze me.” She started to shift back as he spoke. “Well done.”
“Thank you.” She shifted back and glanced around, feeling out whether there were any surprised or upset minds around them. It seemed, though, that no one had snuck a look at Emma’s diamond form and so she was safe in the secret of her mutant abilities for now.
Once Emma returned to flesh and blood, Namor felt the urge to poke her, which he dismissed as best he could. She seemed normal enough, as though he hadn’t just watched her transform from a woman into a diamond and back again. The warm night had left a sheen of sweat on her brow which reflected a bit of the light from the distant party; a breeze tossed a few stray hairs that had escaped her coiffure. She looked as human as anyone else.
“I trust this is a recent development. I don’t see myself having missed this type of thing when we were still an item.” He paused, looking down at his ankles. “Can I expect wings to grow in?”
“I’ve had these dreams for less than a year now.” A sudden thought popped into Emma’s head, but she didn’t address it. She considered how the dreams seemed localized and wondered, perhaps, if Namor’s arrival had been more than just mere coincidence. “And I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s impossible. I’m not yet certain just how badly physical mutations manifest.” Scott had needed his glasses and Jean could probably swallow a star, but none of their stranger looking friends were available to show where the line was drawn with physical mutations.
It would be horrible unfair, Emma thought, if people with fur or extra limbs started changing. But it wasn’t enough of a concern to derail their conversation. “No more denial? That was simple enough, wasn’t it?”
“You act like it’s a strange idea to distrust my mind’s eye in favor of actual physical evidence.” The question occurred to him to ask how this had stayed under wraps so well, but then again, who would believe it? He certainly hadn’t until a few minutes ago. In fact, if it had been anyone but Emma, he might not have believed it at all. Not because he trusted Emma not to lie to him--he wasn’t stupid--but because he trusted her not to lie to him in that way.
“I find that the strangest part of this is that I don’t find it especially... strange. Now that I can’t rationalize it away, it makes sense. Is that independent of your experience?”
"It's the dreams," Emma said matter-of-factly. "Once you start having them, things... change." She frowned lightly. "It's less like you're having impossible dreams and more that you've forgotten something you shouldn't have."
She didn't speak of the experience of others. Though she didn't mind Namor knowing her secrets, especially because of the fact that she was almost certain she could, with practice, make him forget things, she didn't think it right to share the business of others with him. If he happened to find out about Scott or Jean, that would have to be from his own cleverness and not from Emma's mouth.
“That seems... accurate.” Now that denial was washed away, yes, those visions did have an eerie sense of realness about them. He’d seen some of the more... outspoken people in Orange County claim that their (what Namor assumed was) insanity had a realness to it that reality lacked. He wouldn’t go that far, but...
But.
“Am I to assume that I can expect more of these visions?”
“If you’re anything like the rest of us? Almost certainly.” A pause. “I’ve had them with an alarming frequency.”
“Hm.” While the memory of the Illuminati had settled comfortably--more or less--into Namor’s mind, he was discomforted by the idea of thoughts that were not his own filling his psyche. He didn’t like the feeling of not being in control. “When I came back, I knew to suspect disquieting dreams. I would have thought that you would feature more prominently; fewer shapeshifting aliens, cosmos-altering beings, et cetera.”
At some point they had come back inside, and a glass of wine had made its way into Namor’s hand. “I can think of at least six instances in my dream where someone or something very nearly had me killed. I am not looking forward to any more dreams.”
Emma walked beside Namor, pace relaxed. She declined a drink because she didn’t think it wise to get too loose around her former lover; she didn’t trust herself drunk to not tell him about her breakup with Scott or about the more graphic details from her dreams. When he finished speaking, she smiled wide but it didn’t reach her eyes. For the briefest moment, she thought of all the bodies she’d dreamed about. “They can be worse than you know.” She turned her head away then, turning her attention to some old monied man. When she trusted herself to look impassive, she focused back on Namor.
“Fantastic.” Namor felt himself going back and forth on how comfortable he was with his memories, and for someone who was always of exactly one mind about everything, it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. He decided to address it by not addressing it, downing the rest of his wine and looking for a change in subject. As the conversation lulled for a moment, another woman, perhaps thinking him as small-minded as she was, came up and attempted to make small talk.
“You’re the pirate, aren’t you?” she said, her artificially tanned skin glowing almost orange in the low light.
“So I’ve been told,” he replied shortly, dodging the amused glance from Emma that he was sure was there.
“Oh, you’re French, too! What do you think of this caviar?”
“Monegasque.”
“Is that French for caviar? I don’t like it. You’d think for five thousand dollars a plate, they’d be able to afford imported.”
Namor stared for ten seconds without saying anything, then turned to Emma and said, “I can’t strike her at a benefit for battered women. Please take over.”
To her credit, Emma didn't laugh aloud. Gracefully, she slid an arm up Namor's back, as though he'd just been whispering something sweet into her ear. She did this to save the woman from embarrassment, as Namor's manor was clear in how distasteful he found this stranger.
With a practiced smile and Namor on her arm, Emma gave in to just the barest of small talk before gently pushing the woman away psychically. With a small wave and a compliment about how handsome a couple the pair were, the woman was off, attempting to bother other unfortunate souls. Not for the first time, Emma appreciated her newfound power.
Alone, she disentangled herself from her old lover and laughed quietly. "Namor the pirate. Doesn't that sound just adorable?"
“Captain Namor. Thank you.” Already he could tell that this was never going to go away. Even so, he couldn’t quite hide a smirk, if only because he was grateful to be so rescued. “They only recognize the seas as containing servants and pirates. If I am here, then I cannot be one, so I must be the other.”
"Aren't they your clients?" Emma asked, glancing around the room. "I assume that's why you're here."
“I’m here for a lot of reasons. I’m here to support relief for victims of domestic violence. I’m here to reintroduce myself to the United States. I am here to speak to important people. Right now, I am accomplishing all three tasks.” If Namor did have some superhuman ability borne from his connection to this alternate version of himself, it might be his ability to deliver such obvious lines with such sincerity.
Rolling her eyes, Emma said, "You're here to do your job. Let's not fool ourselves into thinking otherwise." She didn't say this in an entirely unkind way. Without waiting for permission, Emma took him by the arm. "Those three men," she nodded in one direction, "run a computer hardware, software, and some sort of technology company, respectively. The fat one is looking to sell."
She took a slow step with Namor and guided him into the small crowd. Giving the men a smile, she introduced Namor, graciously bowed out, and walked off before she could be too thoroughly pulled into the conversation. When she was far away enough, she gave Namor a wink.
And that, for the most part, was the end of the party. Namor switched into his work persona, affecting an air of confidence and drive rather than what Emma knew was arrogance and spite. Namor and Emma’s paths crossed a time or two throughout the night, and the polite small talk they made in the company of others never betrayed any subtext of romance or shared secrets or the like, but perhaps the subtle sway to Emma’s hips or Namor’s lingering gaze accomplished that anyway. And when memory would later return them to that party, that would be the memory of it: secrets shared in a secluded garden and lingering glances in a crowded room. Real life had little place for such impracticality, but in the privacy of their own minds, they could afford a bit of fantasy.