ellectrical: (defective)
Elle spent a long time in the shower. Or at least, a long time for her, which is about seven minutes. But it's a luxury she hasn't been able to use recently, and now is easy enough, as long as she's careful.

She exits X's bathroom a short while later, in jeans and a white sleeveless shirt, still toweling off her damp hair. It's something else she probably wouldn't do were she anywhere else but this apartment, but in this moment, she simply lowers the towel, and slowly folds it over.

(Her steps are slow, and deliberate, as though she were walking through shallow water, and her eyes are on the floor.)
ellectrical: (cat (Farrah))
Elle is curled up into one side of the couch, head leaned against the arm, sparks snapping around her neck. Farrah, who has chosen to settle on her stomach, is watching the sparks crackle, head moving back and forth very slightly as the electricity flares and flashes on her skin.

Fortunately, she hasn't resorted to batting her paw at them.

That probably wouldn't be pleasant for anyone.
ellectrical: (restless spirit)
She's done this enough that she knows where to look in X's kitchen without having to ask. It's been about fifteen minutes she started, and various vegetables are scattered across the counters, one steel pot already on the stove. A look into the latter would indicate she's making soup, though it's not as simple as the kind X likes to order, nor is it coming out of can, the way Elle would normally choose.

At the moment, she's standing aside from the stove, using a large knife to slice up carrots across a cutting board. Elle's careful about it, the knife hitting the board at even and precise intervals.




(This really isn't her favorite part of cooking.)
ellectrical: (wrong way)
At first, she'd said she needed the night. She was tired, she'd been running across the country to get a ferry, (she really hates ferries), it had been early in the morning in her world when she left and she'd spent the night before hiding in a train station in Fukuoka until she could get that ferry out of the country. Whatever was in the folders her father had so carefully hidden away, she could deal with it after getting at least one night to rest.

It wasn't the worst idea Elle's ever had, anyway.

She had meant to do it when X was around. There was no real reason why she changed her mind other than that, after getting maybe three real hours of sleep, she had woken on X's couch to find the apartment empty except for Steve, Farrah, and the ever present fish. She'd thought about waiting, but then, well – then she didn't.

Now, a few hours later, the apartment doesn't look that different from how it did earlier, at least when it comes to being empty. Steve is curled up on the kitchen counter, fur still on end and tail flapping every so often in a perturbed sort of way, as though he had recently been the victim of some affront. Farrah, on the other hand, is contentedly snoozing on the couch, lying flat across a couple of what appear to be MRI scans, though this hardly looks comfortable.

The floor in front of the couch is what stands out. A few manila file folders are set in a neat stack to the side, some with multicolored tabs and paperclips attached. There are some various travel documents set on top of them, including different forms of fake ID, blonde hair glinting on the photo of a New Mexico driver's license.

The neatness of it contrasts with what's been strewn openly across the floor: polaroids and other photographs with the brown tint of age, sheets of paper, some of which have been marked in red, multicolored construction paper. Things that in other households might be fixed to the refrigerator with magnets. All of the photos, in some form, show a small girl, two at the youngest and seven at the oldest, with thin blonde hair that falls to her shoulders. One also features a woman who looks markedly similar to Elle, though her nose is slightly larger, and her eyes are hazel; others show a man with round glasses and thinning brown hair. But most are only of the girl, with a coloring book or a beach ball or a cake with candles. Sometimes just wearing a dress of some sort, or doing nothing other than staring or smiling.

(One involving a red tricycle being ridden through a fluorescent-lit hallway, not unlike the ones X would have seen at the Hartsdale Facility, is crumpled, though still open, on the floor.)

The papers range from spelling tests and handwritten notes to even one report card. Some have the large, blocky penmanship of a child who's just learning to write something besides her own name. The construction paper features rudimentary drawings of houses, animals, stick-figure-like people. She was partial to birds and horses, smiles so wide they make the figures look goofy, and –

One piece of bright pink construction paper has been torn into four shreds, the edges burnt. Bits of hooves, bunchy clouds that hold up an inaccurately rendered yet earnest rainbow,and a horse's head with a horn, the yellow marker used for it bleeding so much into the pink paper that its color appears closer to red, are clearly visible on the scraps that litter X's apartment.

You were a normal girl.

Elle got what she wanted.



At the moment, she's nowhere to be seen. But the door to the bathroom is closed.
ellectrical: (I can stop)
The first thing Elle asked, after X brought her into the apartment, was to take a shower. She's glad she won't be leaving traces at her motel back her own world, but as for why she should feel safer here than her room in the Bar – there's no good reason for that. But Elle also really doesn't care.

She's still rubbing a towel against her slightly damp hair when she emerges into the main room. Her bloodied t-shirt has been exchanged for a different, light blue one, and her jeans for gray sweatpants. Without her makeup, the bruise on her face is clearly visible, but for whatever reason, neither it nor her broken rib bothers her so much here.

Her bare feet pad quietly against the floor, and she takes a few steps into the room before she looks up, and spots X.

"Thanks," she murmurs.
ellectrical: (I can stop)
It's taken three days, but after getting to sleep at seven the previous night, Elle has managed to get up at an hour early enough to be in the kitchen before X.

It's still dark outside. She'd pulled herself up off the sofa in X's living room, where she'd been sleeping every night since crossing over to X's world. In bare feet, and as quietly as possible, she had crossed the room to the tile floor of the kitchen, and began to open cupboards and drawers. The cats, no longer wakened easily or rushing up to beg for food, made the whole process easier.

But –

Elle doesn't miss the cats. Not exactly. But X's silence seemed a whole lot louder now that it couldn't be broken by mewing and the shuffling of paws.

She moves to the refrigerator first, pulling out milk, a carton of eggs, and butter. The grocery shopping – she'd done the grocery shopping two days earlier. And X had said thank you.

Quietly.

From a cupboard, she pulls out a small mixing bowl and frying pan. A whisk comes out of a drawer. The pan is left on the top of the stove, while she takes the bowl and whisk to the table, and places them next to the eggs. They're cracked, one at a time, and emptied into the bowl – she doesn't use a smaller bowl to check that they're still good.

She's forgotten the salt, spatula, butter knife, and bread. It's not too bad, for her.




But the thing about keeping quiet, about trying to stay hidden from X-23, is that no matter how quiet you are, you can't do it forever.

Or even for very long.

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