Title: Walk, Walk Fashion Baby
Description: [p] for Clemmy
Genome - December 7, 2011 05:22 PM (GMT)
Mal didn't know why he bothered with Christmas shopping.
For the one thing, he wasn't even religious. And, no, he didn't buy into that whole 'happy holidays spirit regardless of religion, race or whatever' because, hello, when were people going to learn that he didn't like
a good ninety-nine percent of the general populace of the world. Sticking some tinsel, fake snow and artificial pine scent on top of them wasn't going to make him forget the fact that associating with lower beings was still bad for his health. Braving the cold weather (complete with suspiciously-coloured slush that was bound
to ruin his second-favourite pair of Marc Jacobs shoes) to be crushed by the masses of yokels buying tacky gifts for their wives, mistresses and ten bastard children wasn't anywhere near counting as anything he considered worth his while.
If Mal had his way, he'd have ignored the entire winter season. And possibly gone into some sort of chemically-induced state of hibernation. That would have been nice. But
the spanner in his Scrooge-like attitude came in the form of his mother of all people. And, damn her and her implacable Canadian affability, Mal just couldn't say no to her.
So that meant that he had to buy something for her. And for his dad. And for his four
older brothers and the assorted spouses and genetic-spawn that went along with a couple of them. He drew the line at aunts and uncles and cousins-once-removeds because, really, they were ruining his reputation as a supervillain already without having him write a clenched-teeth toned Christmas card to Auntie Mabel asking how her turkey farm was going.
There was a little part of him that had just considered ordering six plaid onesies online and having them giftwrapped and delivered back to Moncton, but the disappointed looks he knew he'd get were more hassle than they were worth. So on went the Galliano coat and the 'please don't let your squalling child cough its germs all over me' grimace and Mal was (theoretically) ready to brave the world and all the flatscans it had to throw at him. At least he'd go out looking fabulous.
That had been three hours ago. Now
, Mal looked less than pristine. His hair - usually gelled into submission - had been attacked by some oblivious grandmother's hazardously-wielded umbrella and was now making him look more like a cockatoo than his normal air of nerdy sleek. And he was pretty sure that an overly-made up divorcee had groped his ass in the checkout line in Barneys. Altogether, Malcolm Murphies was feeling entirely frazzled, violated and was in need of soothing.
So when he saw the Alexander McQueen flagship store...well, he didn't remember even deciding to go inside. It was as if he'd blinked and was simply there
, weeping angel-like. He reasoned that he was like a trauma victim suffering from shock and acting on autopilot to drag his poor, abused soul into the sanctuary of high fashion.
The tasteful cuts and daring, tailored flair of it all was like a soothing balm to is wounded heart and Mal practically melted at the sight of those heartbreaking elegant clothes on the mannequins hanging from the ceiling. He flirted with a dynamic mohair tuxedo
, cast a lascivious look at a rather charming pair of brogues
, but he met his soulmate towards the end of the men's section. It was here, with the rather more flamboyant expanse of womenswear sweeping out in front of him, that Mal looked at the asymmetric cut of a silk cardigan
that he felt able to admit that there was still good in the world.
He was in love. With an item of clothing. And that was alright because at least it wasn't a particularly perfect sequence of nucleotides that was causing the rapturous expression on his face right now...
Clementine Valentine - December 8, 2011 02:34 PM (GMT)
Christmas. It was supposed to be some happy magical time of year where everyone loved each other and the world was at peace and blah, blah, blah. Grace didn't really buy into any of that, her attitude on Christmas soured by the fact that it meant spending time with her family, and with the exception of her elder sibling she tended to avoid family like the plague. The last thing she needed was to spend a day listening to her parents make not-so-veiled remarks about how she should try to get a real job instead of wasting her time (and shaming the family) with modeling and calling her Clementine until she wished she were deaf.
The good part of Christmas was the work. It wasn't easy for a known mutant to get work when they were doing something completely menial, much less when your job involved splashing your image across magazines and commercials or sashaying up and down runways. Grace was lucky, a fact she was aware of even if she didn't say so or act like it. She'd caught the Christmas commercial for Victoria's Secret earlier that morning, looking like the proverbial cat that caught the canary as her own face appeared on the screen. Yes, it was good to have work.
The other good part of Christmas was the presents. Grace didn't go out of her way to think of the perfect presents for her parents; she'd long since ceased caring what they thought (or so she told herself and anyone else who would listen), but for Alex? Only the best would do, and with Alex that of course meant clothes. Very, very nice clothes. Which was precisely why Grace now found herself in the Alexander McQueen store, casting a critical eye over the offerings on display. They couldn't just be good clothes where her brother was concerned, they had to be perfect...his taste in fashion was even more impeccable than her own, and fashion was her livelihood. If she ever had qualms about a particular outfit Alex was usually the one she asked for advice, which was fairly unusual in a brother-sister relationship.
And once she was done shopping for Alex she could go look at some of the shoes that were currently calling her name from across the way.
She huffed a little sigh under her breath as she walked, eyes caught by a dark haired figure staring rapturously at a cardigan. Smirked a little wickedly to herself Grace changed course. She might love clothes but she loved people (and the attention they usually brought) far more. Besides, he was attractive enough, dressed incredibly well (though his hair was rather less impressive), and even if she was shopping for presents she was allowed a little break for some harmless flirting, right? Of course she was.
She approached him from behind, ignoring any concept of personal space as she leaned over his shoulder and spoke quietly in his ear, tone playful. "I think you might be drooling." He might have been about her height, she noted absently, though the three inch heels on her boots gave her the advantage currently, which was the whole purpose of wearing them (well, that and they looked damn good). A quiet laugh followed the words, her gaze focusing on the article of clothing causing such a reaction.
Did Alex like asymmetrical? Maybe she should have thoroughly scoped out his closet before embarking on this quest. Or she could just scrap the clothes idea altogether and get him some of his favorite cologne, or maybe some of that gunk he used to tame his hair...really, anything that helped him keep up that perfectly styled image would make him happy. Or maybe she ought to just promise him one night out, responsibility free (not that he would take her up on that; Alex was Mr. Responsibility).
But right this second she wasn't really all that interested in what her brother wanted for Christmas, not when she had such an attractive distraction right in front of her.
Genome - December 11, 2011 02:38 PM (GMT)
Maybe this was what lesser people felt like when they found religion, looking into the face of something that, in its sheer perfection, had to prove that there was some sort of intelligent design to this pathetic little world. Of course, most people did it with newborn babies or sunsets or the most amazing pair of breasts they'd ever seen.
Mal did it with fashion. And, occasionally, mitochondrial DNA. Which was completely normal, okay?
Although, speaking of fabulous breasts... Malcolm was jolted abruptly out of his worship at the altar of McQueen and a wool-silk blend by a voice rather clearly addressed to him. This was unusual in itself in that Mal had, in his twenty-five years of life, perfected the 'don't talk to me - no, really, don't fucking talk to me' vibe. Or at least he liked to think so - today hadn't really been good for random strangers and overly-friendly shop assistants leaving him alone, so maybe it was broken, ineffective in cold temperatures.
So it was with reluctance that Mal dragged those brown eyes away from the sweater he'd been mentally undressing (so not an appropriate phrase where clothing was concerned) and turned around, expecting to renew his previous unwilling visit to Cougartown. Seriously, there was something about a skinny twenty-something's ass in a thousand dollar suit that made the divorcees sit up and lech.
Instead, he got something that effectively turned him into a fanboy. And, no, it wasn't an electron micropscope for once.
"I would never risk drooling anywhere near anything dry-clean only," he'd been in the middle of haughtily saying before he actually saw the face of the person intruding on his private time with the Thing of Great Beauty and his eyes went wide and surprised in his admittedly rather ferrety face. "Oh, fuck me, you're Clementine Valentine." Cue the immediate access of all the vaults of past fashion shows and ad campaigns and photo shoots that were stored in Mal's compulsively neat mind. He'd seen her in Harper's Bazaar. He'd seen her on the runway in a Heatherette show. Fuck, he'd seen her shirtless on the cover of Italian Vogue, looking rather fetching in black and white.
Awkward. Except it wasn't. Because it was fucking awesome instead. It wasn't every day that you ran into one of the more successful fashion models in the middle of your Christmas shopping.
Mal looked at her with a sort of wondering awe (well, looked up at her at least since her heels made her taller than him.) It was less of a starstruck look since, half the time, celebrities were at the top of Mal's hit list - the one that contained most of the world - and rather the fascinated expression he saved for interesting bits of genetic code and really good shoes. And Miss Valentine was basically the culmination of both since she was both an exceptional model and a mutant.
This day was getting better and better.
Clementine Valentine - December 11, 2011 08:16 PM (GMT)
She waited ever so patiently for him to turn around, that little smirk becoming more pronounced when he went from disdainful to surprised in the blink of an eye. It was an entirely appropriate reaction, if you asked her, and pleased her immensely despite his initial words. That was before he realized who he was talking to, obviously.
And then he called her Clementine.
Her reaction was also immediate, the flirty, teasing smile that seemed so at home on her lips dropping away to reveal something much cooler, while her chin tilted upwards rather defiantly so she could look down her (admittedly freckled and adorable) nose at him. She did her best to completely ignore her first name, pretend it didn’t exist, but in this day and age when everything about you could be found on one website or another it was rather difficult to escape it. It certainly didn’t help that Alex insisted on calling her that where other people could hear.
“My name is Grace,” she corrected him frostily, with the barest hint of an almost childish pout lingering on her lips. Honestly you'd think he'd called her something extremely offensive with the way she reacted, but to Grace her first name was offensive, and pairing it with her last name only reminded her of all the times her parents had used it while in the midst of telling her what a disappointment she was. Her hands found a home propped stubbornly on her hips, and there was a moment where she almost turned on her heel and walked away without another word. Anyone who started off a conversation on that bad of a note could not be worth a moment more of her time.
He did know her name, albeit the wrong one. And the look he was giving her currently was the kind of look that everyone should give her (unless they just wanted to look jealous instead, she was okay with that as well). So after a moment her expression thawed just a little as she sized him up, trying to decide if his looks and his apparent appreciation for her (which was only natural, of course) out-weighed his serious misstep with her name. Honestly, it was practically an unforgivable offense.
“But I guess I should be impressed that you even know the name that goes with this face.” When so much of her recent work had her strutting around in underwear it was a miracle if people even looked at her face, let alone looked for her name. “So that makes you better than about fifty percent of the people in this city, and your taste in clothes makes you better than about…” her face scrunched as she considered, “maybe seventy-five, eighty? That’s good, I guess, but not great.” She shrugged dismissively. Her attention span was short even under the best of circumstances, and there were some shoes over there that were calling her name awfully loudly…
Genome - December 11, 2011 08:44 PM (GMT)
Honestly, for all that he had clearly made a faux pas of the greatest and most heinous kind, Mal wasn't particularly aware of it. Social cues, emotional cues, people cues - they just went over his silly little gelled head. The language he spoke best was one of nucleotides, anything with a double helix basically, and sometimes it was a wonder he understood english, let alone the unspoken but very real dialect built around manners, body language and social propriety.
Tact, basically, was something he did not have.
So if she wanted to be called Grace, that was all fine in his book - one name was much like another. She could have demanded that he address her as Great And Fearless Leader for all that he cared. Models weren't held up on anywhere near the same pedestal as illustrious designers were, who could do no wrong in his head, but she was a stepping stone nonetheless and therefore got more leeway than most people. Which was to say that she actually got leeway since Mal was infamous for his lack of patience, even when among mutants.
Percentages. She was spouting percentages and, wow, a model who could do basic math. Mal hadn't been aware that they existed. He grinned privately to himself in his own head, but folded his arms across his narrow, greyhound's chest and looked interestedly into her face. The way he studied her was probably rather obviously different from the lecherous look of most men faced with a sometimes lingerie model; instead, it was more the expression of a collector faced with a rare item, a twitcher who'd just seen a rare bird and could now tick it off their list.
A mutant model - it wasn't every day you met one of those. Her DNA was probably as beautiful as her face, Mal reckoned, but he was unlikely to be allowed to lay hands on her to read her genome in such a public place. Not without risking having the heel of one of those admittedly fabulous boots shoved through his ball-sack. Though this was the first time in a long while that Mal had come face to face with someone as skinny as he was...
"You should be, yes, but I'm guessing that you aren't," the Canadian said - chattering away, even to strangers, was something he was okay with doing since the notion of awkwardness or embarrassment was fairly alien to him. Except where his brothers were concerned. And, oh Darwin, his mother. "However will I cope?" He looked faux thoughtful, stroking that imaginary goatee (fucking useless hair follicles) and then held up a finger, a physical substitute for a lightbulb going off somewhere. "Let's try and put me in the top five percent at least by pointing out the fact that I was sitting front row for your last Diane von Furstenberg show. And I fairly routinely have coffee with your photographer for your Dazed and Confused editorial." Ellen Von Unwerth, a mutant - who'd have known.
Mal smirked at her, unabashed and probably a very different sort of fanboy to her usual set...hopefully.
Clementine Valentine - December 11, 2011 11:00 PM (GMT)
She was, admittedly, a little annoyed at the way he failed to register any sort of contriteness for having upset her. She wanted him to apologize at the very least, possibly do a little fawning and swearing to make it up to her in a manner of her choosing (and didn’t she have some ideas about that), but no. He actually glossed right over her correction as if she hadn’t spoken it at all, which caused a return of that vaguely pouting face. Grace disliked it when things didn’t go her way, no matter the fact that it happened distressingly often.
Instead of apologizing he was just looking at her, but it wasn’t until now that she realized there was something…different about that look than she was used to. Grace had seen a lot of looks from members of the male species. A lot. She had no problem with that, and often went out of her way to get those looks in the first place, but she couldn’t recall any of them looking at her quite like that and she wasn’t really sure she liked it, either.
Green eyes narrowed, a more obvious sizing-up taking place now. On the one hand, you could never be too careful with creepy men, no matter how pretty or well dressed. On the other hand he was far from the creepiest guy she’d ever met, not to mention that he didn’t seem like the type to kill her and dump her body in an alley somewhere and risk getting some dirt on his suit. So for now she’d stick around because, really, what harm could come of it?
She suppressed a smile at the way he stroked his chin, one of own hands lifting to press fingers to her lips, tapping against them lightly as she waited for him to finish ‘thinking’. Her eyebrows shot upward in surprise despite her resolution to remain unimpressed while an openly delighted smile settled upon her lips. “That’s pretty good,” she admitted, while holding up a single finger to stall any celebration on his part. “But only ninety percent good. I mean, front row is nice, but only one show? I’m a little disappointed.” Though her expression was anything but.
“I could probably settle for ninety percent though, if I have to.” A challenge, of sorts, though his quick (and admittedly impressive) response had already had its intended result. It wasn’t every day that the people she met had been to a show she’d worked, let alone knew someone she’d worked with. Oh, and it definitely wasn’t every day that she had a conversation with someone this well-dressed (Alex didn’t count), though that was mostly her own fault, given she didn’t always frequent the classiest of establishments.
Genome - December 19, 2011 06:17 PM (GMT)
For someone with such a keen, critical eye for fashion (dropped stitches, yo, Mal could spot them from a hundred yards) the man could still be ridiculously unobservant. Especially where the opposite sex was concerned.
...okay, that wasn't really fair. Mal was, after all, just as oblivious where his own sex was concerned.
Either way, a lot of things passed him by, especially with the sweater still lingering in the recesses of his mind and various enclopaedias full of fashion knowledge currently being riffled through by the forefront of his brain. Was anyone actually honestly surprised that Mal was completely oblivious to the fact that she was pouting at him? Aside from distantly recognising that the symmetry planes of her face may have shifted, the actual emotional implications didn't exactly register.
(Clearly, the not exactly secret theory that Malcolm Murphies was actually a robot probably had more weight to it than most conspiracy plots.)
Still, if there was one language that he actually spoke well - other than DNA, of course - it was fashion. Shoes, the line of a perfect pair of slacks, the exact drape of a shirt on skinny model shoulders, that Mal could almost seem human when talking about. So it meant that, though Clementine probably didn't consider it as such, she was actually getting Mal at his socially smoothest. Translation: he hadn't compared her to a ribosome of any sort yet.
Mal held up a finger and swung it back and forth, not actually making the tutting noise to go along with it, but it was implied well enough. "I am wounded," he said, "positively insulted that you think that's the only show of yours that I've been to?" He struck a haughty pose, head tilted regally and hand resting loosely on one bony hip. "What kind of fashion week veteran do you think I am?"
Amused, he dropped the pose with his normal, restless inability to stay still for any long period of time unless science was actively involved - only for his microscope (or the monthly MRI he had to make sure his brain was still awesome) did he actually achieve anything vaguely relatable to a statue. "Besides, I don't want to come across as a stalker. I like this store and, if you threaten to pepper spray me or something for being able to list your editorials in reverse chronological order, I'll be heartbroken when they obviously take your side and ban me for life."
Clementine Valentine - February 16, 2012 02:41 AM (GMT)
Was he...he did not just wag his finger at her. Grace was hard-pressed not to laugh, teeth sinking into her lower lip, though it did little to stall the way her lips turned upward yet again. This guy was pretty funny, whether that was the result he was going for or not, and she found herself increasingly glad that she'd braved the winter weather for this excursion.
"Soooo sorry," she fired back, humor leeching any bite out of the sarcasm lacing the words. "I didn't realize I was talking to a fashion week veteran. Forgive me?" Hands clasped beseechingly in front of her breastbone as she arranged her face in the most pitiful puppy-dog look she could manage. (It was the same look she gave Alex when she was trying to wheedle something out of him, and it generally worked wonders. Or maybe her brother was just an easy target.)
His next words had her dropping that pretense even faster than she'd anticipated, brows shooting upwards in both surprise and interest. "Oh, I don't carry pepper spray," that concern dismissed with a wave of the hand, "but can you really list them? I'm not even sure I could list them all in order, well I mean I could, probably, if I thought about it, but you can list them backwards? Just off the top of your head?" It was an almost admiring look she was giving him now, because when people knew things about her like that it didn't really strike her as being a bad thing (which was bound to get her in trouble one of these days). "That's really amazing, you must have a fantastic memory." It was perhaps a little sad how easily she could be impressed.
Another grin flashed his way as Grace shifted, twirling around so they faced the same direction, reaching out with one arm in an attempt to loop it around his as she sidled cozily up to his side. "So," she purred, "Got a name to go with that big brain?" Shameless. Absolutely shameless.
Genome - March 4, 2012 01:25 AM (GMT)
This was not what he'd expected out of the day, in all honesty. Mal was usually so ready to write off any adventure out into the Not So Fascinating World of the Flatscans as mundane and irritation-provoking due to their ignorance and sheer general repulsiveness. Not that any mutants who weren't in the Brotherhood were particularly brilliant, either, and Mal wasn't even known for particularly liking those who were in his happy little terrorist family either. But the ones outside of his circle were distinctly nauseating - either in their fearfulness and cowardice regarding the obvious nature of mutant superiority, or because they were liked Xavier's brainwashed devotees, the ones who actually thought the flatscans were worth preserving. Those traitors irked Mal's superior leanings and, really, they were almost as bad as the human apes.
Clementine Valentine, though...she was an open mutant, a proudly open mutant, and knew her Versace from her Valentino. For that, he would forgive her for practically anything, including not doing the sane thing and joining the Brotherhood, like any respectable and intelligent mutant obviously would.
Well, he reasoned, she couldn't exactly walk a runway if she was a wanted criminal now, could she? That was her excuse.
So she didn't get the disdain or the general intolerance that most of the world's populace received from him and it was almost certain that she didn't know quite how unusual that was where the crotchety scientist was concerned, The fact that he was actively grinning at her was in itself possibly a sign of the impending apocalypse.
Her faux-begging did make him laugh - because if anyone was going to recognise a very obviously fake attempt to appease someone, it was Malcolm, who quite often found himself aggravating people in positions of authority. "I deserve medals," he said loftily. "Many, many medals."
Because, obviously, fashion shows were comparable to battles. Duh.
Mal wrinkled up his nose in amusement and tipped his head ironically to one side - apparently, sometimes, having the kind of brain that absorbed data rather easily was useful when you randomly met fashion models on rainy days. "I'm good with lists," he said drolly, but there was still an element of preening to it.
What? He was proud of being smart. Of being smarter than pretty much anyone he knew actually. And he certainly wasn't going to play it down in front of someone whose work he admired. Someone who was...oh. Tucking her arm through his, apparently.
(Was it inappropriate to have a fanboy moment? Probably.)
He controlled himself (barely) and grinned (up) at her. "If I tell you, are you going to make me list all of those editorials then? Because if you are, I'm going to need a fucking drink halfway through or something." But then, because she was, you know, famous he relented a little. "Doctor Malcolm Murphies, at your service."
...okay, so fine, he'd never actually officially achieved a PhD. But he totally deserved one, so he was claiming the title all the same.
Clementine Valentine - May 10, 2012 05:00 PM (GMT)
A-ha! A laugh. Her work here was done. Well, not really done because she quite liked this impeccably dressed man (there was nothing more attractive than a man who knew his fashion and had the good sense to wear perfectly tailored suits), and the fact that he was clearly a fan of her's (or so she was claiming in her own mind, because obviously everything in the world ought to revolve around her) just made him that much more appealing. Her answering grin was wide and delighted, full of the sunshine-bright cheer that came so easily to her. "Many, many medals," she concurred with a little laugh of her own. "But for now you'll just have to settle for me. And let's face it, I'm better than a whole trunkful of medals." A slender arm gestured broadly to emphasize this, completely unabashed at having such a high opinion of herself. Confidence (arrogance, even) was something the younger Valentine had in spades.
Grace had never been particularly smart, had never tried to be particularly smart, and aside from Alex she tended to get bored with smart people very quickly, if only because she couldn't keep up with them on an intellectual level. (Which was obviously their fault, not hers.) But until the shiny newness of Doctor (Doctor?) Murphies wore off she was quite content to stroke his ego and listen to him talk. It helped that they were talking about her, which was obviously her favorite subject, and as long as they stayed on that topic she'd let him talk all he wanted. "Are you sure you're a doctor? You look a little young for that." Never a fan of giving people she liked too much personal space, the blonde all but rested her chin on the good doctor's shoulder as she gave him a playfully skeptical look.
"I mean, doctors have to go to school for, like, ever, and you don't look that much older than me. Unless you're some kind of super genius, I guess, skipping grades and all that." The fact that she found people that smart a little boring was evident in the absently dismissive note that crept into her voice. In Grace's experience smart people tended to be very boring people, always with their nose in books and more interested in studying than having a good time, which was a preference she just did not understand.
"And it's a little early to be drinking, isn't it?" Said with the mischievious air of someone who thought the idea of it being too early to drink utterly laughable. Alcohol was always an option for Grace...unless Alex was nearby to give her disapproving looks, that is.
Genome - May 23, 2012 02:32 PM (GMT)
If he'd been a good, red-blooded American man, Mal would have been taking photos on his phone of the pair of them and boasting about the fact that one of the hottest lingerie models in the business was voluntarily touching him. Or, you know, just ogling her impressive figure.
But the fact remained that Mal was, a, hardly a typical man and, b, Canadian to boot. So instead, if he was going to fanboy at all, it was probably about her impeccable (for her age, colouration and livelihood) fashion sense, rather than about her rack. Even when said rack was basically pressed up against him because, apparently, Miss Valentine had no issues with latching onto random
(Mal wasn't complaining.)
He made a dismissive gesture with his free hand and rolled his eyes in a surprisingly amiable expression for the confirmed misanthrope. "I'd rather have a trunkful of couture anyway," he said dryly, sending her a significant look. She probably got all sort of glorious freebies, while he had to make his admittedly eclectic salary stretch to cover his obsessions. Dammit, why couldn't he have been a model like her? He was pretty sure he could make lingerie look good (or not.)
It was Mal's turn to look aggrieved though at what was a very familiar response to his (patently false) claims that he was a doctor. "I don't feel as if I should be blamed for having an excellent skincare regime," came his haughty response, ruined by the slight trace of peevishness in his tone. "Everyone knows that the best way to fight the onset of agelines is by worshipping a good moisturiser early on." It was a good thing that he wasn't trying to get in her pants at this point because she had to think that he was gay by now. "And I'm not an MD - that would involve having to touch far too many people." He gave an eloquent shudder. "No, I'm a scientist. A...geneticist." In his defence, he didn't actually have an official title and saying that he was essentially the pet scientist of a pro-mutant terrorist organisation was hardly going to go down well.
He liked her mischievous tone though and that earned her a grin, one that would have shocked his teammates given how sulky he normally looked. "It's always martini o'clock somewhere in the world, darling."
Clementine Valentine - July 16, 2012 03:42 AM (GMT)
"Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking for some freebies? More grinning there, though she could hardly blame him. Fashion, impeccable fashion especially, was rather expensive. Grace never had much trouble with it these days, for rather obvious reasons, and even in the early days when she should have been struggling with enough money to eat off of, Alex had always been there to fund her shopping trips. It was so nice having a brother who doted on you. It was also handy when you needed someone to come pick you up after a night of way too much drinking. "Because I'm pretty sure the stuff in my closet isn't going to fit you. Though I bet you'd look positively gorgeous in a dress."
Her eyebrows shot up at the abrupt shift in his tone, and even she wasn't so blithely unaware as to not recognize that she'd apparently hit some kind of nerve. She straightened, placing the tiniest bit of distance between them (which really just meant she wasn't practically draping herself over him anymore), though she left her arm tucked in his as she eyed him speculatively. "Touchy subject, doc?" She wasn't overly offended by his reaction, more surprised than anything, and though he'd wiped the blatant grin from her face a more wryly amused expression was rather quick to take it's place. It took a lot to dent Grace's naturally bubbly good humor. "Shouldn't you just be happy that this 'excellent skin care regime'" (yes, she formed quotes with first two fingers of her free hand), "is having it's desired effect? I mean, as long as people don't start thinking you're still in high school, who cares?" A careless shrug followed, one perfected by hearing and subsequently ignoring any insult someone deigned to throw her way. Haters gonna hate, as the saying goes, and Grace rarely bothered herself with them.
His clarification as to what actually qualified him as a doctor was met with brows drawn downward in a slightly puzzled expression. MD she understood, scientist was equally self-explanatory, but geneticist? That required some digging back into what little she remembered from high school science classes (and it really was not much at all), but at least she could make the connection between the words geneticist and genes. What the hell were genes again? Something to do with DNA and that kind of thing, she was almost positive. Had to be, since people were always going on about the 'mutant gene' and DNA was what made you a mutant, so thank God she remembered something vaguely useful. Apparently high school wasn't the complete waste she'd thought it was. "Sounds boring," was her flippant response, though not without the usual cheeky smile to go with it. "But hey, if that's what you like." Another shrug, casually dismissive as she registered another thing he'd said.
"Oh, so you're not a fan of touching people?" One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched, a pointed look at their entwined arms (though she'd really given him no choice about that, that was completely beside the point). "Or does that rule only apply to non-models?" Again she was back to crowding his personal space as much as possible without actually climbing him like a tree (which, given their respective heights, wouldn't have worked out so well), though it was only for a moment before she laughed and stepped away from him. She even slid her arm free, though it was only to tug teasingly at his sleeve before her hands settled on her hips, matching his grin with one of her own. "Martini o'clock is one of my favorite times of day, and I just so happen to know of a little place that makes the best martinis you've ever had." The invitation went unspoken, but was all too obvious in the suggestive note to her smirk and the challenging lift of her eyebrows. She liked this one, and she never turned down an opportunity for a little drinking.
Genome - August 4, 2012 05:43 PM (GMT)
Mal was very, very, very lucky that he hadn't had any sisters growing up. Because, being one of the youngest (trumping his twin by a handful of minutes really hadn't made much of a difference) would have certainly made him an excellent candidate for the sort of torture older sisters put their skinny little younger brothers through. The sort that generally included dresses and skirts and inexpertly applied make-up for shizzles and giggles and exertion of female power before the younger boys outgrew them.
So at least his appreciation for fashions aimed towards the female form was limited to when it was actually on women, rather than himself. Because, really, as if Mal needed to have anything more less than ordinary to add to his impressive collection of peculiarities.
Normally, he'd have rolled his eyes at the joke, or doled out some snort of snappy response. He certainly would have been grumpy and definitely sarcastic in his reply, as per usual for the misanthropic scientist.
But, no, a fashion model? She got leeway. All the leeway.
So Mal just laughed, something that Grace probably didn't realise was so out of character for him. "Unless you have a Dolce and Gabbana merino wool coat hidden somewhere on your person--" Which he sincerely doubted given the nature of her attire. "--I may have to forgo the freebie offer, however generous it is."
He was placated by her words on his excellent and effective skincare routine (thank Darwin, he'd finally found someone who appreciated such things) and forgave her...well, that was a lie, she was perfection and could do no wrong in his biased eyes. Not really. His adoration may have been more aesthetic than lust-filled (as if he knew what the last one was) but it meant she got away with a lot.
Even insulting his precious science.
Overall, science may have trumped fashion. But in this moment? Faced with an actual model? Fashion was winning. So he managed to block her lack of interest in his greatest passion by focussing on his next one and he supposed, graciously, that not everyone could be as multi-faceted and brilliant as he was. He could balance a great love for science and fashion all at once because he was awesome like that.
Martinis too. He could definitely find room for those. "You, gorgeous," he said with the gallantry he saved just for ribozomes and fashion models, "are above all the rules. And so I'll even let you get me wasted if that's how you want to spend the rest of the day."
He was certainly game.
Clementine Valentine - August 22, 2012 05:00 PM (GMT)
Grace knew, well, pretty much nothing at all about the man she was flirting so outrageously with. She knew precisely what she'd gleaned over the course of this meeting, which was quite easily boiled down to 'baby-faced scientist who likes fashion and drinking'. Take a guess as to which half of that statement she cared the most about. Now take a guess as to how much she cared about anything else about him.
If you guessed 'the second half' and 'not at all', you win.
(If you guessed anything else, you clearly haven't been paying attention thus far.)
"Sorry, no wool this time," she chirped, not looking sorry at all, looking quite pleased with his laughter instead, "but I'll keep it in mind for next time." Not that she counted on there being a next time, nor was she opposed to the idea of a next time if things continued on as well as they were currently. She liked him, he seemed to like her well enough, and that was really all the reason she needed to be okay with another run-in, planned or no. He obviously shopped in the best sorts of stores, and Grace had every intention of keeping an eye out for him from now on. And if she never saw him again? Well, she wasn't in the habit of getting overly attached.
She quite literally beamed at him for calling her gorgeous (compliments were really the fastest way to her heart. Well, compliments and booze), her laughter light and easily earned. "Wasted is how I like to spend most days, handsome." Reciprocating compliments was also something that came easily to her, a must in the types of social circles she often travelled in, whether that be due to her own schedule or Alex's, though this time at least it was genuine. "Let's go." Impatient and impetuous as a child she was already grabbing for his hand, all set to physically tow him along behind her if he didn't move fast enough.
One did not drag their feet where attractive men and alcohol were concerned.