ellectrical | (no subject)

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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X does not look away.

But she does not move, either.

There is, at this moment, nothing to say.

Later it will change.

Edited 2010-01-27 04:54 (UTC)

Elle does look away, however, and moves on to the sink.

That she turns on the water, and reaches in (no sleeves to roll up - she's in jeans and one of X's neon bright t-shirts), not once looking back - well, it's something she wouldn't do around anyone else.

"You couldn't."

Elle's scrubbing egg off the frying pan at this point. The burnt flecks are putting up fight against the soap and sponge.

"You really couldn't. That's not -"

Your fault isn't really in Elle's vocabulary. At least, around X.

" - wrong."

Edited 2010-01-27 07:56 (UTC)

X looks down at the table, still and silent.

"It is," she say eventually.

"For me."

It is a deceptively calm surface.

Elle starts scrubbing the pan rather viciously. This does the trick - she's soon rinsing it out, and setting it aside to dry.

"You got me."

Rather than move on to the plates, Elle reaches for a dish towel, and starts drying off her hands. She turns back to X.

"I went to that - guy in my world. Who made me forget. He could stop what I do so I - had to bring something else."

(A gun, in this case - it's back on a table in X's living room.)

"That's what it is."

"Thank you."

She will not say it again.

Nor for this.

(It is too big.)

Elle nearly tells her not to say it.

But she holds herself still, her fingers digging only slightly into the dishtowel.

Silent, she shifts, clutching the towel in her left hand. Elle moves slowly (but not hesitantly) to X's side, and puts her right hand, lightly, on X's shoulder.

It takes a while, but eventually X leans back into that touch.

Even if that lean is felt more than seen.

Elle, for once, is patient.

Eventually, she mumbles, without moving, "I'll go - finish -"

"I will help," X says, and stands.

This is something she can do.

She nods, and moves away, back toward the sink.

Her hand brushes X's as she moves, but Elle doesn't linger.

Neither does X.

She is not built for it.

Cleaning up is easier.

For now.