ximilia | text ↪ un: torontonian

Hm, maybe. But my own crown's currently shelved to avoid any favoritism.

[ not entirely a lie since she can conjure a crown atop her head at any given moment, part of the costume that came together when she finally accepted her title as the scarlet witch. but she doesn't have a need to wear it around here, so any crown wearing on her part can wait for another day.

she looks down at the box when he hands it to her, spinning it around with her fingers to study every side of it. ]

And this is the kind of food you've had since you've been here? No wonder you're exhaustingly wired. [ either that, or that's just him, which seems more and more the case. ] Do I need to teach you how to work the soap? And don't look while I'm crafting. Performance anxiety.

（ he makes a noise of High Offense as he starts on those dishes with gusto. ）

Excuse me, do you not see this glistening hair? Smell this freshly laundered lilac soap scent on my pits because it was all I could find in the supply drop? I know what soap is. I even use it! Sometimes!

（ this is all said with the most absolutely serious outrage anyone has ever had in any life, ever. he is shocked! appalled! offended! and then he laughs, low and easy. ）

I'm not wired, I'm just peppy. Peppy l'il extrovert, c'est moi. You said it yourself, I like attention. （ he just fucking loves people, you guys. ） No peeking, scout's honour.

Do you tell everyone you freshly meet to smell your pits?

[ she presses her lips tightly together again to stifle away her laugh, because no, she can't show her amusement no matter how much she might be. with his back turned to the sink, she turns her own back, placing the empty candy box on the opposite counter. ]

Right. Peppy. Sorry for that mix-up. English isn't my first language. [ though her english is actually perfectly fine, all things considered. raising her fingers, she starts to give them a curling wave, a small red light floating from the tips before it shoots out and strikes the cardboard. in an instant, it transforms from a candy box into the nearly perfect shape of a cardboard crown. ] Sounds like you're everything I'm not. I don't really do too well with attention. Seems most of the time, I can't ever really be left alone.

Wait, is that not your default mating call? Fuck, man, El Quarantini really did a number on my social skills.

（ ha, ha, it's funny because he actually did spend a long fucking time being a feral goblin, whoops. elfalis really had his work cut out for him, all those millennia ago. ）

Oh yeah?

（ he cants his head, listening to her as she talks. there's a story there, he thinks. she's gentle, but guarded. cautious. someone who grew up in wartime is going to know grief and loss, and it's almost like a moonlit shimmer around her, a desert mirage of misery.

he knows these things, at times. not always. but enough that he suspects — ）

You wanna talk about it?

No, mine is usually just testing a man's skill in washing dishes.

[ she's done her own share of quarantine for much, much different reasons, so maybe her own social skills aren't top notch. most of the time, people immediately choose not to like her anyway, so it's not like she often tries too hard to impress anyone.

the crown in her hand is shaped precisely how she wants it, but while she'd cheated using her magic, she chooses to do the rest by hand, a set of markers already set nearby which she had pulled earlier from the excess items in the supply drop.

but she pauses with his question, wondering if she should say anything at all. for one, she has no reason to trust him, considering what she's already sensed radiating from him, and two, she's not sure how much talking helps in the first place. it's never helped her before. then again, most people don't care to listen.

she carries on drawing with the markers as she talks. ]

I don't have the best reputation where I'm from. I'm considered ... dangerous. So everyone keeps a close eye on me because they're all just waiting for me to cause trouble. They pay attention when it's convenient to them. But when I—

[ when i needed them. they weren't there. she cuts off, biting her lip. ]

Anyway, I did tell you — trouble. The horrible woman who sends people off to clean up after her. You're already a victim. How's the sink?

（ his hands still, midway through scrubbing that first pot right around the time she says dangerous. as light as her tone is, no one tells that shit to a stranger unless they're holding onto baggage about it, and after a moment he ducks down and rubs his ear into one shoulder like he's chasing away an itch he can't abate with soapy hands. ）

Oh, you know. Sink-y. I'm pretty sure I ran into some week-old oatmeal or... what I hope is week-old oatmeal? Somehow, I'll live.

（ he falls briefly silent, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of something or other, and he takes the time to idly say: ）

I wish more people would realize the issue isn't being dangerous. It's being cruel. That can take any shape, at any time. And it's what they're being, when they give someone a label like that without realizing what it means. Personally, I think Joan Jett had it right. （ a little off-key on purpose, ） I don't give a damn about my reputation — I've never been afraid of any deviation, et cetera.

（ he says it irreverently. like it's just some casually held belief of some casual guy. how she'll choose to take it is anyone's guess. ）

text ↪ un: torontonian

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cw: rl/current events mention in the shape of covid jokes

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